#ghost.exe

That last night in the barracks stuck with him, as did the hungover mission drills early in the morning. He thought it was the universe's sick way of punishing him, jealous of all the fun he had with everyone. He was here to fight wars, not get blackout and profess his love to his boyfriend. Jude.

God, what a name that has long since been embossed into the roof of his mouth, memorized muscle patterns in his tongue, woven into his vocal cords until they could no longer make sound for the remainder of the day. Even then, his breath carried each syllable through a split cheek and ripped lips. It was the name of the man that graced his vision once it failed to take in any more input of his volatile surroundings. Where his mind drifted to as hands and stingers struck, marring his skin in a language nobody should ever become fluent in. How ironic, a name like Judas giving him salvation, abandoning the name of Jesus altogether for the religion of survival. It worked itself out; people made fun of him for worshiping a disciple known to betray God for silver, and yet he did not care. It was worth more than its weight in gold to remember as parts of his past chipped off into the abyss to preserve what hasn't been tainted by those who held him at Death's door. Even six feet under, Simon had whispered to the worms and the Earth the name of his love, as if those movements alone would make the soil aerate and yield to his incessant digging with bone in jagged hands. It kept him nourished in the desert, drugged his feet toward a village whose people were gracious enough to care for him, house him for some time to regain what had been stolen from him. At least, what could tangibly be recovered. Finding out you were considered dead and grave-robbed by the government you spent so long serving was a new type of torture, yet freeing all in the same breath.

You don't get to die and come back reborn the same. You come back. But you come back wrong. Price was, to say the least, stunned to hear of Simon's return shortly after he no longer feared for his life against a man who had seemingly let himself into his office without so much as a shuffle of air. That had been a long night in itself, Simon- no, Ghost, finding himself harbored at Price's personal flat until he could secure a Taskforce and fend off prying hands from getting ahold of one of his best men he's had the joy of enlisting. Well, joy seems too morbid, but the sentiment was there. First came physical fitness, something he previously excelled in, now sculpted by survival and a will to live beyond what others might have deemed as a lost cause and a waste of resources. Then came mental fortitude, never quite reaching beyond shoving it into a lockbox and melting the key. Any time Price had attempted, it never ended well. 

Never. 

So, it was left where it was.

The Taskforce itself had been a labor of love. Ghost, then Gaz. A trio for a long while before things began to heat up with their allies in America. It had taken everything, and still was taking everything, in Ghost to avoid showing interest in hearing the familiar names of his friends, soaking in how each of them had aged in the time he had been gone. Aldridge, Leon… Where was Jude? Please don't tell him he, too, was lost. There he appeared on the files, all grown up and handsome as ever. Alive. Ghost could only hope he was forgiven for all this time away. Did Jude also believe he was dead? Had to, needed to believe that was the case for Ghost to remain just that, a ghost. Never have his nerves been so shot while sitting in that debriefing room, waiting for his old crew to come through the door and finally get to work together as a unit.

The last place Jude wanted to be was the UK. 3 years ago, he lost someone so dear to him that it left a permanent scar on his heart, a man he thought would be the end game. The proof of his love for him remains etched in his skin, permanent scars that will never fade, no matter how many times he rubs himself clean. When the news broke that Simon was KIA, he had lost it, nearly gone nuclear. Took an entire team to keep him from marching out to the airfield and going out to look for his body on his own. The closed casket funeral is what sealed the deal on his heart, shattered into a million pieces, knowing he wasn’t there in the hollow wood. He’d never hold him again, never tell him he loves him, kiss him, feel the press of him against his back while they slept. He had treated Aldridge unfairly during that time, screaming and crying at him any time he tried to bring up any mention of the blonde. It surely changed him, not for the better.

He turned mean, snappy, and quick to judge, and grew angry. There had been an intervention, something to confront his behavior that was growing increasingly dangerous. The only reason he mellowed slightly over the years was that his career was threatened by his superiors. And yet, none of his smiles ever quite met his ears, always just existing, coasting through life. And you mean to tell him he had to go back to the UK? Where Simon wasn't Jude wasn’t exactly keen on the idea, giving Aldridge an earful the entire way there. He hardly takes inventory of the men there, keeping his annoyed gaze at the floor as they file in, messing with the zip of his flight suit. He has to be prompted twice to introduce himself, finally lifting his head, looking right through the group of men. He’d open up a little, just needed time to get out of his head about being back for the first time since he lost him.

“Sparks. Naval Captain, F-22 pilot. Suppose I’ll be your air support.” And he really wishes someone would give him shit about his introduction. He’s itching to fight, to feel something other than the growing pit in his stomach that grows each day. The unbearable loss. He can hardly bring himself to look around. Far too many memories.

It slips out before Ghost can help it, an old habit refusing to die even in the wake of all the previous years without him. “Well. That’s reassuring. Lieutenant Ghost, Captain. You and I will be in touch, much to your lack of interest.” Did it feel incredible to have that beginning of snarky banter come back after all this time? Oh, without a doubt. It was hard to hide the grin in his tone, thinking of the ways Jude might come at him. Can’t exactly get in his face now without a little jump here and there; tiptoes were out of the question. Maybe he’ll reach up and sock him in the face. Or in the throat. Wait, no, knowing Jude, he’d aim for his nuts. He could see it, clear as day, an angry Jude marching over and kicking him in the ribs. Is it horrible to say he hoped it happened? Truthfully, he just wanted to clear the room, rip off his mask, and tell Jude who he really is. But that wouldn’t be fair to Jude either, not in a setting like this. Jesus, after all this time? Still weak over this little twink? “This is Gaz, and Soap. Price said he’s worked with you lot in the past and it’s bout time I’d have a go with you.” Yes. Still weak over that ferocious little twink.

”Lieutenant Ghost is a stupid ass name.” It’s out before Jude can help it, shooting the masked man a glare. Ghost. He can’t help the way his hand drops to his side, fingers drumming slightly over a part of his hip in contemplation, a memory. Big hands scooping him up, the little yelp of surprise, and the way he had smacked Simon’s chest. ’ You’re like a ghost.’ He wishes he could take those words back. The man with the skull mask is shot a dangerous look, not that he’s fully deserving of it. He reminds him terribly of everything he’s lost, and it’s setting him on edge, taking a step closer to Aldridge to ground himself, pressed nearly into his side. Could probably feel the heat of anger radiating off of him. “I remember the Captain. Let’s hope you’re all as competent as him.” Shot right back at Simon, no waver in his voice. He truly has changed. Grew a spine. It’s Price who chuckles, arms crossed in the corner as he shakes his head. Because he knows. Set the whole damn thing up, and is almost glad to report that he’s satisfied with what he’s seeing. The two were a match made in hell.

“You’ve high hopes, Sparks. But I guarantee these lot are the best of the best.” Price interjects with a clap of his hands. “You’ve all been assigned bunks. Get comfy, sleep off your Jet lag, and have some dinner. Tomorrow we begin the briefing.” Before more bickering can begin, everyone is shooed out.

It’s Jude who has to cause the problem, converging with Ghost and shoulder-checking him as he passes. As if the man wasn’t double his size and could probably knock his head clean off his shoulders. “Do the brains match the brawn, Stagg?” Now he’s just being an ass.

“Sadly, it’s all air in there.” Ghost quips without missing a beat. The shoulder check was cute and all, simultaneously unprofessional in front of the other men. He had to stick with this banter anyhow, shrugging his arm away. “Careful, might pop my bicep with all those passes by. Can’t go letting that happen before we even make it out there.” Assigned bunks? Ghost had some choice words to say about that arrangement, hoping that Price had been joking about that. Simon could not just fit in any regular-sized bed after all, not without becoming a shrimp in the process. Not that great for his back injuries either. Regardless, a note is made to check who his bunkmate was, and claim the bottom as soon as possible.

With the official meeting out of the way, Ghost can kick back a little and have a more laid-back presentation of his sense of self. Or what he was nowadays. The skull balaclava stays on, the rest of the gear is shed off and hung in the weapons closet for safekeeping. He finds himself wandering into the kitchen, a melancholic feeling overcoming him. Would he really be able to keep up with everything, hide who he was from bubbling to the surface? Without telling Jude? That posed a great threat to Jude’s livelihood if it got out that Simon escaped; people would be after the pair like no other. For now, even if it meant no late-night kitchen adventures. Not yet, at least.

“Figures.” Jude quickly realized that John had been joking about the bunks, and they did, in fact, have separate rooms. Special ops meant more money, and more money meant better rooms. He spends an hour or so setting his room up, pulling out the stuffed bear that Simon had won for him at a bar years ago. Still slept with the thing, even if it was a bit worn. He changes into something more casual than a flight suit, just an undershirt and workout shorts. Aldridge is checked in on, and so is Leon. Making sure the two were settling in, mother henning them about getting some rest. He seemed to be doing it a lot more recently, more than Leon ever has, especially after the bombing. If he had lost them too, he doesn’t think he would have made it much longer. The base is explored, some parts more familiar than others. All the while, he traces the scar on his hips, a way to keep Simon there with him, like it was their first day again. Grief was weird, sneaking up on him in these moments. He thought he had been okay enough to get through it, but it didn’t stop the tears, growing still at the sight of the common area, still set up as it had been a few years ago. He’s quiet as he enters, the tears that drip down his cheeks never making a sound. Just feels his sadness and anger at the situation without a change in facial expression. Fingers press into the couch, memories flashing behind his eyelids with every blink. He needed a drink. Jude wipes at his face, cleaning himself up before he wanders to the kitchen, coming to stop at the sight of the big man hovering there like some sort of shadow. Great. He says nothing as he roots around, searching for something stronger than water.

Ghost is already alert when he hears someone padding his way, growing more defined as they draw near. Jude walked the same, just with more confidence in his step. At least this time it wasn’t an auditory hallucination, even though that thought had him half afraid to turn around and see that there was, in fact, nobody there. Those were the first. It’s the peripheral that tells him otherwise, that all is well, and there is very much another person in the room with him. In his grasp is a blood orange, removing the peel and pith from the citrus to enjoy stress-free. A little midday sour snack to recalibrate his near spiral from earlier. How did Jude not hear him and realize who he was? Had he changed that much? Or had Jude forgotten the sound of his voice? Ghost wasn’t sure which one was more painful. Jude couldn’t have forgotten about him…. Right? He shakes himself out of that spiral before it could sink further, looking around the kitchen. Jude was on the hunt for something, but it doesn’t become clear until he opens a specific cabinet. “No booze until night. The Captain keeps it in his office. Day drinking isn’t a great look.”

Jude sighs, coming up to stand slowly, gripping the handle of the cabinet tight before closing it. His eyes are closed for a moment, biting his tongue to prevent himself from snapping at the man next to him. He was being rude for no reason. Wasn’t the big guy's fault; this place held too many bad memories. And with no vices until nighttime? Well, he did have one. A pack of cigarettes is pulled from seemingly nowhere, pulling one free as he pats around his hip for a lighter, cursing under his breath. Of course. Ghost gets a slow look up, like Jude was contemplating even speaking to him. “You got a light?”

So, what Ghost said about not bending to the wiles of nostalgia earlier could go fuck itself. His spine straightens, as if he were interrupted in his train of thought while peeling his fruit, popping a cleaned slice into his mouth via working it underneath his mask’s hem towards his mouth. “I do.” His left hand digs into his left pocket, fishing out the Zippo lighter he just got. His old lighter was packed up for safekeeping. He doesn’t realize what he’s doing, wiping his hands off on some paper towels to properly flick the lighter without it slipping out of his grasp. It isn’t until the flame is alive and dancing between them both that he comes to his senses, even though it is too late to back out now. Muscle memory lit Jude’s cigarette, keeping the flame flat with the tip of the stick just like Jude enjoyed it. Any further and it didn’t burn right. The tobacco hits his nose, and there he goes, back in that alleyway and finding Jude tucked around the corner, cigarette on his tongue and lips. “Really should have your own light.”

Jude comes close, staring at the light as it’s brought to the end of the stick. Funny, he was ready to grip Ghost’s wrist up and steady him to prevent his hand from going any further, but he keeps it steady right where he likes it. A deep inhale, and he parts his lips, letting the smoke filter out around them. Stares up at the mask, at those eyes that spell nothing good behind them. He wonders what he’s hiding. It’s almost intimate, the way he leans and stares, taking another drag. Then Ghost is speaking again. Jude accents his frustration with a roll of his eyes, staring pointedly at the taller man. “Really should learn to mind your own fuckin’ business. Lit it for me, didn’t you?” The cigarette is plucked from his lips and ashed right on Simon’s boots. Seems the unkind events of his life have led him down a path of destruction, as if he were searching for the larger man to retaliate. It would be nice to turn his brain off for a while, let Ghost lay into him. Switch his brain over to a different kind of pain.

Simon's eyes follow the ashes as they plop onto the toe of his boot, hovering there for a few moments before dragging up the length of Jude in appraisal. Not in a sexual manner, but in a way that spoke of a nerve struck. In the silence, he kneels, swiping the ashes onto his fingers along with the dirt there as if he were attempting to brush it off. Only when he came up, it was to swipe the offending fingers from brow, diagonal to the jaw, square across Jude's face. "Last time I do so." This was near suicide, touching Jude's face like this without a damn clue as to who he was. He could see it, though, the desire to fight in his eyes to chase away the pain Simon himself had inadvertently created. The least he could do was placate that, let Jude take it out on him in penance. He deserved every ounce of it, really. Hopefully, he didn't hold back, really gave it to him. Maybe break his nose a second time. Even then, it wouldn't even level the playing field by a long shot. It was a start, though.

Jude wishes he could say he saw that coming, but the fingers swiping along his face were the last things he was expecting, mouth dropping open, nearly losing his cigarette. It was wholly disrespectful, but then again, so was ashing on Ghost’s boots. He doesn’t know why, but the anger never comes. What bubbled up is a tad bit of respect for the bigger man dishing it right back, even if he wasn’t happy about it. Water from the sink is used to rub at the ash on his face, huffing about it, and Ghost gets a nice shove in the arm. ”asshole.” Then he’s disappearing before he can give the man any more of a chance to keep him around. Doesn’t like the way he’s feeling anyway.