Chapter Text
Ghost awoke with a gasp, immediately coughing out nonexistent water. The dry air raked its fingers across his lungs on its way out, each cough leading into a worst one. Eventually, he stopped, closing his eyes and taking in deep breaths. He ignored the painful drag of stagnant air, just glad it was only air.
On his next breath in, his senses came back and the smell of mold and rotting meat made him gag. When he opened his eyes, the darkness remained. He went to sit up to look for a light source, but before he even leaned up half a foot, his forehead smacked into something hard and he dropped back down with a groan. Ghost couldn’t even bring his hand up to rub at the sore spot with how little room there was.
He patted his pant pockets until he felt a small rectangular object and pulled it out. It took several frantic tries but he was eventually able to flick the cigarette lighter on. The flame shook violently in his grasp as he took in his limited surroundings. Dark wood above him, to his right, and under him. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe again, but the air didn’t want to come. It’s fine. Itsfineitsfineitsfineitsfine.
Riley reluctantly turned his head to the left. The burning tears welling up in his eyes weren’t enough to blur the image of Vernon’s decomposing body.
He immediately turned his head back and closed his eyes again. The darkness was preferable. He tried to ground himself, knowing what he had to do.
After a moment, Riley tried his best to shift onto his side, muscles brushing harshly against wooden constraints. He moved the lighter to his other hand and reached out slowly for the hanging jaw bone.
The little bit of remaining flesh squelched under his fingers and he felt bile wiggle up his esophagus. Swallowing it down, he jerked his arm back and forth in the tight space to try and jimmy the bone off, waiting for the telltale crack.
When it wasn’t coming, he tried a different grip in an attempt to yank it but when he adjusted, the skeleton’s jaw dropped before quickly snapping at Riley’s fingers, boney hand creaking as it reached up to grab at his shirt.
He flinched back, but the wood at his back cruelly reminded him there was no escape.
The rotting body moved forward, a low wail echoing around the small space as well as in Riley’s head. It tried to pull him closer to it, but he pushed it away, helplessly muttering nothing and everything while shaking his head. There was a loud and nauseating snap as the forearm broke in his grasp. He squinted open an eye to watch both it and the body go limp once again and he sighed in relief.
Then the hand twitched and started skittering up his chest like a spider hunting a struggling moth caught in its web. Riley twisted and turned, trying to bat the hand away, and in his flailing, dropped the lighter.
He hollered in agony as the cruel flames ate through his pant leg like it was papier-mâché, scalding the skin underneath. His legs kicked out involuntarily as though he could transfer the pain off him, but all that resulted was the death trap of splintered wood grabbing onto a spark, trapping him in a box of fire.
Soon, Riley was engulfed in flames, could feel his skin bubbling and blistering under the intense heat. His anguished shrieks were drowned out by the mocking laughter of the fire as it crackled. He could feel his mask fusing to his face, the fibers digging into the curling peels of skin. His tears evaporated before they could offer soothing relief to the burns. The flesh and muscle on his hands melted off, dripping like hot wax off bone until he couldn’t differentiate between his own arm and the one still trying to scamper up his chest.
Smoke filled every possible crevice in the small coffin, so thick and cloying he couldn't see.
But he could hear. Beyond his own cries and the roar of flames, he can make out the snapping of the wooden coffin lid groaning in protest as the heat expands it beyond its limits. Ghost has just enough of a warning to twist to his side in a poor attempt to dodge the collapsing wood. He doesn’t know why he bothers, it’s not like there’s somewhere..to..go…
He doesn’t feel the wooden panel entrapping him next to him, only empty air, and so Ghost rolls just as the fiery wood drops to the space he just occupied. He continues rolling with too much momentum, coughing as hot dirt sneaks in his mouth.
When he comes to a stop, he opens his eyes for a split second, blinded by the bright red sky around him. Ghost gives himself a moment before sitting up, calves folded under his thighs as he heaves dusty breaths. He looks back to the grave he just came from and sees it’s the only thing distrusting the otherwise untouched red clay covering the Mexican desert. Did he manage to dig out? Must have, right…
The sun is high and punishing, only to be slightly blotted out by overhead vultures, circling… waiting. He glances back down and twists his arms every which way to inspect his dirty, but otherwise intact gray fatigues. Ghost tips forward, leaning his forehead against the ground and grits his teeth so hard they crack before letting out a guttural scream. Please God let this end.
When he’s done yelling, he twists his head back and forth in the dirt, feeling the dirt press into his skin. His breaths catch with each inhale and a sob leaves with each exhale.
“ ¡Qué hermoso sonido, Simón!”
Nononononononono
He cracks open an eye and can make out pristine shoes contrasting against the dirt next to him. Ghost shakes his head, closing his eyes, and goes back to pleading. But just like last time, nobody answers.
Well that’s not entirely true…
A hand runs up the curve of his spine and cards through dusty hair, gripping tight and pulling Simon upright, exposing his throat. He winces as his roots sting from the harsh treatment. The man noses along his neck, deeply breathing in Simon’s scent before trailing up to his ear, slimy voice murmuring, “I do so love to hear you beg, muñeco.”
Simon squeezes his eyes even tighter, the hot breath on his cheek turning his stomach.
His hair is released from the death grip and an oily laugh echoes around him. He peers one eye open and then both when empty space is all that greets him. Ghost doesn’t dare let his guard down though.
He slowly pushes up to his feet and looks around, fists clenched at his side. There is no visible landmark in sight, just flat desert as far as he can see in each direction.
Still, Ghost dusts off his pant legs and starts walking.
And walking.
And walking.
And walking.
Finally, after what felt like hours under the sweltering sun, he drops from heat exhaustion. The visible skin on his face, neck, and hands are bright red, hot to the touch, and pulled tight. His head feels too light and too heavy, and he has long since been dehydrated. Simon lays in the dirt, wanting to cry but his body doesn’t have any water to spare for tears. He just needs a break.
Some higher power seems to be listening as a large shadow falls over him, blocking out the sun and a gentle breeze cools him. That breeze grows stronger and stronger and Ghost can feel the heavy wind physically pushing his body.
He squints up, raising a hand to block the dirt and sand being flung against his soft mask and sunglasses, and can make out the underbelly of a chopper descending above him. Ghost just barely scrambles out of the way, too exhausted to do anything more, watching as the helicopter lands. The rotor blades stay spinning, cutting through the air with deadly precision, and the back ramp door lowers. Ghost can’t see who it is but his shoulders drop in relief at the sight of matching fatigues. Thank god… he can leave.
The person comes closer, head tucked into a raised arm so he too can block out the flying debris as well as stay below the blades. When he finally gets close enough to Ghost, he drops his arm.
Ghost flinches at the sight of a gray mustache and cold blue eyes raking over his prone form.
He scrambled back over the grass in a pathetic imitation of a crab walk as the man stalked forward passively, a predator not bothering to exert energy to chase after its wounded prey. It knows it won’t escape.
He bumped into a cold, solid mass behind him and Ghost shot upright away from it, eyes widening as he watched Roach’s skin blister and burn from invisible fire.
Ghost tried to pat the body to kill the flames, but it only resulted in a scorching sensation sneaking up his veins. Nothing seemed to help and Roach’s mask splintered with a sickening crack under the heat.
He sat frozen, numb to the world, didn’t even try to resist when two soldiers covered in black grabbed his upper arms and dragged him away. He just watch the smoking body get smaller and smaller as he was pulled further and further.
Ghost felt cold metal placed against the back of his head, a gravelly American voice strong in its conviction saying, “No more less loose ends, Lieutenant.”
He slammed his eyes shut, waiting for the deafening bang and onslaught of pain, even though he knows it’ll be dark before he can experience either.
But it doesn’t come.
The helicopter blades are moving in slow motion above him, a repetitive woosh like ocean waves crashing. It sounds muffled to his ears but he doesn’t move to look around, gun still pressed against his skull. Clear as day in his ears, Ghost can hear an unfortunately familiar low, hollow tapping echo across the clearing.
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
It gets faster and louder, until eventually the taps are indistinguishable from each other and he has no choice but to bring his hands up to cover his ears. He curls down into himself, pain pounding in his head until it finally all stops, silence surrounding him.
He stays still, not wanting to open his eyes, not wanting to face whatever new horror the world has to offer him. An impatient huff of warm air lands on his face. Ghost shakes his head, eyes still closed, pleading for this to end.
He hears a soft stomp in front of him and he squints open an eye. His sunglasses are fogged from whatever breathes on him, so he pulls them off to look at the creature before him.
It’s the doe.
Ghost blinks several times and then looks past her to take in his new surroundings. A misty forest condensed with pines stands tall and proud around him. There is a thick fog low to the ground and he can smell the damp wood indicating it rained at some point. The sun breaks through holes in the canopy, sharp white beams illuminate the otherwise dark space, and birds whistle around him.
The doe stomps her foot again, digging into the earth to get his attention. When he makes eye contact, she ducks her head before slowly turning and walking away. After a couple paces, Ghost watches her tilt her head back his way and pause when she sees him in the same spot she left him. She huffs and Ghost gets the message.
He follows at a comfortable distance, the doe leading him deeper into the forest. Her head bobs slowly back and forth with each controlled step, ears perked forward with the occasional flick back towards him. His boots squelch the wet leaves and his steps falter slightly every few seconds as mud clings to his soles.
They come across a massive fallen tree, the leafy top smooshed into the earth while the base is splintered from where it cracked. Its thick trunk completely blocks his view of what’s ahead. The doe doesn’t pause, just gracefully leaping over with no problem. Ghost stops to access the best way to get over. The once side but now top of the trunk is just above his head and it would be an awkward scramble up. He looks down and sees a gap between the underside of the trunk and the forest floor. But with his broad size, it will be too tight of a fit. He paces towards the thinner branches of the tree, where the trunk is angled down and finds that to be his best option.
He reaches up and digs his fingers into mossy bark, bouncing off his toes to heave himself up. He straddles the top, swinging his legs over the other side and dropping. Ghost straightens up from his squat and dusts his hands together to remove the bits of dirt and moss that clung on. He turns around to face the clearing and the doe isn’t there. He glances about, trying to catch a glimpse of a tan pelt between the trees, clicking his tongue. Nothing.
He doesn’t know what he expected, honestly.
Ghost heaves out a sigh and looks around with his palms slightly raised up in disbelief. Why lead him here?
He walks around in circles for a couple minutes, head craning up towards the canopy then back down to watch his boots kick through the fallen leaves, searching for any sign of what he is doing here. Just as he is ready to give up, his eyes roam back over the fallen tree, catching on to something.
He steps forward and tilts his head to the side as he observes an odd hole carved into the bark. Odd in that it is perfect.
The perfectly round circle was barely bigger than the diameter of a aluminum can. Ghost hesitantly reached his fingers out. He tensed up when the tips of his gloves were no more than a couple centimeters away from the opening of the whole, eyes shifting around him as he waited for something to come after him in this hellscape. He waited and waited and waited.
When nothing happened, he kept inching his fingers forward, head still on a swivel, and once he was up to the second knuckles, his fingertips came to a stop as they brushed against wood. Once again he paused, expectantly.
When still nothing happened, he allowed his fingers to explore. The hole wasn’t deep, but there was slightly more space inside than the hole portrayed at its surface. He could feel around the inner lip, gently tapping from the inside. When his fingers pushed a little too roughly, he felt a slight give. He repeated the motion, curling his fingers towards himself, pressing against the top inside lip as he pulled.
Ghost’s eyes widened when the bark surrounding the hole cracked and splintered, leaving an outline of a rectangle with the hole in the center. He pulled again, this time the bark in the perimeter of the rectangle moved every so slightly off the trunk and towards him.
He went to try again but froze. There was a tickling at the base of his skull and the hair stood up. The forest was absolutely silent. No more birds, no more cicadas, no more whistling wind. It was like the world was holding its breath, compelling him to do the same.
No no no, he is not a rookie…
Ghost could feel his dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, shoulders drawn up, and chest tight. There was nothing in his peripheries and when he forced his feet to pivot, brushing harshly through the fallen leaves, there was nothing amidst the tree line. The fog seemed denser and Ghost squinted, trying to see if he could make out any hiding enemies using it to their advantages. A couple leaves swayed down to the forest floor, catching the wind to slow their descent. His eyes snapped to the motion before quickly flicking up to see where they came from.
And his body seemed to launch an attack on itself. His heart beat faster than it could handle, his lungs refused itself vital oxygen, his stomach burned from its own acid.
The faceless creature hung amongst the shadows of the canopy, arms stretched out with deadly claws that Simon feels the ghost of dug into gnarled wood to keep itself above him. Its knees were bent in a predatory squat ready to launch itself forward but waiting, featureless face still managing to lock on to his very soul.
That horrible low tapping echoed across the clearing.
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
Another tapping joined in, just slightly off sync, to his right.
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
Ghost kept his head angled up, learning from his mistake, but as the second sound got louder and closer, not even all of his training could lead him to resist seeking out the unknown. His hazel eyes cut to the corners and his breath caught as another faceless creature slowly emerged from the fog, clawed hand pressing against each tree it passed as though using them as a guide.
A third deep tapping had his eyes shifting to the left, and yet another creature was already upon him, crouching just at the edge of the fog.
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
Never before had Simon related so much to a sheep surrounded by salivating wolves.
The tappings all synced up, getting louder to the point he could feel the deep bass rumbling his spine.
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
Ghost doesn’t know what set them off, but all three creatures suddenly leapt forward claws outstretched. He threw punches and kicks, but nothing deterred them from ripping through muscle, tendons parting easily like the Red Sea unto Moses.
It was a blur of limbs and bodies as Ghost struggled to fight off the systematic attack, each creature dipping in and out so there was always at least one on him, never getting in each other’s way. If he wasn’t currently fighting for his life, he’d be impressed by how these creatures move and flow together as though they were one. Just like the 141…
One creature moves at Ghost quickly and forcefully, clawed hands slamming him back and knocking him against the fallen tree. His breath is punched out of him and he struggles to get it back when the same creature jumps on him, tearing through flesh and organs. He yells out, cry echoing, pleading for mercy, but all that answers is
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
He thrashed his head, legs kicking to get away but unable to, arms switching frantically between trying to push the creature off and flinging to his sides to scratch at the bark. His vision is a blurring mess as tears in the center and darkness at the edges compete.
In the midst of his pain, his left hand accidentally catches onto the lip of the hole and another tear of skin jerks his hand back to him…only, his tense fingers hooked into the opening and while trying to pull away, the force of the motion slide the rectangle of wood out, revealing a drawer.
Ghost doesn’t have the time to be shocked or confused, just accepts it and maneuvers his hand up and around before digging into the new open space. The creature above him still claws at him, head following the motions of Ghost's left hand. Its own motions are seemingly frantic now.
His hand brushed against several objects, two solid but made of oddly-shaped smooth wood and something else cold and heavy. He curled his fingers around the latter, only to immediately release when a sharp pain cut through his palm. Ghost pulled his hand out and saw the thin line of blood start to bubble up to the surface and drip down his palm. He had never been happier to see his own blood. Thank you, doe .
Ghost plunges his hand back in and grabs at the object again, this time letting muscle memory prevent him from cutting himself. With renewed vigor, he brings his knee up between the monster’s chest and his own, and kicks. At the same time, he brings his arm in, swinging the knife at the creature’s face. It fumbles back and skirts away. The other two freeze and the four beings are in a collective state of disbelief. The tapping is gone, only Ghost’s harsh panting filling the air.
The creature he kicked off slowly brings a clawed hand up to its face and Simon watches with sadist satisfaction as it gingerly touches the only mark on its featureless face. Its hand comes away bloody and it lifts its head back to Ghost, staring for a couple seconds. He meets its nonexistent gaze head on, unblinkingly.
It’s the first to look away, sluggishly swinging its head to the other two creatures. They stand shell shocked and one takes a single step toward Simon. It brings hands covered in his blood up and spread in front of it. He has seen this position countless times, enemies pleading with the reaper to spare them. Ghost can’t help but smirk, bloody teeth making him look deranged. That’s right… now who’s the prey?
He adjusts his grip on the knife and pushes himself to his feet, standing tall and at the ready. Ghost raises his chin and can finally breathe in clean air.
The creatures look at each other and the one with its hands up takes another step forward.
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
This time, Ghost doesn’t wait for the creature to come to him. This time, he is done letting life screw him over, and this time, he is in control of his story.
In a smooth, practiced motion perfected by years of honing himself into the perfect weapon, Ghost launches forward at the still begging creature. It jerks back in surprise, but it’s too late to do anything. Ghost is already on it. Straddling the monster, who paws at him, Ghost hovers his knife over its blank face. There’s no features to convey its fear, but its jerking head and scrambling hands portray it perfectly, fueling his bloodlust further. One of the hands comes up, pushing into his cheek, which shifts the mask. Ghost is temporarily blinded by dark fabric and with a growl, he takes the hand not currently clutching the knife to the side of his head, pinching the loose fabric and pulling the mask off in one fell swoop and tossing it away.
He brings his hand to join the other on the knife and grits his teeth. He pushes the knife down, fighting against the claws digging into his wrists, slowly winning this deadly game of tug of war.
Ghost feels claws shred his biceps as the other two creatures rush to the aid of the pinned one, attempting to pull him off. He still pushes down, eager to end his years of pain and suffering.
Thumpumpthumpumpthumpump
The knife is mere centimeters from where this thing’s forehead would be when the creature on his right yanks him hard, forcing his arm and knife, away from the creature on the ground.
Frustrated, Ghost stops resisting and allows the momentum of the pull to bring his arm up and back. With a quick flick of his wrist, the knife slices through the soft neck with almost no resistance.
The creature is frozen and he can feel the one under him and the one still holding onto his left arm have gone still as well.
Ghost pants and watches dark blood bubble and sputter out of the wound before spilling over onto skin like a rushing waterfall. The hot blood sprays onto the right side of his face, but he pays it no mind. The creature’s hand comes up to clutch at the wound but never quite makes it as the monster stumbles and falls to the ground. It jerks and seizes while wet coughing sounds fill the air.
Ghost watches it struggle to breathe, even though it has no mouth or nostrils, a dark tendril of pleasure wrapping around his spine as he watches this fiend drown in its own blood. He’s almost glad he wasn’t able to push the knife deeper; this slow, agonizing march towards death much better suited for it than if it was quick.
Its limp head thuds in the grass, falling to the side facing his direction and he glares back, smirking. He wants its last sight to be him, dying with the knowledge the Ghost killed him.
Ghost absently feels his left arm being released and can see the creature whose face he cut lunging past him before dropping to its knees and pressing its hands to the dying creature’s neck.
As though he was breaching the surface of water, sound crashes back into him. The creature below him is letting out a low anguished wail while the other with the cut face curled over the fallen one with a piercing shriek. The shriek dies as the tapping returns, fast and panicked as it attempts to get a response from the other. But instead, all it receives is the sound of blood filling lungs.
The one below him takes advantage of Ghost’s obsession with the grisly scene happening across the clearing to grab at his shoulders and bring its knees up to flip their positions.
Knocked into reality when his head smacks against the ground, Ghost refocuses his efforts on his new (old?) target. He brings the knife back, but the creature’s rage calls forth supernatural strength. It bends Ghost’s wrist back until there is a sharp snap followed by a pained yell. But it doesn’t care or relent until Ghost is forced to drop the knife. His pain holds no candle to what the creature is feeling.
With one hand out of commission, Ghost brings his left one up but it’s caught and slammed down to the ground. The low tapping is back, heavy anger mixed with pleading commands.
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
Ghost isn’t going down without a fight. He hasn’t yet and he won’t until his last breath leaves, especially now that he knows he isn’t stuck in a perpetual hellscape. That he can win.
He struggles, bringing forth years of military skills, but the creature is unfazed. Its head gets closer and Ghost snaps his own up, forcefully knocking his forehead against the empty plane. It gets knocked back, releasing his hands to clutch at its face. Ghost tries to sit up, but the monster is quick to recover. Its claws regrip Simon’s wrists, pinning them to the ground by the sides of his head. Ghost’s head swims with the pain of an oncoming headache and the recent memory of cartilage crunching plays in his ears. But that doesn’t make sense…there’s no cartilage to break. The current sound of concern coming from a slight distance away causes the creature on top of him to turn its head towards it and release a short angry snarl before refocusing back on Ghost.
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
Ghost redoubles his struggles but the damn thing doesn’t let up, just getting louder and louder.
Thump-ump
Thump-ump
Thump-mon
He rears off the ground but gets nowhere when the hands lift his wrists, which also brings his shoulders up, and slams him back down.
Thump-mon
Thump-mon
Thi-mon
He feels his strength draining and he jerks in panic beneath the creature. Nonononono he has come too far. He tries to push up and once again, the creature lets him, before reacquainting him with the ground. Hard. His brain moves like a soapy sponge in his head and his vision swims, everything growing dark.
Thi-mon
He can feel his body being lifted off the ground again and the last thing he sees in the dark fingers above him grow slightly closer and then away as he is slammed down for the last time.
SIMON!
Simon jerks away, choking on air as his eyes flick around the dark room. There’s a single light source from the kitchen that slightly illuminated the living room. Still, he can’t see much, even after rapidly blinking his eyes to clear away any of the clinging grit.
He tries to sit up but he barely moves. He feels pressure on his wrists, one aching much more than the other, and something heavy on his hips. Simon starts to hyperventilate as his head flails back and forth. Nononononononononononono please please please. He just wants to wake up!
“Simon!”
He flinches and looks up to follow the source of the deep yell. It takes effort but he can make out the dark shape of his captain leaning over him, no features visible on his face since the light is behind him.
Still, he would know that voice and smokey scent anywhere. And that is all that keeps from losing it. For now, it’s enough.
He drops his head back against the hardwood floor, only barely softened by the cheap rug. Simon swallows sandpaper before choking out, “Captain?”
Price exhales deeply in relief, dropping his head to his chest, muttering something under his breath (if Ghost didn’t know his captain better, he’d say it was a prayer) before looking back up. He doesn’t need to see Price’s icy eyes to know they are looking over Simon’s features in assessment. And his stomach twists at the knowledge that his face is bare to the world, even if that world only includes his captain. He could have sworn he went to bed with his balaclava on…
Uncomfortable, he tilts his head back and observes the room upside down. With the lack of sufficient light, he can slightly make out the old couch with its faded leafy design. The cushions were in disarray, a couple fallen to the floor. Next to it was the tiny side table with its equally tiny drawer missing a knob and is opened. Behind the couch, he knows there is a staircase set against the wall, even though he can’t see it. It leads up to two dusty bedrooms and bathroom with a shower that dribbles out ice cold water.
Memories struggle to fill his fuzzy head, competing for space with the still fresh nightmare. He remembers the task force had been staying at a safe house in the lovely snow covered hills of bumfuck nowhere. They were halfway done with their mission, having completed the preparatory stage and just had to wait for their targets to arrive. There are more memories lingering just out of reach and when he tries to grasp at them, it’s like splashing cloudy water to try and clear it, thoughts dripping off his fingers back to the water. He is also struggling to recall more and more parts of his dreams the longer he is awake, which he actually doesn’t mind.
He blinks his way back to the present and clears his throat. “Mind letting me up, sir?”
Price hummed, clearly satisfied in his assessment, and slowly released his wrists before sitting back, still on Simon. Simon brought his wrists forward and rubbed at the sore skin.
With a groan, Price finally stood up and off his lieutenant, offering his left hand. Simon thought it was odd, but a dull pulsing in his right wrist that starts to hurt the more he pays attention to it tells him the captain has the right idea. Simon reached up to grab Price’s hand with his own left ( feels so weird ) and he is pulled up. The action irritated his upper arms which were sore, the phantom pain of claws echoing through his muscles.
Once he is on his feet, Price is quick to move his hand up to Simon’s shoulder and turn him around, guiding him away from the light. There’s some soft sound behind him he can’t identify, it’s familiarity tickling at his brain but just like his memories, that too is just out of reach. He turns to investigate but Price’s hand denies him. Curiosity burns through his veins but is diverted when his socked foot hits a small object, sending it clattering away across the wood floor towards the couch. He squints trying to make out what it was but the hand on his shoulder keeps him moving forward and the rough voice of his captain orders him to leave it.
He is brought to the small bathroom on the main floor, Price closing the door behind him with a click. The low light filters in from under the doorway so it isn’t completely pitch black. But it might as well be.
Simon puts his hands on either side of the sink, but flinches when his right hand makes contact, lightning firing up his veins. But he’s had worse and his head is pounding, so he lets his hand drop by his side and ignores it for now. He hangs his head, trying to quiet his mind. He doesn’t want to look in the mirror, knowing the only thing staring back will be a featureless face… and he’s had enough of those. To his credit, Price is silent. Doesn’t ask how he is, what he needs, or what the dream was about. Just lets Simon exist in the moment.
There’s an area on his right cheek that itches and when he absentmindedly brings his left hand up and feels his short nails against bare skin, he is reminded again that he isn’t wearing the mask. It shouldn’t matter, it’s not like Price could see his face. But the fact that there is potential for that, if only there was better lighting, makes his skin crawl. Besides, the mask is his comfort blanket as much as it is his shield. And after that nightmare, he craves both. He lets out a sigh. Thank god he is awake.
Glancing in Price’s direction, he keeps his voice low, “Don’t suppose you grabbed my mask?”
“You might want to wash your face first.”
Simon furrows his brow at the response. Wash his face? Why? And does he have the mask or not?
He thinks not, since Price was practically attached to him from the moment he awoke to the journey to the bathroom. He swings his head, taking a slight moment to prepare, towards the mirror to see what Price was referring to. Simon can make out his own dark silhouette and nothing more. He can hear the low tapping in his ears and he freezes. Nonono he woke up he woke up he woke up. He is awake dammit. The tapping gets faster and it’s only when Simon squeezes his eyes shut that he understands there is no tapping. Just his heart pounding.
There’s a sharp snort to his right. Unbeknownst to Simon’s internal panic, Price reaches his hand towards the light switch with a soft, but derisive laugh. “Might help to see what you’re doing.”
Simon hears the flick and he drops his head again, this time to hide. He knows it’s cowardly, but he’s too exhausted to care. There isn’t much difference in lighting. The bulb above him was weak and only gave the softest of orange glows. A memory bubbles forth of when they first arrived at the safe house and Soap opened the bathroom door in his exploration. He flicked the switch up and down several times, but with all the natural light, the weak bulb made no visible difference. The Scot looked back at them with a raised eyebrow, but Price put a finger up in warning not to complain. Soap shook his head with a sigh, closing the door and moving on.
Simon wonders where Soap is now. Hopefully still asleep. He didn’t see him or Gaz when Price woke him up, so they’re probably still upstairs.
Something occurred to him. He glanced back towards his captain from the small pocket between his arm and torso in confusion. With little sleeping options, Ghost took the couch downstairs, Price took the small mattress for himself in one bedroom, and the sergeants shared the larger mattress in the other one. But the boys would have been closer to the staircase, and thus Ghost, than Price. What was Price doing down here?
Simon asked, and his captain observed him for a moment, seeming to weigh his options. Eventually, he came to the conclusion that he might as well tell the truth. “Heard you so I came down to check it out.”
“Heard me?”
Price ran a hand down his face, wincing slightly when he got to his nose. Great, another question . “You were screaming bloody murder, son. Thought someone broke in and got to you. Ran down here and found you in quite the state.”
Simon’s skin itched. He loathes when people even get a glimpse at anything beyond the mask he presents to the world. To know that his captain saw him having a nightmare, saw him weak, shoots ice into his veins.
He keeps his head down and breathes. Price waits patiently. “So,” he clears his throat and tries to focus on something else, “you heard my… you heard me, but the other two didn’t?”
“Didn’t say that,” Price muttered.
“So, they did hear me? Then where are they?” He still hopes they are in the bedroom. The less people to witness Ghost losing his shit, the better.
“My my, aren’t you talkative tonight. So full of questions.” The words were lighthearted, but Price’s rough voice betrayed the dark tone he was trying to hold back. “Excuse me.”
Price made the move gesture with his hand and when Simon backed up, he crouched to go through the cabinet under the sink, pulling out a small first aid kit. He then stretched up to grab a couple sheets of toilet paper. Price stood up and returned to his position against the door.
Simon watched him bring some of the toilet paper up to his nose with a sniff, holding it under his nostrils. Simon furrowed his brows. When Price pulled the toilet paper away to move to a cleaner section, Simon could see a dark spot contrasting sharply against the white.
“Why do you have a bloody nose?”
Price met his gaze evenly and raised an eyebrow.
“Oh,” Simon looked back down in guilt and shame, the echo of cartilage crunching reverberating in his skull, “Sorry.”
Price shrugged and leaned his head back against the wood, “Not broken. I could’ve had worse…”
Simon wants to question that tone. Price isn’t telling him something. But he is just too exhausted.
He catches sight of his own hands against the porcelain and frowns. In the orange glow, his pale hands are covered in something of a slightly darker shade that runs up to the middle of his forearms. He twists his arms and sees that whatever it is covered his palms and inside wrists too. When he lifted his hands, the substance left an imprint of his hands on the sink. His brain is moving sluggishly. He knows what this is, the familiar smell of iron suddenly making itself known, but doesn’t want to admit it.
Simon reaches for the sink knob and it squeaks before cold water rushes out of the spout. As he puts his hands under, he braces for the shock of the water on an open wound, but it doesn’t come. All he gets is the deepening ache of his wrist, but upon inspection, all there is is some discoloration wrapping around the wrist as well as some slight swelling, but no cut. Even as he moves his hands to get them soaking wet, there is no raw sting. Where is he bleeding from? Why is he bleeding?
The blood tinted water swirls down the drain. He has to use his nails to scratch off some of the dried flecks. It’s much harder to tell what’s blood and what’s ink on his left forearm, so he knows he’ll have to wash them again later.
Price clears his throat and when Simon looks towards him, his captain gestures for Simon’s right hand. He had the first aid kit sitting on a towel shelf, which as Soap grumpily pointed out earlier, had no towels. In his other hand, Price held a bandage roll. He twitches his fingers towards himself again, expressing his impatience.
Simon begrudgingly offers his now clean right hand, which Price gingerly holds to inspect before beginning to wrap.
Simon tries to think back on how he sprained his wrist, but a dense fog settled on his mind. His dream swirls together is a mix of forest green and low tapping, but he can’t make anything out. Probably for the best… He most likely was flailing his arms and whacked his wrist against the side table. Something about that theory itches in his brain, like it’s not quite right. He asks Price, but his captain stays silent and keeps his head, focusing on his task.
Price’s words from earlier come back to him and Simon braces himself to look in the mirror. With his face closer to the light bulb, he can actually see features. Ghost has perfected the art of looking in the mirror and not seeing himself. It’s helpful for when he shaves or applies the eye black so he can focus on his task and not the monster looking back. So, with ease, he looks past the scars as well as the dark oil still painted around his eyes and across the nose, and zeroes in on the blood splatter decorating his right cheek, smeared from when he itched it. Tilting his head, he can see it’s on his neck as well. Maybe this is where the wound is? And when he touched his face, the blood transferred to his hands? That’s the only thing Simon can come up with. Still, as he turns his head this way and that, he doesn’t see the origin of the blood.
Through further inspection, he notices a small dark splash of blood in the center of his forehead. Glancing back at his captain’s nose, which has a sheet of toilet paper twisted and shoved in the nostril, he knows where that little bit originated. But what about the rest? Because it can’t all be from head bashing Price.
Simon’s eye flick up to meet Price’s, who is now watching with a carefully blank expression. There’s an emotion swirling in his eyes, but Simon can’t pinpoint it.
Before he can ask, there’s a thud on the door.
Still facing Simon, Price’s hand reaches back to grab the knob and pulls slightly, only leaving an inch of a gap.
“Yeah?”
Although he tries to make his voice carry, Gaz is still quiet to their ears. Simon as to wonder why the younger man is so far away. And how the fuck he knocked. His gaze drops down and through the small gap, sees a boot laying on its side on the floor. Simon rolls his eyes. Is he really that lazy that he couldn’t travel the distance to knock like a normal human? It’s not like Simon will bite… now.
“Extraction’ll be here in 10 minutes, sir.”
Extraction? What the fuck for? He narrows his eyes at Price, who maintains that calm, which is now getting slightly annoying, expression. He is fine. He doesn’t need a fucking extraction. It was just a bad dream, that’s it. He’s gone through worse when he’s been awake. Ghost will be more than fine to complete the mission.
“Copy that, Gaz.”
“He’ll be okay, yeah?” Gaz’s distant voice wobbles in fear. Simon can feel irritation sparking inside. He is fine!
Price drops his head to his chest in a sigh before gently letting go of Simon’s wrapped hand. He turns to peek his head out the door, purposefully blocking Gaz’s view of Simon.
“Just fine, son,” he says softly. “You’re doing great, just wait for now.”
Price brings his head back in and leans back against the door with his arms crossed, weight closing the door with a click. Price can practically see the tiger inside of Ghost pacing, tail whipping in anger.
Ghost grinds his teeth, “An extraction?”
“Simon–”
“An extraction?!”
In his enraged disbelief, he tried to shove past Price to leave the bathroom, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. His captain held firm, putting a hand to Simon’s heaving chest. He was about to spew some placating bullshit but Simon doesn’t let him, knocking the hand off and brushing past him. He jerks back with a strangled yell when Price plays dirty and grabs at his wrapped wrist. Simon looks back at him in a mixture of shock, pain, and rage. Price himself looks ashamed, but resolute. His hand slides up so it’s no longer on the sprain and tries to ease Simon back away from the door.
“Why don’t you have a seat, son,” Price orders under the guide of a suggestion. He gestures to the closed toilet lid. Simon stays where he is.
“Why can’t I leave?”
“You can but–”
“Then let go.”
“Simon–”
“What?” he snaps. Price raises an eyebrow at the tone. It goes against the grain of Simon’s nature to disrespect a superior, especially one as honorable as his captain. But he bites back the apologetic sir that threatens to escape.
“What aren’t you telling me, Price?”
“If you would just sit down and wait, I’ll explain in,” he pauses, eyes looking to the side for a second in thought, “9 minutes.”
Simon humorlessly laughs, “Once the extraction is here you mean. I don’t need. A fucking. Extraction.”
“Good for you,” Price is unamused, “Now, sit. Down, Lieutenant.”
Simon scoffs and yanks his arm out of Price’s grasp. Not waiting around for his captain to get another grip on him, he moves to pull the door open and stalk out of the bathroom. Price is hot on his heels.
He shrugged off his captain’s hand on his shoulder with a wince, the soreness coming back tenfold, and moved back into the living room with long strides.
“Simon stop!”
He twisted back to shoot his captain a glare of loathing and saw Price’s face full of concern and dread. This is absolutely ridiculous . He turned back around and kept moving. I’ve handled much worse than–
Simon stumbled to a stop.
Bile rose up and his heart plummeted. His skin went cold and clammy, his extremities turning to ice. He couldn’t tell if he was hyperventilating or even breathing at all.
He heard Price say something, but everything sounded like he was underwater.
Simon’s wide eyes barely registered Gaz, who had tear tracks running down his face as well as blood dripping from a cut on his cheek.
His nightmare slams back into him and starts replaying like a horror flick in his brain.
His mouth is completely dry and thoughts come difficult, his brain shutting down to protect itself. Sweat drips down the back of his neck. His knees shake and there is a body next to him, both supporting Simon and trying to pull him away. But he can’t move.
Gaz is kneeling on the ground, jeans soaked in dark blood. He isn’t wearing a shirt, the dark material instead pressed under his bloody hands There is a slight tremble running through his arms.
There’s a sharp ringing in Simon’s ears and he squeezes his eyes shut, hoping against hope that he’ll wake up from this nightmare.
When he opens his eyes, there is no change. The same grisly scene is there to meet him.
He recalled everything that has happened since he woke up in the new context.
The quiet, previously unknown sound, Price not letting him look back, trying to keep him in the bathroom, the mysterious blood on his hands and face, the fucking extraction. Gaz had asked if he’ll be okay. The he wasn’t referring to Simon .
Price finally manages to pull him away and turn him around. But it doesn’t matter. The image of Soap lying in a pool of his own blood, tan skin too pale, eyes closed, struggling to survive a slit throat is burned into his retinas.
Please, let me wake up
Please
Let this be something to wake up from