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The Captain's death was not a secret among the ghosts, because most of them had been there when it happened. The others never found out, and no one was exactly prepared to say it.
It was not a welcome topic of conversation, and bringing it up usually responded in a great deal of discreet glaring, profuse denial, and the Captain isolating himself for a few days. The ghosts had learned.
It went without saying that, when one loves someone, and that someone leaves, one can become very distressed. That would be a decent place to start, but not an accurate one. No, the Captain had always been a little distressed. It had begun a long, long time before that.
Perhaps it began at the very start, with his birth. Being the youngest of five was never going to be easy, and the combination of being isolated from a young age and always being taken the least seriously out of all his siblings made the Captain overly independent and obsessed with gaining power from a young age. It didn't help that he was smaller than most boys his age as a child, and weaker, and less able at reading and writing and academia in general. Therefore, when his growth spurt finally came at fifteen, he was frustrated to find that no one cared all too much anymore. His training for the army was completely natural, therefore, as the last place left where a man like him could climb to the top.
It didn't help like he thought it would. At first, the rush of control and pride of commanding a group of soldiers was enough to get him through the day, the responsibility landing steadily on his shoulders. The war was where he thrived, where he needed to be, the only place he could truly be himself and be respected for it. And when one has found one's tribe, it is most important to keep command of it, so when he had found out of his parent's deaths, the letters went up in smoke, and the Captain spent a few nights alone before resolving to never think of it again.
Before long, though, an old discomfort had crept beneath the Captain's skin. That constant, familiar feeling of unhappiness curling in underneath him. It wasn't productive to the war effort, though, he tried to concentrate on the joy, or what he thought was joy, that taking control of his troops involved. It didn't have the same exhilaration, though, after a couple of years, didn't give him the same feeling. Therefore, the Captain simply tightened his grip.
Lieutenant Havers was the first man who really saw the Captain. He was the last, too.
After years of floating around life puppeted around by older siblings and parents and teachers and officers, and seeing those beneath him and those to puppet, the Captain wasn't exactly used to truly connecting with people. He had friends, sure, in the literally meaning of the word, for the sake of having friends. They smoked together, they complained about the weather, they told stories. The Captain would be prepared to shoot any of them at a moments notice. The closest he would get to friends, he supposed.
Lieutenant Havers was witty, respectful and loyal and brave but charming, playful in a proper sort of way. He was a worthy lieutenant, perfectly competent in all ways of the word, and he talked to the Captain, look him in his eyes, and his words were never empty. They were full of meaning, not just pleasantries. The Captain found himself rather fond of Havers. Rather too fond.
It wasn't as though he couldn't get a hold of himself, he thought, pushing away the image of lying with Havers, his lieutenant's arms around him, keeping him safe and comforted from the world. It was a ridiculous idea, of course. To think the Captain, after all he had been through, needed safety and comfort, was insulting, and the idea that he would want it from his lieutenant was truly laughable. Unfortunately, the Captain found himself rather attached to these feelings, spending his days waiting to see his lieutenants dark, sparkling eyes, and found himself softer in Havers' presence. He was less strict, less uptight, more lenient. Havers was a good man, and the Captain would never admit that he needed him, but it was true. Nothing would ever have to come of it. That was, until Havers was transferred.
It was the night before he left, to be more exact. Havers stayed behind to see the Captain, the door closed and his eyes soft. The Captain did not pretend to know what was going to happen.
"Captain," Havers started, "you have been a terrific officer here. And the time we have spent together has truly been grand, I'm sure you'll agree?"
The Captain nodded a little jerkily.
"I think - that is to say, sir, you mean a great deal, to me."
"Thank you, Havers," the Captain said roughly, "You, um, mean a great deal to me, too."
Lieutenant Havers smiled sadly. "William."
"Hm?"
"I doubt we will ever see each other again, Captain. Please call me William."
"... Alright, William," the Captain said. He was right, of course. It was just this night, and then William would be gone.
"Sir," William started hesitantly, "would you... I mean do you want to..." He started inching towards the Captain, looking him in the eyes, his head a little tilted. But he could not possibly be asking what the Captain thought he was.
Except, when the Captain nodded, William gingerly look the Captain's face in his hands and kissed him. He was frozen in shock, but also by the tidal wave of grief that had started rushing over him, spilling over slightly in his eyes. He kissed back softly, then pulled away, blinking aggressively to try and stop the damn tears.
"Lieutenant," he said, not facing William, "goodbye."
And William Havers walked out, leaving the Captain stood in the centre of the cold, empty room, tears dripping from his eyes.
There wasn't much left after that. All the Captain had left was his troops, and without Lieutenant Havers there to sooth and soften him, the Captain became paranoid, and started to rule his regiment with an iron fist. He spent days taking extreme measures, preparing his soldiers for the worst that could not possibly happen, and punished anyone severely for stepping out of line. He could not see the series of ghosts that haunted the hause, could not see the way they finched and drifted out of a room whenever he entered, could not see how they tried to knock over the bottles in his room so he could not drink them. And when the war is done, the Captain gives up. There is a bottle of whiskey and a razor, and perhaps the combination of the two will finally make him feel something again, or perhaps his descent into the dark will be as numb as the past 49 years of his life. He hopes for the latter. He experiences the former.
It is tragic. A lone man dragging a blade across his skin as figures before him slide in an out of existence, voices echoing, telling him not to do it. He thinks it is merely the alcohol. It probably is, but only because that is inching him closer to death. He gets closer still until he topples over, and he lies exhausted and ruined and broken over what's left of his battered, bloody body, floating in ghost form.
The Captain does not talk to the other ghosts for a year. He paces the house, and he paces outside, and sometimes he lies down and stays very still and does not move for a very long time. He does not think he can talk, cannot form the words to express anything of importance, when everything is so blurry and pointless, and existence is painful.
The first person he talks to is Kitty, who finds him curled in his wardrobe, having not moved for weeks.
"I really hope you're okay," she says sadly and desperately. The Captain must turn to look at her, because his world shifts to the left and he sees her face, but it feels as though someone else is doing the action.
"I'm not," he says, and turns back around. Then he closes his eyes.
For a few years, the Captain remains generally silent, but offers short, bitter remarks whenever they are required of him. He is not angry, not really, just awfully tired, but he doesn't know how to talk to people in a way that doesn't make them flinch, anymore. Everything he says comes out biting and harsh, and it is clear that some ghosts despise him and some sympathise with him, and he cares about neither.
By the time Pat comes along, the Captain has worked out how to be less harsh, and though he cannot soften his sharpened edges, he tries to remain neutral, and stumbles around kindness a few times. He finds something new, in that, a pleasant warmness when he manages to coax a giggle out of Kitty or a begrudging smile out of Fanny. And Pat is so excitable, and kind, and treats the Captain like... well, a Captain, a respected leader, and not the shell of a broken man. Pat tries to talk about army things with the Captain, about the wars and training exercises, and the Captain forces himself to stay and listen, even if he would rather not. It is worth it, to see Pat's bright smile. It's surprising to him, that someone could be so alive, even in death.
He does not get along nearly so well with Julian, when he arrives. The younger man talks in great deal about his escapades, and the Captain finds himself giving up his excuses and just walking away, the faintest trace of William's kiss still on his lips forming a churning shame in his stomach. He can barely look at the others, at times, barely feels worthy of his uniform. His life was a disgrace, he decides, a disgusting secret that no one needs to know. Even the way it ended is dishonorable, and he is a coward and a shame. He withdraws. Pat becomes the unofficial leader of their afterlife, secretly hoping the Captain will be back soon.
The Captain is not always fully back. He returns in waves, one morning feeling back to his proper self, and returning, to Pat's delight, to lead the group and make some kind of order. The next day, he has a panic attack after walking into the bathroom where he ended his life. He can still see the blood stains. He cannot breathe, and he does not want to.
It is barely a surprise, then, that a good twenty years later when Alison and Mike appear, it is within his best interests to try and keep to himself. The group needs a leader, and he has long since accepted that role, and still feels that hot shame at the realisation that he likes it. He is minutes away from turning into the man he was before his death. He is almost eighty years away. Death is long and still, and he is stiller. He has so many regrets. He has done so much wrong.
He tries to make up for it.
He helps the group when he is abandoned as leader, tries not to fall into his pit of self loathing that appears at the recognition of his dreadful leadership. He works with the group. He tries to take everything Fanny says with a pinch of salt. He tries to be kind to Kitty. He does not tell Alison anything. She doesn't need to know.
He does, though.
And as he sits alone in that same bathroom, counting the blood stains, he starts to think that maybe, after everything, maybe his life and death haven't been such a disgrace, after all. Maybe he can forgive himself.
It will take a long time. But the Captain has eternity.