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Simon Riley had been ‘Ghost’ for so long that he’d forgotten how to be anything else. Anyone else.
He’d been cleared for active duty, of course he had. The SAS couldn’t have a nutjob running around with a sniper rifle; that was a given. Though sometimes, just sometimes, Ghost wondered if he had tricked them all into thinking that he was more stable than he was. He knew what he was supposed to say to get clearance, it wasn’t hard. He had to pretend that he didn’t have a death wish, that he had empathy for those he worked with, that he could work as part of a team, and be okay with being ordered around without question.
He wasn’t sure he even knew Simon Riley anymore. He hadn’t let himself remember in years and quite frankly, why would he? He was a hollow shell of a man that had been through hell and lived to tell the tale.
‘Ghost’ was… comfort. Protection. The only way that Simon Riley could move on.
Captain Price was, probably, the only person who really knew who lay beneath the mask. Perhaps more so than the man who sought protection under the soft fabric. Sometimes Price looked at him as if he didn’t recognise the man in front of him, as if he had slipped so far away from what was human and knowable that he really had become a ghost. A mere apparition that could be harnessed and leashed without question or failure.
It had become second nature for Ghost to stay in the shadows, literally and metaphorically. He made sure to stay hidden in the darkest corners of whichever base they happened to be on, to stay away from his teammates on Task Force 141, to not let himself get too close. He made sure to request quarters far away from everyone else; he ate when nobody was around, having MREs stashed all over 141 HQ, just in case. Price was willing to let him work alone, on the promise of not fucking up and doing things quietly. Small mercies.
It had paid off, for years. The myth of The Ghost permeated throughout armed forces across the world, legends of seeing the grim reaper before being whisked away from this mortal plane. A shadow that moved swiftly and silently, dispatching enemies with a steel blade and a steady hand. A mist that descended and spread death like it was nothing. Ghost liked it that way. The scarier he was, the more he was left alone.
Until, of course, Sergeant MacTavish.
That name could still rile Ghost up, more than any other. Cocky bastard.
***
The prospect of being partnered with another soldier had, of course, always been a possibility. Though Ghost assumed that the Captain knew better. He hoped, deep down, that he could scare his new charge away; maybe he could hone Ghost into something so morbid, so godforsaken, that any decent soldier would piss themselves when confronted with his reputation.
The Captain did know better. Shepherd didn’t.
Ghost wondered if his ‘partner’ would be as reclusive as himself, if the higher-ups had the good sense to pair him with someone who was startlingly like the Ghost. It would have been both beautiful and efficient. Of course, he would not be so lucky. His intimidation tactics meant nothing. His stare, that usually made even the most seasoned of soldiers uneasy, seemed to intrigue this young Sergeant. Even his silence did little; the Sergeant talked to him anyway, initiating contact and not flinching when it wasn’t returned or when Ghost growled at him to not touch.
It was an interesting partnership. Ghost and Sergeant MacTavish - Soap - were as opposite as could possibly be. Sun and Moon. Fire and water. Real and unreal. Where Ghost was stoic and silent, MacTavish babbled about everything from the mundane to the profound. He had a childlike delight in anything that made a noise or lit up, or was even minutely dangerous. It had taken every ounce of respect for the Captain to not bat this man away like an over-excited puppy. Ghost knew that the upcoming mission was serious, possibly the most serious mission that he had been on in some time; he knew that the Captain needed his all on this one. And so, Ghost restrained himself. Like a good soldier.
Las Almas had changed things.
Ghost soon realised that this ‘over-excited puppy’ was as ruthless as he was, just as efficient - just as scary. In his own way, of course. Maybe, just maybe, he even scared the Ghost. For what was more terrifying than a man who could break somebody’s neck with a smile on his face and sarcasm falling from his lips before the body was even cold? It excited Ghost. It made him wonder if this was how others saw him.
For the first time in his career, Ghost felt himself becoming intrigued by another person. He felt his defences being modified somewhat, like a lock had been added in a previously impermeable wall and Soap just happened to have the damn key. He had become used to not having things in common with other soldiers, he knew he was the outsider that everyone kept (quite pleasantly) at arm's length. Though, he was beginning to think that he may just have something in common with the young Sergeant which made him unusually curious.
He found terrible jokes falling from his own lips, delighting in the reactions he got from his partner. He even laughed to himself, for the first time in years. What was the most surprising of all, however, was how easy he found it to take Soap under his wing after years of operating alone.
Rather rapidly, Ghost found something else monumental happening. He no longer wished for a stray bullet to do what he couldn’t do himself. He didn’t have that death wish that he’d covered up for so long. A therapist had called it ‘passive suicidal ideation’ - apparently he wasn’t suicidal enough to kill himself, so he just wished that something or someone else would do it for him. He supposed it made sense after everything he had been through. But recently, he’d wanted to survive if only to protect this hyper scotsman that had wormed his way into his life, and the team that he so cared about. Even after such an acute betrayal from Shepherd and Graves, a heart wrenching oversight on Ghost's part, he found himself trusting somebody - and not because he’d been told to trust them, but because he chose to.
Then… “And that’s why I love the Ghost…”
Nobody had ever loved the Ghost.
***
Ghost found himself sitting across from Captain Price who seemed both smug and uneasy. Ghost waited, not saying anything, just… waiting for orders. Like a good soldier. Price had commandeered a small room to use as his office while Alejandro got his men together, apparently getting ready to rearm and move out reasonably soon.
Price chewed on the end of his cigar, a Cuban one, probably a gift from Alejandro for breaking his arse out of prison, as he thought over his words.
“This bullshit that we’ve found ourselves in, Lieutenant, needs to be righted,” the Captain sighed, a cloud of cigar smoke misting the air between them, “I’ve had an idea and I want your input,”
Ghost sat up straighter, wondering if they were going to have some serious fun off the books. He tilted his head, an indication for Price to hurry the fuck up and get on with it.
Price took another slow drag of his cigar, “I notice that you’ve been getting on with Sergeant MacTavish,” Ghost felt the Captain’s eyes studying him, “I’m glad, you deserve a friend, Riley.”
“Why did you want this meeting, Sir?” Ghost was conscious that Soap was recovering from his gunshot wound, and he didn’t fancy being stuck in some meeting when he could be checking on his teammate. It still felt strange to care about being part of a team.
“I want to take these bastards down, and I want to do it now ,”
Ghost nodded, “Agreed,”
“I want to make a Ghost Team - we’ll all be Ghosts… untraceable, fearless, off the books,” Price smiled around his cigar, his eyes glinting with pride and ambition.
Ghost mulled it over for a while, “Ghost Team?” Those desires to be partnered with somebody like him resurfaced. A whole team. Part of him felt like he would be splintering his carefully forged identity - the reputation that he had worked so hard to build - and forcing it into moulds that just didn't fit. It wouldn’t have the same impact if there were a bunch of masked soldiers running around. The rest of him surged with excitement for the idea - company in the darkness for once. A united front that he had inspired, of men he knew he could trust with his life. A family forged in the heat of battle and betrayal.
“With your permission,” Price nodded.
“Masks?”
“The whole shebang, Lieutenant,”
“I have a few with me, Sir,” Ghost smiled, it was hidden by the mask so it was a useless action, but Ghost couldn’t help it. He felt something.
“Shall we?” Price reached over the desk, holding his hand out for Ghost to shake.
Ghost nodded, then left the small office, ready to part with his masks for the first time.
***
The mask had become such an identity for Ghost that he didn’t really recognise his own face any more. The mirrors in his quarters were covered over because seeing his face made him feel uneasy, like he was looking too far into his own psyche and seeing all of his truths and history laid bare. The mask hid all of the physical reminders of his history too. The scars and the pain etched into his pale skin that he would rather forget. He only took the mask off to shower, or if medical insisted (as well as that one irritating time in which he had to travel on a commercial flight). In every other scenario, it stayed firmly on. It was as much his own face as… well… his own fucking face.
It wasn’t only that Ghost didn’t like people seeing his face and the stories it betrayed. It was that the mask was a comfort, a balm to soothe his anxieties and fears. It helped him stay in character as The Ghost, to forget Simon Riley. It stopped people from thinking of him as human, as a person to interact with and made them think of him as something else. Until he bled, he was The Ghost; unkillable and inhuman.
He knew that he would have to reveal his face in order to make Ghost Team. He knew that it would prove that he trusted his new teammates, and really, he didn’t mind doing it. Price acknowledged him, and if Price was there, Ghost was in a safe place.
His teammates were respectful, having a quick glance and then averting their eyes and taking a mask. Apart from Soap.
Soap looked at him, took in every inch of his face, his eyes. It was as if Ghost had stripped naked and given him a magnifying glass, inviting him to look at every scar, mole, tattoo and pore in order to come to some kind of conclusion. Soap must have been satisfied as he picked up a mask and shrugged it on, keeping eye contact with Ghost and smirking as he did it.
It felt like Soap had seen all of him now, flayed and dissected, and had come to his decision that determined their future. If only Ghost could see it.
***
Ghost team worked. They were incredible together, just as Ghost had thought they would be. A team of Ghosts was efficient and merciless… and short lived. The masks had been returned to Ghost after Graves was killed, and his happiness at being a part of something bigger had diminished somewhat. A swift reminder that his identity was something for others to play with for a mission, to use to their own end, and not something to be appreciated in the long run. Regular people didn’t have the same need for the mask as he did, it was a costume to them, a call sign, but not an entire identity to be protected and preserved.
Until he counted the masks that had been returned to him. He was one short.
He didn’t need to wonder who had kept the last mask, who would hold it as if it was something delicate and precious. He knew that he still had Soap. He wasn’t alone.
***
Ghost didn’t like to think about Chicago. It was too close of a call.
***
After Makarov, Ghost was ready for normal, quick missions that didn’t involve a thousand different agencies and orders coming from so high up that he couldn’t really tell who he worked for anymore. While missions like this were necessary and always played a role in keeping the world clean, as Price put it, he much preferred the ones that had fewer variables. Fewer things to go wrong and fuck things up even more.
They got back to 141 HQ, exhausted and irritable, and delayed the debriefing for 24 hours. Price had ordered them to sleep for as long as they wanted to, to eat when they wanted to, and to reconvene the next day in the rec room. Everyone sighed with relief and dragged themselves to their respective rooms for, what Ghost could only assume, was the best sleep of their lives.
Ghost had never been good at two things: emotions, and sleeping. For a human (sort of) who couldn’t survive without sleep, he had never quite mastered the art of it. No matter how much he wanted it, how much he yearned for sleep; sometimes it just never came. This was usually when he would sneak off to the gym, to push himself so hard that he fell from exhaustion into his bed. His therapist would say that it was an act of self harm but the truth was that it was easy to tire himself out like this, and it had the added bonus of boosting his reputation as a monster. Monsters don't sleep, men do. Ghosts don’t feel pain so they can go for hours in the gym until their stupid human form collapses.
When the insomnia inevitably hit when he got back to HQ, Ghost stalked his way to the gym, as if he hadn’t taken enough of a beating on the hunt for Makarov. Only this time, when he breached the doors to the gym, he saw Soap pushing out intense reps on one of the benches.
Ghost didn’t know how their friendship would fare on home turf without the pressures of combat and death hanging over them. Had their friendship only come to pass because they were forced to keep each other alive? Ghost didn’t think so, on his end. He thought that the plucky scot had wormed his way, determinedly, past his defences and general disinterest and would stay there firmly. Even if Soap didn’t feel that way, Ghost would always watch his back on the battlefield or off. That much couldn’t be denied.
Ghost stuck to the wall, not wanting to cross open space, and slunk his way over to the boxing bag. This part of the gym had no mirrors to make Ghost uncomfortable and the lighting was dim, putting Ghost firmly in his comfort zone: the shadows… and Soap.
Ghost pummelled the bag as if it had insulted him personally, as if it was the very embodiment of his problems. He thought about all of the shit that they’d been put through, the near misses and the utter pain of betrayal; the mistrust; being a part of something and then having it pulled from under his feet. He imagined that the punching bag was his own face, with his life story and warring emotions written across it as if it was obvious. He hit it like he wished he could’ve hit his father, seeing his features reflected in his own. Thinking about every cruel comment and action that had broken a young Simon Riley, and helped to create the Ghost. He felt himself returning to the battlefield, not taking out Russians or Shadows, but his own personal demons. He let himself get lost to the feeling of finally having the upper hand, of having everything in his control once again.
He was vaguely aware that he didn’t have gloves on, the ache beginning to turn into pain across his knuckles.
He didn’t care.
Until a hand rested softly on his neck and he flinched back into reality, sucking in great breaths of air to steady himself. It was just Soap, looking at him with concern and kindness.
“Hey L.t., it’s alright,” he stroked the back of Ghost’s neck, over the balaclava, “take some deep breaths,”
Ghost stared at him, he felt his heart rate slow down and looked around the gym. They were alone, thankfully. Nobody had seen this embarrassing loss of control - nobody but Soap.
“Can’t sleep?” Soap asked, his hand slipping from the back of Ghost's neck to his wrist, bringing his hand closer to him for inspection.
Ghost shook his head.
“I know the feeling,” Soap dropped Ghost’s hand and checked his watch, “let’s go get a brew, eh?”
Just like that, Ghost knew that he had a real friendship. Not something that was created out of necessity or fear, but something that could stand the lows as well as the highs. He let this knowledge envelop him, soothe him; Soap kept the mask for a reason. It wouldn’t always be Ghost watching Soaps back on base or off, but Soap watching Ghost’s back too. It was an unusual feeling, wholly unfamiliar but welcome and as they sat in the dim rec room drinking tea before bed, Ghost wondered if this plucky scot could maybe help him remember who Simon Riley was once and for all.