Chapter Text
Silence.
It's quiet, so fucking quiet. It seems to absorb everything around it, creating an absence. The empty walls of the room echoing back the quick breaths coming from his mouth, bouncing off the barren walls like a haunting melody.
It was silent, overwhelmingly deathly silent, and yet it was so fucking loud he couldn’t think.
Dirt covered every inch of the room. It loomed over him, filling his lungs and invading his soul. It was everywhere. The walls, the floors, the ceiling. They were gone.
Soil replaced the bricks of the fireplace, stained the fabric of the couch was splattered onto books and pictures, and vases of flowers, filling the room. It surrounded him, becoming his existence. Filling his lungs and taking his soul.
He couldn’t breathe.
Slowly, steadily, the ache in Simon’s chest bloomed. It was harder to inhale, harder to fill his lungs with the air his body craved so horribly.
The walls are shrinking. No. They’re Growing. Expanding and filling the last precious space. Trapping him. Locking him in this hell. The room becoming his own coffin.
Dirt and wood, and rot. He could smell the rot now. It fills his lungs in the absence of air. Rot and death fill the last dredges of oxygen. It had seeped in through the cracks of the once-windows and through fissures in the wall. The putrid stench permitted his dirt prison and hung in the air like a thick, foggy mist that refused to dissipate.
He becomes uncomfortably aware of his breathing. The only conscious thought his brain would allow. Focusing on every movement of his chest.
Inhale
His throat starts to itch. A deep, stinging prickle down in his body. Overwhelmingly miserable and yet unable to be scratched.
Exhale
He can’t cough. There is no release. A pressure building.
Inhale
But he is certain he will try to release it.
Exhale
At some point, the impulse to cough will become too overwhelming.
Inhale
It will happen; he knows it, and his lungs will pop with the movement.
Exhale
He’s in pain now, sharp and loud in his chest. He wishes he could scream.
Inhale
No longer could his lungs deflate.
His eyes aren’t closed, but it’s getting darker. The shadows in the corner of his eyes spreading fast, swallowing what little he could still see. His chest is uncomfortably bloated. His lungs filled to the breaking point and beyond. The need to cough is torture. It burns him alive.
He couldn’t breathe, but he wasn’t dying. Why wasn’t he dying?
“Mr. Riley” A voice broke through the walls.
Was the dirt speaking? No, that would be crazy.
Simon’s breathing slowed. He was breathing?
Above him stands a worried-looking man, greying eyebrows furrowed deep on his face as he reached for Simon with thin hands.
“Fuck.” Simon quickly looks around the room. The wood and rot were gone.
He wasn’t there anymore
“Mr. Riley, I believe you just experienced a panic attack."
Ghost stood there, staring silently at himself in the mirror. He knew that he should feel something, anything, but all he could muster was numbness—complete and empty numbness. the kind of numb that forces you to wonder if you even have a soul at all.
He was soaked through by rain, his clothes hanging heavy on his frame. Weighted and stiff as he walks. He made it into the bathroom before, finally, a shiver racks his large form.
He gently shuts the bathroom door behind him and tugs down a clean towel from the rack just above the toilet. He approached the shower and turned on the water while setting the towel by the entrance. Pulling off his soaked garments, he begins tossing them aside in a neat pile.
Stepping inside the warm shower, the water poured down over his head, shoulders, and back. He felt the hot water soak into his skin and warm him up—a complete contrast from the cold rain, burning away the signs of his mission.
Ghost gathered up the shitty shampoo provided in the bathroom and washed his hair clean with an almost mechanical proficiency. Taking the soap, he began scrubbing himself.
He scrubbed himself hard. Pushing down and dragging the soap, hoping that maybe, just maybe, if he used up the entire bar while scrubbing at his skin, he might be able to just scrub his emotions right out of him.
It wasn’t on his skin, though. It was inside of him. Inside of his blood and very being.
Maybe if he cut himself and let himself bleed for long enough, he could get rid of that poison, his weakness. All that’s contaminating him...
He continued scrubbing at his skin until it was red and raw. He could still feel the dirt on his skin, Still see it hanging under his nails. It wouldn’t leave.
He turned off the shower, stepped out, dried himself off and dressed. He left his toothbrush forgotten on the bathroom sink as he stared at himself in the mirror. As Simon gazed at his reflection, his eyes held no trace of his failures.
Weak. Useless. Unfit. Freak. His thoughts told him what he already knew.
His therapist had said PTSD. He wouldn’t let it consume him. He couldn’t.
Ghost felt his throat tighten, and he lowered his head, shaking it back and forth, his hands gripping the sides of the sink.
“Fucking get it together."
He can’t show weakness; he can’t risk losing Ghost. Not being able to continue fighting.
Without that, he was useless.
Ghost didn’t deserve to feel this sort of pain. He was supposed to be emotionless. A machine.
He wouldn’t let himself be useless
And yet the dirt under his nails wouldn’t wash off
Simon can see the shoppers part around him. Mothers are shuffling their children away from him. People's judging looks are bouncing off his back as he catches a few whispers about him. He understands. Hidden in a mask, painted like the dead. Large and intimidating. Nothing but a cold killer. He knows he stands out.
Above the heads of fellow shoppers, he sees overbearing red text posted to a shelf with sloppily applied tape. A sale sign, loud and screaming. It tugged on his mind. A passing thought and nothing more.
Half off nail polish.
He doesn't even know why it intrigues him. He’d painted his own nails once. Covered them in bright blue. He'd done it on a dare in his younger years, had laughed the entire time he did it.
He remembers his dad's face when he came home. The drunken rage that was so common on his face growing when he saw Simon's nails. The words and punches he'd thrown that night.
He knows his teenage self would have never considered this.
The brutal air conditioning hits his face, making him glare at it. Cold air seeps under his clothes as he paces along the shelves and scans them critically.
He soon finds himself wandering aimlessly in the aisles, looking for any food that looks edible and cheap. Picking protein bars and instant meals.
The advertisement held on to his thoughts. In the back of his mind, it clung to his brain. He chalks it up to the bright red colors and bold text. He isn't stupid; he knows marketing tactics and why they work.
His hands tighten on the cart as he walks towards the check out. His steps even and measured as he forces himself not to look down. He knows that if he does, he'll see it. The dirt under his nails.
He knows it's there. He can't get rid of it. He knows that for certain. He has Scrubbed his hands raw in the sink until his skin begged for mercy. The dirt remained despite it all.
Maybe, just maybe, the polish would help?
He caved.
He returned to the aisle, walked to the back of the store, and threw a single bottle of black nail polish into his cart. He didn’t care that the family standing five feet away was eyeballing him, and he didn’t care about the teenagers in the corner who were making theories about why he looked like he did.
He joins a couple at the checkout and puts his items all down on the counter. The cashier, a young girl, blinks several times at Simon before she lowers her head and begins scanning the items.
"There," the cashier says, giving him that honey-sweet customer service smile. "It'll be 23.54," she adds, leaning her chin on her palm as she waits for him to pay. She hadn't even blinked at the small vial of polish.
He hands her the cash wordlessly.
There's a little beat of silence where he can only hear the coins falling in the cash register as the woman counts his change.
"Alright! "Here is your change." The smile returns to her face.
He simply nods as he takes the bags and receipt. "Keep it" he grunts as he turns and leaves the store.
Simon begins to unscrew the cap of the bottle, watching as the lid twists around and around. His mind is numb, His eyes are focused on the little brush revealing itself when he lifts the top. Black polish drips thickly off the bristles before he taps it against the edge, flinging off the excess.
Slow and steady hands attempt to apply the thin coats necessary for the process. The brush spreading onto his nails and coating the skin around them. The black globs of paint spreading to cover more finger than nail in the process of application.
It was sloppy. Messy. Ugly. but It hid everything.
It didn’t fix it. Nothing could truly make him forget. He knew it was there, but it was a relief nonetheless. The world no longer closed in on him as he looked at his hands
It wasn’t pretty. Smudged and uneven layers painted onto chipped nails. The rough edges of each one matching the quality of the paint. His calloused fingers held the evidence of his poor attempt. His fingerprints themselves stained grey from excess.
But none of it mattered to Simon as he looked down at them and watched them shake with his own relief. Gone were the blood, the dirt, and the rot. His mind now unsure of what to do without the things that often sat heavy on his hands and the non-existent debree under his nails.
The death. The decay. The wrongs. His failures.
They were covered
Hidden. They were hidden from his own judging soul.
The dirt that plagued his every waking moment, finally silenced.
He couldn’t go back, even as he wiped off his poor attempt with acetone.
The ghost was an embodiment of his deadly skills, and no one could deny the eerie similarity between him and the fabled Grim Reaper.
He moved with the same grace and intimidation. The same silent stare and unforgiving demeanor. The ghost often glided through the halls while people parted around him like a plague, his eyes piercing through the skull on his face with an unrelenting gaze.
To his enemies, he wasn't just a man, but rather a living embodiment of death itself.
He cloaked himself in a shroud of black, face adorned with a skull mask, an omen of what was to come if you met him on the battlefield. When he walked, the sound of his footsteps rang out like the toll of a bell, a dire warning to all who heard it. Many were under the impression that the ghost couldn’t even feel emotions, let alone fear.
Yet hidden under gloves was a secret he kept close.
It scared Simon to think of what the reveal of it would do to him. He had to be strong, unyielding, and unbreakable—a figure of death and doom, intimidation itself. He couldn’t lose that reputation. He would die along with it.
He didn’t know what to expect if anyone found out. Logically Ghost knows it wouldn’t be bad, but uncomfortably vivid memories from his childhood surface. He doesn’t know, and that scares him.
It’s laughable really. The ghost, a living legend. A man known for being more machine than human, and yet he was scared. Scared of someone finding out he painted his goddamn nails.
So he covered his hands. It was easy. A quick coat of paint to create a skeletal appearance, and they matched his mask.
And it worked. Years passed by.
He was now part of a team.
The 141 became closer than he wanted. Simon never meant to let them in and yet they worked their way into his heart.
Especially Johnny.
From the moment he met Soap, he knew the man was going to be a problem. Loud, obnoxious, and constantly trying to talk to him about everything. His voice grated on his nerves, and he couldn’t wait for Soap's deployment to end so that he could get away from Johnny
Simon had tried to ignore the sergeant, but the more he tried to push him out of his life and thoughts, the more he seemed to invade them
Like a goddamn parasite, really.
Johnny gnawed his way past the walls he had built up so carefully and latched on like a particularly stubborn barnacle. Crumbling the structure in its wake.
He was a fucking nuisance.
“Say it again!” A familiar Scottish accent rings loud and angry through the mess hall “Ah fuckin’ dare ye tae say that again!” It seemingly gains in volume the second time it hits his ears. “Ye goddamn bastards!”
Speaking of nuisances
Fucking John MacTavish. Simon had to resist the almost instinctual sigh of frustration as his steps start to speed up towards the sound of the angry scot.
“You got no right!”
Shit. Simon sped up a bit more, still doing it subtly enough that he could pass it off as his normal walking speed
“How about you say that to his goddamn face, ya fuckin’ bastard” There is a small pause, presumably while Johnny’s opponent responds. “Keep yer fucking mouth shut or I’ll shut it for ya, Break yer fucking nose.”
Nothing happened for a few sweet seconds, almost as if the building itself was taking a breath.
Then the crack of knuckles and the thud of flesh met together in a sickening harmony. Ringing out loudly as Simon approached the scene. It was followed by a cut off cry of pain and then another thud of flesh against flesh, a fist against skin.
Speeding up once again, he makes it into the mess hall within no more than thirty seconds of the first punch.
A crowd watched on in a mix of fascination and boredom-induced excitement. The recruits were circled around a man in the center of the collected group. The rookie was on the ground, holding a bloody hand to a nose that continued to leak viscous red down his face. An angry glare directed towards the other corner.
In that corner was Gaz, desperately trying to hold back a snarling Johnny. A bloody red that matched the rookie's now soaked face was splattered against Soap’s fist, Johnny’s mouth twisted into a snarl. A mix of determination and anger over his face as he continued to lunge like an attack dog pulling at its chains.
“Sergeants” The Ghost's deep voice rings out, stern and dangerous as he stands over the scene, watching how almost instantly both the recruit on the ground and a few others tense.
Johnny relaxes a bit at the interruption, shrugging off Gaz’s hold. Muttering unheard words to the man that restrained him.
Gaz simply nods to him in reply as Johnny simmers down from the adrenaline.
“I want to see you two in the captain's office in five.” His voice was stern and unwavering as he stared the two down, making it clear he was serious. “ Don’t make me drag you there”
“Do either of you want to explain why you assaulted a private”, Price sighed in exasperation, his head in his hands as he let out a long exhale of frustration.
“He had it coming.”, snapped Johnny, his voice still holding residual anger even after he had calmed.
Price takes a draw from his cigar, blowing the smoke out of his mouth in a slow stream that creeps towards the ceiling. He leaned back and gestured for him to continue.
“Fucking bastard was shit talking Ghost fur' his nails, said he’d ruin the whole 141~”
Simon’s heart stops.
What?
Dread engulfs him. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move.
It felt like someone had a hold of his heart, like someone was squeezing it with all their strength, grabbing and crushing it. He could feel its pulse in his temples, a constant thrumming that only seemed to increase in speed by the second
He couldn’t hear. Everything was distant. He thinks he can see Gaz speaking, the sergeant’s mouth moving. He can’t hear it, though, lost in the tsunami of panic within him.
Simon was unable to slow down the screaming thoughts in his head as he stands silently in the corner. No one notices his panic. His demeanor barely changes—nothing but a slight increase in his breathing and a tensing of muscles.
His brain only snapping itself out of it enough to hear again when the sergeants get up and move towards the door,
Price is sitting stiffer in his chair, his demeanor unreadable to Simon as the man scans for the inevitable disappointment he will receive. “You are all dismissed, I will be having some words with Private Wallace.” It’s stern, a tone that gives nothing away.
Simon was acutely aware of every sound and movement around him as he stumbled towards his room, breathing still labored and his heart racing, He had shuffled out of that damn office as quick as he could. He knows he’s already lost the respect of the team. He couldn’t let his reputation be further destroyed.
The walls of the hallway were almost pressing in on him, and every step echoed too loud in the hallway. His muscles were tense and coiled as he focused solely on not collapsing, like a spring wound too tightly. Every nerve in his body was on edge, his senses heightened to an almost unbearable degree.
And worst of all, he could feel every single pair of eyes on him as they watched him with judgment.
His boots finally hit the step in front of his room, echoing with one last thud down the hallway. The sound amplified in his overwhelmed brain. Quickly, with practiced movements, he unlocks and shoves inside the door.
Finally able to release the building stress, Simon collapsed onto his bed, feeling as if someone had kicked him in the stomach as he rips off the now suffocating mask.
Mind still spinning, unable to find any rational thought, he began the motions of disassembling his pistol. Focusing on the repetitive and familiar hand movements, he cleans it. His hands steady more and more as he finishes the process.
After finishing the process of cleaning the pistol, he starts disassembling it again, needing to continue the task. Needing anything something to do.
Finally, looking down, he sees his hand. No. He sees his nails.
Frustrated, Ghost growls, Slamming the pistol down to the table,
His damned nails.
How did they even find out? How could he have forgotten them?
“fuck” He clenches his fist, watching as his knuckles grow white and the offending nails dig into his palm.
How could he have slipped up?
The knock is sudden and unexpected, like a thunderclap in the quiet. “Hey LT, you in there?”
Simon’s heart drops. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This was it. He didn’t know what. But he knew it wasn’t going to be good.
The words of his past flow through his head.
Weird. Weak. Wrong. A Freak.
Johnny knocks again, voice echoing through the door. “LT?”
Breathing in deeply Ghost puts on his mask and raises to his full height. The six steps to his door felt like a mile long trek, his body almost refusing to cooperate.
His hand extends and he erased the expression from his face as he swings the door open.
Johnny stands there. His stupid, fucking puppy dog smile in place as he looks up at Ghost. It feels out of place in Ghost’s mind as he braces for the inevitable
Jhonny grins wider as he meets Simon’s eyes, seemingly unaware of the stress in the man’s head. He eagerly holds out a small red bottle, familiar in shape. He speaks without any sign of mockery or judgment.
“Do you think you could paint my nails?”
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Oh