Chapter Text
With his face uncovered, Ghost didn’t feel like a ghost at all. He felt like a weak, ugly man. He hated that when the nurses and doctors met his eyes, they could see his crooked nose and scarred lips and the face he so badly wanted to bury. He’d always hated it, it looked like his father’s, it reminded him of all he’d lost and he felt that the name of everyone he’d let down, the declarations of all his crimes were painted on his skin. His mask was his power, a chance to prove who he was and what he was capable of in spite of his face.
Ghost had laid in the empty hospital room for…longer than he cared to remember. He was capable of nothing. He’d failed the mission Price had sent him to do. The man had been to visit him several times, he always looked tired and strained. Carrying Ghost’s weight.
The nurses that came in were quiet and respectful, he guessed because he was terrifying and cold, and he had little motivation to be much else. The room he was in was what they called “semi-private”, split into two by a thin curtain but by some blessing from the gods, he’d been alone since he got there. He was in a quiet wing, his deep, dark, massive, never ending thoughts were rarely interrupted.
He’d been there for two weeks already, one unconscious. He was that way when his team found him after being dragged from a vehicle accident and tortured.
They were treating him for a head wound, internal bleeding, various broken bones, and an infection in one of his many lacerations that almost killed him. All of it hurt, and none as badly as letting his team down. He had always worked alone, mission by mission, but it wasn’t ‘alone’ like this. Alone, working, he didn’t have to think about anything but the task at hand. Now, he thought only of tasks he may never do again.
He was able to move about a bit on his own, and sometimes he traveled to the window, only to find the city view gave him no comfort at all and the light hurt his eyes. He had a few more weeks of treatment and inpatient rehab if the doctors were correct and he was already wondering just how hard that concrete might hurt from a height like that.
He was contemplating it again one night, knowing he carried either too much cowardice or too much loyalty to let himself jump. It never truly got dark in a hospital, and despite there being little action in his little corner of it, it was never truly quiet either. His pain usually made him exhausted, the meds made him sleep, but that night he was awake to hear them bring someone else in.
Ghost sat up, silent, as they wheeled a dark headed man through the door. He was obviously conscious but silent and his head was wrapped in a white bandage. It was over his eyes and a pang of pity hit Ghost in the chest. He hated nearly everything his eyes saw, but giving it up would be horrifying.
On her way out, one of the nurses he’d grown used to gave him a small smile. “Looks like you got yourself a roommate after all.”
She didn’t stay long enough to tell Ghost the man’s name, or why he was there, or for how long, she took one look at his dead stare and left. The man didn’t bother introducing himself and Ghost watched him try and get comfortable, completely unashamed, knowing he wouldn’t have a clue.
He felt doomed, spiraling now that the one saving grace of his predicament had been taken from him. But he lay still anyway and eventually slept. The doctor came in the next morning, making him sit on the edge of his bed and move his feet. His reflexes weren’t back, his fever kept fluctuating, his body was betraying him.
The doctor seemed more optimistic than he felt, though, and Ghost quickly escaped to the shower once he was gone. He avoided looking in the mirror as best he could, knowing he would need a shave soon and putting it off. He didn’t know why it would matter.
When he came back out, his back aching, he stood in the doorway of their shared space and stared at the other man. His ‘roommate’, the nurse had called him. He had never had one by choice and he supposed he never would. His head was turned toward the window, but his eyes were still covered.
“I can still hear ya, if that’s what you’re wondering.” He said, surprising Simon and never turning. He had a deep Scottish accent, and Simon felt his face flush. He’d been caught.
“Noted.” His voice sounded rough, as it should, he’d barely used it.
The other man’s face never changed. Simon sat in his bed for a while but the presence of another human gave him the innate sense that he shouldn’t be idle. He didn’t have much else to do and he found himself flipping through a book laying on the table near his head. He didn’t see any of the words, though. He was distracted by how his roommate’s head turned to listen to him.
Eventually he got up and went back in the bathroom. He hadn’t really needed to, but his skin felt too tight and wrong shaped. Maybe it was having his space invaded, maybe it was seeing someone suffering worse than he was, but he was on edge, he couldn’t get his heart rate down, and he had a new, throbbing ache in the back of his right arm.
He had thought it was paranoia so he decided to use the mirror for once. Gingerly slipping out of the plain white t-shirt he wore, he turned and looked at the skin on the back of his arm. For all the jagged, discolored scarring on his body, that space had been fairly clear. It was no longer.
Vertigo gripped him, he thought, though he would later realize it was shock and he swallowed what little was left in his stomach lest his cellmate learn of his weakness. There was a new scar there, it looked fairly fresh, a ragged circle, deep, hard to heal. A bullet hole. And a mark.
A mark Simon Riley had both known he didn’t deserve and prayed he never acquired. To be marked with another person’s scar, to feel their pain, it was a tie he couldn’t sever even if he cut the whole arm off. His soulmate was out there somewhere, suffering, and he had to know so against his will and wishes.
It was a horrible system, it gave them no way to find each other except by the physical marking. Quickly, attempting to make no sound, he searched his body for other marks he may not have noticed. None appeared but there was time yet. And he didn’t want the want it instilled in him. He didn’t want to be connected to anyone else, even by choice, but especially not by fate.
He walked back out, strolling back to his bed like nothing had happened even though the surprise and horror of the realization made his eyes burn. The other man turned slightly toward him but said nothing. Their meal was brought a bit later and Simon watched the man eat, judging the extent of his injuries. His hands seemed fine, and clearly his hearing was.
“So what are you in for?” That Scottish lilt caught Ghost off guard again and he turned quickly with a frown the man would unfortunately not see.
“Not interested in chatting.”
The man just nodded, a slight smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “The nurse said that might be true. She also told me you’re a soldier. Suppose that makes two of us.”
Simon didn’t answer, going back to his flavorless meal. He’d eaten slop for most of his life but he’d kill for a real breakfast or a cake with his tea.
“My name’s John.”
Simon stared ahead at the wall. He knew it was a peace offering of sorts, but he was anonymous to the man and he planned to stay that way.
“Ghost.”
The dark headed man nodded and went on with his meal without speaking. Simon had horrible nightmares that night but they woke him in a choked, cold sweat, as usual and for some reason his first thought was hope that he hadn’t woken the other man. He turned slowly to find him still sleeping.
He was unsure why but he didn’t want the other man to know how weak and ugly he was, even if he couldn’t see him.
A doctor came in the next morning to visit John. Simon was respectfully still and quiet but he listened in like a rude schoolboy.
The man had been caught in crossfire, taken a few bullets to his chest plate and taken a bad fall, hitting his head and resulting in complete blindness that they hoped was temporary. His other injuries were superficial, including two broken ribs and a sprained wrist that Simon had noticed was wrapped when they brought him in.
They uncovered his face to take a look at his eyes and then he was gawking, losing his discrepancy entirely. He wanted to know what he looked like, he wanted to know if his blindness was legit. All he saw was a handsome, younger man with incredible blue eyes that refused to follow the prompts of the doctor before him.
They discussed for a moment whether there was a need to cover them back up and deciding the light in the room wouldn’t be an issue, they left them. There was some hope he would begin to pick up on light and motion and they wanted to let the muscles work. He looked serious and he was humorous and respectful in his answers.
But Simon watched his eyes turn down and stare blankly at his lap when they left, he sat still a long time, his hands fidgeting with the edge of his blanket. Simon wondered why he was alone so suddenly that he nearly said it out loud. Even he had Price by his side here and there, John looked like someone who should have a mother or a wife or some buddies dropping in.
And yet, the next two days, no one came, and that awful, forlorn look never left his face. He didn’t know Simon had stared at it long enough to get tired of it, to be annoyed by it and wish it gone.
“Busted lung, sepsis, amongst a few other things.” John jumped visibly and turned toward Simon’s voice.
“What?” Now his voice was rough, too, he certainly hadn’t kept it warm in the days since he’d been there.
“You asked what I was in for.”
John’s face was incredulous, he didn’t bother hiding his wide eyes as he turned further toward ghost. The question had come days ago and John hadn’t heard his voice since he asked it. He chuckled, closing his eyes.
“Alright, then.”
“I’d offer you something to read, but I don’t share well.” Ghost said, in that same deadpan tone.
John chuckled again, relaxing back into his pillows. “Thought you said you don’t want to chat.”
“I don’t.”
“You were on a mission, then.”
Simon suddenly didn’t want to look at him. He couldn’t be seen but it was too personal, questions like that. He didn’t know why he spoke in the first place, and now he owed the man an answer. The scar at the back of his arm ached egregiously, the pain medication seeming not to help which made sense considering it was not his pain. He gripped it with his other hand absentmindedly. He needed the distraction terribly.
“Vehicle accident.”
Johnny nodded, choosing not to pry. “I fell.”
“I heard.”
The nurse brought their food again, and they were quiet until later that evening. Ghost had been lying there, wallowing in confusion and heavy guilt. He’d failed his team, his mission, his soul, which he had pretended was dead, was now someone else’s burden and he’d never been more sorry in his life. No one deserved it. His fingers kept gently playing at the mark he could only see in the mirror he loathed.
“I apologize for taking up half your space.” Simon startled at the low voice, and hated himself for it. “They said there is a window. If you wanted to come and look out, you could. I don’t mind.”
He stared at the ceiling. “Not much to see.” He clenched his eyes shut then, guilty for that, too. He shouldn’t take the concrete sight for granted. “Sorry.”
John smiled, Simon heard it in his voice. “The Ghost feels remorse.”
Simon took a deep breath. “You have no idea.”
--
Simon told himself, out loud, that he regretted starting the conversation with the Scot. The man talked a lot, and he smiled when he did it, which made Simon want to look that direction and remember that his eyes worked and he could see the bandages covering his body, he would see how his tan and muscle definition would fade the longer they sat in their white-walled prison. Like his. At this rate, it would be a long time before he could go back, and so another, smaller voice told him that he was glad for the distraction.
“No one visits you.” John said one day. His voice didn’t surprise Simon but the forwardness of the question did.
“I don’t have a family.” A phrase he had spoken so many times that it no longer sounded bitter out of his mouth. Just empty. “Besides, you’re one to talk.”
John laid his head back. His dark lashes blinked at the ceiling though Simon knew he was lost in thought, surrounded by darkness. “They visited a lot in the beginning but I’m a long trip, and they have jobs and families.” A sharp shake of his head. “Don’t need them seeing me this way, anyway.”
Simon regretted pushing, and he stared at John a long time, a freedom he’d never really known. “No lassies waiting, then.”
That made the man laugh, the way Simon mouthed the word awkward and forced. “No, sir. No ‘lassies’.”
Simon nodded. He knew John couldn’t see him, he was accepting it for himself, he supposed. “They’re going to keep you until your eyes return, then?”
They hadn’t spoken much about their injuries and Johnny was surprised he brought up his own. Ghost had seemed like someone uninterested in mentioning anything that suggested weakness in himself.
“I suppose.” Johnny said nothing else. The brain was a cursed, unimaginable thing, no one knew whether it would continue to betray him or offer him some relief. His unseeing eyes turned down. “I know this isn’t an ideal situation for you, Ghost.”
Ghost huffed, a sound as close to a laugh as Johnny had heard up to that point. “You’re not the reason I’m here, John.”
“I’m the reason you’re not alone, though.” He turned his face toward the source of Ghost’s voice. “Most people call me Johnny. John is my father.”
Simon didn’t answer. They didn’t seem quite close enough for nicknames, though his was the only one John knew. Johnny. And Johnny didn’t know that Simon was always alone, it didn’t make a difference if other warm bodies were in the room with him or not.
His hand went to the back of his arm again. It made sense, that he’d always felt that way, he supposed. The soul sought its match, and his still lived within him in spite of his best efforts. It was best that way, though he couldn’t ignore the growing sadness that somewhere, his other half suffered the same loneliness he did. And if he had his way, they always would.
A nurse came in, startling him out of his self-pity. She was there for Johnny and barely acknowledged him. He supposed he deserved that, he hadn’t exactly been friendly to them. Johnny and his energy must be a welcome reprieve. He watched as she spoke to him, checking things as he told her about things he’d seen during his time in the middle east. He spoke with his hands, catching Simon’s eye, and she laughed at his story, making Johnny smile in response.
She left, nodding to Simon, and the men fell quiet. Johnny was keeping his spirits up. It helped to have an audience, someone there all of the time that he didn’t want to show fear in front of. He wondered what Ghost looked like, if his face was as stern and emotionless as his voice.
For Johnny, it was dark all the time. He knew when to wake because someone told him, he knew when to sleep because the space quieted, but he couldn’t keep his rhythm on track and he was awake late into most nights. That was how he knew Ghost was haunted, just as he haunted the room Johnny inhabited. He slept rough, trained not to toss and turn or call attention, but breathing heavy, his body tense as it slid across the sheets. Johnny couldn’t see him but he could feel the pain coming off of him.
It was night again, judging by the timing of their last meal, and the silence from the other side of the room. He knew Ghost intended to be scary and cold but Johnny could only imagine him as another wounded soldier, softened by the need for other humans to keep them alive. He was scary, sometimes, the depth of his voice and harsh reality of his words, but he wasn’t then, obviously suffering in his mind.
Johnny hated his blindness most, then. There was a difference between being unable to help yourself and being unable to help someone in need just a few feet away. He knew Ghost didn’t want the help, anyway, but he didn’t deserve the discomfort of whatever he was reliving. Eyes wide, Johnny reached for his bedside table, feeling until his hand reached the plastic cup he’d been drinking out of. He sat it on the edge of the table and then hit it rather hard, letting it clatter to the floor and roll to the wall.
Simon was in Mexico again, as he usually was. He’d been betrayed, tortured, and buried. When his mind wandered it usually landed in the in-between moments, the quiet still ones where he had to either pass out or anticipate their next bit of evil. The stillness, the anxiety, it made him ill, it made him fight his bindings. That usually translated to the heavy weight of the light blanket over him or the tubes in his arms preventing him from running.
He was there again, trapped and waiting, when a noise woke him. He knew better than to make a scene, but he sucked in a heavy breath anyway, raising up to look. Johnny was sitting up, looking down, past the side of his bed. Simon was still, watching him, unsure Johnny knew he was awake. Simon didn’t move until the man lifted his blankets off his lap like he was going to try and stand.
Johnny knew he had succeeded in waking Ghost up which was his only intention, but he didn’t want to leave the cup on the ground, not when he needed it to take his meds in the next hour or two. Ghost had been lifted from his nightmare, he’d stopped moving and mumbling, so it surprised Johnny when he heard his feet touch the floor, and the sound of him standing.
Simon hadn’t seen Johnny move about on his own, he didn’t think a cup that could have rolled god knows where was a good excuse to try. He’d rather pick that up than Johnny himself. John’s head snapped his direction as he stood and his hand stilled on his blankets.
“Don’t get up, I got it.” Johnny said quietly. He hadn’t meant to make it a whole ordeal, he’d just wanted to rouse him from his nightmare.
“Don’t move.” Ghost grumbled.
He found the cup near the wall, beneath the window. He picked it up, turning to hand it to Johnny. Johnny was turned his direction, and he didn’t look afraid which still surprised Simon. He did, however, look sorry.
“Didn’t mean to wake ya, I just—” He motioned to his bedside table, and Simon cut him off.
“It’s alright.”
Johnny reached out his hand. Simon thought maybe he should just put the cup back on the table, but instead he handed it to him. Johnny felt their fingers brush. He was surprised by how warm Ghost’s skin was, he had expected a chill like the one in his words, he expected him to feel like a ghost. He didn’t. He felt human.
As he moved, a sharp pain at the inside of his left thigh made him wince. He hadn’t felt that one, and he guessed it was another one of his many injuries he’d sustained in his last mission, and the new ache suggested he needed those pain meds more than he’d thought.
“You alright?” Simon asked, hesitant to return to bed as he watched a flash of pain and confusion wash over Johnny’s face and then disappear.
“Yeah.” He smiled, always so easy. “My sleep hours are all off since I’m in the dark all the time.” Simon watched the smile go from genuine to utterly forced. “I promise to be quiet.”
Simon nodded, but all Johnny knew was that he walked away. A few steps. He stopped at the window. Simon didn’t like the sound of Johnny’s voice when he apologized. He’d had this grand idea that without his mask he was a weakened monster but Johnny didn’t know that. Johnny might think more of him. The sound of his voice made him feel like he was still hollow and spectral and horrifying even without his face in the mix.
He stopped at the window and looked out. Johnny had apologized multiple times since arriving, taking his space, taking his quiet, waking him, and Simon had not apologized once for making him feel like he didn’t deserve to exist there. He glanced at him where he still sat in the bed, still and tired. Maybe Simon didn’t owe him that, didn’t owe him those thoughts. They were stuck there together, yes, but not as comrades.
“I can tell when you’re lookin’ at me, you know.”
Simon swallowed so loudly he was sure the other man heard him. He didn’t know what the fuck kind of magic that was, but he found himself uninterested in finding out.
“Sorry.” He turned away from the window.
Suddenly, Johnny found himself as scary as he knew Ghost thought himself to be. “I don’t mind it, I mean. But you could say what you’re thinking instead of just staring.”
“I don’t think so, Johnny.” Simon climbed back into bed, the nightmares distant and besides feeling spooked by Johnny’s confession and afraid of his want to apologize, they did not bother him again.
When he woke, Johnny was sleeping, finally, so he stayed as quiet as he could. And he stared, sure that this time, Johnny wouldn’t notice. He wanted to go home, though he didn’t know what it meant. Johnny did. He was alone there, but he had a family somewhere that cared about him and he would always have that family. Simon’s purpose rested on his chances of getting back on his feet, on being able to work again.
He felt defeat in a way he’d felt only a few times in his life and he closed his own dark eyes, resting his head against the bed. His cuts and bruises would be aching in another soul then, and as much as he knew it wasn’t something he could help, he hated it. Johnny had asked if anyone was coming for him, Simon had asked in return if he had a woman, and he knew what they were both doing. Testing if the other was whole or still half.
Neither of them were whole, of that he was sure. He was also sure that if he had dropped something in the night, Johnny would have been up to help him. They were equalized by their damage and their brokenness, even if they were different in every other possible way.
He wondered if Johnny knew truly how often Simon was looking at him, longing to be so bright even in total blackness, or if he had just said that the night before because some new string had been drawn taught between them. A need, an ask, and Simon rising to help. That was comradery, whether Simon wanted to admit it or not.
He planned then, to say something. To make it more clear that Johnny wasn’t hurting him by being placed there, that he didn’t mind sharing the little space. He figured it came from his tendency toward leadership, to make sure the other man had solid ground to stand on with him, even if he was afraid.
A nurse came in as the sun got high enough for Simon to wish he had coffee. Again, she didn’t pay him much mind and again he watched her every move.
She greeted Johnny gently, waking him, and it sent something Simon thought might be anger through him. Johnny had said he was having trouble sleeping, she should have let him. But he obeyed her anyway with kindness as she asked him to sit up and turn to the side. He hung his feet off the edge of the bed and braced himself on his left arm as she worked to unwrap a bandage from the right.
She had to push the sleeve of his t-shirt up to do it, and Simon frowned slightly, he hadn’t noticed that particular wound. He chided himself for thinking he should have. It didn’t matter. Yet, he didn’t pull his eyes away, and as the nurse lowered the bandage, leaving his skin bare, she revealed an angry, pink scar at the back of his arm. Rough, round, hard to heal. A bullet hole.
Everything in Simon’s mind stopped, refusing to believe his eyes though he knew out of the two men in the room, his was the only set that truly worked, and they had never deceived him. His hand found the mirror-image scar on the back of his own arm as he rose unassumingly and shut himself in the bathroom.
Vertigo gripped him as he tried to tell himself to deny his own sight. Heart pounding, mind completely empty, he had the forethought to turn on the shower to cover the noise of him emptying his stomach.
Simon did get in the shower after turning it on, realizing he couldn’t reenter the room yet, he couldn’t even look at his own face to see if it was passable. So, then, he had to wait until the nurse left. Johnny would never know what his face looked like. Not while they were boarded together, anyway.
Johnny wouldn’t know. His first thought upon finally calming down enough to fit one in was that he should make his exit as quickly as possible. But Johnny wouldn’t know. He would never know the scar matched, he wouldn’t see Simon’s body, and more importantly, he wouldn’t see his own where he must be wearing Simon’s pain. That nearly made him sick again.
And by the time he had cleaned himself off and exited, he was having…other thoughts. Like how he could stay, he could get some real taste of what it was like to not be chased off, to not be feared, to not be pitied. He’d noticed the scar and convinced himself that whoever wore the matching one deserved to never be aware of him, to never carry his weight, and he realized he could still have that but in the presence of something that had become a comfort to him.
He wondered if Johnny even noticed his new scars, or if he cared. Simon Riley was no talker, he had never learned to truly connect with another human being, but he suddenly wished he could. A small voice, one he smothered as quickly as he could, spoke of the hope that maybe Johnny would get to know him this way and learn to accept him before he ever felt it was forced upon him.
A strange thing to ask of the universe, considering it had made him this monster in the first place. Price had worked so hard in the beginning to teach him that all the loss and all the torture wasn’t something he deserved. That Simon Riley put himself in harm’s way for the good of others, that didn’t mean he deserved punishment. And Simon had accepted that, he had accepted himself, at least the man in the mask, and that was enough. He’d known it was a possibility, but he hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected the same universe that had ripped him apart time and time again to then make him whole at the end of the hall in a hospital with a man he knew would rather be anywhere else.
He exited the bathroom and went back to his bed, quite sure the heightened sense in the sightless man would make his racing heart audible. But Johnny said nothing to him, and he lay on his back, his face turned away, unable to look at him. His hope was quickly crushed by how unfair it was. It was so obvious to him, from the first moment he entered the room, what a light John Mactavish was. He was always hopeful, kind, respectful, Simon never heard hate in his voice, not even in speaking about his injuries.
John was young and fit and handsome, he would go on about his life and never be lonely and never wonder if anything would fix him. And Simon would always know what he’d missed out on. So he decided to stay. He decided to drink every minute more that they were safe there together like the antidote to his poisonous soul and they would heal and move on and he would always remember that the universe matched him to something so beautiful, in spite of his ugliness. It pulled at the muscles in his chest and made his throat tight. He was never given anything unless it was to be lost, and already he dreaded it.
He wondered if the nurse had given Johnny bad news when she was there, because he was so quiet. He didn’t speak to Simon at all, and he didn’t sleep either. He reclined, his eyes closed, but Simon could tell he was awake. Tense. He stared at him even though he knew Johnny knew. He wondered if he might be able to somehow convey that he wasn’t alone.
“You think you’ll go back to the field soon?”
Johnny heard Ghost’s voice from across the room and it startled him but not enough for him to jump. Still, he let his eyes open, feeling the cool air touch them even though he couldn’t see. He had told the other man that he knew when he was being watched, and it was no different then. It wasn’t beyond him to realize that the question was meant to make him think about something else, to be positive, it wasn’t purely out of curiosity. It was the second act of kindness out of the man that couldn’t speak his own name.
“I hope so.” Johnny answered him, though his voice sounded as dark and empty as the soul he spoke from.
He knew only a few things for sure, that his blindness wasn’t leaving any time soon, maybe ever, that he was in no shape to be back in the field otherwise, mentally or physically, and that the pain in his leg wasn’t his. Not really. He’d asked the nurse to tell him of his other injuries again and a few of the aches he felt weren’t from his own mishap.
She’d looked at them. Described them. Unless he’d forgotten his own body, he knew they were someone else’s and his heart sank slowly. He couldn’t be someone’s soulmate, because his life would always be this. Fighting, fighting enemies, fighting inadequacies, fighting life-altering injuries. Who could understand that? Who could be bettered by it? He was lost in his own mind, he didn’t want a focus other than work, and he’d lost that by getting hurt. Now he’d lost it permanently.
He didn’t have any desire to say any of it to Ghost. He didn’t think Ghost would have a lot of sympathy for him, he already looked weak in front of the Lieutenant, all he wanted was to get through the next little bit until they were separated, either by positive prognosis or by growing too tired of each other. The thought was cold to him. Ghost wasn’t a warm person, but not being alone in the room at all was a warmth he needed.
“It’s time to sleep, Johnny, you ought to try.” Ghost’s voice sounded…different. More human somehow. It intrigued Johnny enough to make him sit up, lean to hear it better.
“I figured, based on how quiet you are.” Johnny shifted. “But you’re not sleepin’ either.”
Simon waited a moment before answering. He wasn’t sure what he should say, that he didn’t want to see his nightmares yet, that the bed was uncomfortable, that his instinct was keeping watch.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well, what’s on your mind, then, Ghost? Tell me something.”
“Mm.” Simon hesitated. He couldn’t tell him the truth. “My team rolls out tomorrow. I was supposed to be leading them.”
Johnny laid his head back again. He’d been curious before but it wasn’t until that moment that he wanted to see his companion so badly it brought tears to his ruined eyes.
“You miss it.”
It wasn’t exactly the quiet statement Simon had expected. He swallowed. “Suppose I do. It’s all I know.”
Johnny suspected that wasn’t true. He had a feeling, a suspicion that it was all Ghost knew then, that it was what held him together. He guessed he knew plenty of other things he wished he didn’t.
“I miss it, too.” Johnny sighed. Simon was unsure if he should continue. He was unsure if he knew what to say at all.
“Guess that makes two of us.”
--
Johnny woke again, not realizing he had fallen asleep. A presence was closer to him, but it wasn’t a nurse or a doctor. And the noises around him were still small and quiet, if it was morning it was early yet.
“Ghost.” He stated.
It seemed too forward to acknowledge his presence, but he knew it was his. He felt a little different. Large, rough, but not threatening. Not dangerous, not to Johnny. He heard the other man turn toward him instead of away and it gave him a rush.
“Didn’t mean to wake you.”
He was at the window looking out again, only this time wishing for the open sky and dirt under his feet. His nightmares were bad again, though no different, really. The power that had kept him alive, his physical and mental strength, failed him. In waking life and in sleep. He hadn’t meant to wake Johnny. He had meant to stand closer to him.
“What’s wrong?”
Johnny ignored the apology, unsure whether Ghost had woken him or not. He doubted it. He was more at ease with him there, at the foot of his bed.
Simon couldn’t tell his soulmate what was wrong, not then, so he went with a different, equally damning truth. “My name is Simon.”
Johnny could hear that he had turned back to the window to say it. Like he was ashamed.
“Hmm.” Johnny hummed. “Simon. It’s a nice name. Biblical.”
Simon huffed a laugh. It covered the emotion brought up by hearing Johnny say his name for real. By choice. “I suppose so.”
He could tell Johnny was still…down. That he was somewhere else, and not just because he was tired, or because he hadn’t healed yet. Maybe he had nightmares, too. Maybe he was as lonely as Simon.
“It’s a long way down from up here.” Simon mumbled, breaking the silence again.
“You could have said we were in hell and I’d believe you.” Johnny mumbled in response.
It was him. It was Simon. Maybe Johnny didn’t know they were bound but already the little bit of Simon that he couldn’t hold behind his walls was weighing the man down. Staying was a mistake. He was going to do this forever if he wasn’t careful. He would always make Johnny believe he was in hell. He was shocked it was already beginning—
“Do you believe in soulmates, Simon?”
Simon startled out of his spiraling thoughts and took a step closer to Johnny’s bed. Of course he believed in them. It wasn’t something you could dismiss, it was scientifically proven and fairly common.
“What do you mean, do I believe in them?” He cleared his throat. “I’ve seen a few.”
Johnny felt him shift uncomfortably, but he didn’t move away. “I just mean,” he spoke with his hands again, “do you think the bond is what everyone believes it to be?”
Simon shifted, thinking. A fair question. The connection was romanticized to no end though it was possible to be matched to someone who would only abuse it. But it was believed to be beautiful in more realistic ways, that it strengthened both, that a bonded soul would live longer, be happier, lose it’s awful, painful longing and settle into a true happiness.
“It can be, sure.”
Simon was unashamed as he turned to watch Johnny. The younger man clenched his light blue eyes. “I don’t think I’m meant for it.”
That, he could agree with though it didn’t negate the truth. “I feel the same.”
“I feel so trapped. Even opening my eyes doesn’t make the nightmares stop.”
The change in subject, the harsh admission caught Simon off guard. He unfolded his arms and turned toward Johnny again. Maybe it wasn’t him, then, unless the darkness Johnny saw was somehow attributed to his own darkness. It was the middle of the night, they were alone, they both ached, and only one of them knew they were connected in a supernatural, irreversible, incredibly beautiful way. Going to him wouldn’t change that.
Johnny felt Simon lay his hand at the edge of the bed, far enough that they didn’t touch. “You’re here, John, with me. The nightmares aren’t real even if they don’t stop.”
“What color are the walls?” Johnny’s voice was almost a whisper. He was embarrassed by the display, but Simon made no move to leave.
“They’re white.” Simon said, his voice steady, calming. “The cabinets are gray. It’s boring, except for the window. I can see most of the city from up here.” His hand got closer, still not touching. “We’re on the tenth floor, Johnny, not in hell.”
Johnny nodded. “No one came for me out there. I wasn’t found until the next day, they were surprised I was alive, but I hadn’t gotten far because I couldn’t see, I had no comms. And no one is coming for me now.”
Simon did, though, didn’t he? However the universe had decided to spell it out, Simon had come for him. And maybe it wasn’t a comfort, having him there, but it was better than being alone. His hand finally connected with Johnny’s sprained wrist and he gripped his arm just above it.
“I’m here.”
He was unsure what else to say, he had no other comfort to offer though it seemed an incredible injustice that people in Johnny’s life seemed unwilling to care for him in what was an obvious time of need. It broke him in a way. He had no family, he would always be alone but somehow having one that didn’t seem to care felt worse.
Just as quickly, he walked away. Johnny hated that he found some comfort in the interaction, even though he was sure it should have felt strange. Knowing the man’s name made him seem familiar.
A few days later, after having soft, meaningless conversation, often late, when they couldn’t sleep, Simon watched as two nurses helped Johnny stand, walk from one end of the room to the other. The rest of his body was healing well, he needed to be moving around a bit, and he could get familiar with the room. It would help when he transitioned home, he would know how to learn his space.
Simon was in a horrible, gut-wrenching, ill, painful amount of trouble. Because he didn’t want him to go. He wasn’t quite done yet, he was getting attached. He had always known that was the danger of having a soul at all but try as he might, he’d never been able to get rid of it. He didn’t say much to Johnny that evening, beginning to prepare for the feeling of losing him, like he’d expected.
But later that night, he woke to the sound of movement and cracked his eyes to see Johnny standing, both hands pressed to the glass of the window. He heard Simon sit up and turned his head, lowering his hands, waiting to see if he was truly awake or just moving.
He heard him sit up, put his feet on the cold floor. He heard Simon stand, and walk toward him. He waited until he stood beside him to speak.
“Describe it to me.”
It was gray and cold and drizzly outside, so Simon lied. “It’s completely dark. I can see the stars tonight, though, in spite of the city lights. Not many drivers at this hour, but I can see the buses running.”
“This hour.” Johnny muttered.
“Around 3.”
Johnny just nodded, his hands gripping the sill. “You’ll leave soon, yeah?”
Simon knew what he meant but he couldn’t stop the response that fell out of his mouth. “If you’d like me to.”
“No.” Johnny’s unseeing eyes were wide at the night out the window. “I don’t want you to.” He turned his head slightly, speaking again in Simon’s direction. “I wish I knew what you looked like.”
This time Simon turned away, back to the glass. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes I do. No one else wanted to be here with me, Simon, except for you. I know you could have asked to be moved to an available room if you wanted.”
“Putting you in here means there weren’t any available rooms, Johnny.”
Johnny just nodded, a slight smile breaking his cold façade. “Surely someone has died since then.”
“I’m used to working alone.” Simon attempted to justify a want he didn’t even have.
“This isn’t work.”
Simon shook his head. Johnny marveled at the fact that he could hear it, he could nearly feel the energy of every movement the taller man made.
“You’re right, Johnny, it’s not.”
“Come on, Simon, let me see you.” Johnny turned, backing away from the wall, the only thing steadying him.
Simon knew what he meant, and it horrified him. He hated that anyone could see his face, and his scars, he swore he’d be dead before he let anyone touch them. Most of the scars on his neck and face were old enough that they wouldn’t appear on Johnny’s. For that he was thankful. Johnny never even knew he wore a mask. He had no idea that Simon’s face was the greatest source of his shame. In that naivete was some freedom.
So he nodded, unsure what his voice might sound like if he spoke and Johnny’s hand was already raised. He stopped it, just in front of Simon’s chest, waiting to be guided. And in an act he might always question where he found the strength for, Simon gripped Johnny’s wrist and pulled his hand to his face.
Simon closed his eyes, unsure what it might even feel like, knowing the demolitions expert’s hands would be rough and callused, like his. It still caught him off guard, though, how gentle he was.
Johnny ran his fingers over Simon’s cheek once, learning that he had shaved fairly recently but not recently enough to be without short stubble, well grown in. He carefully glided them over long eyelashes before raising his other and feeling his face with both hands. Simon was perfectly still, even as Johnny touched his hairline, badly in need of a trim, and ran his hands over his ears and down to his neck.
Johnny noted every smooth scar, including a large one across his nose, another deep one from his left ear to the corner of his mouth and several smaller, rougher ones likely from shrapnel or broken glass. It satisfied his need so little, it made him even more desperate, but pulling his hands away he realized how intimate the moment had been and he felt guilty.
He didn’t know that once Simon felt Johnny’s hands reach his neck, he opened his eyes to watch him. His brow was furrowed, his facial hair grown out long, long enough to be soft and he very suddenly lamented that he had no excuse to touch his face in return.
When Johnny was done, he stepped backward, like he might turn and get into bed, but the floor was slick and unfamiliar and he stumbled. As Simon reached for his shoulder to steady him, he reached for Simon’s arm. His right arm. His right bicep. And his hand connected, gripping Simon by the part of his body that belonged to him anyway.
Simon froze and as soon as Johnny’s hand connected with his scar on the back of Simon’s arm, still fresh and raised and tender, his eyes widened and he let go, catching his hand with the other, like it stung.
Simon backed away then, unspeaking, somehow hoping he hadn’t given himself away so quickly and so easily.
“No.” Johnny shook his head. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong. It’s nothing.”
Johnny shook his head again, harder, laughing coldly. “I’ve never heard a more obvious lie in my life.”
“Sorry, Johnny, I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off. He wasn’t sure which part he meant to downplay.
“To what? To tell me? To get close? To let me touch you?”
Simon backed away again, his voice still quiet. He didn’t want to cause a scene or upset Johnny further, not while he was standing in the middle of the room with no support.
“Yes. All of it.”
Johnny ran a hand over his mouth, carefully stepping backward until his legs met his bed and he could sit down. “This makes more sense than it should.”
“You knew.”
“I knew something was up. I could feel it.”
“Fuckin hell.” Simon felt sick again, and he felt like roaming the halls to see if anyone had died so he could take their empty room. Get out from under this mountain of horror and emotion. He turned, he walked toward the door, getting more and more sure he was going to do one of the two.
“Don’t leave, Simon, please.” Johnny said, not turning toward him. Not sure if the words mattered. But he’d stayed, even though he didn’t seem surprised by the revelation.
Simon stopped, his back toward his soulmate.
“You knew too, yeah?”
“I saw your arm. Maybe a week ago.”
“And you didn’t leave then.”
“Didn’t think I was in danger of being found out.”
Johnny shook his head again, hanging it. “But you didn’t leave.”
“I thought about it.” An easy truth.
“Why didn’t you tell me, then?”
Simon couldn’t find an answer, Johnny could hear him open and close his mouth more than once, trying to come up with an explanation.
“Because you thought I would tell you to leave.” Johnny finally answered for him.
“Maybe. Or because I didn’t want to inflict this on you.” Simon shook his head. “Except I had no choice.”
“Come back, please.” Johnny sounded nearly afraid. “I can’t follow you. I can’t find you if you leave.”
Simon stopped hesitating, knowing it was out of his hands. He went back to Johnny and stood in front of him.
“Your leg.”
Simon clenched his jaw so tightly that Johnny heard his teeth grind together. “I know. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry someone hurt you.” Johnny’s voice was tentative but his hand was sure as he reached for Simon’s thigh, touching where he knew the deep, fresh scar to be, the one mirrored on him. He shook his head quickly. “I wish I could see it. I wish I could talk to you face to face.”
Simon knelt, pulling himself out of Johnny’s grasp, knowing he was powerless to escape the presence of him, and put himself below him, looking up into his handsome face.
“My eyes work perfectly, the injury to your eyes can’t be permanent.”
Johnny’s perfect blue eyes widened with the realization and he swallowed. “Promise to stay until I can look into your eyes to have this conversation, Simon. Please.”
Simon knew in that moment that the only eyes he had ever wanted on his face, the only ones he ever would, were Johnny’s. “Fine. But I can’t promise anything else.”
Johnny’s fingers brushed his cheek. “Fine.” Simon stood, backing away. “You came for me.”
Simon let his own fingers brush Johnny’s cheek, more intimacy than he had known in as long as he could remember. “I was here first, Johnny. Waiting. You came for me.”