Chapter Text
Texture had always been a source of irritation for Ghost. Whether it had started when he was a babe, or because of the abuse….at this point, Simon couldn’t tell. It was so mixed up with his PTSD, CPTSD, and other trauma that it didn’t matter how it started. It was just a big stew of irritation and annoyance. So it was that he had to have on the mask and all encompassing clothing during the day to help with his skin sensitivity, and with the issues stemming from the staring he received due to his reputation and scarring.
However, at night, the darkness was enough to “cover” his scars. That was a good thing, as Ghost had found that any sort of covering on his head when he tried to sleep - even if it was a sheet - had him feeling like he was back in that coffin with Vernon. To be honest, unless he was outside, the darkness pressed down upon him like a physical weight. It was a confusing dichotomy of oppression and relief. The conscious days where he had the compression shirts on, the pants, the balaclava - all that light pressure felt comforting, and yet. Yet.
He still remembered the first time it happened, before it blurred into a “regular” occurrence. Waking up from a night terror to realize he was wrapped in a sheet, Ghost had thought he was in a literal shroud and dead. It took thrashing around enough to fall on the floor and feeling that pain to wake up fully and remember that he was a living, breathing, man. Ghost pinpointed that night as the night he started having his bouts of insomnia, as well as when he started sleeping naked. The nudity helped him immensely, as he still associated being in a coffin with being fully dressed.
So it was that he wasn’t touched too much by too many people. Price was okay; Price understood that he needed to give Simon the chance to accept the touch or decline it. Gaz was slowly working his way into “the good graces of Lt. Spooky.” (If that made Ghost laugh, he kept it on the inside.) Gaz brought a level of sparkle and fun to the group that Ghost appreciated.
“We’ve got a new member of our core team, Simon,” Price said. Ghost glanced at him from the desk space he had sat in to do paperwork on.
“Go ahead, Price. Tell me about him.”
“His name is Sergeant John MacTavish, call sign Soap…..”
~~~~
Ghost read over the file again, shaking his head. Another well rounded man for the 141; how Price was lucky enough to get them all was a mystery. He set the file aside and continued working with the new set of clothes he had just received. Things like removing tags, smoothing out stitches, and the other sort of things that mass produced clothes had. Thankfully, the civilian Simon Riley had a tailor who specialized in clothing for those with sensory disorders and other physical and mental disabilities.
Meeting the new sergeant was a bit of a test of his patience. Not necessarily because of the punch to the shoulder; no, not that. It was how it shifted his gear around enough to grate on the nerves.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost muttered before walking off to start the mission. Thankfully, he was able to fix it on the sly before it got too much to him and then was able to finish the mission without his mood turning too sour. Time continued forward, and Ghost found that Soap was an incredibly tactile person. Always hugging, slinging an arm around a shoulder or waist, resting a hand on a bicep - it was always something. It definitely tested his patience, and had him grinding his teeth at times when a hand to the bicep or around the shoulders bunched up fabric.
Then came the food. At first, it was a refill on his hard candy dish. It quickly morphed into also making sure that Price’s candy drawer was always full, and ensuring Garrick’s pockets always had Mexican spicy candy in them. Three months into that, the fridge started having leftovers from Johnny’s cooking escapades. No one really mentioned it or tried to figure it out; just random noises of appreciation and the occasional comment of thanks.
Ghost secretly loved it. He hadn’t had such good meals in….well. In thirty years. The company itself was much, much better than the company from his childhood and young adulthood. It also brought him joy to see Price getting more sleep after Soap’s meals. How to thank the man though? Outside of missions, Ghost struggled with interpersonal relationships and regular conversation.
How does he get back to being Simon, when Simon has been dormant for so long?
Ghost found that he seemed to be getting healthier when eating Soap’s food. His sparring times were better; his bulking up became stronger than usual and fully filled out into the “strong man” body type. He still had sensory issues, though. As much as he wished for it, Soap’s food didn’t magically “fix” that either. Ghost found that he sought out Soap more and more, until it became a “thing.” That’s right, a thing. Murmurs around the base of Soap following Ghost around like a puppy, or Ghost looming behind Soap like a personal shadow.
Ghost came to the realization that he didn’t mind it. He felt like with Johnny, those rumors meant less than a fly buzzing through the air to be hit with a newspaper. However, as things tended to go with his life, a situation happened that fucked things over Royale Style.
The day started with a “prank” gone wrong; some recruits were fiddling with the heating system and set off the plumbing in a piss and shit filled flood that swept through several hallways and rooms in Ghost’s section. The rooms affected included Ghost’s room - and it came from the top of his wall above his chest of drawers with ALL of his clothing that was already tailored for him. Therefore, all of his clothes were pretty much ruined.
The recruits learned a new fear that day - of their lieutenant in his skeleton skivvies, a black tank, a plain black full head balaclava, and his black combat boots as he yelled at them at a volume Ghost’s drill sergeant would have been proud of. The recruits scattered after Ghost gave them all their punishment details, possibly afraid that if they didn’t move it they would get worse detail. Price showed up quickly after that, holding a bag full of clothes from general storage. Ghost recognized the wry smile on Price’s face.
“Sorry, Simon,” Price said. “I know these aren’t the best for you, but they’ll have to make do until you get all your regular clothes sorted.” Ghost grunted out his thanks, taking the bag and disappearing to get changed. Price was right; his sensitivities flared immediately. Scratchy seams and tags galore, and the fabric itself was just…. wrong. It added a grating tone to the rest of Ghost’s mood for the day. It came to a head in the rec room/kitchen area for the 141 specifically around dinnertime. Soap had come in, and as per usual laid a friendly hand on Ghost.
Now, what happened next wasn’t Soap’s fault. It wasn’t. Ghost didn’t share his peculiarities with many others besides Price. Ghost knew, distantly in the back of his head, that Soap did not touch any of the 141 with malice. Soap certainly did NOT know about Ghost’s skin sensitivity. Yet when his palm connected with Ghost’s arm in a friendly clap, Ghost felt his tenuous patience break with an almost audible snap.
“Don’t touch me, sergeant,” he snapped, his words almost a snarl in his deep voice. “I can’t…I can’t. Just…no, Soap.” Ghost felt like he had kicked a puppy when he saw the crestfallen look flash across Soap’s face. However, he couldn’t take his words or tone of voice back. He could only mumble an apology before retreating to a corner of the room.