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You notice that something’s wrong when you slip into the briefing room, guarding the exit as the lieutenant. Your captain doesn’t make direct eye contact with you even as his gaze sweeps across the room, voice clear as he details a rescue op for a team nearby.
“Captured ally,” he explains curtly in the way that is distinctly him, “we were the closest. It’s going to be a tough one.”
Questions are answered, one last order is given, and then you’re dismissed. Private Mein gives you a cheeky smile when he’s amongst the first to line up to leave, and you give him a raised eyebrow before slowly moving aside.
“Thank Lieut,” he cheers. “See you on the runway.”
“Randy,” you say to his best friend, who’s right behind him, “make sure he straps himself up properly, for fuck’s sake.”
“Lieut!” Mein complains.
Randall gives you a quick salute. “Yes ma’am.”
You smile in amusement as they bumble off, jumping on top of each other like teenagers. They’ve known each other since then, at least. The rest of your team filters out after them, before it’s just your captain and you.
He still stands at the front of the room, looking thoughtfully at the map pinned to the wall and the circled infiltration and exfiltration points. He’s uncharacteristically quiet.
“Cap,” you say, moving to stand beside him, “everything all right?”
He hums. “This op will be fine.”
He doesn’t elaborate. At first, you didn’t know what to make of his taciturn personality, but now you know that Captain Devon Raines is more a man of actions than a man of words. So, like previous times, you press him for details.
“What’s captured your thoughts?” You stare at the map. “It looks fine to me. Good cover. The splitting of the team is nice too.”
Raines doesn’t reply, just nodding. “The op will be fine,” he repeats. “Which is why we’ll be doing it without you.”
You’ve been a lieutenant for two years and a sergeant for even longer underneath Captain Raines, and none of the times has he left anyone behind unless they were benched for medical reasons. Since you’ve been promoted to his second in charge, he’s never left you out of any planning session, even if his superiors are chagrinned to see a lieutenant in their debriefing room. You don’t understand. You were supposed to lead Charlie Team whilst he took Alpha. A captain from another team was going to take Bravo.
“There’s been a situation,” Raines says, carefully, crossing his arms. “They’ve managed to rescue one of the captured soldiers, but the state he’s in is concerning.”
You frown, but you let him continue.
“One of our teams has been tracking a terrorist cell rumoured to be dabbling in biochemical warfare. They’re testing units of something on captives, and the guy we got back—well, he’s one of the lab rats. They say that it’s going to take a few weeks for him to recover.”
“Right,” you nod, “but he’s going to recover, right?”
Raines finally looks you in the eye. You understand, instantly, why he’s been avoiding eye contact all day long. He always used to say that you had an uncanny ability to just know things by just looking at them, especially people; now, you know.
“Who is it?” you demand. “Reina? Micky?”
“Simon.”
It’s like your mind is a computer, and all of a sudden, all the applications close and scream for errors. There’s a massive, blaring notification that reads insufficient storage as one massive but old application bullies its way to the forefront, completing crashing all other applications as it forces itself to load.
The application’s name is Simon Riley, followed by an ungodly amount of random letters. It looks eerily like how his number is in your contacts.
Raines watches your expression like a hawk. You force yourself to swallow.
“ Simon got captured,” you say, pitch rising, “that’s a funny one, Captain. That’s really funny.”
Raines presses his lips into a thin line. “I’m not joking.”
“Simon’s working with Price,” you hiss, “and Price wouldn’t let that happen.”
“Only you and I outside of his current team know that Simon Riley is still alive,” Raines replies, calmly, “and that’s only because we knew him before he decided to fake his death to protect his family. You’re the closest person he’s got now.”
“I haven’t spoken to him in years,” you point out.
“You have dinner with his mother whenever you’re on leave,” Raines deadpans.
You have no reply to that, because it’s true. Actually, how does he even know that? Anything and everything pertaining to Simon Riley has been taboo, because any mention of it could jeopardise his identity and his safety. God, the only reason why you even had dinner with Mrs. Riley in the first place was because you felt guilty about helping her son pretend to be dead and force his family to mourn him.
“Look, that’s not the point.” Raines sighs. “It’s the…defense mechanism Simon’s put into place for himself. Or rather, the defense mechanism his mind put for him.”
“What exactly does the drug do?” you ask, suddenly nervous.
“Create hallucinations, bouts of intense violence and rage, and it self-destructs in the blood system in way that was described to me as imploding.”
“What the fuck,” you breathe.
Raines seems unfazed by your language. “Simon was one of the last to be taken hostage, and from what I heard, it’s because of rather shoddy intel and a mole. You don’t need to worry about what happened, really, but what you do need to worry about is the current situation.”
You grimace. If Raines is beating around the bush, then this is serious.
“Simon cannot remember anything since his supposed death,” Raines says, flatly. “He can’t remember his teammates, any ops he ran, or who Price is. All he remembers is a Captain Washington, a few other retired men, me, and you.”
“What?”
“We don’t know the extent of his memory repression. He refuses to speak to anyone outside of the people he recognises.”
You blink. “Are we sure it isn’t a head wound?”
“He’s been checked for head trauma,” Raines confirms. “And since we have an op in three hours, I told them I could spare you to help them dig for information. We both know that he’ll be more receptive to you, anyways.”
Ignoring his last sentence, you question, “Dig for information?”
“They suspect he knows where the enemy base of operations is. He’s not talking, though.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
Raines doesn’t answer that one. You figured.
“Where is he?” you ask finally, accepting your fate. Smiling a little, Raines nods towards the door, and you see another familiar captain filling the doorway.
Captain John Price looks older than he actually is, but the last time you saw him, he had been growing out a goatee for fun. Now, though, there’s something rough about him and he actually feels old. Or experienced. Whatever the word, there’s a certain weight to his presence that has you straightening when he locks eyes with you.
His smile is still the same though, a full-face movement. “Lieutenant,” he acknowledges.
“That’s me,” you say, wiping your hands on your thighs. “Long time no see, Captain.”
Turning back to your captain, you see him already moving to pack everything up. “So,” you say awkwardly, “I’m heading off now?”
Raines doesn’t look back as he rolls up the map and puts the pins back in their box. “Take care of him, Flake.”
“I will,” you promise.
When you turn to leave, Price addresses your captain with a solemn but grateful tone. “Thanks for lettin’ me borrow your lieutenant Raines,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah,” Raines waves him off, “just get Riley fixed.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Price replies, turning his heavy gaze on you. “Are you ready to head off, Snowflake?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, “that is, if I don’t need anything. Where are we going, exactly?”
Price smiles, this time a little more genuinely. “Down memory lane, I suppose.”
—
You are definitely hit with a wave of nostalgia as you pull into Manchester, into the local base stationed there. Since your admission into SAS alongside Simon years ago, you haven’t been here ever since then.
Even the hallways you walk through are just memory after memory, and you see the stain on the wall from that time you had tried to throw your apple core at Simon’s face but he had dodged before it could land. The two of you had gotten some real punishment for throwing food at each other and vandalising army property, but you can’t help but smile at the reminder.
Price says nothing as he leads you down the hallway, turning in a familiar direction. He didn’t say much on the car ride here either; he just asked how you were going, you asked how he was going, and then you asked about Simon, and he had fallen silent.
“Best to see for yourself,” he had finally said. Then he stayed quiet for the rest of the trip, keeping his eyes strictly on the road.
You know when to speak and when not to speak. And so you stewed in the silence, trying not to let your imagination run wild and concoct the most terrible of situations.
“Who the fuck is Flake?” A Scot stands outside your old dorm, looking positively upset. “Who the fuck is Raines? Honestly, has the lab come back with anythin’ yet? Fuckin’ useless twats.”
His friend, who, outwardly, seems much more calm, replies, “Look, we don’t know what happened. Who knows what Ghost went through.”
“Yeah and that’s the fuckin’ problem,” the Scot bemoans, “because he won’t say a fuckin’ thing. He doesn’t even recognise us. We’ve worked together for years, fer fuck’s sake!”
“Soap, Gaz.” The two men straighten at the sound of Price’s voice. “Come meet the lieutenant off of the SAS domestic terrorism task force. Snowflake, these are two of my sergeants, Soap Mactavish and Kyle Garrick.”
The Scot’s eyes widen at the mention of your callsign, but he doesn’t forget to shake your hand. “Soap,” he introduces, taking in you in. You take him in at the same time; he sports a particularly bad black eye. “ Yer Flake?”
“That’s me,” you agree, shaking his hand firmly before moving onto his friend. Gaz’s grip is looser, but no less firm, and he offers you a sweet smile when you look over at him. “Where’s Simon?” you ask once introductions are over, and the two sergeants exchange a quick glance.
Price just points to the door to your old dorm. “In there. We managed to get into a familiar space, but he refused to enter his old dorm. Liked it here, though.”
“This was my old dorm,” you reply, because you can hear the hidden question. Soap coughs, and Gaz elbows him sharply. You elect to pretend to not to notice their antics.
Price sighs in a long-suffering way, reaching up to massage his temples. “Ignore them. They’re just glad that we managed to find the mysterious Flake that Simon only talks to.”
You stare at the door. “Right.”
“Yer his,” Soap squints at you as best as he can with his injured eye, “sister?”
Gaz elbows him again, this time harder by the way Soap yelps. “Don’t be fuckin’ daft,” Gaz hisses.
“What?! What did I do wrong—”
“You can go in,” Price tells you. “He’s been waiting for a while.”
Soap falls silent, but he shifts a little closer. So does Gaz, except he shows his anticipation a little milder.
“Yeah well,” you look down at the doorknob, “I’ve been waiting for years to hear from him. I honestly didn’t know if he was alive or not.”
That makes the men fall silent. You turn to give Price a tense smile.
“Not that it mattered, really. I had to tell everyone he was dead, even if he could’ve been alive.”
Price puts a gentle hand on your arm. His expression this time is almost vulnerable, as if he’s sharing a deep, dark secret with you that shouldn’t have been said aloud. “He wanted to,” he says, quietly. “He really did.”
You turn away, looking back at the doorknob. Soap shifts impatiently from behind you, eagerly awaiting for the moment you enter the room, but he doesn’t say anything. His movements distract you momentarily, and for that moment you just imagine reaching out, opening the door, and entering.
The last time you had seen Simon was years ago. You don’t even know what he looks like now.
Closest thing to family, you think. What a fucking lie.
Then, with a deep breath, you push it open.
—
Simon is sitting on your bed, staring out your window. It’s almost identical to the past, and you have to double-take to make sure that what you’re seeing is not a memory.
He’s taller now. Bigger, too. He barely fits on your bottom bunk. He wears all black, the one thing that hasn’t changed.
He turns his head at hte sound of the door opening. His grip tightens on a knife that you know he probably shouldn’t have.
“Flake,” he says, surprised as if he wasn’t the one who demanded your presence.
He wears a mask, now, one that covers most of his face. You can’t see that dimple on his left side that you always made fun of or the exact way his nose curves, but you know that he’s Simon. You think he could cover his entire face and you’d still be able to tell.
Price hovers from behind you. Simon clocks him, and he tenses.
“Hey, Simon.” You try for a smile, but it doesn’t come easy. “How’re you feeling?”
He looks at you, this time more clearly. His eyes rake up and down your body in a way that feels analysing instead of judgemental, and something seems to sadden in his eyes as he sits up properly, swinging his feet to his front so he can face you.
“You’re older,” he says, quietly. “So they were telling the truth.”
“That you underwent some major trauma and now you’re repressing memories in order to protect yourself?” you joke, taking another step forwards. Simon twitches, but he doesn’t tell you to get out. “Then yeah, they’re telling you the truth.”
He doesn’t reply. He just takes you in, as if trying to soak all of your presence in.
“But you didn’t need me for that,” you accuse, “one look in the mirror and you can tell you’re definitely not a teenager anymore. I mean, look at you. You’re a fucking Hulk, that’s what you are.”
If anything, his expression sours even more. “We don’t work together anymore,” he deduces. “You haven’t seen me in a while.”
Years, you agree, but you can’t let him see that. He feels comfortable with you, who knows if he still feels the same after finding you the last time you spoke was not even a year after the latest memory he currently has?
“Simon,” you sigh, “promotions are a natural thing. You were bound to get your own team.”
He stiffens. You’ve said something wrong.
Price’s hand touches your back in warning, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Bouts of intense violence and rage, you remember. Simon has never raised a hand against you, ever, but that doesn’t mean he never will.
You know that he wouldn’t, if he were still in charge of all his faculties. You just don’t know what a drugged up, angry and hallucinating Simon Riley would do.
But before he can build up any tension, he deflates like a balloon that hasn’t been properly tied. He collapses against the bed, looking away from you and back out the window as he finally says, “I don’t have a team. They say I run solo most of the time. Else I just work under that old man.”
You look at Price from over your shoulder. He gives you a nod. “Right,” you say, turning back to look at Simon, “you were always a lone wolfer. I’m not surprised.”
“When was the last time we’d spoke?” Simon asks, resigned.
“Huh?” You frown. “A…while, that’s for sure, but that’s not what I’m here about. You’re hurt, Simon, but you won’t let them help you. Why’s that?”
“Did I do somethin’ to piss you off? That why you’re not speakin’ to me?”
It takes you a moment to understand what he’s saying. Piss you off? Simon has never pissed you off, not really, and you wouldn’t exactly call your weird pseudo-relationship at a ‘not speaking’ stage. It’s more of a ‘let’s cut all ties for everyone’s safety and just reminisce fondly when we miss each other’ kind of stage.
Simon frowns, turning his head to look at you. “What did I do? Did I not apologise for somthin’ again?”
Then it hits you. You can’t help but laugh, something heavy lifting off your shoulders, and you move to sit beside him. Price makes an aborted motion to pull you back, definitely thinking that approaching Simon is not a good idea, but Simon just watches as you plop down onto the mattress beside him.
“Oh Simon,” you say fondly, brushing a thumb over his left eye, “you never apologise. I’ve never gotten mad at you for that before, have I?”
He gives you a grunt that’s distinctly teenage. “There’s a first time for everythin’,” he mutters.
“Simon,” you say, dropping your hand to fall on top on his, “look. Time’s passed. A lot of time, actually. You and I, well, we’ve moved onto doing the things we love, even if that means spending less time with each other. I promise that you can trust the men standing outside right now; they’ve had your back even more times than I have.”
“Impossible,” he says.
“I know,” you smile, “it seems impossible, but hey, half the time I can’t even cover your back. You’re just too big.”
“Not that,” he shakes his head, “about the moving on. To do the things we love. Or whatever.”
You frown. “Simon, we both work in counter-terrorism. I’m pretty sure that’s something we both dreamt of doing.”
“We’re not working together,” he says, almost mournfully, “is that not one of the things you love?”
It’s as if your heart is being broken down but built up at the same time. You don’t know if you want to cry or if you want to laugh. “Simon,” you say, squeezing his hand, “there have been…circumstances that have prevented us from working together. But don’t you feel at least a little happy that you’re doing something you’ve always wanted to do?”
Simon gives you a look that you can’t decipher, and so all you can do is squeeze his hand a little tighter. He looks just as conflicted as you feel, but he flips his hand around and lets your fingers slip into the crevices between him, and he grasps your hand as if he plans on never letting go.
Price shifts from where he stands by the doorway. “Do you want to see a doctor now?” he asks, gruffly. There’s a difference in the way he looks at you now, and you don’t really want to find out what exactly that difference is.
Simon doesn’t answer him. He turns to you. “I don’t know where I am,” he says quietly. “I don’t know who I am. I just remember thinking that I can’t forget you—so that’s all I know.”
You brush a thumb over his knuckles in your grasp. “That’s okay,” you promise, “we’ll work through that.”
“You’ll stay with me?” He sounds so hopefully and young. It’s like he never went through that shitshow of whatever Captain Washington did to him and he’s still got that youthful energy.
“Yeah,” you whisper, “I’ll stay with you.”
Simon nods, satisfied. “Okay.” Then, turning to Price, he says, “I’ll go with you, old man. What’d you say your name was again?”
“Price,” the man replies, “and I’m your captain.”
“Right.” Simon frowns. “Where to, old man?”
Price pauses for a second, and you suddenly realise that he’s probably not used to the I-hate-formal-authority Simon Riley that you grew up with, but then the man smiles, chuckling. “To the shrink,” he says. “You’ll love it, I just know it.”
Simon shivers. “Can we not—”
“Simon,” you urge, squeezing his hand.
He closes his eyes, sighing. When he opens his eyes again, he grumbles, “Fine.”
“Let’s go,” you say eagerly, standing up. He refuses to let go of you, standing up with you, rising to his full height. He’s positively massive, a figure that you never thought you’d be able to see, and so you swallow thickly and clear your throat before you speak again. “You can’t change your mind now,” you tell him.
“As long as you don’t change yours,” he replies.
“I’ll be here as long as you need,” you promise.
The two of you step out of the room as Price moves away, giving you a grateful look when Simon’s not looking. You reply with a shaky smile, nodding back. Gaz flashes you a positive thumbs up from behind Price, and you can’t help but chuckle at the sight.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap is saying to Simon on the other side of the hallway, “ain’t you a sight fer sore eyes?”
Simon looks at him, scrutinising. “I remember you,” he says, suddenly.
You raise your eyebrows. Soap’s eyes widen in a puppy-dog way, full of hope.
“You’re the idiot I punched in the face,” Simon says. “How’s the eye?”
“Fuckin’ bastard,” Soap says, incredulous, “how’s he still the same even when he’s lost all his fuckin’ memories?”
Simon barks out a laugh, turning to face you. His hand is still in yours, warm and firm. You’re not even sure who’s grip is tighter at this point. “To the shrink?” he asks.
“To the shrink,” you confirm. “You know the way?”
“Yeah.” He tugs you a little closer. “Let’s go.”
When you go with him, it’s with a new lightness that you didn’t know you were capable of. There’s also an energy to Simon’s steps that you can’t help but emulate, and the two of you are holding onto each other even as you go to where the psychologist’s office sits.
Price catches your eye as you make a turn. He smiles, this time completely free of tension.
You smile back. This feels like a new beginning.