Chapter Text
Ghost is agitated. The last mission has been an absolute disaster. One recruit was KIA and he's been shot so he needed medevac.
Now he's sitting in medical with a bandaged arm waiting to be discharged. He knows that the rest of the Task Force is in debrief so he doesn't allow himself to be sad that nobody is here with him. Before he can spiral into his loneliness a medic comes over.
"Alright, Ghost, looks like the only injuries you've acquired are a bullet wound in your upper left arm and a couple of bruises. You are good to go, but on desk duty for the next month. Take these discharge papers to your captain and take these antibiotics once a day. Painkillers are allowed every four hours if needed. You should drop by every day to change the dressing. Any questions?"
Ghost looks at him warily. The guy is definitely a neutral, no caring instincts whatsoever. He takes the paperslip and leaves, making his way over to Prices office.
Just as he arrives Johnny and Gaz are leaving the room. Both look beat up and Johnny immediately starts fussing. "Ghosty boy, are ye alright? Have been right worried about ya, lad. Did medical clear ye?"
Ghost just nods and shoulders into the office. He is not in the mood to be dealing with the worried caregiver who started scanning his body for further injuries right away.
Closing the door behind him he is looking at an utterly exhausted Price. The guy looks dead on his feet.
"Medical cleared me, desk duty. Here's the papers." Simon sits down at one of the sofas, the spot still warm from either of the sergeants.
Price takes a look at the paper and releases a deep sigh. "Simon, we need to talk."
That makes him tense up. Price never calls him by his name. It is always Ghost. Trying to let his tension go by unnoticed, he offers a gruff hum, indicating that he's listening.
"I know you dont want to embrace your little side, but the amount of suppressants you're using is getting increasingly unhealthier. Especially when you're injured, it is very important to drop every once in a while. Not doing so and keeping on the suppressants will only draw out your healing process. You know that I'm a caregiver. Soap is too. Please consider who you want to be yours."
Ghost is practically staring into Prices soul, trying to prove he is under no circumstances weak. "I am not accepting anyone as my caregiver. I can heal without dropping, I've done it before."
Letting out an exhausted sigh, Price starts rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You and I both know the consequences of not dropping. I am not willing to risk your life for your comfort. For now I have stood behind you on every step as long as it was safe. I won't be supplying any suppressants anymore. Do you have the gear you need?"
Letting out a dismissing grunt, Ghost stands up and goes for the door. "What are you afraid of, son?"
He freezes in his step, then starts moving again. "Nothing" is all Price gets before the door is slammed shut, Ghost out of sight.
It's been a week. A week full of paper work and training recruits. Price has dropped by that first evening to take his suppressants and Ghost has been holed up inside his room at every chance he gets.
Ignoring his instincts is becoming increasingly harder. The rec room is completely off limits. Too high is the chance of walking in there and seeing Gaz regressed, watching TV or colouring in one of his books with either Price or Johnny doting on him.
Eating is another thing. Not only does the mess hall tend to overflow with people living out their dynamics, especially during dinner, when you don't have to go back to duty and can retire for the night after, but both caregivers on the TF have been being insufferable.
Ghost can see the worry in everybody's eyes, even Gaz'. They can probably sense that something is off, but only the captain knows what's actually going on.
Now he's laying in bed, feeling terribly lonely. The jealousy of Gaz is eating him alive. How the little guy gets all the cuddles he wants, gets fed during dinner and gets to play with toys.
But he doesn't get that. He doesn't deserve it. Gaz is always happy, never cries. He can regress on his own, can stay without supervision. The little guy has the mental age of a five year old. He can walk, talk and all in all he is good company.
Gaz is everything a caregiver desires. And Ghost is the complete opposite.
Ghost is a crier. Can't walk, can't talk, can't be left alone for even five minutes. While Gaz is a cute little toddler, Ghost is a baby. A useless fucking baby.
Who in their right mind would enjoy just sitting there all day long, listening to him babble and cry, change his fucking diaper?
No, he can't do that to Price, and he definitely can't do it to his Johnny.
So now he's laying there. Clutching his pillow to his chest, thumb in his mouth and trying to keep quiet.
His head is all fuzzy and he can't form a clear thought. There is just one thing he knows. I want my daddy.
It makes him cry even harder, because he can't have his daddy. He doesn't even have one.
Loud footsteps walking by his door slam him back into reality. He can't regress. He's not a baby. So instead he rams his fingernails into his arms, scratching so much part of his arm gets scraped off with every pull.
Once his thoughts become coherent enough he walks over to his connected bathroom. Lieutenant privileges. Hissing as he is disinfecting his wound, he starts brushing his teeth. Washing his face. Getting ready for bed, hoping the pain has drawn him out of regression so much he won't drop in his sleep.
Because he can't afford weakness. The others don't deserve having to take care of him. And he doesn't deserve pity.