Lmao I'm Sober Talking About Some Alcohol Ive Never Had So - Tumblr Posts

memories and moonshine

includes: Ghost, Soap, Ghost's dead beat dad, brief Price

warnings: drinking, mentions of abuse, flashbacks, nightmares

length: 2,883 words

summary: Ghost isn't an angel.- far fucking from it. But maybe, just maybe, through the drinks and memories, Soap can help him find a halo.

A/N: Literally wrote this while sick and half asleep, listening to my neighbor have a party. So... Yeah. Also, Soap's accent is 95% from a translator, so blame that and not me <3

It's for some stupid moral booster, Price explained. 

Normally, Ghost wouldn't have to come to these types of things, but given what happened on the last mission, he was forced to by the whole 141. 

Secretly, deep, deep, down inside, Simon is thankful. Thankful that Soap made his tea just right, thankful Gaz offered to spar with him even though he's freaked out by him, thankful Price shared a cigar in his office. 

Ghost is still pissed off though, made to sit here in the lights and music. 

Despite it all, the bar isn't all too bad. Less of a club type and more of have-a-drink-with-the-boys-during-a-game type. There's still rowdy people, still flirts and such, but no one is breathing down his neck. He doesn't know what he'd do if there was. He's already tense… more than usual anyway.

He quietly waves the bartender down and speaks lowly through his black surgical mask.

"What bourbon you got back there?" Ghost nods.

The bartender sucks her teeth, resting her elbows down on the bar top and her head against her hands. 

"Sorry, babes. Limited stock and all we have is Barton 1792," she rolls her eyes. "Some dumb newbie dropped all the bottles of the real good stuff."

Ghost huffs through his nose, glancing down the bar top. He spots Johnny, wide smile on his face and an odd glass in his hand. 

"You know what he got?"

"Who, hun?" she asked, leaning forward just a bit. Ghost leans back in time, vaguely waving his hand towards Soap.

"The ray of fuckin' sunshine. Stupid mohawk on his head and-"

"Oh, him!" she beams, straightening up with a light pink dusting on her cheeks. "Of course, of course. You want what he has, sweets?" She's giggling, Ghost notes, watching her as her eyes never really float away from Soap. 

He just hums, but she doesn't hear him over the new song that kicks up through the speakers. 

He's going to murder Price if this little interaction doesn't end up killing him.

"Yeah, whatever he's got," he bites out.

"Coming right out, sugar," she nods, before moving about behind the bar.

As he waits, quietly watching Soap buzz with life, he thinks. 

He thinks of the mission, of the safe house that was almost a carbon copy of his childhood home, of Price convincing him to rest for two watches in a row. He thinks of his dream, of how he-

A glass clinking against the bar top has him blinking to attention.

He shouldn't zone out like that. It'll get him killed, get his comrades killed.

"Here you go, darlin'. What Sunshine had," she smiles brightly, sliding the drink towards him."

Ghost murmurs something that sort of passes as his version of a thank you. She nods and smiles, leans into the bar again, and doesn't fucking leave.

She's waiting for Ghost to drink it, he realizes. He gives her a crude look, lifting the glass to his face. No. No, she's waiting for him to take his mask off.

Maybe it's to spite himself, spite everything he knows, but in a rare moment, he bites up for the challenge.

Using his index finger from the hand that's holding the glass, he lifts the bottom of the mask and tucks the glass in between his lips and the mask.

The bartender frowns a little, shoulders slouches as she puts her weight on one leg. She still doesn't leave him alone, and it's bothering him. 

Ghost tells himself that she didn't drug him, and wills himself to take a sip. At the odd taste, he furrows his eyebrows and sets it down again, automatically hiding his face.

"Thoughts, Romeo?" she asks with a grin, trying to hide her disappointment.

"It's… smooth, but- fuckin' hell, is he trying to get wasted?"

"I figure he is. Sweet though, isn't it, pumpkin?"

"Yeah… what is it?"

"Good Ole Smoky Blue Flame," she laughs. "Legal moonshine, sweetheart."

Ghost shakes his head, letting the taste fade evenly in his mouth before taking another small gulp when she turns her eyes to Soap again. 

"It's not straight, though."

"You're right. Served one part to two parts gingle ale, doll."

Doll.

Ghost could put up with cutesy, flimsy, words like sweetheart and babes and whatever else she had called him- but doll makes him want to beat her teeth in and rip his throat out.

Ghost glares at her, tamed for all it's worth, and sets his drink on the coaster.

"What's with the nicknames all night?"

Ghost would've jumped over the bar at her if it wasn't for the way she giggled quietly. "I like to see how many I can shoot out before people mention it. It's usually how many dollars I get in tip," she grins widely, and Ghost can't help it when Soap flashes through his mind.

"Smooth," he says, deadpan.

"I know," she winks.

Before Ghost can say anything else, there's a rapping of knuckles on the bar top way further down the line.

"Well, it was nice talking with you. I'm looking forward to my whole nine bucks, angel." She beams at him. "Whoops. Make that ten."

And then she's off, tending to another person and leaving Ghost alone again with nothing more than his thoughts and a drink.

Angel, she called him. Surely she doesn't know? Has no clue of all he's done, all he's been the cause of, right? Angel, she smiled like he had hung the moon in the sky. 

Ghost felt sick, suddenly, sharply. He felt like smashing the glass and hiding because of the cuts he'll get. He felt like bashing his skull open on the bar just to make the tension ease. He felt like carving himself open to make sure he's still fully intact on the inside.

Angel.

It's odd, how he can feel himself trying to slow his breathing. Odder still that it isn't working. 

He's trying, trying so damn hard, to breathe in for four counts and hold it for four. But he can't. 

Christ, that's typically, isn't it? Just like him to fuck up something so simple. If he can't even breathe right after a simple conversation, how the hell did he ever think he'd get over what happened years- decades- ago?

His legs feel like jelly when he forces himself to get up from the stool. No one bothers him as he stalks like Death to the exit, no one gets in his way, and that's exactly how it should be. No one right in the head would lunge at a 6'4 tank of a man who has his face covered.

Yeah, he grew real tall. Just like his dad.

Ghost stumbles and scrapes the heel of his left hand on the brick wall when he catches himself. 

He's fine. He isn't bothered by a couple of stupid little things that happened so long ago. Besides, everyone gets shoved around here and there- he's not bloody special because he can't handle it well.

But he knew, he just fucking knew that being around this much alchol would make this happen. He practically doused himself in gasoline and ran into a burning building. 

Me and gasoline mix often, eh, he thinks delusionally, trying to get his vision to clear.

He forces himself further into the shadows from behind the building. Comforting territory, it is, here in the in between of light and dark. Life and death. Being a ghost.

But, fucking hell, he figures a ghost doesn't loose their shit over a handful of bad memories.

Memories of murdering those close to him in cold blood, memories of being betrayed for a few million dollars, memories of corpses and dirt, memories and dreams of his childhood-

"Ghost…? Ye oot 'ere?"

Ghost screws his eyes shut so his stomach can handle the violent swoop it goes though.

"Hey, you out 'ere? Been-" the slurring was interrupted by a nasty hiccup- "lookin' for you all night."

"I don't want to talk to you," Simon breathes.

Fuck, had he said that outloud?

"Ye got shite luck then, L.T." 

John stumbles around the corner, and Ghost had to beat down the urge to stabilize him. 

He's seen this before, on a different day with a different person, but it all ends up the same way. He doesn't- it was…

Simon can't handle Johnny acting like him.

"Yeah… I figured, lad. But hell, 'm here," his dad mumbled out as he stumble-walked across the yard to get to him. He nearly busted his ass on the ratty couch near the old tree. 

"You're drunk," Simon scoffed, and he really shouldn't have been as surprised as he was. 

His wrist burned and ached when he started to push himself from the grass spot under the wood line. 

"Naw, not really."

Simon clenched his jaw. It wasn't worth arguing with a fool, especially if they were drunk.  

"Simon, I wanted to say…" he trailed off and situated himself next to his son on the ground. When Simon tensed, he frowned to himself. "It sucks I startle you sometimes, kid."

And it was terrifying, how Simon felt his angry swell so suddenly.

He said it sucks, that Simon gets startled. Not that he gets so scared he can't breathe when he beats on his mom, beats on him, ties him to the rusty air con on the floor and letting the neighbors rabid dog loose and locking the fucking door-

Startle. That was the word he used.

His wrist burn again, a snarling reminder.

" 'm just… tryin' to make you strong 'n' brave 'n' manly, you know?" His dad mumbled as his fuzzy eyes landed on Simon's wrists. "I want to get you strong before the world does."

Simon didn't like that tone coming from his dad. It was the tone his mom used when she cleaned his welts and bloodied knuckles. It was the tone Tommy used to coax him out of a nightmare on the bad nights. 

He didn't like the way it made his throat close up.

"Sure, dad," he said quietly.

And his old man smiled, and that scared Simon.

It scared him in the way the unknown did. He didn't know what to do with it, he'd never seen it before. And it makes him still in fear because, Christ, he felt like he would cry. 

But it wasn't real. 

His dad was drunk and probably wouldn't even remember this.

"There ye are! Were ye hidin' frae me?"

Ghost bravely opens his eyes and tries not to breathe too loud.

"Not just from you," he murmurs weakly, leaning his weight on the wall behind him. 

"Ah've bin lookin' fer ye, ye ken." Johnny hobbles himself right next to Ghost, and Simon tries his best not to compare him to his father. 

"What for?" Ghost asks past the bile lodged in his throat.

"Tryin' tae git away from a reit bonnie quine who wanted free drinks an' a scuttle," Johnny slurs, a laugh mixing somewhere between his thick accent.

"English, MacTavish." 

Ghost can do this much. This is usual banter, yeah? Not a sudden 180 attitude caused by booze. This is normal.

"Aye, sorry," Johnny hums. He pauses to really think about how to get his point across. Ghost would've found it amusing, if he wasn't so focused on keeping his shit together. "Runnin' away from a pretty whore." 

And, fuck, if John doesn't think he's the funniest man alive. 

His loud laughter is almost enough to get Ghost to ignore the smell of liquor. When John dies it down, Ghost brings it up.

"Must've been some strong shit you had, eh?" Ghost says, narrowing his eyes pointedly.

Johnny's face sort of falls at that, and after a moment of blissfully agonizing silence, he mutters, "Yeah… Didnae want tae 'member th' way ye sounded wakin' up frae that nightmaur."

And what else was Ghost supposed to do other than remember how panicked Johnny looked?

He had woken up gasping, the tail end on something on his tongue as he ripped himself from the thin blankets. Simon couldn't- he couldn't move, and he was trapped again, and the snake was right at his fucking face-

"Son! Hey, breathe, breathe for me," a deep voice soothed tightly.

And then he noticed the hand over his mouth, and he cried- sobbed, really. Begged for him not to take his fingernails, begged for him not to leave him trapped with a dead body, begged to just be let go.

" 'm sorry, I know- I know I shouldn't, but please, don't, I need them- I need them for ma to paint, please don't take them- she needs them! I need them for her, please-"

"Easy there, easy. It's me, Price, son. Captain Price- John Price, Simon."

And Simon forced open his bleary eyes, hos chest heaving with sobs. 

He tried to calm down, he did, but he couldn't shake himself from the dream. It had felt so real. Hell, he even did the stupid box method breathing, but it felt like he was suffocating. Price coaxed him gently with grounding questions. Great fucking therapist, Price was.

"What can you hear, Simon?" Price hummed, ginger hand on his shoulder.

"You," he scoffed stiffly. 

"And?"

"And… Fuck, uh, and the wind outside," he fumbled.

"Good, Simon." 

Simon wanted to scream at that.

"What can you smell?"

"Sweat," he sneered.

"And? Give me another thing, son."

Simon closed his eyes tight enough to black out the nightmare. He took a deep breath that shudders his ribcage. "Cigars, cheaper ones… Not… Not the nicer ones. In your office."

"That's right, Simon. That's right." Priced softly shook his shoulder as he saw Simon relax more, coming back to himself. "One more, son. You can do one more. What can you see?'

Simon could do one more. He had to, to make Price proud.

"I see you, and your… stupid fuckin' mustache," he breathed.

"Well, that's awfully rude, eh? What else?"

Simon looked around slowly, let everything wash over him in waves.

"I see the log cabin walls. I see… outside the windows…. I see… I see…"

He saw Johnny, pale and tense and sick looking as he stared at Simon so worried you'd think he was dead.

"Johnny. I see Johnny."

"I didn't… I didn't mean for you to see that," Ghost tests, eyeing Johnny out of the corner of his eyes.

"Yeah, well, ye dornt usually want fowk tae see ye fightin' demons, dae ye?" John scoffs, Ghost catching bits in pieces of what he could understand. He got the gist of it though, loud and clear.

Silence settles over them again, and Ghost doesn't know how to fill it. Doesn't know if he even wants to.

Johnny does, as usual.

"Just wish ye would lit me see 'em, yer demons. Wish yoo'd lit me help ye square 'em."

"Soap," Ghost warns carefully.

"Ah wish yoo'd ask me fur anythin'. Hell's bells, Ghost, eh'd dae anythin' fur ye, of ye would jist speart," John rambles, closing his eyes.

"No one…" Ghost takes a steadying breath, willing his heart rate to slow so his stenum doesn't shatter. "No one understands that, Soap.

"Reit. Lit me translate." Johnny looks him dead in the face, eye locked onto him with such emotion that Simon wants to cry. He wants to scream at Johnny until he runs away, wants to punch his teeth in so he doesn't keep speaking dangerous words, and to kiss him so hard that he doesn't think anymore. "Ah adore ye, sae feckin' much."

"Hey, kid… 'm proud of you."

"You don't mean that," Simon spat. He would've clenched his fists, but his wrists didn't dare him to test the waters. 

" 'course I mean it. Why wouldn't I?" If Simon let himself slip, he'd notive how wounded his dad sounded.

"Because you're… you're drunk."

"Kiddo…"

"You don't mean any of this," Simon breathed, convincing his dad. Convincing himself.

"Simon, I care for you, you know."

Simon shook his head, screwed his eyes shut. "Dad, don't. Don't do this-"

"I do."

"Please, don't."

"I love you, Simon."

"You- Y-You don't fucking mean that," Simon chokes, refusing to look at Johnny.

He's played this part. He knows how it ends. He knows the nasty burn of this flame.

"Ah dae. Ah pure dae mean it. Ah adore ye sae much it hurts sometimes," Johnny laughs quietly, letting his head fall onto Simon's shoulder. "Ah… Ah think I might-"

"Soap. Don't," Ghost cuts him off. 

Simon can't handle this again. He can't.

"Ghost… Ah dae."

"MacTavish," Ghost tries again, stern, frail.

"Ah promise aam nae lyin'."

"Johnny," Simon pleads, letting his hand find Johns.

"Ah love ye."

"Please…"

The grip on his hand tightens.

"Aam serious. Ah love ye. Sae feckin' much."

And Simon really can't help the soft tears that slip from the corners of his eyes. How could he, when Johnny's oh so carefully reaching his other hand up to rest on Simon's cheek.

"Can I?"

Simon gulps down a breath and crumbles with a nod. 

He whimpers softly when Johnny's lips find his over his mask.

Maybe this fire won't burn me, he dares to think as he brings a trembling hand to cup Johnny's face. Maybe it's real.