Nightmare - Tumblr Posts
Random Fan-Made Fan-Art that I made for fun.
Rekindletober2022: Day 31: Friends - (Story of Chris and Charlie Ver.) - [Characters owned by: Scott Cawthon, Bonfim_BR, and Me.]
Travelling, whispering, laughing alone Bewitching, protecting, storyteller
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=ewO5bYe-jtQ#at=83
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Remember my post about a character with not-so-bland-now backstory? Yeah, I wrote a thing about his nightmare.
He's on a concert, with his friends, his favorite singers are performing. He has never been so happy, really. He can hear one of his favorite songs starts playing, his hands up, cheering. Lights switch to a navy blue with white light patches in some places. People around him are happy and some are even crying from joy. But somewhere in the distance, in the furthest corner of a concert hall, he sees a stalker standing on its back legs. Its sharp teeth poking out its mouth, pristine white fur is covered in dark stains, and its eyes are looking right into him. They stare at each other. Sounds drown out. It drops on all four and slowly starts walking at him. He stumbles, looking at it in shock, absolutely terrified. People haven’t noticed it somehow, he wants to warn them but fear chokes him.
Then it starts speeding up. Snow is falling on the concert hall's floor, its surprisingly empty here now. His legs are moving as fast as possible. Lights flash brightly and its already right behind him. It's snowing even harder, Dorzo is trying to push himself away from it, but when he opens his eyes he is on his homeplanet, snow, small bushes and occasional hills are the same. The sky is cloudy and the sun is setting. He's getting colder and colder every second and minute. He know he can’t run from hit forever, he has to think of something, of a way to save himself from the beast.
There is a tall figure in the distance looking for something. His eyes grow wider once he recognizes that person. The same red hat, white pelt and jacket with the smallest violet embroidery. Dorzo's legs are getting weaker, his lungs are burning hot. He tries to scream, to warn his father about the stalker, but nothing comes out of his mouth except frantic coughing and irregular breathing. The ginormous beast behind him is getting faster and when they're running next to each other he wants to scream in terror, but he only stumbles slightly, trying to get away from it. He has to stop it, he has to save him, he has to prevent it all from happening again.
The stalker is outrunning him, Dorzo looks at it in horror. His father seemingly cant see the danger and is just waving to him, happy to see his son after a long day of work. Words cant escape his mouth, he wants to grab his father and protect him from the beast but he seemingly isn't getting any closer. Ground under his feet is moving but nothing else changes. Maybe if he tries harder, if he runs faster, if he screams louder he would be alive.
His cheeks are getting wetter and colder and he painfully falls face first into snow. His right leg hurts so much, he cries ugly tears, he tries to reach out...
But he's simply to late...
"PLEASE, GO AWAY! IT'S RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!! DON'T DIE AGAIN, I BEGGING YOU!!! " he screams in his language.
But he can do nothing to save him and he cant even save himself from looking at it all happening.
The stalker lunges at his father, its claws already in his stomach and head and its giant sharp maws are biting into his father's flesh. His stretched out arm lies on the snow, his eyes wide open and tears streaming down his face.
The next moment he opens his eyes and sees his working tablet turned off and the table at his room. He fell asleep while filling out documents, again. He sits up straight and tries to wipe off his tears, but he looks down and sees his foot stuck under the wheel of his chair. Ah, so that's why it hurt so much in his dream. He stands up and stretches out, his nightmares are getting more vivid each time, Chi'ir would not be happy to know that. He also would not be happy to hear that Dorzo was filling out damn documents till 2 a.m. The catman is almost ten years younger than him and he's one of the best psychologists he ever met. That explains how he got there, honestly. He checks if the wheels haven't ran his tail fins over and, yeah, everything the same, nothing hurts, nothing swells up.
He turns off his desk lamp, takes off his shoes and gets his pajamas on. He will have to get his healthy 8 hour sleep in just 4 hours that are left.
Its the first time I publish my fic (???) in English somewhere else cus' its not my native language. I have a few more of approximately the same size and if you want I can upload them here too. So some info about the characters :
Dorzo, 34 y.o. , works as a doctor on a spaceship, doesn't have father (as you could have guessed), sleeps poorly.
Chi'ir, he's around 25 (I don't remember), is a psychologist on a said spaceship, catboy (literally), likes Gen from dr. Stone.
Some Sans!AU doodles I did in class a few days ago, I'm still kinda struggling with consistency with how I draw sans so even though all of these drawings where a few minutes apart they all look very different- lmao-
Had a nightmare last night that I was being chased by a scary man in a tophat and the only thing I remember is that his name was Mr Squirrel 😭
Wip of my head canon of what Dream would look like if he ate a golden apple. Currently it’s turning into a whole AU and I’m not sure where it’s going but I’ll let you know what happens when I finish!
I did it.
Justice!Dreamtale AU
This is my headcanon for what I think Dream would look like if he ate the golden apple. And the Justice!Dreamtale AU came out of it.
Basically, Dream was more responsible in this timeline and always came back by a certain time and is suspicious of Nightmare’s secrecy. Nightmare was secretive and told Dream nothing. The twins share a telepathic link that helps them feel each other’s emotions.
Dream is knocked unconscious while in town to separate the brothers. Nightmare is attacked and consequently eats a corrupted apple. Dream wakes up to his brother’s fear and Dream panics. He breaks from his restraints and charges back to his unconscious brother as the villagers pummel Nightmare and destroy the tree. Instead of protecting and absorbing the golden apple, Dream eats it and charges the crowd. After Dream and Nightmare dispatch the villagers, Dream swears to never leave Nightmare’s side and always protect him.
Differences between original and Justice.
-Dream and Nightmare are on good terms
-Nightmare acts more like a Sans; lazing around while his brother does most of the work
-the Nightmare gang is never formed because Nightmare doesn’t feel the need to build a team when him and his brother are strong enough together
-unlike Swad, Justice!Dream didn’t grow wings when he ate the apple. (This is entirely because Nightmare’s tentacles made me think of crescent moons so I made Dream have rings like suns)
-Dream is very serious and won’t open up to anyone his brother doesn’t like. He won’t make that mistake again (Ink can’t really get close to the emotion sensitive brothers due to his lack of real emotions)
-Dream wears two metal cuffs on his wrists. These are reminders of his first failure to his brother that he refuses to remove
A black swan and his cygnets.
More under the cut
Nightmare by @jokublog
Killer sans by @rahafwabas
Dust sans by @ask-dusttale
Horror sans by @sour-apple-studios
The original picture
“I fight till I fall!”
Stephen at his truest. This statement is pretty much true throughout all his comic years. His determination and resiliency knows no bounds.
Marvel Premier #3 (1972)
Ngl I’m currently just watching some of people from my media interact on discord rn, and it’s silly and fun :)
Do they know this? No, and I don’t plan on saying anything because it’s someone’s channel and I don’t have permission
Plus I’m a lurker
So watching the sillies interact instead :3
dreams and daiquiris
includes: Ghost, Soap, Price
warnings: nightmares, PTSD, graphic gore, mention and brief depiction of suicide
length: 6,008
summary: Ghost can't stop dreaming, always. They're getting bad. He's loosing pieces of himself and he can't take it anymore. Luckily, Soap is there, ready and waiting with two fancy glasses.
A/N: Make sure to look over the warnings! Anyways, this may or may jot be a vent post... Of you squint... A lot. Also, don't "take care" of yourself like Simon jfc
"Hell's bells, it's bloody boilin' oot there," Johnny whines, stretching himself out on the scratched up wooden floor with a groan. He's long since forgone his shirt, the top tossed carelessly somewhere over the couch. "Th' floor ain't even braw nae more."
"English, MacTavish."
Soap gives him a rather crude look.
"It's really fuckin' hot. Floor isn't cold," he spits, the anger more directed at the sun rather than Ghost. "Ah just ken yer aboot to burn, L.T," Soap stresses, ruling onto his stomach.
"Can it, Johnny."
Although in all fairness, Soap is right. Ghost's mask is a sopping puddle at the base of his neck, under his jaw, and around his hairline. The desert isn't exactly accepting of black cloth wrapped around his face.
He doesn't know why they're here, doesn't know their mission and the details and whatnot, but he does know Johnny is with him.
That's all he cares about.
He busies himself with cleaning his rifle, back to Soap as he keeps his eyes on the void-like horizon out of the window.
"Ghost…" Johnny whines, and Ghost rolls his eyes, ignoring him.
The heat is unbearable as is, he doesn't need bitching along with it.
"L.t." Johnny says again, voice high and tight. "'t's hot…"
Ghost huffs obnoxiously to get his point across for Johnny to shut the hell up.
"It hurts, Simon."
And, fuck, that pinched and ragged tone, the way Johnny's fighting for every word, makes Ghost whip around so fast he might have whiplash.
"Johnny-"
The words get caught in his throat, and he can't breathe anymore.
Soap's burning.
Johnny is on fire.
"Johnny!" The name tears from him before he can help it, and he's scrambling from the window to save him and-
Christ, Soap is screaming. Screaming bloody murder as the smell of charred flesh and thick smoke fill up the safe house. He's screaming and screaming and burning and Simon can't stop him, can't put him out-
Johnny is going to die.
He rushes to the sink, stumbling over himself on the way there, but the faucet is busted and dry as the desert they're in.
The screaming isn't stopping, not even letting up, and he's going to go deaf with the sound of Johnny fucking burning alive.
All of a sudden, Ghost is screaming too. He is in agony, his shoulder flaring up with the heat of the sun. He forces himself to turn around, to find why it hurts so much.
Soap is grabbing at him, at his shoulders, scrambling for a hold but… He isn't Soap anymore. He's not Johnny.
But Ghost knows him.
It's a civilian, one from years ago. A young boy, barely twelve. And he's still fucking on fire.
"Why didn't you save me?!" the boy screams, reaching for Ghost, reaching to set him ablaze, reaching for help.
"I-" and Ghost is gagging on the smell of burned flesh. His throat burns with it, eyes water, and he blinks through it to look around.
I tried.
"Why didn't you save us?!"
And Ghost screws his eyes shut, trying not to breathe.
I wasn't strong enough. I'm sorry.
He hears the boy choke on his last breath, hears him crumble into the dust. He makes the mistake of forcing his eyes open, to see where they are, to find Johnny again.
There are people all around him, each one of them lit up like a bonfire.
He's with Roba again.
Simon can feel the way his heart drops.
Please, not again. I can't go through this again.
Simon starts to run- run as fast as his legs will let him.
He doesn't get far.
He screams when a metal hook tears through his back and out in front of his ribs. Caught, like a fish on a line.
His fingers claw at the dirt, the screams now choking in his throat as he dragged backwards, back towards the burning, towards him.
Roba pulls him closer, like he were nothing more than a tug-of-war rope. And no matter how hard Simon claws into the dirt, how hard he forces himself to breath through the agony, how hard he begs-
He can't escape.
Simom wakes up screaming so loudly that he can feel it tearing the inside of his throat raw. With the tail end of a plea on his lips, he crashes to the floor, his legs tangled up all kinds of ways in his thin sheets.
Christ alive, he can't breathe. He can't even move and fuck-
One of his hands clutch at his pounding heart while the other claws against the floor in hopes of escaping him.
He needs to get away, needs to get out of here as fast as possible- but his legs won't move right and he can only crawl so far with one lousy hand and he just can't get any traction-
The door slams open, rattling on its hinges, and the room floods with blinding light. Someone's yelling, and he barely makes out, "Get down!"
Simon can't see. He can't see. Can't move or breathe and some is yelling, and he's fucking terrified, so he buries his head in his hands and curls up into a ball the best he can.
He feels like he needs to vomit out whatever is caught in his throat so he can catch a breath, to rip his heart out of his chest just so it'll slow down, to carve out his brain so the screaming will stop.
"Ghost?! Creepin' Jesus, what's-"
"Ghost? Ghost where-" the yelling pauses, catches itself in the air before settling into a low, hurried, murmur. "Ah, hell- Simon…" The door cracks almost shut, and the voice orders, "Go on back to your barracks! False alarm, everything's fine."
But it's not. It's not fucking fine because he knows he knows that voice, but he can't place it, can't stop hyperventilating to put a face to it-
The voice doesn't speak up again, and there's footsteps, a few, that shuffle away and down the hall.
And, eventually, somewhere in the midst of the calming chaos, his ears stop ringing. The high pitched whining fades away, and after a moment, his vision slowly clears. The black fuzz in his peripherals let up and nothing is blurry. He blinks, and notices the lights in the room aren't as assaulting.
"You with me, soldier?" Price murmurs from where he's crouched down across the room.
Simon opens his mouth to say he's fine, but all he can do is choke on his breath.
"Hey there, easy, Simon. You're alright," Price soothes, a sad look in his eyes. "Just breathe, kid. No rush."
¤¤¤¤¤
When he does calm down and he's no longer in his head, he speaks. His voice is gravelly and raw and it hurts just a bit, but Ghost speaks.
"What was with the bloody search party? Everyone wakes up yellin' now and then. Comes with the fuckin' territory."
Price presses his lips into a thin line as he hands Ghost his mask.
"Yeah, but not everyone begs for their life. Certainly not you, Simon." The name earns him a harsh, tired glare.
"I wasn't…" he feels his lips curl down more without his permission, the nightmare still whispering its giggles in the back of his mind. "I wasn't begging for anything. I don't beg."
Price gives him an odd look, one he's seen before but can't quite place.
He's fucking sick of that, not being able to place what he's experienced before.
"What were you dreaming about?"
Ghost clenches his jaw instantly, trapping his confession far behind his teeth. He beats the words down until they are nothing but a speck deep inside. Buries them together into the ground, in an unmarked grave, in the middle of nowhere.
Price runs a slightly shaking hand through his tousled hair and sighs, "Don't do this to yourself anymore. Just one word, that's all I need."
Ghost closes his eyes, and the image of Johnny and the boy and flames and the hook flash in the darkness. He shoots them open and feels his breath stutter in his throat.
Ghost can't. He won't. He's not that god damn pathetic.
"It's alright, son."
Fuck it all.
What else is he supposed to do but talk? How can he say nothing when Price talks to him like that? Like he's worth waking up for?
"Roba," he whispers like a curse.
And Price understands, because of course he does.
¤¤¤¤¤
He has another terrible one within the next week.
It's his fault this time. He should know better- he does know better.
It's all because tries to sleep with a weighted blanket.
Ghost figures he needs a tiny, controllable change. Besides, he read somewhere that the weight would help him sleep soundly.
God knows he needs a good night's rest.
So he wills himself to go out into the world off base and brave his local 24 hour convenience store for the stupid thing. He buys the first one he sees that isn't psychedelic and bleeding with color. It weighs a good 20 pounds through the whole blanket, but Ghost figures he's a lot to cover.
After an odd look from the short man at the register, Ghost goes back to the base to call it a day, a bit bitter from the silent interaction.
So what if he buys blankets an hour after midnight? Piss off.
He just… Wants to sleep everything away.
And so he tucks in for the night, hopeful, swapping the military grade sheet for his new weighted blanket that, actually, is quite nice. Eventually, after forcing every muscle to relax one by one, he falls blissfully asleep.
Soap's stupid mohawk was a mess of blood as he was dragged, kicking and begging, through the mud. Ghost was murdering men left and right to get to him, killing without a thought to save him, the blood soaking into his hands, leaving nothing but thin scars behind.
And then he sees it; the all too familiar grave. Unmarked and hardly four feet, just like he remembers.
And the Sergeant- Soap, MacTavish, John, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny- is carelessly tossed like a rag doll right into that grave.
And Ghost dives after him.
He has to save him because he couldn't save everyone else.
He has to.
But he can't.
Now that they're here, he can't get them out.
The dirt is piling on top of them too quickly, and he can't dig them free fast enough and Johnny is screaming and crying and fighting and-
And then he's silent. Quiet as the earth.
Ghost searches for him, wide-eyed despite the dirt all around him. And he sees. He sees his Johnny.
Sees that he's a corpse.
Rotted, at that. Old- days old, at least. There's no grin on his melted face anymore, no glint of mischief in his rolling eyes.
Ghost is too late. None of his sacrifices matter.
Still, he tries.
He tries to get out, scrapes and digs and hopes to get free, get on top, look down at the grass.
But he's only getting deeper- so, so much deeper- into the ground and he doesn't know why, he doesn't understand how-
It's Soap. It's Johnny. He's digging the wrong way, rotted flesh and tiny bones scraping in the wrong direction.
"Other way!" Simon shouts past the dirt in his mouth.
And John stops, skin sliding off of his face as he rattles his bones at Simon, unable to talk with his lips a puddle in the hole they're in. But he sees it, Johnny's wicked smile of teeth and a touch of gums.
Hears it, when he speaks into his brain: Oh? But, Simon, hell is this way.
¤¤¤¤¤
He's going to personally hunt down the author of the book that told him weighted blankets were a good idea.
Hell, maybe they are a good idea. At least, for anyone who doesn't dream of being buried alive.
The clock tells him it's been hardly two hours, but his body says it's been a lifetime.
Everything aches, more than normal, but he can't manage to sit still with these nerves eating at his skin. It feels like he's clutching a live wire instead of his pillow that's planted in front of his stomach and held up by his arms and knees.
It's going to be a long fucking day.
¤¤¤¤¤
He was right.
The day drags on forever.
By the end of it, Ghost considers killing everyone in the building, and then himself.
He feels too big for his skin, like he has to shed it like a snake, grow another one that's a better fit. Every breath he takes, he forces it to be slow and deliberate, focusing on filling his lungs completely.
Ghost spends most of the day in the gym. He tried working on what little paper work he's yet to do, but the words kept blending together and dancing from the page. And even if he wrangled them back, they weren't sticking. He had to read the same line four or five times in a row because his brain decided that English wasn't going to work today.
So he stays his ass in the gym.
Can't think if everything hurts, can you?
He starts with the treadmill and sprints for a mile, until his knees threaten to give way and he nearly slips. He moves, shaking, to the bench press, and makes the choice to work on lighter weights so he doesn't need a spotter. When that isn't clearing his mind, he makes his final destination the punching bag.
Maybe he gets lost in his head regardless. Maybe he loses himself. Maybe he bends a finger.
He only stops when Price practically drags him into the kitchen, still sweaty and gross and dead on his feet.
It wouldn't have been all too bad, if Price had kept the silence going.
"Therapy is a normal thing, Ghost, especially in this line of work. Everyone on the task force goes, even Kate."
And Ghost knows this. He knows how much it has helped Soap through the aftermath of Las Almas and Hassan and everything before, in between, and after.
Ghost knows therapy worked for them.
And he knows he's too damaged for therapy to fix.
Ghost moves his jaw just enough to pass as a nod, just to appease Price.
He can't find the honey for his tea and he's just a breath away from giving up on it and heading to the sniper range with a raw throat and trembling hands.
He doesn't understand where the honey went. It was right here. He left it right here yesterday morning. It's always right here. Always.
So where the fuck is it?
Price makes a noise, something between clearing his throat and huffing.
Ghost faces him at it, and snags the small container of honey before Price can question him.
Fucks sake, he almost spiralled because of honey.
He's pathetic.
"Where was it?" he murmurs, because it'll drive him up the wall for the rest of the day if he doesn't know.
"On the counter, Ghost. Near the fridge. No need to get ansty over it," Price answers easily before adding just as quick, "you know, I could enforce that therapy be mandatory."
"You wouldn't."
Price wouldn't.
Right?
"But I could."
"You could do anything, sir."
"Except help you, apparently."
"I don't need any help."
"You did with Roba."
The tea scalds his hand when he spills it all over the counter. Seeps into his glove and threatens to burn him alive, and he grits his teeth hard enough to feel his jaw creak. He pulls the glove off with his other shaking hand, and gives a once over to his pale hand that's now quickly turning an irritated shade of pink.
"Simon, at least think about it," Price sighs with the weight of the world. He's already carefully cleaning the hot tea from the counter.
"I have," Ghost bites, moving to the sink.
Price goes quiet as the cool water from the tap runs lightly over Ghost's hand, over his oddly bent finger. Ghost hopes that the conversation is over. He knows it's not.
"New orders, soldier."
Ghost takes a breath, stiffening and resisting the muscle memory of moving at attention, or at least parade rest.
"Sir?"
"You're drinking with the 141 at the end of this month."
Ghost lets himself whip his head around, and he can feel the fire in his eyes, the protest on his tongue.
"Don't cut me off."
And Ghost clenches his jaw to shut himself up.
Price hardly ever pulls rank on his team; he doesn't need to, with the respect the 141 has for him regardless. This? This right here is the closest he ever gets.
Price quietly huffs, looking over Ghost's hand that's still under running cool water.
Price holds the tone he always has when he's discussing the workings of a mission. "You'll drink with us, here on base in Soap's office. You'll try to enjoy yourself. Then, after two hours, you can peel off. Fuck about for all I care, but stay involved for two hours, at lease. Understood?"
Ghost thinks the old man has gone fucking senile.
"Understood."
"Involved, Ghost. Offer your two cents here. Say a shitty joke there. Have a drink or two."
"Sir."
Price huffs again, his mustache twitching with the force of it. He carefully cradles Ghost's burned hand. He's got a rag, wets it with the cool water, and lays it gingerly over Ghost's hand.
"Just… Consider it, Simon. Really, this time." Price murmurs, patting Ghost's shoulder with his dry hand. "And get your ass to medical before you terrorize the gym again."
Ghost doesn't know if he wants to strangle the man or hug him.
¤¤¤¤¤
They're standing on Ghost's favorite watch tower, Soap and Ghost, overlooking the quiet woods behind the base.
Johnny had wanted to see his knife collection, and for some godforsaken reason, Ghost shows him.
And as Ghost hands Johnny his favorite one, perfectly balanced and sharper than the devil's tongue, Johnny speaks something dangerous.
"I love you, Simon."
And Simon startles, gasps quietly as his heart beats faster and faster.
Is that just how it is? Effortlessly said, as if those words haven't been plaguing him for months? As if it's really just that easy?
Simon hopes so. Hopes that it comes naturally to him like it does to Johnny.
But he knows better than to hope.
There's not love in the world for people like him.
"Let me show you how much I love you," Johnny beams, switching his grip on Ghost's knife.
"Johnny…?"
Johnny stabs himself just above his navel with Ghost's knife, the slick shhk of the blade echoing in the abyss as Simon can do nothing but watch.
Blood pools over John's hips, down his strong legs, puddles at his feet, but the man is standing there, smiling and looking at Simon like he just hung the moon.
"John- Johnny," Simon forces, rising from his spot on the ground, trembling hands refusing to move from his sides.
"I have a gift for you," John smiles, like he isn't forcing the blade up his torso, carving himself open like a fish. He flexes what's left of his abs, and his small intestines tumble out of him like a massive snake. They fall on the floor at first, but a section somewhere in the middle tips over the side, and gravity sends the organ free falling from the edge of the watchtower, and his large intestines peek out from behind John's flesh. "Ready for it?"
Simon doesn't speak. He can't, mesmerized by how Johnny's free hand pulls the rest of his intestines free like they were as normal as rope.
Johnny then holds the bloodied blade between his teeth, taints those perfectly pearly whites, and uses both hands to dig inside himself.
His left kidney, maybe his pancreas, and his liver are carelessly tossed onto the floor. And Johnny is still smiling at him from beyond that knife. Standing there playing Operation on himself with hearts in his fucking eyes.
With a handful of yanks, his lungs are pulled free, dropped to the floor like the others. They're still functioning, too; expanding and relaxing, providing oxygen for a body a yard away.
And then finally, finally, he tugs his heart out of place with a fond chuckle from behind the blade.
He passes Ghost his heart tenderly, both of John's hands cradling it like it was the most precious thing in the world. And, fuck, it is. Of course it is. Simon tenderly takes the still-beating heart into one of his hands. The rhythmic beating of it sings to Simon, lulls him into a trace.
It's not bloody, Simon notices numbly. It almost seems to be glowing, even. Perfect and radiant and lively, all beautifully John Mactavish.
And Ghost crushes it.
Closes his hand in a fist so suddenly, so violently, that Soap's heart practically explodes.
He doesn't feel a thing when he does so. Blanky watches as Soap's face pales impossibly further, and his lungs, that are still on the floor, stop filling up.
Soap's dying.
He's murdered Johnny without a second thought.
Funny, how that works.
He really is a monster.
Simon wakes up with wet cheeks and blurry eyes. He gasps, shaking and silent. Tears slip down his face again when he blinks away the teasing remnants of the dream.
He gets his bearings together relatively quickly, but not even honeyed tea could stop the shaking in his hands.
He avoids Mactavish for the entire day.
It comes with a little bit of trouble, as the man sticks to him like glue, but Ghost manages. It's his job to disappear, to be a ghost, to be dead.
But fucking hell, maybe Mactavish is a medium.
Ghost will catch glimpses of him, in the mess, in the bath, in the gym, the range, the track, the gym again, the barracks hallway, near Price's office- everywhere.
He eventually gets cornered when he has to take a fucking piss.
Ghost hears Soap coming from miles away, but it doesn't matter. The determination in the man's steps alone make him huff as he tucks himself away.
Hell, Ghost is already running from his past. Adding MacTavish to that list isn't helping him.
He starts washing his hands the best he can with the small splint medical gave him when he feel eyes on his back.
"Sergeant," he murmurs.
There's a scoff, full of bravado and vinegar. "Lieutenant."
Ghost feels his jaw shift as he cuts the water to dry his hands. The bitterness in his chest at the title, foreign coming from Johnny, processes.
He's being hypocritical. This is how Johnny must feel.
"Can I help you?" Ghost says anyway.
"Can I help ye, he says," Soap grin to himself but it doesn't reach his eyes, doesn't sit right with his snarky tone. "Aye, ye can bother t' explain why ye've been dodgin' me like th' bloody plague."
Because I don't want to hurt you.
Because you're important.
Because I'm scared.
Ghost sniffs once, tossing the paper towels into the trash.
"Need some time to myself. Ain't nothin' personal, Johnny."
At that, Soap loses some of that tension in his shoulders, stops looking like a caged dog. He lets out the smallest of breaths.
"Aye…" he murmurs, hesitating. He licks over his bottom lip- Johnny often does that when he isn't sure what to say, tries to taste the words before deciding to serving them out or not- and takes a glance at the suddenly interesting floor. "Just… ah'm here, ye know? If… Ah don't know… If ye don't want time to yerself for too long."
"Yeah…" Simon lets out, accidentally. He recovers quickly, or tries to, anyway. "We'll see."
And Johnny licks his lips again, after a quiet nod. But he doesn't say anything. Maybe he didn't like the taste of his words this time.
¤¤¤¤¤
He dreams again and again. Always, he dreams.
Most recently, he dreams of Johnny.
Simon can't stand it.
It's affecting his waking moments now. It's making him affect Soap's waking moments.
After dreaming of that night in Chicago, of missing that shot on Hassan, of watching, hearing Johnny fall just about 50 stories to his death, Ghost spent a week straight making sure Soap stayed away from the high watch towers. He went as far as swapping patrols or having something 'suddenly come up' that 'needs the Sergeant right fucking now'.
After dreaming of missing Hassan, and shooting Johnny, he trained for hours and hours straight at the sniper range, foregoing meals and drinks and piss breaks just to make sure that his aim was perfect every time. Soap was forced to waste his evening by slowly convincing Simon that enough was enough, that he needed to eat, drink water, and get some fucking rest.
After dreaming that Johnny blew up into dozens of pieces of meat chunks protecting him, Simon had a panic attack when Soap was at the demo-range and an explosion went off. Despite not even a cut on him, Ghost forced Soap to medical (once his own breathing was stable enough). He banned an outraged Soap from the range for two days.
Once, he dreamed that Johnny killed himself. Put a barrel in his mouth and looked at Simon. Pulled the trigger without hesitating. Simon knew, just knew, it was his fault.
After every dream of Johnny dying in front of him, or worse, by his hands, Simon crumbles. Loses another piece of himself.
He doesn't know how many pieces of himself he has left to lose.
¤¤¤¤¤
When the night comes to drink, Ghost considers going AWOL.
Thinks about staying true to his call sign and vanishing into thin air, never seen again. He plans it out, even, knows what little to bring, what time to leave, where to walk to.
He stares at the mask he wears on base, just the balaclava with the infamous skull print. His gloved thumb runs over where a piece of the jaw design is cracking. He shifts his own jaw in time with his thumb.
Maybe there's no Simon left, he thinks, delusional.
Maybe it's just Ghost, after everything.
Now would be the time to slip away, Ghost reminds himself, and his grip on the mask tightens, threateningly pulling at the jaw bone design.
Now.
He slips the mask over his head, and slowly breathes. He considers.
The faint smell of cigar smoke worms its way under his door and into his room. He hears Gaz laugh somewhere down the hallway, hears Soap's soft footsteps padding towards his room.
No.
He stands wearily, takes another deliberate breath, and stalks to the door.
There's a knock, just as his hand reaches for the knob. A familiar pattern, one that makes him force a feeling that could possibly be described as giddiness down into the abyss behind his ribcage.
Knock, knock, knock-knock, knock.
He could still run. Now's the very last chance he'll get. Johnny won't let him out of his sights when this night starts. Ghost should vanish- it's now or never.
He swallows past the sting of bile in his throat and returns with a quiet knock of his own.
Knock, knock.
He hears Soap laugh quietly on the other side.
Never, he choses. Never.
Ghost opens his door, and there is Soap, leaning against the wall with a grin so wide that it could crack his face. His eyes brighten when he sees Ghost. His grin drops a little when he sees what look Simon has in his eyes.
Johnny furrows his brows slightly, darts his eyes up and down in a quick one-two.
Ye alreit?
Ghost shifts his jaw before steps into Johnny's space, just a little.
I'll be fine.
Johnny squints at him before dropping the silent conversation. He pushes himself off the wall and starts talking about a new project he's working on at the demolitions range.
Ghost follows him to his office, and hangs on every word.
¤¤¤¤¤
Soap's 'office' is more of a play room than anything, all regulation thrown to the wind.
Spotless, but filled with personal trinkets and such. Soap reminds Ghost of a crow, collecting little shiny things to bring home to show others. It would be almost cute if Ghost would allow himself to think that way.
Gaz isn't here, though. Neither is Price or Laswell, or anyone else.
Just him and Johnny.
He doesn't think about it too much, because if he does, he knows it's the old man's fault.
Johnny doesn't pay any mind to the lack of the other three, and instead buries his head around his thousand-and-some shelves to find 'the right glasses'.
"What are we drinkin'?" Ghost asks when the sound of rummaging starts to grate on his nerves.
"Oh, he does speak. Bless th' Saints, ah thought ye went mute,'' Johnny grins at him. Ghost narrows his eyes. Maybe he should have ran. The hum Johnny gives while pretending to think on it, possibly, changes his mind again. "Daiquiris," he settles on.
"What?"
"Ye know, those fruity, fancy cocktails."
Ghost could walk out the door right now. He should.
"Fuckin' hell, Johnny," Ghost drawls, casting his gaze to the draw that seemed to be the one Johnny was looking for, if his air fist bump was anything to go by. He pulls out two daiquiris glasses, one of them clear around the middle up and with the base a cool blue. The other- "What the fuck."
Johnny laughs at that and holds the other glass up proudly. It's hot pink with a little touch of purple at the rim and with a mini pink boa scarf at the base.
"Don't like it?" Johnny grins so bright it feels like Ghost is getting flashbanged.
"You would have that," he murmured instead.
"Yeah, yeah. Yer lucky 'm givin' ye the blue one. Gotta keep up yer masculine image, eh?"
"Whatever you say, Johnny," Ghost huffs, settling into the plush spare seat across from the desk. "Make it strong, yeah?"
Johnny hums quietly, his eyes lingering on Ghost's face.
Two hours. That's all he needs before he's calling it a night and fucking off.
¤¤¤¤¤
He doesn't know exactly when he got drunk, but he does know that he ended up with the pink glass two drinks ago. Maybe four.
Johnny isn't wasted like him; the fucker's been nursing his second drink for about an hour.
Right, fuck, he was supposed to leave…
He forces his eyes to drag up to the oddly silent clock on the wall. Ghost remembers Johnny telling him all about how he managed to rig the clock in a way the ticking sound doesn't happen. He said it drove him bat shit crazy, having to hear it over and over again. It was adorable.
Fuck, no, he needs to focus. The clock, the time.
Ghost tries again, squinting at it for extra measure.
Jesus, he was supposed to be out of here three hours ago.
"Ye alreit?" Johnny asks from his spot next to Ghost on the floor. Ghost hums at him in question. "I asked if ye're alreit, Ghost."
Ghost blinks at him, considering the question for an awfully long time, long enough for Johnny to sit up and gain that adorable furrow between his eyebrows.
"L.t? Seriously, are ye okay?"
He takes a small breath.
"Nah," he offers simply, running his hand through his tousled hair.
Simon dropped the mask all of thirty minutes ago. He finally got pissed off about having it bunched up on his nose and abandoned the thing.
Johnny blinked at him a time or two, the gears turning in his head at Ghost actually being honest.
"No?"
"Yeah, no."
Johnny blinks again and that furrow grows.
"Yes?"
"Nah."
"No?"
"Yeah," Simon grins at the stupidness of the conversation.
Johnny shakes his head with an exasperated sigh.
"Alreit, what th' fuck," Johnny tosses his hands up.
And Simon laughs.
He doesn't know that he is laughing until his sides ache with it. Johnny's laughing too, at first in disbelief and then with Simon at the situation. And when Simon comes down from a high he hasn't felt in decades, Johnny is staring at him- through him, deep into what's left of his soul.
"Wha'," Simon slurs, lips morphing into an odd, lazy grin.
"Nothin'."
"Nothin'?"
"Aye." Johnny's eyes linger lightly at his mouth before they harden and he sits up a bit. "Hell, Si, ye've got me all side tracked. This is important."
"Wha's important?"
"Ye are. Ye not bein' alreit," Johnny insists.
"Ah, sure," he murmurs, laying his head back on the side of Soap's desk.
"Ah'm serious," Johnny shifts closer, and Simon's eyes open lazily. "Why aren't ye alreit, Simon?"
Simon.
The abomination almost sounds pretty coming out of Johnny's mouth.
Ghost gets his shit together.
"You wanna know?" Ghost rasps, drinking the rest of his too-sweet daiquiri in his too-frilly glass.
"Aye. If ye'd tell me."
And Ghost gathers his drifting thoughts, pieces them together as he breathes slowly.
"I have killed you… Countless times." Ghost waves his hand simply, almost like he were shooing a fly. "Shot you, stabbed you, lit you on fuckin' fire, made you-" he forces a sharp breath. "Made you off yourself, just like that." His throat is getting tight, and he lifts the glass to his scarred lips again, knowing damn well it was empty.
"Simon," Johnny breathes, slow and steady hands taking the glass from him to set it aside. His hands return quickly, and it's placed on top of Simon's.
"I don't- I won't take it anymore." A sob desperately tries punches through Simon, and he covers his face like the coward he is. "I want to hold you, want to have you, Johnny."
And the fucking gleam in Johnny's eyes could fly Simon to the moon and makes him bring back arm fulls of stars for him.
"But- but everything I touch dies. And I can't… can't lose you to myself." The sob tries Simon again, and this time, it wins. He's crying, and he doesn't know how to stop, and it scares him. Scares him so badly that he can't do anything but press the heels of his palms into his eyes. He doesn't care that Johnny's hand falls away.
Really. He doesn't. Not… Not at all.
Christ, he is absolutely shameless.
Seriously, has he no pride? Breaking down over a couple of dreams? Crying in front of his Sergeant?
He feels his teeth grind together, feels his skull build up with the pressure of a thousand words, and by God and the devil, he has to let at least some out before they kill him.
"They felt so fuckin' real," he seethes past his locked jaw. "Woke up sometimes, 'n' I didn't bloody know if you were really dead or not. Felt like seein' a ghost everytime we passed."
Johnny's hand comes back, steady and tender, and guides Simon to lessen the pressure on his eyes.
Past the blur left over from the tears and the force, he catches Johnny licking his bottom lip.
"Ah'm not dead. Ye've touched me and ah'm still breathin' jus' fine, Simon. Promise- Swear I am," Johnny carefully caresses Ghost's forearm. "Ah'm not goin' anywhere." He grins a little. "Yer not that lucky to get rid'a me."
Simon takes a deep breath, one that shakes his rib cage and stretches his lungs. With Johnny's encouragement, he breathes slowly.
"Yeah," he murmurs, leaning his shoulder on Johnny's.
"Aye," Johnny agrees, leaning in time with him.
They sit there for some time, taking each other in, feeling each other's warmth. Simon nearly doses off to the feeling of Johnny's chest rising and falling.
"Yer gonna have a hell of a hangover tomorrow," Johnny chuckles, combing through Simon's hair.
And, honestly, Simon is powerless against the chuckle that breaks through.
@whosectype @pawl3ss @danysaurbutnot (yes I know you already are here :D) @dayseedrawz2
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