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blood stains and butterflies

includes: Soap, Ghost warnings: PTSD, panic attack, vomiting, gore length: 4,000 some words summary: Ghost isn't all too happy that Christmas showed up months early. A/N: uh... Boo. I'm alive! Anyways, new obsession time. Also, ik tumblr goes crazy with bots but where did they all swarm me from?? Enjoy though, and please give me feedback.

Ghost stumbles, nearly slipping in the pummeling rain. His gloved hand hardly catches traction on the slick side of their stupid fucking safe house that's spat up 30 miles past bum fuck nowhere.

The sky is as dark as the field that surrounds him, clouds hiding the moon away like it's something shameful.

I'm shameful, Ghost's brain spits as he gasps as quietly as he can. He can feel his throat closing up tight- too tight- tighter than anything he can handle.

Oh sure, because waterboarding and gasoline is nothing compared to stupid, god awful-

"Creepin' Jesus, L.t.-"

Ghost hardly has the wherewithal to yank his mask just over the bridge of his crooked, fucked up nose before he's spilling what little bit of lunch he ate before they were sent on this lousy mission.

"Ghost, what's goin' oan? Ye alright?"

Shut up. Shut the hell up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

He's dry heaving so much that something is stinging somewhere deep behind his eyes.

A hand, steady yet uncertain, touches his shoulder and Ghost feels flames licking at his skin, even through the ever persistent rain storm.

"Don't fucking touch me," he seethes, baring his teeth like a rabid animal, feet clumsily scrambling further away, leaving his arms to weakly try to compensate. The last thing he needs is to bust his ass on his own throw up.

Soap jerks his hand away like he is the one being burned. The rain is so loud, but not even shelling could drown out the sound of Soap's breath catching in his throat.

"I'm fine," Ghost rasps, sounding impossibly fragile even to his own ringing ears. "Go back inside before you get yourself sick, Soap."

"Sick like ye?"

Ghost is gagging on bile before he can spit fire back. Instead, he spits up the last of his pathetic lunch.

"I said I'm fine. They're just-" Christ, he's shaking so hard he might slip again- "fucking Christmas lights. Nothing's wrong with me."

If Ghost would stop being a little bitch for a second, he'd see the way Soap's eyebrows furrow in genuine confusion with a single blink.

"This is aboot th' holiday decor?" Soap asks desperately. Ghost can hear a puddle splash as Soap inches closer.

Ghost would rather be buried alive again than admit that he is having a breakdown over some lights speckled with blood. Hell, he'd rather gulp down gasoline than speak anything ever again.

Ghost screws his eyes shut in hopes of- of what? Hiding? He's such a shameless coward.

"L.t. please. What's goin' oan? I don't understand- what's wrong with th' lights?"

The door was kicked open, windows smashed in, and they were dead long before he jerked his car in park.

He wanted- needed- them to be alive so badly, so desperately, he skimmed over the fact that more of Joseph's brains were on the wall than in his skull for fuck's sake-

He's retching again, but tears are making his vision too blurry to see what he's hurling onto the muddied clump of grass beneath his feet. Rain, actually. The rain is making his vision blurry.

"Come back inside 'fore ye hurt yerself more. Please, Ghost." There is a noticeable hesitation and Ghost hopes Soap will just go back inside and leave him in shambles.

Soap doesn't go anywhere, but Ghost crumbles anyway from what he says.

"Ye're scarin' me…"

"You're scaring me! Tommy, stop it! Please- please stop!"

Tommy sneered behind the cracked skull mask, and Simon felt his lower bunk dip with his brother's weight. The pillow under his head was snatched from him.

"Don't ever beg anyone for anything, Simon. Hasn't dad taught you that?" The sneer bled into a sickening grin. "Here, let's practice."

His pillow was shoved over his face before he could even choke out the word 'no'.

Ghost loses his footing and falls to his knees, hands weakly grasping for any leverage on the side of the safe house. There isn't any. His left knee digs into the mud as he stumbles.

Soap, the persistent, heaven-sent bastard, is by his side before Ghost slips any further.

"I don't-" Soap hovers by Ghost like a lost dog, buzzing with confusion and concern. "A'll take it doon, Lt. A'll get rid of it all."

Ghost vaguely hears Soap's footsteps trailing off, the pummeling of the rain and the rushing in his ears nearly drowning it out. But then Soap stops and the footsteps rush back his way. Ghost shudders in the rain, in his thoughts, fingers weakly dragging against the dirt as he presses his back against the side of the shelter. Soap is so quiet that Ghost can almost pretend he isn't there.

But, fuck, he is. Standing right there, thinking God knows what, and Ghost's mask is still above his scarred, vomit-laced mouth-

Ghost drags his soaked sleeve over his mouth and chin so rough he feels a strap jerk against a scar. He grits his teeth and bares it and yanks his mask back over the rest of his face.

"Give me yer knives."

Ghost startles- fucking jumps out of his skin. He thought Soap was gone. Scratch that- he hoped Soap was gone.

Ghost slaps together the meanest glare he can muster. He's pathetic like this; a mess in the mud, his own vomit washing away in the rain next to him, being waterboarded by his mask.

Soap doesn't even flinch. Hell, he reaches his hand out, expectant.

"Ye might…" Soap takes a breath, his fingers curling into his palm just a little. "I don't want to come back oot 'ere to find that ye did something stupid to yerself."

"You think-" Ghost has to take a short breath, his voice shredded and raw and so god damn fragile. "You think that I'm-"

"I don't know what t' think," Soap rushes, sounding as desperate as Ghost hates to feel. "Just promise me ye won't."

Ghost screws his eyes shut, wondering if a promise like this only counts for the moment, or if he has to keep it for the rest of his miserable life.

"Am beggin' ye, Ghost."

"Did you beg them, Tommy? Did you?" Simon heard himself say as he stared at his brother's limp body dangling in a bloody mess of Christmas lights from the rafters. Fitting it was, that he suffocated. "Or did not have the chance to?"

"Simon-"

"Don't you- Don't fucking call me that," Ghost rasps.

Soap opens his mouth, desperate as a drowned man gasping for air, but Ghost beats him to it.

"I won't, fuck. I'm not bloody insane." Although he sure as hell felt that way.

Soap's jaw tightens, teeth clenching against each other as he draws his hand back. He is still hesitant to leave Ghost alone; alone with his thoughts and feelings. And knives.

"I won't," Ghost breathes quietly, Adam's apple bobbing as he gathers what little pieces of him were left. "I wouldn't, Soap."

Soap nods, gaze lingering as he turns his body away towards the shelter. "A'll kill ye, if ye do."

Ghost chuckles, heartless and hurt and so pitifully wrapped in his head. What a perfect way to go, that would be. That's the only way he can see himself dying, being taken out by Soap. Ghost wonders how he would do it.

Soap hasn't moved.

"I promise, Johnny."

That seems to do the trick because seconds later, Soap is taking off through the rain and heading inside the house.

Ghost is, blessedly, devastatingly, alone. But he's left with his thoughts. And they begin to wander before he beats them down.

The whole fucking shelter is done up with Christmas decorations, and it makes him wonder how many layers of dust are on every light and ornament. It makes him wonder what happened to the people who strung them up.

He doesn't wonder, however, how the blood splatters got there.

It's not even near the holiday season, either, which really pisses him off because it's just his luck. He thought he'd be safe from his holiday horrors, months away from Christmas. Of course the world slams a curveball right in his face and spits on him while he's down.

He doesn't notice that his hands are gripping at the top of his mask. They would be tugging on his hair, but he's a spineless, faceless coward. No wonder everyone thought Tom was the better brother. They were fucking right to, weren't they?

Christ, they're all he can see. Tom, hanging from the rafters by the Christmas tree lights, his throat a mangled mess. Beth, a crumpled mop of blinding white ribs and heavy dark blood, her Santa hat mostly red and somewhere underneath what was left of her. His mom, stabbed in the neck, blood soaking into her newest ugly sweater she was so proud of. Joseph's head and reindeer antlers headband was blown off with a bullet, his blood and brains and matter covering the various paint splotches on the wall where Tom and Beth couldn't decide on a new color.

Joseph's toy airplane kicked to the side, forgotten white wings stained with pieces of the boy.

He wanted to be a pilot when he grew up, Joseph did. He used to make Simon hold him above his head so he could stick his little arms out real far like they were wings on a plane. Simon would carry him all around the house; pretended to be the panicked control tower, telling pilot Joseph that he couldn't use the runway- the hallway- because there were fallen trees- a broom and a mop- blocking his path. Pilot Joseph was always a quick thinker, and he would land his plane further down the way, on an empty back road- the couch. And Simon would toss his beaming nephew on the ratty old brown couch and listen to his giggles as he shouted, "Again, Uncle Simon! Again!"

God, the pure joy on the kids face whenever Simon bought him that little toy plane for Christmas one year was burning at the back of his brain. Fucks sake, all Simon could afford at the time was a little figurine. It wasn't remote controlled, no doors could open- hell, the propeller couldn't even spin. But Joseph loved it more than anything in the world.

The sound of glass shattering behind the shelter has Ghost choking on his breath.

Simon would've killed to have been deaf when he took Tom down from the rafters. Glass shattered, body thumped, glass shattered, glass shattered, glass-

Bile scorches the back of his throat as his memory supplies the imagine of blood splattered Christmas ornaments. He tumbles forwards onto his hands and knees, frantically tugging his mask above his lips again. One hand claws at the dirt, the other, supported by his elbow in the mud, holding the bottom part of his mask out of the way as he retches and dry heaves until he swears he could be spitting up blood.

Ghost curls in on himself and falls to his side, a deflated, crumpled heap of shame.

It's all his fault. It is. If he had gotten there sooner, if he had seen it all coming, if he had never gotten compromised, if he had never joined the fucking military- none of it would have happend. It's his fault, all his fault.

"My fault," he heaves, blurry eyes boring into where the dark, starless sky seamlessly bleeds into the black, rocky mud. He's drowning in the stifling nothingness.

Tom could be coming home from work, kissing Beth hello, playing 'pilot' with Joseph. But he's not. He's a rotted corpse six-feet under the dirt. That's how Simon should be. It's his fault that it didn't turn out that way. His fault, all his fault.

"I'm sorry," he breaks, shaking his head, bringing his muddy glove to his face, pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead. The other half hides, burying into the ground, like he could dig his own grave like this.

Joseph would've been in high school by now, driving and going to meet friends. But he's not. He's stuck in a wooden box next to his parents. That's how Simon should be. It's his fault-

"Please-"

"Ghost?"

Ghost's eye snap open, body tense and frozen. He vaguely notices that he's hyperventilating. Christ alive, he's breathing so fast but he can't get any air. He can't breathe, no matter how hard he tries. He might as well be buried alive again-

"…-ost, look at me. I need ye to look at me Lt."

Ghost's blood shot eyes snap in Soap's direction- when was he sat up against the shack's wall?- and his breath hitches somewhere deep in his throat before he feels his heart pitter faster. It's trying to break out of his ribcage, slamming into his cracking bones, threatening to bleed openly into Soap's hands. Soap has such nice hands. He'd hate to soil them.

"Where are we reit now?' Soap asks, carefully crouching in front of him, both hands resting open palm facing up on his knees.

Ghost feels his eyebrows furrow at that one. Has Soap forgotten? Your location seems like an awfully important thing to know.

"Ghost, I need ye to tell me where we are," Soap insists, the tendons in his neck pulled so taunt. Ghost worries. He worries that Soap will hurt his neck, straining how he is.

"Manchester?" he murmurs so low that he can feel how his vocal cords vibrate with it. Soap's neck pulls over his Adam's apple as it bobs rough. Ghost wonders what it would take to snap the stretched tendons there. Ghost thinks he'll kill anything that dares to graze them.

"Nae. Nae, Ghost. Look around. Look around ye an' then tell me where we are."

Ghost's eyes carefully draw away from Soap's vulnerable, tense throat, and move to meet his gaze. Soap is scared, he realizes slowly, the thought dawning on him as slow as the sun rises. Ghost furrows his eyebrows, a frown tugs his lips down at the side. Hesitantly, his eyes drift to the trees surrounding him. He can hardly pick up anything distinctive through the rain, but he feels his eyes widen.

"We're at a safe house. But- but then I-"

"That's reit, Ghost. We're on a mission waitin' for exfil. Do ye remember what our mission was?" Soap speaks like a kindergarten teacher. One who wears long, gray skirts and a yellow button-up blouse, has the thinnest heels on her black shoes, and always has her hair done up in a relaxed bun. Ghost vaguely remembers hating his kindergarten classes; he could never focus. Ghost thinks he would hang on every word if Soap was his teacher. "Stay with me, Ghost," Mr. Soap snaps his fingers once or twice, the sound dancing away through the rain.

"Gather intel on the terrorists' bio-weapons… Destroy the sample. Get out with no one the wiser." Ghost holds his breath for praise, for Soap to tell him he's right. Tell him thats he's not a fuck up, not weak or stupid or not masculine enough. To tell him that maybe, he deserved everything that happened to him

"Yeah, that's right. There ye go, Ghost." Soap's lips twist into a pitiful, beautiful thin-lipped smile. "Thought I lost ye for good there, L.T."

"Never," Ghost rasps before he can shut his big fat mouth.

Soaps lips quirk up more at that, and Ghost has half the mind to get on his knees and ask for repentance. Acceptance, even.

"Are ye alright to come inside?" Soap asks carefully, words treading carefully like Ghost was a minefield.

Sometimes he feels that way, if he were ever honest with himself. He feels like a wired ticking time bomb, bound to explode at the smallest of missteps.

Well, Soap just happens to be a demolition expert, doesn't he?

"Ghost? Did ye hear me?"

Ghost feels himself blink, and when he opens his eyes, he can only look at Soap's lips.

It's unfair, really, how it all slams into him at once, after everything.

He thinks about it. He thinks about it so vividly that he can almost feeling his rough lips against Soap's, feel his clean shaven jaw rub against Soap's stubble.

He takes a shuddering breath when the thought of betrayal and blood and Christmas lights flood his mind.

He doesn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve Soap's lips or stubble or- hell- his being. He isn't good enough.

Besides, it'll only get Soap killed faster. More brutal. They'd make Ghost watch, too. He couldn't shoulder that.

Ghost startles slightly when Soap's gloved hand waves in front of his eyes once or twice.

"Don't get in yer heid. Stay with me, L.T."

Ghost feels his lips tremble. Soap always knows his tells.

" 'm sorry, Johnny," Simon murmurs, blinking against the shine in Soap's eyes.

Soap softens at that, concerned frown morphing into a lopsided grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"No need to apologize, Ghost. Ain't yer fault," Soap hums.

Ghost grunts at that, and if it was in acceptance or disagreement, Soap could only hope to flip a coin.

Soap takes off one of his gloves, his pale skin free from the inky, filthy glove. He holds this hand out like an offering, palm up and fingers outstretched, inches away from Ghost's chest.

"Ready to dry off, L.T? I mean, we could keep showerin' out here if ye want to, but…" Soap trails off, eyes following the dark, angry clouds moving in from the west.

Soap has the bluest eyes. Like Scorpion grasses. Those invasive beautiful bastards spread like wildfire in his mother's dingy little garden one year and she could never get rid of them. Hell, she made the whole damn garden full of Scorpion grass.

Ghost leans his head closer- ever so minutely- to get a closer look at Soap's eyes.

Yeah. Soap's exactly like Scorpion grass.

He's certainly invasive. Ghost didn't want him at first, but he kept coming back. Over and over and over again. And, well, Ghost certainly can't stand to get rid of him now. Soap calms his jumpy fucking nerves too, just like the flowers. He smoothes out Ghost's worries like it's as easy as spreading melted butter on toast.

Forget-me-nots.

That's right- they're also called forget-me-nots.

Ghost couldn't forget Soap for anything. He'd know him anywhere, anywhere at all. On earth, in hell, somewhere in the gray in between. Ghost could be blind and deaf, yet still know Soap if the man was near him.

Scorpion grass might just be his favorite flower if he allows himself that much.

"…Ghost? Ye alright?"

Ghost blinks, ripping his gaze away from the vast ocean he almost drowned in. With another, deliberate, blink, he realizes Soap is blushing. Pink dusts over his cheeks, his eyes struggling to hold their place on Ghost.

"Somethin' on my face?" Soap chuckles, the sound high and tense.

Ghost swallows, breath catching in his throat so suddenly his mouth dries up. He tugs his mask all the way down again, and fixes it firmly in place.

None of it matters anyway. Not a single bit of it. Not the way Soap looks at him like he's the most important thing in the room, not the way his face heats up when Soap punches his shoulder before they load out on a mission, and definitely not the way his heart pitter-patters oh-so quickly when Soap smiles at him when he says a stupid, corny joke.

None of that matters because the Scorpion grass in his dead mother's garden flopped over and went to hell when Ghost tried to care for them after she was gone, and so will Soap.

"Get out of yer head, Ghost."

Ghost flinches his head back, the sternness in Soap's tone sending him reeling.

"I'm was not-"

"Ye were. Ye had that 1,000-yard-stare glossed over yer eyes," Soap squints at him.

"I always have that stare, Soap. It's part of the fucking job," Ghost bites back.

"Sure, but when ye're out of it, it looks different."

"It does not-"

"Yes, it bloody does!" Soap sneers, the genuine anger in his face catching Ghost off guard. Ghost watches Soap as he sucks in a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his jaw, before swallowing behind the perfect columns in his neck. "It does. And I am sick and tired of losin' ye to yerself."

Ghost looks at him, really looks at him for any sign of- hell, he doesn't fucking know anymore. Resentment, maybe? Soap has every right to hate him.

Soap sighs, running his ungloved hand through his hair. His shoulders seem so weighted. Ghost wants to hold it all for him; carry everything even if the weight of it all breaks his bones twice over.

"Let's get inside, L.T." Soap reaches out his hand again, stronger this time and no longer shaking. "Before the rain makes ye more sick. We're both soaked to the bone and the fuckin' shack doesn't have any heating. Nothing 'sides a little fireplace. Hope ye don't mind strippin' down to yer tighty-whities near me."

It kills Ghost. It kills him that Soap doesn't speak a word of Ghost's several outbursts and breakdowns that have happened in the span of… of- Christ above, what time is it? How long has he been smothered in his head over Christmas lights?

Ghost takes a weary breath before he fully gets 'lost in his head' again.

The look of relief that breaks across Soap's face when Ghost strongly grasps his hand is enough to make the man's knees weak.

"Can't wait to see your Hello Kitty briefs again, Johnny," Ghost deadpans as Soap pulls them both to their feet. He knows Soap sees the way he sways with the rain, the way he uses the wall for support- Ghost can see it in his eyes. He's thankful, graciously thankful, when Soap doesn't mention it.

"That was one bloody time. Was Gaz's fault anyway," Soap grumbles, still holding Ghost's hand in his as he leads them inside.

As Ghost tentatively steps into the safehouse again, he realizes that Soap is a saint. Even though he's technically a mass murder, his sins are washed away with the simple act of rearranging a small shack.

Everything remotely Christmas themed is out of sight. No ornaments, no tree, no stockings, no snowmen, no Santas, no paper snowflakes- and not one single Christmas light. Ghost feels his face warm up a stupid amount as he tracks his eyes over the firepit.

The blood is gone.

Soap cleaned the fucking blood.

Ghost whips his head around, and in a rare moment- one of many so far tonight- his mouth is open without a sound coming out.

He wants to say something, really he does, but what can he say when Soap is busying himself with acting as if nothing has changed. As if this is the first time they've walked into the dump.

As if he isn't making a vile, almost forgotten feeling crescendo up in the empty void behind Ghost's sternum.

"Let's raid the place, yeah?" Soap says, looking over the layout. "There's the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. Though, that's fucking generous to call it that, eh?"

Soap is right; the living room and kitchen combined couldn't be more than 12 feet across and 10 feet wide. The bedroom is more of a closet with a pile of blankets against the wall. But, still, the kitchen has cabinets and the living room has a fireplace… that hopefully works.

"You search the kitchen, I'll see if the pit is functional," Ghost murmurs, ignoring how the words grate against his raw throat. Away from the rain, the chill of his soaked clothes is settling on his skin. He's ready to get warm and sleep away the pounding in his head.

"Copy that, L.T." Soap beams, sparing one brief glance before turning on his heels to ramble through the cabinets.

"And Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

Johnny gives a lopsided smile that makes his eyes shine. "Of course, Simon."

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.