The Soil Beneath Our Nails

Closed eyes… 

. . . .

Simon startled awake, body jolting up as his head slammed against wood, hissing, his eyes carefully opened as a painful headache slowly built behind them. With disoriented vision, his eyes dart around uselessly in the dark and damp enclosed space. The pounding of his heartbeat filled his ringing ears, skyrocketed by the fleeting nightmare as strained pants left him in quick bursts. Each ragged breath drew in more and more of the foul rotten scent permeating the suffocating space. Hazy memories began to flood the forefront of his mind unbidden, pulling his face into a grimace as he pressed his palm against his pounding temple. It takes a moment too long for his brain to process the movement, surprise washes over him with the realization; his wrists aren't tied down. His eyebrows furrowed as he dazedly attempted to process the incoherent blend of previous memories for a clue to what might be happening.

Screams and laughter echoed in his mind, followed by explosive pain throughout his body. A wince formed on his face in response as his hand pressed against his stomach, the old stitches long removed, yet the raised scarring still remained. A cold sweat broke out over his skin as bile pushed itself up his tight esophagus. Days, months, years of torture? He doesn't know. It felt like it would never end, hopelessness had already made itself at home a while ago. Yet he refused to bow down or tell Roba and Vernon anything, he'd rather bite his tongue off…it surprised him that he hadn't yet, not that he could for a while….

Something jabbed his side painfully, pulling him from his memories. Was this a new torture Roba was trying? Leave him in a dark room with something constantly stabbing him? Confusion settled between his brows as he realized he was laying down, no longer tied to a chair. Was it the table again? But his hands and feet weren't tied? They'd already dissected and put him back a while ago, what was it this time? And what was that awful stench? There wasn't a thought as he reached down to remove the cause of his irritation, he tried to move the object but It didn't budge easily. It didn't seem to be stuck in him though, not to mention. It felt strange, wet… grunting, Simon pulled harder.

 POP 

Tensing, his breath froze in his lungs. The sound was familiar…too familiar…. The only thing missing was the skin that normally muted it…. Instinctively dropping the decomposing bone, he fought off the involuntary shiver that wracked his body. Panic made its quick adrenaline-fueled climb inside him, sparks jolting his nerves and instinctively kicking in his fight response. His knees and elbows banged uselessly against the wood of the coffin, shit. He's buried alive, Roba must've thought he died. If that wasn't worse enough, he buried him with another body! Simon didn't know if he should feel relieved that the fucker thought he died. The release from torture was enough to make him sob, although being shoved into and buried six feet underground in a coffin, didn't seem like much of an improvement.

Simon couldn't focus on that, he was gasping now, the panic was overwhelming as the limited oxygen quickly depleted. His vision blurred with tears, both from the immense panic and the rotten and sour stench surrounding him. Unconsciousness began to grip his neck tightly, instincts took over the reins of his rampant thoughts. Ghost slowly paced his breathing as best he could, clinging to the adrenaline rush. He shuffled around in the tight space bones rolling and crunching beneath him as he reached around in the dark. 

 Squelch 

His hand pressed into decomposed flesh throughout its search, disgust warped his face as he physically stopped himself from gagging and recoiling. Sure, he's been through war and he's seen plenty of bodies. But he's never had to touch them, especially after they've already started decomposing. Bone brushed against his palms.

'Sunshine and rainbows, Ghost. Sunshine and rainbows.' Trying to mentally distract himself as the pads of his fingers brushed against what he assumed was the tongue. Its still semi-moist surface was patchy with roughly dried spots. It didn't help, now he was picturing a cartoon character throwing up rainbows…. Getting a good grip on the jawbone, he dislodged it from the joints with a disturbing and resounding crack.

Shifting onto his back, the bones cracked and rolled under him as he fixed his grip on the bone in his hand, leaving no preamble as he slammed it against the wood. Keeping his breaths shallow, he chipped away at it managing to take a chunk of wood out before he used his unoccupied hand to help pry the wood away. Slivers dug into his hand and dirt quickly poured in as he flipped the jawbone in his hand, hacking away at the wood and roots. The ground quickly smothered him as he took a last desperate breath.

Soil and blood mixed under Ghost's nails as the earth compressed unmercifully around his shape, suffocating him as he desperately dug, ripping away at the roots to drag himself out from his possible grave. He very nearly sobbed when cold air doused his hand like a frigid stream of fresh water, his head followed quickly after, lungs greedily taking in everything they could, including dirt. He pulled himself out of the ground with a struggled effort as he fell into a coughing fit. Sprawling out on the ground, he let go of the jaw with a grimace as the teeth slipped from their perch in his palm. Blank and watery eyes stared up at the starless night sky for a few moments, listening to his coughs and gasps.

'Fucking hell.'

With a groan breaking up his tapering coughing fit, he stood up, his instincts prohibiting his body and mind from taking a break. He was walking before the adrenaline could wear out to exhaustion, feet dragging and body sagging from wear and tear. Minutes, maybe even hours passed, the endless mountainous plains twisted in his vision an he could've sworn he saw familiar figures in the warped distance.

'Look at you, poor Simon.'

Ghost shook his head, breathing heavily as he tried to push the painfully familiar voice away. Tightening his jaw, he held his arm around his pained abdomen as his feet occasionally dragged under him. The wind felt like a whisper in his ear, an off putting one that mixed uncomfortably with the whispers in his ears and behind his eyes. Everything hurt, it was hard to breathe, to think. He needed to get somewhere, find some place safe, heal. Where? How? His surroundings were unfamiliar, no road to follow, just twisting mountains in the distance that he knew should be still. Every swallow was like shoving razors down his throat, the dry scratchiness of it made him want to claw at his esophagus.

His memory had blanked for an undetermined amount of time until he spaced in again to spot a military base in the distance. His body felt incredibly heavy as he stumbled on numb legs, he could feel the heat of blood seeping sluggishly from open wounds, trailing and dripping down into the soil below. It soaked in the drops immediately with every unsteady step, the grounds last desperate attempt to drag some piece of him back down. Uselessly, he stretched out a heavy hand, as if it would drag him any closer to the base and any closer to life. His raised hand met the shoulder of someone and he had half a mind to recognize the dark face for Roba's, he tripped over his feet in his attempt to stumble back. Barely spotting the hard ground appearing in his hazy vision. Its looming presence calling him back under its grainy layers intertwined with roots. He momentarily registered the pain at the back of his head before everything fell away….

. . . .

His skin itched, it's the first thing he notices as consciousness comes back to him, although slow. When the brush of soft skin on his registered in his mind, panic spiked him with a rush of adrenaline as his eyes flew open, his surroundings swimming in bleary vision as instinct took control over thought, his hand shot out to grab the person's throat. Wrapping around it and pulling out a choked gasp from the person as he swiftly jumped out of the bed and held the… Nurse— He somehow managed to register the outfit — to him as a shield despite the violent urge to toss her away. His eyes dart wildly around the room at the possible threats, only one. A mustached who man stood on the opposite side of the hospital bed, speaking with raised hands and open body language.

"Hey, Hey. It's alright, calm down, son. Nobody's going to hurt you." The man placated, eyes darting up and down from Ghost to the nurse. Worry slowly made its way onto his face as the seconds passed. "Just, loosen your grip on the girl so she can breathe, alright?"

Ghost registers his words slowly, the ringing in his ears faded a bit so he could finally take in the quiet choked gasps, his eyes dart down to the woman he's quickly suffocating. She desperately pulled at the hand around her neck, leaving goosebumps and red scratch marks down his half-bandaged forearm. Against his better judgment, and the threat of danger looming over him, he tossed her away as if stung. Unpleasant memories came back with a horrid migraine and echoing phantom pain, the familiar sour taste taunting his tongue was simply the cherry on top. His hands shook uncontrollably, overwhelmed by emotion and fraying adrenaline. Then belatedly, he realizes, his entire body is shaking. 

Dragging shaking hands through oily and grime-soiled hair, he grips the strands tightly. Backing up until his back hit a wall and he sank to the floor. Tears threatened his vision, wobbling as they waited to spill over and stain. His breath turned shallow and quick again, mind racing in its own adrenaline-fueled panic. His teeth caught his tongue as familiar bubbles built up in his chest, it didn't fully suppress the pained and choked chuckle. His father's words repeated in his mind as the tears slipped.

"Quit yer damn cryin'! Laugh! C'mon you useless shit! I said laugh!" The belt whipped the arm of his recliner as a looming threat as Ghost forced awkward laughs out. "Harder! Like you mean it!" He laughed harder, tried to think of the funniest joke he'd ever heard and pushed down the tears and sobs lumped in his throat. 

He's laughing now… though wheezy and painfully grating on his throat. He hates it, he feels insane, but his father wouldn't allow him to stop. He'd make him go until he couldn't fill his lungs with air. Until his chest and abdomen were crying for relief and everything burned so bad he'd feel it for the next week. He buried his head in his knees, tears streaking his hidden face when his insane laughter was cut through by a wretched broken sob. None of it helped ease his splitting migraine.

"Hey…" The man's familiarly soft voice called. "It's alright. You're alright, take a deep breath." He waited as Ghost sobbed through the panic, trying for shaky breaths through sobs. "Easy, follow my breathing, yeah?"

Breathe. Ghost did his best to follow, trying to hold the breath.

1…2.

Exhale. The breath came out shaking, but better.

Breathe. He tried to focus just on the other's breathing and his surprisingly calming presence.

1…2.

Exhale. It wasn't as shaky as before, but it was slightly choked at the end, caught on the steady wave of rampant emotions.

The man waited a few more minutes as Ghost attempted to calm himself down, when he finally did speak, he was quiet and his tone was softer.

"What's your name, son?"

Ghost shook his head frantically which only did worse for his migraine, choking on a pained sound. No name, he was supposed to be dead. Simon was dead, left inside that coffin with a half-decayed corpse.

"It's okay. That's okay…" He sighed softly, watching Ghost carefully. "Do you think you can move?"

Ghost shook his head again almost in spite of his migraine, panic still gripping his chest.

"Alright, alright." 

After a few more moments, the man's hand carefully brushed into Ghost's hair, making him flinch violently. Ghost barely managed to stop his fist from slamming into the man's face. They both shared a look of surprise at the offending appendage before Ghost hesitantly lowered it, wincing as exhaustion pulled at him for the umpteenth time. The adrenaline was finally starting to fade as he realized he probably wasn't in danger, his eyelids drooped, head falling back against the wall. He hated the pitying look the man was giving him, it made him momentarily rethinking about punching him. Paranoia, his migraine, and his slowly fading panic fueled adrenaline high were the only things keeping him awake, unfortunately for him, consciousness didn't last long…. 

. . . .

The next time he woke up was with less panic, he was groggy but he could hear voices. An argument? The loud voices ringing in his ears could've been loud or enhanced by his splitting migraine that had unfortunately made a return, and drug high, but who really knew? He barely managed to lift an eyelid to see the bleary figures standing at his bedside. The two turned towards him when he slightly readjusted his position, he still couldn't make out a lot. The pain meds plus whatever else, and the sleep that constantly wanted to pull him under, were doing a number on him.

The…bald…? Woman opened her mouth and said something, asked…something? Considering neither said a word after and simply stared made him think it was the ladder. He grunts, eye falling closed as he presses a hand to his temple. He's starting to think he might have tinnitus, what with how much his ears have been ringing since he woke up the last few times.

"He's still out of it." Ghost winced at the sudden spike in volume as he opened his eyes to look at the— Not, bald woman, she was wearing a white bandana —nurse. She gave him an apologetic look before observing the monitor beside the bed, making note of something and then excusing herself.

Ghost watched blankly as the door closed and the Mustached man took a seat on the edge of his bed, the worried wrinkles on his forehead betrayed the soft smile on his face. "Can you tell me your name?" He asked, waiting patiently. 

Ghost stared down at his lap, picking at the loose threads of the blanket anxiously, words worked their way sluggishly through his throat. "Ghost…" His voice sounded gravely and scratchy, coming out more silent than he intended it to. His throat felt painfully dry as he moved his numb tongue around, running it over his lips mindlessly, hoping to wet them despite the severe lack of moisture.

The man's expression softened as he reached over to the table at the end of the bed, grabbing the paper cup, he hands it to him. Ghost was unbelievably grateful, barely waiting for his hands to fully grasp the cup before he downed it. A quiet sigh left his lips as he laid his head back and closed his eyes.

"Can you tell me your real name?" The soft voice continued. Ghost shook his head despite the slight wave of nausea it brought. 

"Alright… can you tell me what happened? You have a lot of…wounds." Ghost knew he was being generous by calling them simple wounds, they both knew they were scars of torture.

His face twisted at the memories, eyes opening to look at the man. "…w's betrayed…" His voice was barely above a whisper as he watched him take a sharp breath, face twisting in an understanding sorrow.

The man nodded and Ghost watched the halted movement of the man's hand as it hung a few inches above Ghost's knee, a clearly unconscious gesture. Retracting his hand to his lap, he gave a somewhat tight smile, although it was genuine. "I'm Captain John Price, you'll be safe here." Price spoke in a sincere tone.

"The nurse says you'll need at least a month or two to recover and another month of light exercise."

Ghost's face remains blank but he's entirely displeased by the news, there's no way he's going to sit in a bed for a month, he's done enough sitting and laying for a whole lifetime.

"Once you're healed up, we'll figure the rest out." Price stood, walking over to the door. "Get some rest, I'll come check on you later." Ghost nodded, knowing that despite how little he wanted to stay in bed, he wouldn't be able to do anything else as long as the drugs still had a chokehold on him.

The door clicked quietly as it closed and Ghost turned his head to stare across the room at the windows, orange light flooded in through the blinds. He thought he would… feel better. Once he'd finally escaped Roba and Vernon. Yet, the only thing seeping into him now was a cold numbness, where once he thought he'd feel happy, to see and feel the sun on his skin and watch the clouds in the sky, to breathe fresh air. He only felt the broken and scattered pieces of himself lying motionless and empty. Is this it? His Freedom?… It doesn't feel like it….

Ghost only stayed awake long enough to see the nurse come check on him again.

. . . .

"Oh Simon, Simon, Simon. Simon. This could all be over you know? No more pain, you could be free!" 

 'That's a nice way to say I'll be dead or a mindless puppet.' He sneered at the thought. 

 Vernon circled around his chair, gloved hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Pressing down when they jolted up before he leaned in, mouth beside Ghost's ear with whispered words. 

 "Just tell me what I want to know." 

 Ghost jumped at the harsh pat placed to the deep cut on his right shoulder, jaw clenching as Vernon circled back around to crouch in front of him. 

"No?" He didn't even wait a second before sighing and twisting the screwdriver deeper. Ghost shouted, body jolting as he threw his head back in pain. "Such a shame, I don't enjoy this, you know. I'm in a tough position here, if you don't talk then I have to suffer at Roba's hand. So tell me."

The pain was the only thing Ghost could focus on as he screamed, it didn't even sound like him to his own ears. Broken and bubbly, throat burning from hours, days, months of screaming, sobbing, and laughing…. The pain was almost bearable when he laughed, the expressions on Vernon and Roba's face every time it happened was priceless.

 The first time, he remembers so vividly. When he was first betrayed and woke up in that damn metal chair with his arms tied, he felt so much anger and pain. His whole world had come crashing down when Vernon and Roba entered the room minutes later, spouting crap that tore at him and solidified his ever-growing hatred. Then Vernon picked up a knife at Roba's command and started methodically, just barely scratching before he'd make a decent cut and dig his fingers in, uncaring. 

 The dirty digits wiggling through his flesh unapologetically as Roba spouted nonsense, clearly taking enjoyment from watching the scene. Ghost felt the bubbling in his chest before he heard it, mixing with the shouts and gasps. Vernon's fingers had frozen so quickly Ghost thought he might've turned into a statue. The room quickly filled with laughter, his chest painfully tight, tears streaming down his face as he wheezed, trying to gasp for air between laughter. 

 Roba gripped his hair, pulling his head back to look at him. "What the fuck are you laughing about? Do you not understand the situation?" 

 Ghost couldn't stop laughing enough to answer properly, the fear and pain were paralyzing. The only thing that cut his laughter was the punch he received to his abdomen, successfully knocking what air was in his lungs and sending him into a coughing fit. 

 "Fucking answer me!" He grabbed Ghost's face, his own only inches away. 

 "Why should I? How 'bout y' just jot it down as insanity, you fucking bastard." He spat, chuckling breathlessly. 

 The two had left the room with uncomfortable expressions, Ghost didn't care what they thought, maybe there was an actual reason for him to laugh. He didn't know or care, none of it mattered…. 

. . . .

Ghost gasped, shooting up from the bed to escape the fleeting memory, immediately groaning as he wrapped and arm around his sore torso. He struggled to stop himself from folding in on himself with the pain, gritting through it as his narrowed eyes frantically darted around the empty room. A weary sigh pulled itself from him as he tried to calm his heart, carefully brushing his fingers over the bandages around his abdomen. The sheen of sweat that had accumulated over his body was already starting to dry in the cool air, leaving an unpleasant and clammy feeling on his skin.

Dragging a hand through his hair, he tossed the blankets off and turned off the machine before he pulled out the IV and removed the other machine wires. Grimacing as he carefully moved his legs over the bed's edge. The cold flooring penetrated the pads of his feet, sending a chill through him. Slowly standing up, he staggered over to the nearby dresser, using the wall for a bit of stability before reaching and searching through it. He finds a plain black zip-up hoodie, sweats, a pair of underwear, and a box of medical face masks.

It takes longer than he'd have liked to change, pulling the hood over his head, he carefully opened the door. Making sure the hallway is clear before moving, the layout seemed similar to every other base he'd been to. Meaning it doesn't take him long to find the mess hall, it turned out to be blissfully empty, suggesting that it's most likely early or late. Or maybe everyone is away on a mission, humming, he pushes open the doors to the kitchen. Rummaging through the fridge and cupboards, he comes up with a tea bag and a half empty carton of two percent milk.

Setting some water to boil, he grabs a cup, pouring in some sugar before leaning comfortably against the counter. He glanced at a shadow in the corner of the room for a moment, the darkness almost seeming to swim as he closed his eyes. His arms crossed over his chest as he attempted to relax in the surrounding quiet. 

'Don't think about it….'

Sighing, he fell into thought 'What do I do now? Call home and see if they're alright? Track down Roba and Vernon and get revenge?' Ghost sighs once more, scrubbing at his face when the quiet squeak of the mess hall doors alerts him. His fingers twitch, hand falling as he stands deathly still, listening to the footsteps as they near before stopping at the kitchen doors a second before they're pushed open. 

Ghost recognizes the man immediately, eyes landing on the familiar hat and mustache. The other obviously hadn't expected him, as he jumped the second he saw him.

"Jesus!" Price's brows knit, head tilting a bit as he leans forward to peer at him. "Ghost…?! What the bloody hell are you doing out of bed!?" Price stares at him wide-eyed.

Ghost opened his mouth to respond just as the teapot hissed, Price raised an eyebrow as Ghost turned around, pulling the pot off the heat and pouring some into his cup. Making his drink before turning towards Price, cup in hand. The other stared silently for a moment, sighing in exasperation while he moved Ghost aside to make his own cup. 

"What's with the mask?" The question came unexpectedly.

Ghost slightly shifted, eyes turning to stare at the divots in the floor. His balaclava and glasses are long gone after the betrayal, and despite the days and months of Vernon and Roba's constant stares during torture, he never got used to it. Having people actually perceive his face, it's not that he dislikes his face or anything. It's more of a trauma blanket, suppose it's also a curse. His brother always used to scare him with it, but now it scares others. Or…it did…he didn't even have that now. He probably didn't have anything….

Price didn't say anything about his question being left unanswered, simply nodding as he finished making his cup. "C'mon, you shouldn't be on your feet."

Ghost didn't argue, his muscles were already straining, legs only keeping straight because the joints of his knees were locked stubbornly. Following silently behind, he took a seat opposite Price at one of the tables, swallowing the groan that bubbled up. Pulling the mask down, he sipped on his tea as Price spoke.

"I won't keep secrets, so I'm going to be honest… I saw your file." Ghost glanced up at Price, realizing by the other's expression that he should probably be angry. He couldn't make himself feel it though, Ghost figured it would happen eventually. The military keeps folders on all of their soldiers for a reason, there's no way Price wouldn't have looked up his callsign in the database. Be it curiosity or a need for safety.

Price sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Your file puts you as K.I.A seven months ago." Ghost froze, eyes becoming unfocused as he set the cup down, thoughts consuming him. 

'Seven months…? Of attempted brainwashing and torture?? How long was I buried before I woke up??' So many questions ran through his mind.

"Ghost." His vision focused again on Price's worried expression as the captain spoke hesitantly. "…Your Major was found dead five miles from where we found you… Buried in a dugout hole in a broken coffin."

Ghost's ears rang, he had been buried with Vernon? His upper lip unconsciously pulled up as a sneer warped his face, sour doused his tongue at the prospect. Roba must've killed him when he couldn't get information from Ghost. That makes sense why Roba started doing the torture at some point throughout the passing months. Ghost was a bit sad he wasn't the one to kill Vernon, but above all. That bastard Roba, he really threw them in the same coffin. Ghost supposes he should be happy, considering Vernon's jawbone was helpful in his escape. His eyes dart up to Price.

"Roba…?" 

Price's brows furrowed, "Who?"

"Manuel Roba, the head of the Zaragoza Drug Cartel. Our mission was to take their operation down."

Price's eyes widened a bit, "The mission was handed over to another task force after yours was determined K.I.A, all I know is that they were apparently successful."

Ghost released a breath he didn't realize he was holding, relief flooding him, the months of torture becoming slightly lighter. The relief didn't last long…

"Son…" Dread filled him at the somber tone, heart going for a free-fall as his eyes shot up, searching Price's face for any hint of what he might say. The man's face was hard though, Ghost wasn't looking at the calming and open John Price he had met for the first time. He was looking at the Captain.

Price took a calming breath, "I—" a sigh "The commandment of the British Government has entrusted me to express our deepest regrets."

Ghost felt his chest tighten as he sucked in a sharp breath only to feel like it was punched out of him. The words were a copy-paste from a familiar script. He'd read it to so many comrades' families before that the words were practically ingrained in his mind. But not like this, this wasn't supposed to be the way it happened. This all had to be some sick joke, it couldn't be anything but. The months Vernon and Roba spent threatening him and his family…

They'd probably already done it…

He blanched at the thought.

"Your family, Mary Riley, Tommy Riley, Beth Riley, and Joseph Riley died in their home four months ago. It was quick, Tommy managed to take down the assailant with him…. I'm sorry, son."

The world seemed to freeze, Ghost couldn't breathe, chest painfully tight, breath coming out as wheezes. He didn't want to believe it, but he knew…. He fucking knew the second Roba had come into that damned room smiling like the damn Cheshire Cat, tossing the photos of his family on the ground in front of him. 

The fucker didn't even say anything, didn't need to. The threat was clear and deadly, but Ghost blinded himself anyway. Shut his eyes and locked himself in his own fantasy, it was pitiful. He could've saved them, could've told Roba what he wanted to know and let his family live peacefully without him. It was delusional really, he knows it. Roba wouldn't have let any of them go no matter what Ghost told him, maybe he would've been there at least. Died with them in that house….

His surroundings flashed between his family's living room, to that bloodied torture chamber, and the mess hall. Ghost thinks he might be laughing but his ears are ringing too much, heart-shattering with the rest of his composure. He wanted to claw out his voice box so he couldn't laugh anymore. To claw out the painful squeeze in his chest and growing emptiness, images of his brother, sister-in-law, mother, and nephew. His nephew, god. The kid, he would've been five last month….

 'I killed them.'

He was suffocating on the thought, trying to escape the painful reality of it all. Unsuccessful as his own mind brought its own inescapable pain, now with a new blazing fire added to singe already charred skin. He brought a hand to his mouth, both as a guard to the bile that bubbled up and the muffled laughs that followed, although he couldn't entirely tell if he was actually making noise or if it was all in his head. Memories twisted together confusingly, creating inky paper mache pictures. He folded in on himself, arm carefully wrapping around himself as sobs mixed with pained laughter.

Ghost had hoped… despite it all, the months of torture and threats. That his family had been safe, that they wouldn't actually do it unless Ghost told them what they wanted, he was foolish. They would've been dead whether he said anything or not, that was just who Roba was. Give you a thread to hold onto, but that thread only hung onto the tips of his fingers. Waiting to be cut at any moment.

Ghost turned, unsure what he wanted to do. Maybe run away, something, anything. His hazy, tear-filled eyes landed on Price who had moved beside him at some point. He didn't think, simply craving some sort of comfort from the chain of explosive emotions that shook him inside out. Crumbling away at everything to add to the misery and pain, he unfurled his body. Basically collapsing on the man in front of him, burying his face into Price's shoulder. The barrier of clothing helped but he still shuddered as hands wrapped tightly around him, supporting and comforting as a hand drew circles into his back. It chipped at the shaky coffin lid still blocking Simon Riley from the outside world, but it wasn't the embrace that eventually broke through. It was the soft words Price spoke….

"I've got you, son, I've got you."

The choked sobs spilled out of him, uncontrolled and broken, hands gripping tightly onto the back of the other's shirt. Simon glimpsed into the light and brokenly wailed his sorrows into the firm shoulder, fingers clawing at Price in useless desperation. A search for peace and salvation within the man he clung to, but there wasn't a point to be desperate. There wasn't any peace or salvation for him, only that bloody room and coffin awaited him. Chaining his limbs and pulling him farther into deserved eternal damnation, because he did deserve it…. They were gone, he'd killed them, yet couldn't die himself. Why? Why wasn't he dead? Was this his hell? The penance he had to pay for his sins? To live the rest of his life wasting away in the military in a world without people to go home to? 

Was it really his fate? To live as a Ghost and watch everyone he cares about write themselves on a list and await either a swift or torturous death? He couldn't accept it, the military had always been his escape. An escape from his father, from the trauma, from reality. His family before he repaired his actual one. He could simply focus on the mission, the smell of gunpowder and blood. Bodies— A dead prostitute— littering the battlefield— concert— his boots scraping up the soil, adrenaline pumping in his veins, supporting the thundering heartbeat in his ears as he fired— laughed— His commander— father— issuing orders…. Escape…. He wanted to escape….

. . . .

Price held Simon tightly as the man had a complete breakdown, truth be told. John had no clue what he should do to comfort the other, their first introduction was only five days ago and the other had gone from terrifying to hysterical two times now. Although it was his fault this time, but he didn't want to hide it or wait. The other needed to know about his family, and waiting wouldn't do anything but make it hurt worse, so he waited it out. Rubbing the others back comfortingly as Simon broke down in his arms. 

It was obvious the man needed a lot of help, Price still wasn't sure how much help he could get. There's a lot of physical and mental trauma from however long he was tortured, but more than that…. He'd seen Simon's picture on his file, the man was notoriously known for wearing a balaclava and glasses from the moment he joined the military. The choice of a medical face mask now, after everything, made it clear that it was most likely less about mystery and rather…something else…. Price shook his head, coming up with conspiracy theories wouldn't help.

Ghost eventually quieted once he'd tired himself out, his body quickly becoming slack in Price's arms. Shifting a bit, Price arranged both of them so Simon was laying down, his head on his lap. Looking down at the other, his heart gave a painfully sharp palpitation in response. He looked peaceful— even with tear stains —in his sleep, despite the horrors that must dwell behind his eyes. Price let Simon sleep, staying beside him was the only solace he could offer.

. . . .

 …Stained cheeks…