Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ghost gets antsy when he hasn’t been deployed in a while. It digs under his skin. He isn’t made to live a life like this, sitting behind desks and attending meetings. Ghost lives for the thrill, for the adrenaline rush of the mission, for the genuine peace of mind that comes from having his hands wrapped around a gun. The pride when he manages to get the knife in at just right the angle so it goes all the way in and slides right back out.

Ghost is good at his job. Brilliant at his job even. A job that requires level-headedness, a complete steadiness and the sort of razor-sharp focus that most would die for. He can sit on the good side of a sniper rifle for hours without moving, waiting for his target to come into his scope.

Sat at his desk, that feels like a distant memory. He clicks through emails by rote, his mind drifting away slowly. He doesn’t belong here. Ghost doesn’t belong here. Maybe Simon did, a long time ago. But Simon’s been dead for more than half a decade now. Ghost is just what’s left.

He daydreams of desert sand and blood trails. Of a hazy mansion on the horizon, a point of safety he can never quite reach.

Someone knocks on the door.

“Come in.”

Soap stands in the doorway, a stack of files in hand. “Delivery from Price,” he says with a well-worn smile. Ghost doesn’t know what to do with those sorts of smiles. Doesn’t know how to admit that it thaws a heart he thought long since dead.

He can’t pinpoint the moment Soap became like this. Can’t understand what would make a man like Soap befriend a man like him. It’s not like they’re together that often, especially off the field. But Soap smiles at him like he’s the sun, sits next to him in the mess whenever he gets the chance, and drops off files that could have been emailed because he wants to drop by. Ghost can’t find it within himself to question it beyond the cursory. Not if it means having this.

Soap doesn’t even have to ask whether he can stay, just dumps the files on the edge of Ghost’s desk and takes a seat. Soap likes to natter, but Ghost just as guiltily likes to listen, absently scrolling through his email as Soap talks about his latest call with his mum.

“She can’t stop talking about Jamie,” Soap laughs. “Did I tell you about him? Sister’s newborn. Cute wee fucker. Amy likes to send me pictures. Looks like a demon but in that cute baby way, you know. Guess you would.”

“Hm?” Ghost asks absently.

“You’ve got a brother, right? That has a kid?” Soap’s smile is disarmingly wide. He doesn’t understand the bomb he’s just dropped. Ghost doesn’t know what to do. Words are stuck deep in his throat, lodged there like he’s choking.

“Ghost?” Soap asks, his smile falling.

Sweat pools under his mask as he white-knuckles the mouse.

“Who told you about my brother?” Ghost won’t even touch on Soap knowing about his nephew. He can’t. The thought of even bringing Joseph up is…

God, Ghost feels sick.

“What do you mean?” Soap asks, confusion written as plain as day.

“I mean, who fucking told you,” Ghost growls.

“Ghost, you did.”

His stomach drops. Maybe the whole world drops. In that second, reality shifts and Ghost is faced with the impossible. “I fucking didn’t.”

“I don’t know what to fucking tell you then because you did.” Soap is getting stubborn now, setting his feet in like always. But Ghost is too, locked like bulls. Neither of them are going to let up any time soon.

And yet, the anxiety still gets under Ghost’s skin. He can feel it burrowing deeper until he wants to rip his skin off. His skin itches as he pushes down the urge to chuck up his breakfast. Maybe he’ll make it land on Soap as punishment.

He should dismiss Soap, get him the hell out of his office whilst he still can. Should get his head on straight and figure this out. Should try and look back and think of a single time he might have mentioned any of this.

“When did I tell you then?” Ghost challenges. It feels like the easiest option, like the only thing that may get him off the back foot here.

“A few weeks ago. At the Rose and Crown. You were a few drinks in, sure, but you werenae drunk, I’ll tell you that.”

“The fucking- where?”

“The Rose and Crown?” Soap says, like it should be obvious. Like that couldn’t mean one of a million pubs in England alone. “You know, the shitty old-fashioned pub that likes ta think it has better pints than it does. Over by the train station.”

Ghost has never been to a pub by the train station. He can’t even remember the last time he left base for something that wasn’t a mission. Soap clocks on to Ghost’s confusion quickly.

“We were there last Friday. Do you really not remember?”

“Don’t,” Ghost blurts, desperate. “You are not to mention my brother again, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Soap stammers, falling from casual into military perfection in a heartbeat.

“Good. Dismissed, soldier.”

Soap doesn’t stand up to leave. He doesn’t even move. For a long minute, it’s like they’re locked in a trance, neither one of them willing to look away. “Are you okay?” Soap eventually asks, quieter than Ghost has ever heard him.

Ghost doesn’t have an answer to that.

The panic rises like the tide, nausea rolling into dizziness. For a moment, he’s worried that the infamous Ghost will faint in front of his subordinate. He doesn’t. The world just goes sticky. Distant. Until Soap’s face is nothing but a blur, his silhouette a wavering body of colour across the room.

“Ghost.” Suddenly, Soap is right there, reaching out like he’s going to-

Ghost grabs his wrist and tugs his hand away before it can land. “No.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound desperate, merely an order. But his voice is shaking. Hell, his hands are shaking, holding Soap’s wrist in a white-knuckled grip. Soap steps back anyway, mouth open like he wants to say something but nothing comes out.

“Ghost, you’re scaring me.”

The world rushes back in suddenly, like a camera finally finding the focus. Soap is standing by Ghost’s chair, wrist still in Ghost’s hand but now awkwardly stretched so Soap can still give him room. Ghost drops the hand and swallows down the acidic bite of bile.

“Dismissed, Sergeant.”

“But-”

“Go.”

“Okay, sir.” Soap takes another step back, rubbing at his bruised wrist. “But you know you can-”

“I said go, Johnny!”

It doesn’t take another time. Soap flees, sending worried glances over his shoulder.

Ghost is left in the aftermath. He’s not even sure he’s breathing. Soap’s words ring in his head like church bells, overriding any bit of rational thought he has left. It’s lies, it has to be. But Soap wouldn’t lie, that’s the thing. Ghost trusts him, on the field and off. He trusts him to be honest, as much as trusts him to have his back.

Ghost doesn’t know what’s real anymore.

Work eludes him until it’s late enough that he can escape back to his room, holing up in the corner like it somehow might protect him from the onslaught of his own thoughts. It doesn’t work, because of course it doesn’t. Sleep just becomes as evasive as work, coming close before flittering away like it’s taking joy in Ghost’s suffering.

By the time, the morning comes around, Ghost is convinced he’s no longer even real. That this is some prolonged nightmare he can’t wake up from. It’s the only thing that makes sense. That explains the absolute shit show going on around him.

The moment the reveille alarm rings, Ghost goes to Price’s office. If there’s one person who Ghost can trust to tell him the truth, it’s Price.

His hands are still fucking shaking when he knocks, two sharp raps that don’t belie the total anxiety invading him. “Come in!”

Ghost steps inside with military authority, back straight and chest out. “Sir.”

“Ghost. Did you need something?”

Ghost stares. For too long, it seems. Enough to make Price worried, anyway. He learnt a long time ago that it’s almost impossible to discomfit Price. He just isn’t that sort of man. He knows the game by now, and he doesn’t let Ghost play it. As much as Ghost can glare down at the recruits until they’re shaking at the knee, on Price it’s just a ploy or an accident. Just trying is enough to raise Price’s suspicions.

“Did you have something to tell me?”

“Did I go to the pub last Friday?” Ghost asks, brasher than is appropriate with a superior. But Price has never much cared for decorum, only the respect that his rank brings.

Ghost can see the question on the tip of Price’s tongue, but it never comes. Instead, he shakes his head, like he’s dismissing the thought, and motions to the chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”

“Price-”

“Just sit down, Simon.” Ghost doesn’t know how to explain how that name makes his skin crawl. It’s his name, he knows it is, but he hates it. It reminds him of a dead man.

Ghost obeys, though he’s starting to regret his decision to come at all.

“What’s this about?” Price asks.

“It’s nothing, sir.”

“It’s clearly something if you’re here. Spit it out.”

They lock eyes and Ghost feels weak under them. Ghost always gets pinned down as the terrifying bastard, but the people who say that have clearly never dealt with John Price. “I talked to Soap.” Price nods. “He mentioned my brother.”

Price’s eyebrows rise with genuine surprise. “How’d he know?”

“He said I told him.”

“And did you?”

Ghost frowns, mind spinning. “I’m honestly not sure anymore.”

“Explain.”

Ghost shuffles in his seat. Nothing feels comfortable. It feels like bugs are crawling under his skin. He wishes he were somewhere else entirely. Anywhere else, just to get away. To be living the life he always dreamed about with the large mansion on the hill, with all the luxuries a kid could dream of. Or just the safe white walls of his room on base; the only place that has ever felt like home. Maybe best of all, a mission, where the only thing he has to worry about is getting out alive, not the creeping fear of his own mind.

Why did he come here again?

Because you trust him.

“He said I told him at the pub a few weeks back. Thought I might have been drunk and that’s why I don’t remember.”

“But?”

Ghost swallows thickly and gathers more courage than it takes to run into an AO. “I’ve never gone to the pub with Soap.”

Price’s eyebrows climb. “So you can’t remember?”

“Are you saying I have?”

“We’ve all gone before. You saying you don’t remember? I need you to be really clear about this.” Price gives him a single look and Ghost knows it's over. This isn’t about someone he trusts anymore, this is about being capable and ready for a combat situation. Fuck, if someone came up to Ghost and said they’d been forgetting shit, he’d be worried too.

“I- no, it’s not that,” Ghost tries desperately, attempting to pick up the pieces from around him. He can’t believe this. He’d expected- he isn’t sure. For Price to say that Soap is playing some practical joke? That Simon had got so plastered that of course he didn’t remember going. Not for Ghost to be en route to a psych eval because he apparently has memory issues he doesn’t know about. To be about to lose his job.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s nothing. No, I just.” Ghost shuts up before he can dig himself into a bigger hole than he already has. He wants nothing more than to run out the doors, but he can’t suffer the infraction Price could put on his name for running away. He doubts he would, but he can’t take the risk, especially if Price thinks he needs to see psych.

“If you can’t remember then we need to look into this.”

“I’m fine. I promise.”

“Memory problems could compromise you severely.”

“Please don’t.” Ghost doesn’t mean to put it like that. The moment it’s out, he wants to clamp his hand over his mouth like a child. God, he sounds like a whiny child. A whiny bloody child who’s got caught with their hand in the biscuit tin.

“Simon, this isn’t about whether you want to be on the field or not. This is about you and the rest of the team’s safety. If you can’t remember something that happened barely a few weeks ago-”

“I’m fine.”

“You are clearly not fine. How long has this been happening?”

“It’s nothing.” Ghost is purely desperate now, like somehow the denial will get a genuine interrogator off his back. But Price is his Captain, it's his duty to make sure Ghost is in fighting shape. He’s not going to let this go.

“You cannot just-”

“It’s nothing, Price, I promise.”

“Do not bloody talk over me again!” Ghost feels like a child all over again, terrified and tiny. All he can see is Price’s face, flushed with anger, a fist slammed on the desk. He doesn’t even know what Price is saying but it’s loud and it’s hurting him and it’s just like it always was.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes, sir.” It’s automatic. Ghost is never allowed to call his father anything but sir. Sometimes, he tries, but it only makes everything worse. Tommy always remembers to say it, a sickly little smile on his face.

Ghost feels dizzy and sick again, though it’s joined by a pulsing headache that resonates through his whole body. Time passes stickily, marked by the pain in his head and his father’s continued shouting.

“Simon? Simon! Shit.” There are hands on him, and they’re going to hurt. Ghost doesn’t want to hurt anymore.

Ghost feels lost to time.

He doesn’t try to stop it. It’s easier to just let it happen. Maybe the bruises will be yellow this time instead of black. Maybe he’ll just be kind enough to avoid his face. The kids at school never shut up when he has a black eye. His teachers all think he’s getting into fights on the estate and give him the detentions to match.

Time moves on.

When he comes to, he feels the salty stickiness on his cheeks. He cracks his jaw and blinks rapidly when he realises just how close Price is standing. “What the fuck?”

“Simon?”

“I- uh. Fuck.” He shoves his gloves under his mask and tries to rub away the sensation, but the rough material only hurts his skin. He doesn’t remember crying. He never cries. Frankly, he thought he’d lost the ability to a long time ago.

“You back with me, son?”

“I-” never left, he wants to say, but he can’t. He was here and somewhere else all at once, a layered delusion that Price is now witness to. His career is over. Just one charge set and the whole thing is coming down around him, burying him under the rubble.

“Are you back?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you?”

“Your office.”

“When?”

“I- it’s, fuck. Wednesday? It’s…it’s Wednesday.”

“What year?”

“2023.”

“Good.” Price steps back, though the tension doesn’t leave. His fists are clenched like he wants to lash out, and Ghost cannot help the quick intake of breath at the thought. “I’m sending you for a psych eval. Regardless of the outcome, you’re on leave until I say you’re not. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jesus fuck,” Price mutters, wiping his hands down his face. “I don’t have a clue what’s happening right now, but I need you unbroken alright? I can’t have you fight like this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fucking hell, Ghost. Say anything else.”

“Okay.”

Price grunts out what might be a laugh, or just plain annoyance, and collapses back into his chair. “I’ll make some calls. You’re dismissed, Lieutenant. I’ll send someone tomorrow to tell you what happens from here.”

Ghost floats back to his room in a haze. He doesn’t dare look at his own mind, scared of what he’ll find, so he checks out and lets his body take over. Sleep comes restlessly but it does come eventually, though he wakes up at just past five with his heart thundering in his chest. It only makes the waiting worse.

At 0800, a private knocks on his door and escorts him to Price’s office. Ghost doesn’t speak, and the private doesn’t attempt to either.

“Good morning,” Price says as Ghost opens the door, feeling like he’s just walked into his own funeral.

“Morning, sir.”

Price nods with a curled lip, looking awkwardly out of place as he rounds his desk and motions for Ghost to take a seat. “As you know, you’ll be going for a psych evaluation. But I, look- I don’t know how to put this. As of right now, you’re on medical leave. We’ll re-approach the issue once we know what’s going on. There won’t be an issue with pay, and given your circumstance, you’re allowed to stay on site after the psych evaluation is complete.”

“What-” Ghost breathes (tries so hard to just fucking breathe), “what if the psych eval comes back clear?”

Price gives him a look that says he knows better than to allow such an obvious lie to pass, but instead he just says, “If the psych eval comes back clear, you’re still on medical leave until you get yourself sorted. Am I clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

“Good, then I’ll get things sorted on my end and find a psychiatrist. God knows we all probably need one anyway.”

— [redacted] —

It takes Price just over a week to find someone who will come onto base immediately. Dr Grace Jones, 27 years old, therapist for an old friend of Price’s. Kind, sweet, with a slightly cherubic face and blonde waves. Ghost should be comforted. He’s not.

Her introduction is long, but Ghost doesn’t pay attention to most of it. He stares out the window and watches the rain splutter down. It’s been pissing it down for the last week. Seems fitting, really.

Eventually, Grace focuses on him. Ghost wishes she wouldn’t. “So, Simon, could you give me a rundown of what’s been happening?”

Ghost stares at the empty green fields that cover most of England. He wishes more than anything that he was anywhere but here. A city, a desert, a goddamn snowy tundra. “I’m fine.”

Grace sighs and clasps her hands over her lap. She’s pristine, too pristine to be here. Apparently, military cases are her speciality, or so she said, and yet she seems completely untouched by war. Smooth skin, warm smile, eyes that just haven’t seen the same shit as his. “Price informed me that you’re having memory issues?”

“I forgot one thing.” Or two, but she doesn’t need to know that.

Grace bites back a grimace and then pastes on another placid smile. “Look, I’m going to be honest with you. Given the behaviours shown yesterday, your Captain is unlikely to let you back on a mission without targeting the issue and overcoming it. If you aren’t honest here, it isn’t going to give you a clear sheet to go back to work with.”

“But nothing’s wrong.” Ghost feels desperate now, like he’d rip off his own skin to just make her believe him. All he wants to do is go back to work. That’s it. But Ghost never gets what he wants, that’s just how his life’s always been.

“I’d really like you to be honest with me.”

Ghost stares at her, and she stares right back. She doesn’t seem afraid of what she sees in him. Her calm demeanour irritates him as much as it feels like a blessing. Ghost has always taken some pride in discomfiting people, like another mask on top of the skull to push people away.

“Fine.” Ghost grits his teeth and ignores whatever this fucking feeling is. It might be terror, but he’s felt real terror and this isn’t it. But whatever it is, he hates it. He feels somewhat embarrassed that he hates it more than he hates the genuine fear of death. “What do you want me to say?”

“Whatever you want to say. I just want to hear a little about you, about what you’re struggling with.”

Ghost could start in so many places. His childhood, his young adulthood, joining the army, Roba, the post-Roba aftermath, the 141. Each felt like a new beginning, some forging him in fire, some just burning him to ashes. Each holds its importance, and each feels like poking at a hungry bear. “I don’t remember going to the pub last Friday,” he says instead. It feels easier, to stick to the recent, to hope this problem is some newfound enigma that can be treated in a single session.

“How did this come up?”

Ghost swallows and clicks his jaw behind his mask. “Soap. My Sergeant. He mentioned my brother.” Grace nods encouragingly. “I never told him about my brother. I’d remember it. He says I told him at the pub a few weeks ago. That we’d gone again last week.”

“And you don’t remember it at all?”

Ghost shakes his head. “Price said I went too.”

“Okay,” she says, jotting something down in a small moleskin notebook. “Why are you so certain about not telling Soap about your brother?”

Ghost’s lungs feel tight. He doesn’t give in to it, though. He clutches at the armrests of his chair and focuses on the meditation techniques an old superior had taught him as a way of getting to sleep. It doesn’t work very well. “I don’t tell anyone about my family.”

“And why’s that?”

“They’re dead.”

Grace frowns. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Ghost just nods. He never knows what to say to that. In the beginning, it was partially why he told no one about it. He didn’t want to cope with navigating grief. Instead, he just bulldozed his way through it, buried himself in the job and tried not to think those dark thoughts that made him want to put a bullet in his mouth.

“Is your brother’s death why you don’t like to talk about him?”

Ghost shrugs. Yes, is the short answer, but the long one is a lot more complicated, and Ghost isn’t keen on telling it. The words feel sticky in his mouth, and his throat tightens up at the thought of trying to get his jumbled mess of a brain in order.

“It’s helpful if you talk about these things, Simon.”

“Don’t call me Simon.” It bursts out of him. It’s embarrassing how much the name makes him cringe. It’s not his. Not anymore. It just isn’t.

“What would you prefer?”

“My name’s Ghost.”

“Okay, Ghost.” She doesn’t question the change, which is just enough leeway to have his shoulders drop in defeat. He’s still got his mask on, he reminds himself. He still has a way to hide.

He checks out a little then. There’s no obvious trigger, just that he doesn’t really want to be there anymore, so he just…isn’t. By the time he feels more in line with his body again, Grace is putting her notebook aside and smiling at him.

He remembers the session, he knows he does, but he doesn’t feel like he was in control. Doesn’t feel like he’s spent the last hour answering basic questions. He feels like a ghost haunting his own body. Fuck.

“Well, thank you for talking with me. I do think you can benefit greatly from proper psychiatric treatment if you really try with it. There’s nothing shameful in getting help.”

Ghost doesn’t say anything to that. He knows he’s coming back, whether he wants to or not.

“Hopefully I’ll see you soon. Oh, and before I forget, military or not, patient confidentiality is still one of our strictest rules. None of this goes back to your Captain except a diagnosis, and even that will be on your own terms. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She laughs a little at that. “Not a ma’am, it’s just Grace. Have a good rest of your day.”

He nods, words still feeling trapped, and flees before he can do something as awful as ask a question.

— [redacted] —

Another week passes. Ghost evades everyone mechanically. Shifts are switched surreptitiously, as if Ghost has been deployed rather than dismissed. He doesn’t dare show his face beyond what is necessary, though he knows the rumour mill will churn regardless. It always does.

He goes to therapy five days a week. Sneaks into the mess at odd hours, trains in his room, and showers at midnight. More than ever, he is a ghost, haunting the halls of the 141. After two meetings with Price, it’s clear enough that his medical leave is as good as indefinite. If not for the confusion he’s causing the brass with his citizenship status, he would be discharged.

He hasn’t even said anything particularly damning to Grace, but the evidence is stacking up against him. There are too many blank spots, so obvious now that they’re being probed. But the trap is obvious: you can’t remember forgetting something. Now, Ghost spends his days in a manic-paranoid state trying to even stay in reality.

On Friday, the hours feel like they’ve gone too quickly, but Ghost doesn’t dare examine them too intently. He can’t help but fixate on perceived gaps in time. At a cursory glance, though, it’s all there. It’s not clear per se, but it’s there. Time flies, and all that.

He stops thinking about it before he works himself up again.

But there’s nothing to do to distract him. Even training, earlier, had felt like a useless distraction. Will he wilt now that he doesn’t need all this bulk? It’s probably the only reason he puts any effort into his diet or routine. You can’t fight when you’re half-atrophied, but Ghost’s not a big fan of food, or even exercise for that matter. He fights for the adrenaline rush, not the burn. He can’t do the same bulking-up routine as Soap, he just feels like an idiot.

When he gets back from his session with Grace, he zones out, perched on the edge of his bed and waits for the clock to pass. It’s not like he really means to. But after an hour of being told to spill his guts out, it feels safer to just…float. He doesn’t have to go on about his fucking feelings there.

He’s broken out of it an hour or so later by a knock on his door. A rare occurrence, though not extraordinary. He can’t imagine anyone’s summoning him for anything, he’s as good as fired at this point, but he can hold out hope regardless. Price hasn’t announced the news yet. Maybe someone still has use for him.

“Come in.”

The door opens.

“Soap.” He tries to not let disappointment colour his voice.

“Hey, LT. Haven’t seen you in a while.” Not your Lieutenant anymore, he wants to say, though it feels too cruel when Soap is standing so eagerly on the boundary.

“Did you need something?”

Soap shakes his head, rocking back onto his heels with a guileless expression. “Uh, no, look, I heard from Price that…”

“Spit it out.”

Soap sighs. “I heard you’ve been put on med-leave.” By the look on his face, Ghost thinks he knows a whole lot more than that.

“Correct. And?”

Soap grimaces. “I thought I’d see if I could…help, in any way. Whatever you need.”

“I’m fine.”

Then, the crux of the matter. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Ghost deflates, defeated. He’s run out of energy for anger, or for the nagging worry that’s followed him relentlessly for the last few weeks. It’s not Soap’s fault that he pointed out the obvious. It’s Ghost that’s the problem. His brain can’t even function properly enough to keep his job. He wishes he could shout, put all the vitriol on the poor Scotsman who revealed the truth, but he can’t. With anyone else, he might, but Soap doesn’t deserve that. Not from him. Not right now, when apathy feels like a weighted blanket. “I know,” he finally says.

“If I thought it would lead to this…”

“You didn’t know. Too late now. Focus on your job, Sergeant. Pretty sure there’s a gap opening up for promotion.”

Soap rolls his eyes. “Don’t speak like that. You’ll be back.”

Ghost isn’t so sure. It’s the uncertainty that’s killing him. Because he needs this, like his brother had needed to be doped up twelve times a day. It’s an addiction he won’t survive without, a withdrawal he isn’t ready to cope with. But he’s been left with no choice. He’s almost certain it’s cold turkey from here on out. “We’ll see.”

“It’s just, whatever’s wrong with you, I hope it can get better. Yeah, that’s all.”

“I’ll be fine. Always am.”

“Sure ya are,” Soap says, and Ghost honestly can’t tell whether it’s sarcasm or not. But he doesn’t bring it up. “Guess that’s my bit. Just wanted to say sorry,” Soap adds.

“Don’t apologise. Wasn’t you.”

“Okay then.” Soap nods, takes a step back and gives Ghost a look that sees right through him. He can’t help but turn his face away; even with the mask, it feels too exposed. There’s a desperate urge to please Soap bubbling up inside. To ignore all convention and make sure Soap understands that it’s okay, that he’s forgiven, that there was nothing to forgive in the first place. Instead, he nods back and shuts the door before he can become the fool. He’s a soldier, for god's sake, he’s nobody’s fool.

The anger comes easier then. It always is when it’s turned inwards. The vicious glee of lashing out can’t be met with a guilty conscience. He’s free real estate, as far as his own mind’s concerned. And berating himself for the endless string of stupidity that’s got him up to this point seems like a good way to pass the hours.

— [redacted] —

“Tell me about your relationship with your team,” Grace says.

“What of it?”

“Well, I’d like to know more about your life here. Are you close? Merely colleagues? Do you have people you confide in?”

“I-” Ghost stops before he can trip himself up. “We’re close enough.”

“You can be less vague than that. How would you explain your relationship with each member?”

Ghost tries not to look like the question has him on edge. He can survive torture without a single word spoken, and yet under the therapist’s gaze, he feels himself cracking. There’s something in him that wants to tell her everything — a part of him that feels like betrayal — a little voice in his head telling him to just lay it out in front of her, page by page.

Instead, in a stilted monologue that can’t be any longer than a minute, he manages to summarise his relationship with Price, then Soap. Even, vaguely, those further down the ranks that he had responsibility for.

“So you and Soap are close then?” Grace asks, latching onto the one thing Ghost doesn’t want her to touch. Whatever he and Soap have, it’s fragile, private. Dangerous, even. Ghost doesn’t trust easily, and he fears if he has to explain it, he’s going to persuade himself out of it.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“No?” Grace jots something down in that damn notebook and then looks back up at him with a pleasant smile.

“He’s just. Always there. Like he wants to be my friend.”

Grace frowns and does her irritating little head tilt. “Do you not want to be friends?”

“He’s my subordinate. Or was.”

“Are you not allowed to be friends with your subordinates?”

Ghost shifts in his seat, fingers ripping at the seams of the twenty-year-old monstrosity of an armchair that some poor sod has dragged in from the nearest charity shop. It is comfortable, he’ll give them that. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“He’s just- I don’t think I should be friends with him.”

“Why not?”

Ghost finally meets her stare and something breaks. Ghost can almost hear the crack. “I’m not the sort of man that has friends.”

“No person shouldn’t be allowed to have friends.” She’s treading carefully now. Voice soft. It feels like a deception, like she’s trying to worm her way under his skin. He wants to lash out — it’s so much fucking easier to be angry than terrified — but even the thought of it makes his skin crawl with guilt. He knows what it feels like to be lashed out at. He knows what it’s like to transfer your fears onto someone else.

Instead, he holds her gaze and admits the one thing that has felt like his security belt for the last half a decade. “Maybe I’m not a person, then.”

“Why do you think that?”

He rolls his eyes. “Was the Ghost thing not obvious enough?”

Her lips purse in disapproval. “Sarcasm will only get you so far. I know it can feel safer but I want you to be honest here. To feel okay to be honest. That’s how we’ll make progress.”

Ghost scowls. What the fuck does she think he’s doing? That he’s just saying this shit for the sake of it? “I was being serious.”

Her eyebrows climb and she jots another thing down in her notebook before she shuts it, puts it on the table and places her full attention on him. “Why do you feel like a ghost then?”

The words are stuck, lodged somewhere deep down. Or crawling all over him, like ants on his skin. Or in his chest, squeezing his heart into overdrive. “I-” He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to be anywhere but here. He doesn’t want to. “Isn’t it obvious?”

He can’t. He can’t. He just can’t.

I want to go.

I want to go.

I want to go.

“Okay, that’s all for today.” Ghost’s head snaps up, eyes wide.

“Really?”

“Yes, that’s all. I’ll let you go. We can go into this further next week.”

Ghost blinks. Wants to ask one of a thousand questions. To ask where the time went, or why he doesn’t remember what he said or-

He doesn’t. He snaps his mouth shut and ignores the blank, because if he doesn’t, he won’t be able to do it. Won’t be able to walk out that door, or go back to his room, or fucking sleep. So Ghost runs out the door without so much as a goodbye and wonders whether it's not about him possessing his own body but whether someone is possessing him.

— [redacted] —

Ghost can’t avoid the others forever, he learns. He lives in the same building as them, and there are only so many places he can be when not on active duty. It doesn’t help that they are persistent. Some less than others. Most of the 141 are good at staying out of other people’s business, and Price only tends to interfere if he sees a storm brewing.

What he really means is that Soap is a persistent twat who can’t let something go.

“Ghost!”

Ghost isn’t in the mood for it today. He woke up from only two hours of sleep. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday but has no appetite to swing by the cafeteria. His back has taken up a persistent throbbing that no stretches can help. And most of all, the idea of human company has him wanting to strip off his skin.

Something in his head just won’t fucking shut up. So loud that Ghost barely even hears Soap, grating against his own fragile nerves. A memory crops up, of panting in Roba’s torture chamber, and spotting a shadow in the corner. A hallucination, though he didn’t realise that at the time. The way it would rant and rave, screaming at the top of its lungs. It had almost been a comfort then, to focus on someone else’s terror rather than his own.

He sighs and tries to keep walking like he hasn’t heard, but Soap jogs up to his side with an anxious smile. “Hey, LT.”

“Sergeant.”

He picks up the pace, but Soap just matches him step for step, even if it means picking up an awkward half-jog. “So, how’s everything going?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Soap winces. “I didnae mean like that. Just, you alright?”

“I’m fine. Did you have a reason for running up to me or are you just here to nag?”

Soap rolls his eyes. “I’m not naggin’, ya bastard. I’m checkin’ in.”

“Don’t.”

He strides away, leaving Soap to flounder behind him. “Wait! Ghost, seriously, hold up a minute.”

Ghost ignores him and turns the corner and gets out the nearest door he can see and into the courtyard. Soap is only moments behind, wincing in the sudden light. It’s unseasonably warm for April and it has most of the base down to the bare layers for at least the rest of the week. Ghost still wears a minimum of two layers at all times; he’s gotten used to the sweat.

“I don’t want you to think badly of me. I was just trying to be nice.”

“Then stop.” Ghost hates himself. He wishes he could be nice to Soap, to act like a normal human being and throw him a smile or an apology or a friendly tap on the shoulder. Wants to be the apathetic phantom who let Soap into his room and said none of it was his fault. Whatever this is, it doesn’t feel like him. He feels like a leashed beast, teeth out and ready to bite. Anything that will get Soap to go away faster.

“Ghost-”

“Seriously. I don’t want your pity. It’s fucking embarrassing.” Embarrassing for who, he doesn’t say.

“Is not pity. We’re a team. And that means sticking together. Wasn’t that what you said?” In Las Almas. Right. Fuck Las Almas.

“Not a team anymore.” Ghost can’t see an escape. Soap doesn’t seem to care what Ghost says. He’s planted himself on the ground, unshakable. Ghost doesn’t have the energy to bring out the chainsaw. Instead, he just wishes for a cigarette, something to take the edge off this conversation. This feelings bullshit is so out of character for all of them that he knows it's pity. Poor ol’ Ghost got too fucked up by his time in the army and now we’re all really sorry about it. Well, fuck you too, he thinks. Fuck you for not buckling under the pressure. Fuck you for just fucking hiding it better.

“You’ll always be a part of the team, on the field or not.”

“Oh, stop it with the fucking pandering, Soap,” Ghost spits. “I’m out of fucking commission, you can’t get a shiny promotion from sucking up to me.”

Soap gapes, hackles rising. “You think I’m doing this for a promotion?”

He doesn’t. It’s just the first thing his angry brain could pinpoint, but he can’t be the sort of weak bastard to back down now. He looks fucked enough as it is, he doesn’t need to become a pushover at the same time. “I don’t know what you fucking want.”

“I want to be your fucking friend!” Soap bursts out. “That’s all I’m fucking trying to do but you’re being a right bastard about it.”

“I don’t do friends.”

I’m not real.

I’m not real.

I’m not real.

A ghost can’t have friends.

“Everyone has friends,” Soap says.

Ghost looks down at Soap, his chest hollowed out and aching. “I don’t. Now fuck off.”

'No person shouldn’t be allowed to have friends.’

“Why are you being like this?” Soap asks.

I’m not real.

“Fuck. Off,” Ghost says.

‘Why do you feel like a ghost then?’ Grace had said.

“This isn’t like you,” Soap pleads.

I’m not real.

Ghost spins on his heels, shoves his way into Soap’s face and spits, “you don’t fucking know me, Johnny. You don’t know a fucking thing about me. I’m not your friend, I’m not fucking anything to you. Now leave me the fuck alone, alright?”

Why do you push everyone away?

Soap swallows, steps back and hides his clenched fists in his pockets. “Fuck you too then, I guess. You know, sometimes you act like a different bloody person, I don’t get it. One moment you’re all fucking buddy-buddy with me, the next you can’t even stand me. Just fucking pick one, alright?”

Before Ghost can ask what the fuck he means by that, he’s gone.

Chapter Text

Ghost is back in Grace’s office, staring out the window. It’s a fucking dreary day, drizzle bleeding down the window and shrouding the tree line. Ghost wishes for the sweet hit of a smoke break. He’s got roll-ups back in his room that are calling his name.

“How are you feeling right now?”

“I don’t know.”

Grace sighs and crosses her legs tightly, like she always does when she finds a sticking point. “How about we pick it apart then? Can you name some of the physical things you’re feeling right now?”

Ghost just sits with himself for a moment, catalogues himself as he would for injuries. “Tense. Like I can’t breathe. Like I’m drifting out of my own body.”

“Explain that last feeling to me,” Grace asks as she jots something down in her notebook.

“It’s like nothing’s real. I’m there but I’m not.” Ghost growls and digs his nails into the armchair. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

“No, you’re doing fine. What else?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Ghost snaps, ripping at the seams of the armrest. His nails are getting too long now that he’s not obliged to keep them short. They cut into the palm of his hand sometimes when he writes. They look a little girly, really.

“Just try.”

“It’s…floaty. Like I’m high, or something.” Ghost sighs and lets his eyes slip closed. It feels easier when he can’t see her. Like this really is a dream. “No. It’s like…zoning out but worse. Like I know this is real. It’s just-”

“It’s just what?”

“I feel like I’m fighting to stay in reality,” Ghost admits, barely above a whisper.

“Okay. That’s useful.” Grace taps her pen against her notebook a few times, eyes boring into him, eyes scrounging for something. Ghost does his best to look like nothing at all. “Have you ever heard the term dissociation?” She finally asks.

“I’ve seen the word before.”

“But do you know its psychiatric use?” Ghost shakes his head, his heart picking up a samba rhythm. “It’s a term used when certain parts of the brain are working outside of conscious awareness. In layman’s terms, it’s usually a feeling of disconnect. It can come in many varieties and severities but I do believe that it may help understand some of what you’re feeling.”

“So I have…dissociation?”

“Dissociation is not a diagnosable condition in itself but from what you’ve shared with me over the last few weeks, I do think it’s a symptom of whatever’s at the root of this.”

“Alright.” Ghost doesn’t know what to do with this information. Is there a cure? Can he go back to work if they fix it? What’s he supposed to do?

“Do you still feel dissociated?” Grace asks.

“I’m still here.” It’s a half-arsed answer, but it’s true enough. He still feels one step removed, but he’s here. He knows what’s happening, even through the fog. He’s in control, that’s what’s important. He can move, he can breathe, he can speak. And if he doesn’t feel all the way there? Well, it doesn’t matter, he’s in control. Control is what he needs.

Grace nods. “Some of what you’re feeling may be a precursor to it getting more severe. I’d like to work with you on some techniques to help with that.”

Ghost shakes his head a little too viciously, and swallows down bile when dizziness overtakes him.

“Is there a reason you don’t want to?”

He won’t say it. He can’t admit to being a coward, that he’s clinging to the floating like a security blanket. It never happened in the field, which was the only place he would care about it happening. He doesn’t want the same sharp focus he has on the field. Sometimes, the disconnect is the only thing that stops him from actively thinking about how fucked up he is.

“I just don’t.”

“Okay, but I am worried that if you continue to allow the dissociation to keep happening, you are just going to struggle more. Dissociation is not just a feeling of removal, it may also explain the blackouts.”

Ghost shakes his head. “I’m okay.”

“Okay,” Grace agrees, though the worry is still there, written plain as day. It’s in her eyes, not her face. Ghost has learnt to read the same thing on soldiers, to sift the sort that can deal with the 141 and those that can’t. You can only tell whether a man truly fears something by looking into his eyes.

He’s aware, distantly, that he’s drawing back. Her eyes aren’t so clear anymore. The murky blue bleeds into white until all he can see is the rough outline of her face. She’s speaking, he thinks, and he might be speaking too. This is probably what she meant, he thinks, but he can’t bring himself to care. He doesn’t want to lose time, he doesn’t, but right now he doesn’t want to be here, and living in this half-reality feels like the only thing that’s saving him.

A sharp pain shoots between his eyes but Ghost ignores it. Pain is nothing, not in this land of murmur and silhouette. It grows. Ghost lets it grow. He lets his mouth run without his input. Let him be the ghost over his own shoulder, he begs. Let him be free.

He lets go.

And as slowly as the world was lost, it comes back in a rush.

“Ghost? Ghost, are you back with me?” He blinks rapidly, another bout of dizziness paralysing him for a moment before he can push back the feeling of motion sickness. The world rushes back into technicolour, 4K resolution on the widescreen. The light hurts his eyes.

“Hm?”

“Can I discuss something with you?”

Ghost tenses. “Okay.”

“I’d like you to recount the last few minutes back to me.”

“What?”

She smiles placidly. “Just a simple recollection. What have we been talking about?”

“You were explaining dissociation. Then I...” He’s too embarrassed to admit that he completely clocked out. He’s a soldier, a sniper, for god’s sake. He can sit on a rooftop for hours without losing focus. Yet in this creaky office with its out-of-date armchairs and dull IKEA-bought art, he can’t even follow a conversation.

“Ghost?” She’s not going to leave this alone. She never leaves this sort of stuff alone. It’s probably what makes her good at her job, but it breeds that small seed of resentment in his stomach.

“I zoned out.”

He didn’t leave. He didn’t. He’s sure he can remember what she said if he focuses hard enough. He’s certain of it.

“What were you thinking about when you zoned out?”

“I don’t remember.” He’s shaking now, his fingers white-fisting the chair to try and stop the tremors. Grace notices anyway.

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. Let’s just step back for a minute and bring the room back to zero.”

He ignores her. “Why are you asking what I remember?” It’s that same feeling he had with Soap. The feeling of missing pieces floating out of reach, the paranoia of not being able to remember the forgotten. The feeling that he doesn’t know his own mind.

“I think it would be safer to ground you first-”

“Just tell me.”

“Ghost,” she sighs, shooting him a pointed look. “Please, listen to my advice. We won’t get anywhere useful when you’re this anxious.”

“I’m not anxious.”

Rather than say anything, she looks down at his hands, still clenched tight. His index finger has finally found the rip in the seam and is frantically tearing out the soft filling.

“I’m not,” he repeats.

“Okay. Whatever you say. But I still want to wait a moment.”

It only makes it worse, how does she not understand that? Waiting is adrenaline with nowhere to go. No scope to keep, no knife to throw, no trigger to pull. Just the ever-increasing hormonal soup and one terrified man who doesn’t know what to do with any of it. His vision goes fuzzy and the dizziness comes back. He thinks he really might throw up this time. He frantically searches for the nearest bin, fixated on the shame of hurling his guts out in front of his damn therapist.

“Ghost, I want you to listen to me, okay? Very carefully.”

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t-

“Ghost. It’s Grace. I want you to focus on my voice, okay? I’m going to keep speaking through this. And right now I need you to focus on me. Can you look at me?”

He feels like a wild animal as he turns his gaze to hers. He wants to bare his teeth, snarl something nasty and run. Instead, he just digs his fingers deeper into the chair and swallows down another bout of bile.

“Okay. Just keep focusing on me. Can you speak?”

Ghost tries but his stomach cramps and he hiccoughs violently. So he snaps his mouth shut and shakes his head rapidly, ignoring the swell of vertigo that joins it.

“Okay, that’s fine. I need you to breathe. Deeply in for four, hold for four, and then out again for four.”

He knows what she’s doing, and he almost wants to laugh in her face. His lungs are the least of his issues. They’re fine. It’s his fucked up brain that’s the problem, or the rebellion of his stomach. He has the urge to plunge his fingers into the back of his throat and just let it out, get the poison out, whatever that poison might be, but he doesn’t think she’ll appreciate that. So instead, he follows orders like a good old soldier, even if it doesn’t feel like it’s helping at all.

Whatever happens next, it feels like it takes forever. And yet, it also takes no time at all.

“Ghost? You back with me?” It’s deja vu all over again. What’s happening to him? What the fuck is this?

“I.” he snaps his mouth closed and buries his head in his hands. He wishes he didn’t have the balaclava, so he could grasp his hair and tug, but he settles for pulling at the fabric instead.

“The hour has passed, but I want you to stay here until you feel settled again, okay?”

Ghost thinks ‘settled’ might not happen until he dies.

“What’s happening to me?” He whispers, covering up his eyes so he can feel the small comfort of darkness. In the black, he can pretend that Grace isn’t staring at him, studying him and ripping him apart to put into an academic journal titled ‘the most fucked up people psychiatrists have come across’.

“Ghost, I think we should-”

“Just fucking tell me. Please,” he begs, feeling brave whilst cocooned in the safety of nothingness.

“I don’t think this is the time to talk about it.”

He finally pulls his hands away and tries to look brave. He’s always been good at pretending to be put together, even when he feels like he’s imploding. “Come on. I can take it.”

“It’s not about taking it. This is about what’s best for your health.”

“Just tell me I’m a nut job, it’s not like it’s anything new. Known that since I was a kid.”

Grace grimaces before her face softens. “You’re not a ‘nut job’, as you say. That’s not what’s happening.”

He snorts. “You can’t deny I’m crazy. It doesn’t take an expert to see it.”

“Mentally ill is not crazy, Ghost. It’s very likely that you have a few disorders that, right now, are severely affecting you. But that doesn’t make you crazy. Disorders can be managed and treated. We can make it so you can still live a good life. You’re not crazy.”

Ghost rolls his eyes. “Fucking semantics, and you know it. Crazy. Mentally ill. Whatever. I’m fucked in the head and nothing’s changing that.”

She sighs and stands up. It’s the first time since they met that Ghost has ever seen below her waist. She rounds the table and perches on the edge so she can look down at Ghost with a serious expression. “This here, these sessions, that’s what will change it. I know a lot of you soldier-types don’t believe in talking it out but you’re wrong. There is scientific evidence that therapy works. And it’s not like one of your missions. You don’t go in and fix the problem in a day, or a week, or even a month. Therapy is long, and it’s hard, but it can be a lifeline for many, you included.”

Ghost grimaces. “Fine, it helps a lot of people. Great. But I’m an extreme case. Don’t think all the therapy in the world can fix this,” he says, pointing to his face.

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve seen a lot, Ghost, and I’ve never come across anything I can’t help with as long as the person I’m helping realises that help is available. I need you to work with me for that. If you dismiss the process, you’re going to dismiss your own healing. Getting better requires effort, I’m not hiding that. It’s going to be a lot of hard work, but hard work will get you to the end game here.”

“And what’s that?”

“Whatever you want it to be. That’s the magic of therapy.”

Ghost leans back, looks Grace up and down, and mulls that over. She’s confident, he’ll give her that, and even if every single bit of his mind wants to scream that she’s wrong, he wouldn’t have gotten this far if he couldn’t put a bit of faith in people knowing better than him in their specific fields.

“Things I trust tend to betray me.”

“I just need you to trust one more time. Can you do that for me?”

Ghost looks her in the eyes, searches for any inch of deceit he can find. He’s never found it before, but he feels certain that he could find it if he really looks. That something will appear, a hint of undeniable malice that will give him the excuse to throw the towel in. There’s nothing.

“Fine. I’ll trust you.”

“Thank you.” She looks at the clock. The session has run over by an extra half an hour but she doesn’t seem worried. It’s late. Ghost is probably her last session of the day, if she has any others coming in at all. Ghost isn’t sure. Frankly, he’s not even sure where Price found her, only that she’s here on his recommendation, which is the only reason he’s given in to saying anything at all so far.

“We’ll discuss this more tomorrow, alright? But don’t be worried. There’s nothing bad coming, just some things I want to talk about okay?”

“That doesn’t fill me with hope, Grace,” Ghost complains.

“Well, patience is a virtue and all that. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good evening.”

— [redacted] —

“I don’t think I can make a formal diagnosis yet and I don’t want to put too many options in front of you in case you lead yourself into one of them. Sadly, it’s a phenomenon that can happen. But there is one option that I think is more likely than the others. Something yesterday happened that does make it likely.”

“Just be upfront with me,” Ghost complains.

“Yesterday, whilst you were ‘zoned out’, you were talking to me.”

“Hm?”

“You said some things to me that you said you’d like to be passed onto you.”

Ghost shakes his head. “You’re not speaking sense. What do you mean?”

“I mean, you zoned out and then you came back, and told me to tell you something, and then seemingly forgot what it was.” Ghost keeps his cool. He allows himself a moment to breathe and ignores the thudding in his chest. So there really is something possessing his body, a real ghost who’s taking his body. It could be doing whatever it wanted. Ghost will never know, memory swiped clean by the monster in his own mind. A perfect fucking crime he’s committed on himself.

“What did I say?”

She opens up her notebook and passes it along to him. “I think it would be better if you read the note. And please don’t turn the page. I have other people’s notes in there.”

It’s an act of trust as much as anything else. An olive branch. A trick. All the same, in the end. Every act of betrayal is a result of an olive branch wrongly taken. But he’s said he trusts her and he will. For all his faults, he doesn’t go back on his word.

Ghost runs his glove over the page and reads the rather simple letter laid out on the page.

Ghost,

I don’t know how to tell you this but I thought that telling you in a safe space was for the best. My name is Sam, and I’m a part of you. Mad, I know. I wanted to introduce you to this slowly but I’m not sure I know how. But there’s other people knocking about in this brain of ours. I can sense them sometimes. I know this is confusing, and will probably make you angry. But please just hear Grace out. I trust her. Do you?

Sam.

“What the fuck?”

“Yes, this is all quite surprising,” Grace says, taking the book out of his lax hand and snapping it shut. He wishes it were easier to forget now that it’s out of sight, but it’s like the words have printed themselves onto his brain.

He’d forgotten what this sort of fear felt like. The type of fear that comes when there isn’t an out. Utterly hopeless, without an end in sight. On the field, there’s the promise of death. Sometimes there’s even the hope of a last-minute miracle, which seems to happen all too often for the 141. Here, now, he’s just got the endless expanse of time and an incurable curse in his head. There’s no way out. This is the fear of helplessness.

“Breathe with me, Ghost,” Grace says, taking in an exaggerated breath. Ghost follows, however much he still wants to crawl out of his skin.

“I don’t get it.”

“Do you want me to tell you some of my thoughts on a diagnosis?”

“Do it,” Ghost grits out, forcing another breath in, only to let it out in a ragged exhale.

“There’s a chance of a dissociative disorder. This can come in a few different forms. Though they tend to fall under three main categories, though I think only two of them will be important for us. There’s dissociative amnesia, and then there’s dissociative identity disorder. Previously known as multiple personality disorder.”

Ghost breaks.

He breaks how he’s always broken. He starts to laugh. At first, it’s just a slow chuckle, before he descends into madness. Full-body laughter, wracking his body to the point of pain. The tears don’t come, just the endless, winding laughter that his father had taught him over the beaten and broken body of a dead hooker. Ghost laughs like he did when he saw his family slaughtered by a twinkling Christmas tree. Like he did when he finally dug himself out of Roba’s grave.

“Ghost?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ghost wheezes.

“Are you okay?”

Ghost grins, manic and wide, and chuckles. “I’m fucking fantastic, Grace. How about you?”

“Can you explain why you’re laughing?”

Ghost rolls his eyes. “That’s what you do when the world goes to shit. You laugh. Or else it buries you.”

Grace’s eyebrows climb. “Humour can be a common coping mechanism. Do you often laugh when you’re upset?”

Ghost shrugs, laughter subsiding into small spasms. “For as long as I’ve known. Shithole of a dad taught me not to cry. Somethin’ had to give.”

Grace snaps onto that as a leech catches onto skin. “What was your relationship like with your father?”

Ghost is yet again glad for the mask. It hides the rather obvious wince, though he can’t stop the way the laughter cuts short. As much as he wants to try, there’s nothing funny about his father. “Not brilliant, all things considered.”

“Can you develop that further?”

Ghost thinks about that, though he can’t come up with a proper answer. The only thing that comes to mind is, “I hate him. I can’t bear the thought of even looking at him.”

“You’re talking about him in the present tense. Is he still alive?”

Ghost scoffs. “He’s been dead for more than a decade. Still fucking hate his guts. Would kill him myself if I could.” He shakes his head. “Why the fuck are we talking about my dad? Shouldn’t we be talking about the fucking demon in my head?”

She jots something down in her notebook. “You think Sam is a demon?” The use of its name has as good an impact as a bullet.

Ghost shrugs. “I don’t fucking know. But it’s not natural, is it.”

“Remember what I said before. You are not crazy. You’ve possibly got quite a severe mental illness. But it’s just that, an illness. You don’t hate someone for having cancerous cells, do you? Sometimes our bodies do things we don’t want them to, but that doesn’t mean you’re wrong.”

Ghost smirks. “So you’re saying this ‘Sam’ is cancerous?”

Grace rolls her eyes and bristles. “That is not what I’m saying and you know it.”

“Still not me, though, is it? I’m probably not even fucking real. Maybe Sam’s the real one and I’m just some fucked up figment of his imagination. Would make sense, wouldn’t it? Not like Ghost is my real name. It’s just like the fucking mask, innit? It’s all fake.”

“Why do you think you’re not the real one?”

“I’m called Ghost,” he says, digging his fingers into the armchair. “At least Sam’s a normal name.”

“But your name’s Simon, is it not?”

Ghost shrugs. “I don’t fucking know. Is it?”

“Please don’t be facetious. Your birth name is Simon Riley. Which would make both Ghost and Sam made-up names,” Grace reasons.

“So maybe we’re both not real,” Ghost says. “Maybe Simon’s just buried really fucking deep and we’re just the ghosts possessing his bodies.”

“You said recently that you don’t always feel human. Is that it? That you feel like a ghost possessing your own body?”

Ghost shoots her a look. He thinks that mask tells enough on its own. But Grace has never let him go with a half-answer. “This is important, Ghost. I know we’ve brought up this before but you rather skillfully avoided the question. But your persistent feelings of derealisation pose a major hurdle in your life. If we can get to the root of this, we may be able to untangle some of these feelings. Now, I’ll ask again, do you feel human?”

Ghost pauses, thinks, tries to reason with himself. “I’m not fucking delusional, I know I’m human.”

“You make it sound like you don’t feel that way, though,” Grace says softly. She’s treading lightly now, like she’s trying to make him come to the conclusion rather than dragging him to it, kicking and screaming.

“I chose the name for a reason.”

“So you feel like a ghost then?”

“Sometimes,” Ghost admits, prying the words out of himself with herculean effort. “Sometimes I just don’t feel real.”

“Only sometimes?”

Ghost looks down, frowning. “It’s why I like being on the field. I feel real out there. Mortal. The pain, the fear, the adrenaline, that’s all human shit. But when I get back? It’s harder to stay in reality.”

Grace nods and jots another thing down then glances at the clock. “Ah, that’s us out of time. That’s all really important stuff that I want to unpack in the future. But there is something I want to quickly do before you go.”

“What is it?”

“A letter. To Sam.” Grace pushes the notebook back across to Ghost, flipping it to the last page. “Only if you want, but I think starting some level of communication could be really helpful. You also have the option of doing it yourself, of course, but seeing as there’s no certainty about when and where Sam will crop up, I might be the easiest method available.”

Ghost looks down at the notebook, chest caving in on itself as his lungs seize. “Fuck me,” he complained. “I’ll bring something in next time. Don’t know what the fuck I’m going to write.”

“That’s okay. Just see that you do it, okay? Communication is key here.”

“Sure,” Ghost says reluctantly. “Communication, sounds great.”

— [redacted] —

He avoids people like the plague, but they still catch up with him eventually. More and more as the days pass. Soap is still hurt, that much is obvious. The stoic soldier act is good and all, but compared to Soap’s usual affability, it’s practically a snub. Gaz catches him in the corridor a few times, though the conversations stay surface level, a catch-up between colleagues, both trying to skim over the crux of the matter. Roach nods at him like he knows a secret. Even Echo — the only other Lieutenant on base — comes up to him and gives him his condolences (fucking condolences, is that what it’s come to?).

Price is a different beast entirely.

“Riley,” he shouts from the doorway of his office. Ghost is only passing by because Alex asked him a favour, and now he’s got a stack of forms he’s supposed to give to Colonel Brown.

“Captain.” Ghost nods. He goes to keep on walking but Price blocks his way with a knowing look.

“Easy, son. I just want a chat.”

Ghost wishes he could still be petty about this. To stamp his foot and shout you’re not my CO and storm off. It had worked with Soap, but he’d been tired and angry and whilst he still doesn’t fully know why he did it, he can acknowledge it was stupid. But Price is probably the man he respects most in his life, and has had a position of power over him long enough that it feels natural to slip into the same obedience he always has. He trusts Price not to abuse it.

They enter Price’s office, Ghost still clutching the files he’s supposed to hand over, and Price fiddling with a cigar he’s not allowed to light. When it gets really bad, he does anyway. Sometimes Ghost will even join him, though he’s never had the same taste for rich cigars. He likes the bitter sting of cigarettes much more. There’s something reassuring about seeing its untainted end. Like there’s still room for things to go tits-up.

Then again, it’s not Price’s world that’s been tipped upside down.

“How are you getting on? You’ve disappeared on us quite well for a man living under the same roof.”

It’s a slight, if only a small one. But what is Ghost meant to do? He’s here on a technicality, stuck because his legal status is confusing enough to muddle the brass for another few months at least. Normally if a soldier’s fucked in the head, the army ships them off, never to be seen again. But Ghost remains, surrounded by the world he so desperately wants to be in, a spectator.

“Can’t exactly continue training, can I?”

Price sighs, spinning his cigar in lazy circles. “You’re welcome to do whatever you like. You can’t join in with official training, no, but there’s nothing stopping you from joining in the rest. I know Gaz misses having a proper sparring partner.”

Ghost sighs and takes a seat on the horrible metal monstrosity that counts as a chair. It’s too low and always manages to give Ghost backache if he sits there for too long. “It doesn’t feel right, not if I’m not coming back.”

“There’s no definitive-”

“I’m not, though,” Ghost says, swallowing down the welling sickness. “I’m utterly fucked, Price. It’s been more or less confirmed by the therapist. So, until they find out what to do with me, I’ve just got to live amongst the one thing I’m not allowed to fucking do.” Ghost hates therapy for making him like this. For making him spill the words out where he’d once keep mum. But Price has been there since he dug himself out of that fucking grave in Mexico, and if he can trust Grace with this, he can trust Price with it too.

“What’s she said?”

Ghost shrugs, shame flushing his cheeks. “She won’t say outright. Dissociative disorder, probably. Might have other fucking people rattling around my head.”

Price has an impossibly good poker face, and yet the shock is written so plainly on his face it’s almost embarrassing. Ghost has somehow destroyed the Captain’s ability to be unfazed by anything. Guess that’s one more thing Ghost can say he’s fucked up.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don’t know. Either way, I’ve got some sort of amnesia. It’s just figuring out what happens when I’m out.”

“That’s heavy, son,” Price says.

The silence drags. Ghost fidgets in his seat but he just can’t get comfortable. There’s a list of things he wants to ask Price, but in the end, there’s only one thing he thinks is important enough to voice. “Did you not ever notice?” The anger bubbles up again. Ghost wants to start throwing out accusations like grenades. He doesn’t. Instead, he focuses on his breathing techniques and pulls at a loose thread on his jeans. “I feel like I’m going mental. Surely someone would notice if I had other fucking people in my head?”

Price shrugs. “I’m not a psychiatrist. But the mask hides a lot. That’s why you wear it, isn’t it? Personally, I’d talk to Soap.”

“Hm? Why Soap?”

Price shoots him a scathing look. “That boy has been moping for the last week, don’t think we haven’t all heard his complaints. Loudly. You’d think he was a teenage girl with the way he whines.”

“How is this relevant?”

“If there’s one thing he keeps saying, it’s that you’ve been acting like two different people. If you’ve got a shrink saying it too, maybe it’s best to ask him what he means.”

— [redacted] —

Ghost wants to be doing anything but knocking on Soap’s door. He needs answers, but the idea of facing Soap now makes him want to run with his tail between his legs. Regardless, he knocks in rapid succession and waits.

“Ghost.” Soap sounds surprised, not angry, which is probably the best Ghost could have hoped for.

“Can we talk?”

Soap leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms. Oh, there it is. That twitchy sort of anger that has Soap’s lip curling, unstrung energy thrumming in his arms. He looks pissy, in all honesty. “What about?”

“Price said you could help me.” He looks up and down the corridor. There’s no one there but his neck prickles. “I don’t want to talk about this out here.”

“Fine.” Soap throws open the door and beckons Ghost inside. The room is tidy, though messy in soldier’s terms. A notebook lay open on the desk, a jacket slung over a chair. If they were still in the training barracks, Soap would be running laps for the state of it, and would probably have the rest of his bunkmates complaining at him to fix it. As it is, the 141 get private rooms, if only because they don’t fit into the rest of the organisation in any obvious way. The bulk of them share two to a room, but the officers — commissioned or not — get to have their own. Soap can keep his room as he likes. It’s not like Price is going to do the rounds. Frankly, given Price’s habits, Ghost would guess his is the worst of all.

“So, what did Price say?”

“My psychiatrist gave me an idea of what might be wrong with me. Price said you might be able to help.”

Soap quirks an eyebrow and sits on the side of the bed. Ghost takes the chair from under the desk and perches awkwardly on the edge of it. He doesn’t want to settle himself when Soap clearly doesn’t want him there.

“I’m not a psychiatrist,” Soap says, “I don’t know what you’d want me ta do.”

“Price said you were talking. About me.”

“That fucking rat,” Soap mutters. “Oh fuck, don’t tell him I said that. Please?”

Ghost snorts. “I won’t. But gossiping, Soap? I expect better.”

Soap waves him off. “Yeah, yeah, fine. What did he say I said? Because I stand by it.”

“He didn’t tell me much. He said-“ Ghost’s throat clogs up, the words sticking too low to grab them. Fuck, this had been easier with Price. He trusts Price like he trusts any superior. But Soap is — was — his responsibility. Soap’s the one supposed to come to him, not the other way ‘round. Admitting his own failures feels as good as admitting he’s failed at everything else. He has, really. His career has been poured down the drain a thousand times faster than it took to climb to his place in it. Whatever position he’d had over Soap is in the dust now.

“I’m not gonna give you shit about this. You know that, right?” Oh god, it’s worse like this. Soap looks serious, leaning forward so he can look Ghost right in the eyes. The happy-go-lucky, confident twat looks fucking worried. “I’m not that kind of bastard,” Soap adds.

Ghost nods. He feels like his mouth is sewn shut. The words are there, they’re just not coming out. “Fuck,” he mutters, wiping a hand down his balaclava, before he finally musters the guts to say, “He said you thought I acted differently sometimes. Like two different people.”

Soap shrugs. “Yeah, sometimes. It’s like you flip-flop. One moment we’re best buddies, the next you look like you wanna kill me. It’s fucking whiplash with you.”

Ghost wants to bring Soap up on the use of the ‘best buddies’ bit, but he’s already too stuck on what Soap means. Is that why Soap clung to him so quickly? Did he just forget their friendship? Is Soap just friends with some other fucking fragment of his imagination — of Simon’s imagination?

“I didn’t realise.”

Soap snorts. “Of course ya didn’t. It’s fine. Look, I’m not gonna be a fucking pansy about this. You were a right bastard but you’re going through shit, I get that, I’m not holding that against you. It’s just a bit boggling, is all. You do act different sometimes.”

“How different?”

“I dunno. It’s not like I’m paying that much attention to ye, despite what you might think. Sometimes it feels like you’ll tell me anything, other times it’s like you’re a brick wall. I cannae figure you out.”

Ghost swallows past the ball in his throat. It’s like he’s losing grip on reality again. “What sort of things do I tell you?”

“I dunno. Plenty of things, really. I mean, there was your brother. Didnae know you had one until the pub. Some things about your dad, you know. I mean, nothing much, I know you don’t like talking about it.”

There’s a sharp pain between his eyes and next thing he knows, he’s in his room.

“What? Fuck.” Ghost’s breathing gains a ragged edge as he looks around his room. It’s definitely his. His balaclava is on the hook on the door, his boots are polished and laid out neatly beside his bed, laces tucked in. “Oh shit. Fuck.” He grabs the first thing he sees and slams it into the wall. But the pillow lands with an unsatisfying thud and falls to the ground.

This isn’t the first time this has happened.

It’s funny, he thinks, the sort of excuses you can make to deceive yourself into thinking you’re normal. The forgetting, the panicking. You can tell yourself that everyone else does it too. Everyone’s forgetful. A little bit of panic after an intense mission isn’t out of place. It’s all normal.

But this isn’t normal, is it?

He wracks his brain but his conversation with Soap is nothing more than a blank space. But, in a way, the lack of answers is exactly the answer he needs. His mind is utterly fucked, and whatever monster resides within it, it’s come out to play.

Ghost can’t breathe. It’s like the air’s been sucked out of the room. The klaxon bell rings, an endless cacophony. He can’t even think. It’s like his very mind has been wiped, except for the desperation to draw another breath. Every attempt is like an asthmatic, a wheeze that never quite fills his lungs.

He’s hyperventilating, he thinks, but he’s not even sure anymore. The whole world is a whirlwind of colour, abstract shapes blurring black at the edges. Each and every moment is a desperate test and Ghost just can’t.

He’s tired. He doesn’t want to do this anymore. He doesn’t want any of this. He doesn’t want to live like this, or die like this, or stay trapped in this hellish limbo where he can’t even fucking-

He heaves in a deep breath, holds it for an agonising few seconds, then lets it out. Again. Again. He knows what he needs to do.

Desperately, Ghost ties up his boots as quickly as he can and grabs the balaclava off the hook. It’s more telling than anything that whoever he was then, it wasn’t him. Ghost doesn’t exist beneath the mask. He is the mask. Whoever this other person is, Sam or otherwise, is somehow comfortable enough to see the face as their own. The thought is a little sickening.

He makes it to Soap’s room in under a minute, knocking on the door before he’s even stopped. “You’re back?”

“What happened?”

“Hm?”

“What. Happened?” Ghost’s heart beats like a bass drum, a snarling tiger raging behind it.

“Oh, fuck, um. I mean, you asked what ye told me and I only managed to say like one thing before you were gone like there was fire on yer heels. Didnae say goodbye or anythin’.”

Ghost wants to collapse. His legs feel like jelly underneath him as his heart pounds prints onto his chest.

“Ghost? You okay?”

“I.” He snaps his mouth shut when he realises he’s about to cry. And then the very thought of crying wants to make him laugh but he can’t because then Johnny would think he was truly crazy and despite everything, he really doesn’t want Johnny to think he’s crazy. He likes Johnny, even if he hates himself for it. Hates some monster inside him for liking Johnny better than him. Or doing better than him. Just being better than him.

“Ghost.” He snaps back to reality when he feels Soap’s hand on his shoulder. “You with me?”

“I can’t,” he says. He’s not sure what he can’t do, just that he can’t. That he needs to go, but that his legs won’t move. He’s stuck in place, like his whole world is petrifying. There are voices inside, telling him to do things. Awful things. Other ones screaming over them, telling them to stop. His consciousness is a battleground and Ghost is stuck in the centre.

“Can’t what?”

“I- fuck me. This is fucking mental. I’m mental. I can’t do this. I can’t fucking do any of this.”

“Ghost, you’re scaring me.”

And Soap does genuinely look scared. In a way he never has on the field. Soap can get shot and still come out with a joke or two at hand. But this, this is something else. Soap’s scared for him.

“I don’t want to do this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Shoot me.” Ghost doesn’t know if he even means it. He does. No, he doesn’t. Fuck.

“What?”

“I said shoot me. End it. Think I’m too much of a coward to do it myself.”

“I’m not fucking shooting you.”

“You’d be helping me. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Stop fucking saying that! I’m not fucking shooting you!”

Ghost finally takes a step forward, moving right into Soap’s space. He feels loony, dizzy with desperation as if the path forward has just been cleared and all he can do is stumble towards it in a drunken haze. It’s the end of hopelessness. It’s power. “We can make it look like an accident or something. You won’t go to prison.”

“Stop it. You’re really fucking scaring me now. It’s not fucking funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I’m calling Price.”

“No.” Ghost’s hand snaps out and latches onto Soap’s wrist. “You can’t.”

“This isn’t fucking normal. I’m not letting you do this.”

“You can’t call him.”

Soap rips out of Ghost’s hold with embarrassing ease and grabs his phone from the desk, ringing before Ghost can even think about stopping him. A thousand voices seem to scream in the back of his mind, half wanting to just grab Soap’s knife and do this nice and easy, the other in a panic and just wanting out, out, out. Ghost is paralysed in the middle.

“Price? Yeah, it’s Soap. Uh, Ghost is here too.” There’s indistinct chatter on the other end, before, “He’s asking me to kill him, sir. I- I don’t know what to do.”

More chatter, Soap hanging up, a hand on his wrist and being set down on the bed. Ghost floats again, because right now it’s the only thing that can save him. He doesn’t care if one of the other fucked up bits of his brain takes over. They can for all he cares. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be in charge. He didn’t ask for any of this and he doesn’t want to be ill and he doesn’t want to live and he doesn’t want to die and-

“You don’t want to fucking die? Ey, boy? Good. Then let’s fucking live.” His dad cuts a terrifying figure, tall, broad, facial hair that seems to hide away his expressions so that Ghost can never read them. The band on the stage is screaming, paint smeared on their faces, teeth glaring under fluorescent lights. His dad is laughing and screaming along, one arm still gripped tight around Ghost’s bicep. He’s squeezing too hard and there are people everywhere and Ghost feels like he’s suffocating.

“I can’t- I can’t breathe. Dad, I’m going to-”

“Shut the fuck up and enjoy the music.” His dad is tugging him in closer, but the crowd is following suit, swallowing him in their mass. Ghost can’t see a thing. He can’t breathe. The mask is suffocating him but he can’t take it off. It’s a part of him. His lungs are burning and he’s running out of time.

He shifts a hand and hears the sickening crunch of bone. The air is all but gone now. His lungs keep going but there’s nothing there. He’s dizzy, desperate as his hand goes through flesh and finally lands on bone.

By the time he’s ripped it out of place, there’s black in his vision and he’s digging and digging-

And then there’s laughter. His laughter. It’s everywhere, loud and cloying, and then all he can hear is the crowd and the screaming on stage and his dad yelling and Roba spitting in his face and-

And-

There’s something in his hand, but it’s not a bone. It’s…bumpy? No, it stretches, like a coil. It’s-

He looks down. There’s a fucking slinky in his hand. A rainbow, child’s slinky. “What?”

“Ghost, are you back with me?” Grace is there, kneeling on the floor in front of him. It must be uncomfortable. Her knees are digging into the concrete and her knuckles have gone red where she’s balancing herself.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Do you know what just happened?”

“I- no. Was it another one again?”

He braces himself for the worst but is surprised when Grace shakes her head. “I don’t think so, it seemed like you were in some sort of flashback.”

Oh, right. Yeah. The memories. That makes sense.

“Oh.”

“Do you know where you are?”

Ghost frowns and looks around, surprised when he spots the notebook still lying on the desk. “This is Soap’s room?”

“Do you remember how you got here?”

He runs his brain back, slotting the pieces together. “Sort of. I remember…knocking and then…” It’s all a bit fuzzy. There’s something there, Ghost knows it. It’s not the usual oppressive darkness of things gone. He’s on the edge of it. “Where’s Soap?”

“I sent him and Price out. I didn’t want you feeling crowded.”

“I don’t understand what happened.”

Grace sighs and gets to her feet, her knees cracking painfully as she limps a little so she can sit on the bed. How long had she been kneeling there for? How long has Ghost been here for?

“Do you remember asking Soap to shoot you?”

He does now. It feels like watching a memory back on TV. He doesn’t feel like he was the one there, watching Soap grow scared. He’s haunting his own dreams again, watching all of the action with none of the attachment.

Fuck.

“I didn’t mean it.”

She looks him right in the eyes, lips crushed together white. “Ghost,” she says seriously. “Right now, it’s really important that you’re honest with me.”

“I didn’t. Not really,” Ghost says, half-truths buried in half-lies. “I just wanted it to stop.”

“What to stop?”

“Everything.”

The look she gives him kills him inside. All pity and kindness and all the other shit he doesn’t want right now. He just wants the sweet release of nothing. He doesn’t want to think anymore. “Do you think you’re okay to move somewhere else?”

Ghost panics, gripping desperately to the slinky, pulling it apart and letting it snap together with a satisfying click. There’s a spring digging into his arse, but he finds comfort in sitting on the thick duvet Soap must have bought himself. The army doesn’t supply things this nice. The room smells of Soap, and Ghost can find a modicum of comfort in that too, even if his internal alarm bells keep ringing that he shouldn’t be in here. Yet again, he feels paralysed between two feelings. One half of him wants to curl up on the bed, a quiet voice whispering that they could sleep surrounded by warmth and comfort and Soap. Another begs him to go with Grace, to get to the bottom of this, to not do something like that again. And it’s not even halves anymore when another voice pipes in, telling him to get it over with, to ignore Grace’s wide eyes and rummage through Soap’s drawers until he can find the best thing to shiv himself with. Neck will do. It should be a quick enough end.

“Ghost, I need you to keep focusing on me.”

“Hm?”

Grace is standing now, though she’s barely taller than he is sitting down. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know. A lot of things.”

Grace frowns before she smothers it behind her usual neutral expression. “Go through them for me.”

“I want to stay here. It’s comfortable. But I want to leave too, because I shouldn’t be here. And-” He stops. The other territory is too dangerous.

“And?”

“It’s nothing.”

Grace sighs. “I really need you to be honest right now.”

“Fine. Another part of me wants to find a weapon and kill myself.”

“Do you think you will?” She asks, still carefully neutral. Something in Ghost wants to lash out just to see if it will draw out a reaction.

“No. I’m too much of a coward to go through with it.” He thinks that’s true, anyway. He still wants to die, but he doesn’t think he can put the final blade in. That’s why he wants, wanted, Soap to do it. He trusts Soap. It would be easier for everyone that way.

“Are you okay with me bringing someone else in?”

Ghost squints. “Why?”

“I want to make sure someone can stop you if you do go ahead and try.”

Ghost thinks about that for a moment, before he relents. “Fine.”

“Thank you. Would you rather I bring in Soap or Price?”

Ghost just feels tired now, the decision weighed down by a fugue state he can barely push through. He wants to sleep. Forever. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay. I’ll see who’s out there.”

She’s only gone for a second, never fully leaving the room. Probably for safety reasons. If there’s any time to try something, it’s now. Yet Ghost is too tired to even bother thinking up a plan.

She comes back in with Soap at her heels. The man looks wrecked. If he wasn’t crying, he almost was. His eyes are red and his mouth keeps twitching like he’s got too many emotions and doesn’t know where to place them. “Hey,” he finally says, barely above a whisper. Ghost’s never seen him like this. Frankly, it feels more worrying than the fact he wants to die. That’s an obvious conclusion, a definitive end. Soap’s reaction leaves him floundering, stuck between wanting to help and wanting to hide, to punish himself for doing this to him. His relationship with Soap defies labels but Ghost knows he likes Soap a lot more than he likes pretty much anyone else, even if he’s pretty shit at showing that. There’s something important about that.

“Did you need something?” Soap asks.

“I think Ghost is a danger to himself right now. I need someone in the room who can help if he tries to do something. Are you able to help me?”

Soap falls into perfect parade rest, lips set in a solid line. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And everything that happens in this room is confidential, understand? Nothing leaves this room. Not even for your Captain.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you,” Grace says before fully turning to Ghost. “Okay, I know having someone else in the room isn’t going to be the most comfortable for you but I still need you to talk through this. Think you can do that?”

After a bated breath, Ghost nods. Grace shoots him a small smile before she drags the desk chair over. Soap moves to lean against the wardrobe, eyes downcast. It’s funny, watching him try to blend in. Maybe there’s something dangerous about the way Ghost is wired to seek him out but he’s inescapable. It’s laughable to think Ghost could ever ignore him.

“Can you explain to me what happened that brought this all about?”

Ghost’s eyes flicker up to Soap before landing back in his lap, letting the slinky go so he can bury both hands in the sheets. The thing is starting to make him feel fuzzy in a way he doesn’t like.

“Price said Soap could help with me with the… others, thing. Said he’d been saying stuff that was relevant. I came to talk to him about it but then I just sort of faded out. Came to in my room. Realised I’d lost time. It all just became a lot. And when I came back I just-”

“Just what?”

“I couldn’t cope with the idea that someone else had been using my body.”

Grace nods like she understands. It’s laughable. Of course she doesn’t understand. He’s as crazy as a fucking cuckoo clock. And yet, yet, it feels nice, to think that she doesn’t immediately laugh in his face. To have someone understand instead of ridicule, or make light of it, or just fucking ignore it. The army is brilliant at that. If you can’t throw weapons at a problem, ignore it like your life depends on it. Keep everything ticking over. Your life doesn’t mean as much as the people you’re saving. Your thoughts don’t mean anything.

“So you felt out of control.”

“I guess.”

“Why ask Soap?” She asks and now he can’t help but look up. Soap is right there, meeting his eyes. He looks devastated. And fucking terrified. Ghost can’t look away, locked onto murky blue like they might hold the answers. Ghost has to be honest, for him, if only to wipe the devastation off his face. To stop the anger that will come later.

So Ghost tells the truth. “I trust him more than I trust myself.”

“Did you think he would do it?”

Ghost scoffs and looks away. “Of course I fucking don’t.”

“But did you?” Grace reiterates.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really remember much of it.” Ghost starts picking at loose threads until he remembers that this is Soap’s room, so he starts picking at the skin around the edge of his nails instead.

“Do you remember what was going through your head at the time?”

Ghost shrugs, digging even harder into the cut, covering up the blood with his thumb so Grace won’t see. “Not really.”

“Ghost.”

“It was just a lot of panic. A lot of different voices telling me to do a lot of different things,” Ghost says, pushing deeper into the tiny cut.

“Voices?”

Ghost rolls his eyes. “Yeah, voices. Like the angel-devil on my shoulder shit.”

“Are they literal voices?” Grace asks, which should be the first clue. But Ghost continues on, oblivious. Maybe it’s willful ignorance, maybe he’s just not on the lookout for traps, but the admission slips out easily.

“Yeah.”

“Ghost, are these ‘inner voices’ yours? Or do they tend to have different tones and accents and such?”

Ghost’s eyes widen. It clicks together in his brain before he feels it short-circuit. Everyone’s got a voice in their head, that’s normal. People always talk about the way your conscience speaks with itself, which means there have to be at least two voices. And sure, Ghost can have a few more than that, but his is like…a conscience conference. It’s normal. He’s normal. (Of course he fucking isn’t. Idiot, idiot, idiot.)

“I don’t understand.”

“It seems to me that these other personalities that we may have come into contact with might actually be able to slip past the barriers you have between you.”

“I would know,” Ghost says, clinging onto straws. Because surely he’d know. He’d fucking know if he’d been crazy for that long. He’s always had the voices. Always. They’ve been there since he was a kid. He can’t have been crazy that long, he just can’t have been.

“DID develops in children. It might be that some of these voices have been around a long time.”

“That’s not- I’m not that fucking crazy. I’ve only been forgetting stuff recently.”

“Are you sure?”

The urge to laugh comes unbidden, a sudden shock of nerves that translates into spasms. It’s not humorous. It feels manic in its intensity, like the only way he can get through it is by clutching the balaclava and letting the laughter run its course. Like tears, it doesn’t stop once it’s started. Grace is moving around him, though Ghost isn’t sure what she’s doing. Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, a small comfort in an otherwise flickering world. It takes him a moment to realise it’s not Grace’s hand but Soap’s.

And Ghost, against every instinct he has, flings himself into Soap’s chest and laughs until he can’t breathe anymore. He laughs as Soap’s arms come around him. Laughs as Soap whispers ‘it’s okay’ into the top of his mask. Laughs as Soap stiltedly rubs his back, like it’s the first time he’s ever had to do this for someone. Probably is. SAS men don’t have a tendency to start crying (or fucking laughing like a cartoon villain), even when they’re sunk in a metre of mud, haven’t eaten for days and are suffering from probable malaria.

The laughter wears off slowly into choked huffs. His brain is swimming from oxygen deprivation and his body feels like it’s been through the wringer, but he doesn’t care when he can bury himself in Soap’s chest, ignoring the already creeping shame. If this is the last time he gets this, he’s going to make the most of it. “I’m fucking insane,” he whispers into Soap’s t-shirt, the words steaming in his mask.

“No you’re not.”

Ghost snorts and burrows further so all he can see is darkness. It’s just Soap’s warmth and smell and the short-lived comfort of another human body. Ghost hates that he needs it. Hates that he even wants it. Something in him wants to shrug this off and pretend it never happened, whilst another part (not him? Jesus fucking Christ) wants to stay like this forever.

“What do you call this then?” Ghost says.

Soap has nothing to say to that. It’s as much proof as Ghost needs.

“You have a condition,” Grace interrupts, just as Ghost feels like the spiral is getting going. “You are not insane.”

“I’ve got a condition that makes me insane. Stop fucking speaking around it.” Wishing to do anything but, Ghost peels back from Soap’s chest, unbelievably grateful for what the mask hides. “I’m falling apart at the fucking seams. It wasn’t like this before. Since I started speaking to you it’s like everything’s gone to shit.” The anger bubbles faster than Ghost can tamper it down. He feels like he’s been taken on his own emotional rollercoaster and all he can do is grip the handrail and hope that he doesn’t hit someone on the tracks.

“What the fuck are you for, huh?” Ghost shouts. “To make it get worse? To give me pretty fucking words to hide the fact that I’ve gone utterly mental? You know, they couldn’t even break me when they fucking tortured me. That’s why they tried to kill me, did you know that? They buried me alive because they couldn’t make me do what they wanted. And look at me now? Doesn’t even fucking take pain. A few sessions of therapy and I’m fucked. I’ve lost it. Officially fucking lost it.”

“Ghost-”

“Shut the fuck up, Soap.” Ghost stands up and starts to go for Grace but Soap is already in his way, hand on his chest.

“Ghost, don’t.”

“She’s fucking done this to me,” Ghost growls. “This is on her.”

“No, it’s not. Fuck,” Soap hisses, pushing forward further so they’re chest-to-chest, Soap’s hand between them. “I know this hurts. And I can’t say I understand what’s going on but you need her. Because you can get better. You can.”

“You’re having a laugh.” But Ghost isn’t moving. All he can think about is the contact on his chest, the burning heat of Johnny’s hand.

“I’m not. You gotta listen to me. You said you trusted me more than yourself, right? Then trust me.”

The fight leaves him quickly. He doesn’t even understand where it’s coming from. Sudden and volatile, like an explosion inside him. The anger still brews in the back of his mind. But he will trust Soap with this. He will. Because he really does trust Soap more than himself right now. If he can’t trust his own mind, he’s just going to have to let someone else take the reins for a while.

This isn’t the field. He’s always the one he trusts the most out there. But not here. Not when his brain is this fucking scrambled. Right now, Soap is mission commander, and Ghost is the private who can barely pull his trousers up right.

“Maybe we should talk about this tomorrow,” Grace sighs. She looks scared, no longer the confident therapist she’s been since the beginning. Ghost did that to her. Fuckin’ell.

“Yeah,” Ghost says.

“Can you look after him tonight, Soap? I don’t want him to be alone.”

“Will do,” Soap says with a forced smile.

With that, it’s just the two of them.

They get ready for bed in silence. Neither of them makes any word of Ghost leaving, so Soap just puts his spare pillow on the floor and apologises for the lack of better accommodations. Ghost doesn’t care. He’s slept on worse.

They don’t talk about it. In fact, they wilfully avoid it. Soap is treading on eggshells and Ghost is too trapped in his own mind to care. It’s only once they’re both lying down, Ghost staring into the abyss underneath Soap’s bed, that Ghost feels brave enough to speak. “She says I might have multiple personality disorder.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. That’s why I keep forgetting things. Someone else comes out. Or something like that.”

Soap peers over the edge of the bed, eyes barely glimmering in the dim light coming through the shades. “You alright?”

Ghost snorts. “Not in a million fucking years.”

Soap sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Then, “I didn’t actually expect you to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Kill me.”

Soap is silent for a moment. “Then why’d you ask?”

Ghost doesn’t have an answer for that.

Ghost waits, but Soap doesn’t say anything. A talkative man reduced to nothing.

“Grace wants me to write a letter,” he finally says. “For one of them to read.”

“You think you will?”

Ghost rolls onto his back and stares at the silhouette of the room and ignores the way the dark corners make the back of his neck prickle. “I don’t like not knowing things.”

“I can help. If you want.”

Ghost looks back up at Soap, scouring the darkness to make out the lump on the mattress. “Thought you hated me.”

Soap sighs and Ghost can hear the rustle of sheets moving. “I don’t hate you. I was angry, sure, but you know, this explains a lot. I think. I dunno. It’s complicated, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Complicated’s one word for it.”

“You were a right bastard but I’m not gonna hold it against ye, okay? I’m here for you. You know, Price has me pretty much side-lined for a while. Says I’m too distracted anyway. He’s sending a lot of the auxiliaries out instead. We’ll all be here for you, at least for a little while.”

“You shouldn’t have to be here for me.”

“Yeah, but we wanna be. And it’s not just for you. I’ve been real distracted. Probably not safe until I get my head back on straight,” Soap admits.

“We’re soldiers. Soldiers don’t get distracted.”

“They’re not supposed to, sure.” Soap starts tapping at the wall, unable to sit still for longer than five minutes. His neighbour must hate it. “Doesn’t change reality though, does it?”

“Guess not.”

“Look,” Soap sighs, fingers tapping faster and faster by the minute, “whatever’s going on, I’m here. That’s all I want to say. And just, fuck, I didnae think I’d have to say this but don’t kill yourself, Simon. Please. We need you.”

“What for? ’S not like I’ll be allowed on the field anymore.”

The tapping stops. “Yeah, and that’s not why we need you. You’re my friend. My best friend, probably. And I don’t know how much of that you remember or whatever, but I don’t care which person I’m talking to or however it works, you’re still gonna be my best friend.”

To his dying day, Ghost will deny the tears that well up in his eyes. Instead, he says, “You turning sappy on me, Sergeant?”

“Yeah, for you I might be.”

“Jesus Christ. The sincerity is going to kill me,” Ghost says instead of Thank you, or You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in decades, or I love you.

Soap snorts a laugh as the sheets rustle again. “Ah, I’ll lay off then. Gotta keep you alive, don’t I? Doctor’s orders.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Soap laughs, sharp and bright. “Guess I’ll just go to sleep then, ya daftie. Sleep well.”

“You too.”

And Ghost can’t deny for the first time that day, he doesn’t feel like the world is going to crush him.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t look happy. Though It doesn’t tend to look like anything most of the time. Getting a rise out of them is like trying to get a rise out of a goldfish. It sits there, in its pristine bloody suit behind its pristine bloody desk, nose upturned like it wasn’t the ones to ask Sam to come over.

“Your plan is not working,” It says, swirling black gaze locked on Sam. Its eyes are like hell pits, an endless abyss that Sam can’t look at for longer than a moment. He feels like a coward turning away regardless.

“It is not my plan,” Sam grits out, eyes drifting to the left. “This wasn’t my choice.”

“And yet, you were the one to ask me to stay out of it,” It says, his poncy fucking accent grating on Sam’s already fragile nerves.

“I asked you to stay out of it after it all went to shit, you know that. James had already fucked it. There was no way Ghost wasn’t going to question it.”

“James is your responsibility,” It reminds.

“No one here is my responsibility,” Sam argues, flushing red. “James is responsible for himself, all I asked of him was to keep things covert.”

“And you failed. And now I must intervene.”

“You don’t-”

“But I do,” It says, black smoke curling out of their eye sockets, caressing deathly pale skin. “Yesterday was a disaster of unbelievable proportions. Your inability to quell the others, protect Ghost or take the correct actions when faced with a stressful scenario is beyond inept.”

Sam gapes, heart thudding in his chest. He wants to scream, to lash out but all he finds within himself is a guilty emptiness. As much as he hates it, they’re right. Sam had fucked up, royally, and Ghost could have ended the body because Sam had been so overwhelmed that he had run away rather than plant his feet.

“Nothing to say for yourself? Alright then, I guess we shall move straight to business. Ghost is a risk right now, more so than Simon ever was. You need to take responsibility for that. Keep him calm, tell him what he needs to know and nothing more.”

“Got it,” Sam says weakly, cursing his own cowardice.

“Good. In the meantime, I will try and sort out the mess that’s happening internally. But unfortunately, some of them have already broken through my boundaries, and I don’t expect I can get them back.”

Sam almost laughs. It looks at Sam like that for failing on the outside when they are equally failing on the inside. The system is falling apart and It has the gall to look like they’re on top of things. Nothing’s going to change if they don’t change. But It never will. Ethereal, arrogant, rational It.

Maybe it’s on Sam to be the one to change. Trusting no one got them to this point. Maybe it’s finally time to believe that others can help, that others won’t take advantage and ruin them again.

“Guess we’ll both just do what we can. I’ll talk to Grace.”

It rolls their eyes. “I understand that you believe therapy is the way forwards but do be cautious. Trust is to be extended to those that are safe.”

“Grace is safe,” Sam exerts.

“And how do you know?” It sighs and shuffles around some papers on its desk. “You are too trusting Sam. You know what happens to us if we are too trusting.”

Sam does know, in an abstract sort of way. He knows the endless betrayals that have trailed after them, the friends that have turned their backs. But none of them were like now. Back then, they’d been too desperate for companionship, for leadership, for love. This is different. They weren’t the ones reaching out for it this time; this time, it found them.

“I want us safe. Same as you.” Sam sighs, wiping his hands down his face. “I’m not trying to work against you here.”

“And yet you continue to do so anyway,” It says with a smarmy smile. They wave their hand at Sam. “Go. I need you at the front to sort this mess out. I’ve got my own things to organise.”

— [redacted] —

Sam wakes up freezing. It takes him three seconds to take stock when it dawns on him that this is Soap’s room. He can see the man’s jacket hanging on the back of the door and there’s a whistling sort of breathing above him. The watch lying on the bedside table shows it’s barely the early hours of the morning. He’s exhausted, but not dangerously so. Sleeping on the floor isn’t good for anyone. He’s used to having the padding of the gear, no matter how much it digs into all the wrong places and the feeling of ice-cold concrete on bare skin makes him shudder.

He gets up quietly, prepared to dart back to their room and try to get all of this under control. But Soap is already tossing onto his front, a strip of sunlight hitting his eye. Sam chuckles lowly as Soap winces, holding his hand up to block the light. Then his eyes land on Sam.

Sam doesn’t know what to do.

Last time he’d been near the front, they’d asked Soap to kill him. Now, he’s been sleeping on what is presumably Soap’s floor. Sam winces. Last time Sam had control, he’d run away and nearly gotten them killed.

Soap looks gentle, still stuck in a half-awake fog.

Sam doesn’t know what happened after he’d left last night but given that he has a pillow, Sam doesn’t think they made it any worse. Maybe Ghost even managed to repair things slightly.

“Morning,” Sam grunts in his best Ghost impression. It’s not like it’s far off his own, but it does take some effort to sound like he’s been chain-smoking for the last twenty years.

“Hey,” Soap says, cracking his back and stretching his arms up to the ceiling. “You sleep alright?” He asks, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Sam has never felt more awake.

“Fine.”

Soap frowns. “Are you alright?”

“Fucking dandy. Get off my back.”

Soap is squinting now, which is about as unsettling as Soap just outright saying that he’s being off. But Sam doesn’t know how to fix it. Is he supposed to be nicer? Friendlier? God forbid, romantic? Or, fuck, worse. How can he get any worse?

Soap knows about the others, Sam knows he knows, and yet he still can’t let the mask down. Like there’s something inside him screaming to hide. To protect themselves.

“What? Why the fuck are you staring at me like that?” Sam tries.

Soap winces, then asks, “Can I say something mad?”

“Spit it out, Sergeant.”

“Are you Ghost?”

“What?” The fight or flight reflex burns. Yet he can’t move. He’s frozen, boots stuck on concrete, eyes wide with this godawful mask making his skin itch.

“It’s just- you know what, forget it. It’s mad. I’m going fucking barmy.”

He’s not. Sam knows. And deep down, Sam thinks Soap knows too. And now they’re stuck in this vicious cycle, where Soap doesn’t have the confidence to call him out, and Sam doesn’t have the guts to just trust him. To be honest with him.

In that moment, Sam curses Grace for being so obvious. For not letting them be the ones to reveal this in their own time. To save Soap the hassle of having to deal with all this.

He can feel some of the others lingering at the back of his mind, just scattered fragments. Sam is steady, calm, but they’re screaming. Some want to run, others fight, others get on their knees and spill it all out like confession. Sam has to fight through the noise just to figure out what he’s actually thinking.

“I need to go.” Sam tries to breathe but the fucking mask is suffocating him. He hates this thing, always has.

“Given yesterday, I really don’t think you should.”

Yesterday. God, Sam doesn’t need the reminder. There’d been a moment there where he was able to forget.

“I’m fine,” Sam says.

“I mean you’re clearly not,” Soap sighs. “Come on, it won’t hurt to stay a little longer. At least until you have to go see Grace.”

Sam scowls. He burns with anxiety, like a flame starting at his feet that’s spreading like wildfire. He needs time. Time to think. Time to plan. Time to explain. “Don’t you have a job to do?” Sam snaps.

Soap pauses and Sam immediately knows he’s said the wrong thing. “You don’t remember?” Soap asks.

“Remember what?”

“I’ve got time off. I told you last night.” Sam freezes, his body locking up. He’s locked in a battle of wills with Soap, neither one of them ready to back down.

“I didn’t forget,” Sam backpedals, inching towards the door. He doubts he can outrun Soap forever, but he can get out, get Ghost back out front, and this will all just be another nightmare to aggressively ignore.

Soap stands and takes a cautious step forward. “Do you remember anything from yesterday? I need you to tell me.”

Sam goes for the door but Soap is faster, throwing himself between Sam and the door with military precision. When the fuck did he learn to do that?

“Are you one of the other ones?” Soap asks, looking up at Sam with burning curiosity.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Soap’s eyes narrow. “Look, I’m gonna be straight up with you because I don’t have a fucking clue how all,” he circles his hand loosely at Sam, “this works. Right now, I don’t think you’re Ghost. I think you’re one of the other personalities in his head, and that you probably don’t trust me. Not even sure if you know what’s going on. But,” Soap takes a deep breath and pastes on a reassuring smile, “Ghost trusts me. You can too.”

The cacophony screams again, louder and louder. Sam can barely think. The only thing that clears the fog is Soap: the look of him, the smell of him, the day-old aftershave and scruffy stubble. However he feels about Soap, the body seems to trust him. Ghost does trust him. Sam probably should trust him, no matter how difficult that is. Betrayal has hunted their heels from childhood, but Soap is a pillar of stone, unshakeable. Sam’s had glimpses of him on the field, around base, in pubs and bars and shitty cafes, and he’s always had a steady resoluteness that his bright nature belies.

They’ve told Soap things before, even when Sam hadn’t wanted them to. And what had Soap done? He’d kept it quiet. In the end, James might have fucked everything up by telling Soap about their family, but he also might have been the catalyst for saving them.

Sam has a choice in front of him. To trust or not to trust. To trust Ghost on whether to trust Soap. To trust his knowledge or his instinct. To trust that Soap might be the first person in their godforsaken lives that might not take advantage of an extended hand. To trust Soap to help them.

Standing there, looking into Soap’s eyes, he makes his decision. Even when every single one of the voices screams at him not to, he trusts. Simply that. He trusts.

“Sorry,” Sam says, voice wavering.

Soap snorts. “Now I know you’re not him. Don’t think I’ve ever heard Ghost say the word sorry.”

Sam rolls his eyes but lets his shoulders drop and takes a step back, getting out of Soap’s space. He feels spacey with so many voices still talking but he’s good at shaking it off by now, focusing on Soap’s smile. “Well, he’s a bit of a grumpy bastard, isn’t he?”

“That he is.”

With the charade over, Sam reaches up for the balaclava, tugging it off with a relieved sigh.

“Woah!”

“I hate this thing,” Sam gripes, shoving it in his pocket. “It’s not like you haven’t seen the face. I’ll put it back on when I go.”

“You…don’t like it?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, don’t give me shit for it. It’s scratchy. I understand why we wear it but I don’t have to enjoy it. The hard shell has a softer lining, at least.”

Soap snorts. “You really aren’t him. This is mad.”

“Welcome to the freak show,” Sam says with a shrug. He grimaces when he feels someone in the back wince. Fuck. He shouldn’t have said that.

“Nah, you’re not a freak show. Just interesting, is all. So, what’s your name then?

“Sam.”

“Nice to meet you, Sam.” Soap smiles and Sam can’t help but smile back. He’s never…got to be himself, before. Not like this anyway. There’s always been a necessity to blend in, to make sure no one knows, to make sure that he’s Ghost or Simon or whoever they’re supposed to be in that moment. Sam’s been able to let go maybe a handful of times in his life. Mostly with strangers, the ones he knows he’ll never see again. Not like this. Soap is a friend. Their friend. It’s terrifying, and brilliant, and Sam almost slips back into the Ghost persona out of sheer instinct, but instead he crosses his arms, leans back, and says, “So, nothing else you talked about with Ghost then?”

“I mean, you seemed to remember the…event, but not after? I’m not sure what you heard.”

“Ah, right,” Sam says. “Yeah, I was around until Grace left, then I handed over to Ghost.”

“So you were the one talking to Grace?” Soap seems worried by the idea, which is sweet of him, but Sam shakes his head.

“No, I was just conscious for it.”

“How does that work?” Soap says, eyes glistening with curiosity. He looks sweet like this, like a kid who’s just found the one person who can answer their endless list of questions.

“Not really something I can explain well. Just think about is as Ghost controlling the body but me being able to see him do it. Like a movie, or something. Don’t worry about it. So, you going to tell me what happened?”

“Oh, right, sorry.” Soap burrows his hands into his pockets, swinging back onto his heels. “But yeah, uh, nothing much. “Got as much of an apology as you can ever get out of Ghost,” Soap says with a tremoring laugh. “Talked about writing you a letter. Told you — him — not to kill himself.”

Sam winces. “Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t think Jesus will help you now,” Soap jokes.

“Oh, you blasphemous bastard,” Sam says, but he’s laughing too. “Fuckin’ hell. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“You’re still here now,” Soap reassures, a comforting hand on his shoulder. It feels like being out on the field, with Soap as his CO, trying to get his mind back in the game. Sam feels a little ashamed at how much it works. He’s supposed to be the steady one, the one to bring the rest of them back, and here he is leaning into Soap’s hand like a touch-starved child. “You good?”

“I’m good,” Sam reassures, patting Soap’s hand and drawing back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Look, let’s not dwell on it. That’s for Ghost to sort out.”

“It’s my body.”

“And we’ll make sure he doesn’t try anything,” Soap says. “Promise. Jesus Christ, this is all a bit mental, isn’t it? Didn’t even realise the whole multiple personality disorder thing was real.”

“Dissociative identity disorder.”

“What?”

Sam smiles. “Multiple personality disorder’s an old term. It goes by DID now.”

“Right,” Soap drawls, though he looks amused. “How’d you find that out?”

“Google.”

Soap nods. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense. God, sorry, I cannae get over how weird it is to be talking to you. Like I said, we were talking about writing you a letter just last night. Now you’re here. He wanted my help to get it right.”

“I’d like that. Ghost writing, I mean.” Sam smiles. “It would be nice to understand him better.”

“I-” Soap cuts himself off. “Look, tell me if I’m pushing on something I shouldn’t be here but, like, how does this work? Like, you seem to know Ghost but he didn’t know you. Are there others? How come you’re so much calmer about all this? When do you come out? When do any of you come out?”

Sam looks down at him with raised eyebrows. “That’s a lot of questions.”

Soap huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well, I had a whole night to think of them. Can we sit down? I don’t know how the whole changing thing works but it’s probably best if you’re here when Ghost comes back. We can have a proper chat in the meantime.” It makes sense. Sam knows the disorientation of waking up somewhere with no idea how he got there. Still, he hesitates. Soap stares up at him with an unravelling smile, and Sam worries that he’s just going to spill it all then and there. He needs to be careful, though. Soap needs to know only what needs to be passed onto Ghost. Ghost is terrified enough without having to get news second-hand from Soap of all people.

“Come on, I don’t bite,” Soap jokes.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Sam says, much to Soap’s amusement. Finally, he sits on the bed, making sure there is a sizeable gap between them. It’s safe, he knows it’s safe, but that doesn’t mean he necessarily believes it.

“Okay. So, uh, there’s a lot to ask. I guess, tell me what you can?”

“Always so smooth,” Sam drawls.

“Och aye! Yer a bastard, you know. Glad to see you and Ghost are nay so different after all.”

“Going Scottish on me, MacTavish.”

“Oh, fuck you too,” Soap gripes, a wide smile on his face. “Pardon me for tryin’a be careful about all this.”

“Nah, it’s nice of you. I don’t mind the questions, but some of the others might.”

Soap nods, leaning forward like an eager student. “Like who?”

“Ghost doesn’t like prying, I don’t think. The others, I don’t know. It’s just…some of them aren’t so great, mentally, I’d be careful with them.”

“So you know some of the others?”

Sam shakes his head, brows furrowed. “It’s not like that. I just- I…hover over their shoulder. See what they’re doing, that sort of thing. Believe me, I know it sounds mad. But I can get a bit of a grasp on some of them. I don’t know their names for the most part but I can sometimes pick certain things up. One’s female, I think. And there’s a scared kid rattling about somewhere, poor guy.”

“A woman?!” Soap squawks. “A kid?”

“Yeah. Google said people have all sorts of alters.”

“They’re called alters? The different people in your head?”

Sam shrugs. “You can think of it like that if you want, yeah. I don’t know. Grace is probably the useful one here, though I doubt she’s had experience with DID before.”

“Shit,” Soap mutters, boring a hole into the side of Sam’s head, like he’ll somehow be able to see inside his brain and find the others lingering there.

He doesn’t. He never could. But he almost asks enough questions to make up for it. A stream that Sam mostly can’t answer, if only for Ghost’s sake. But there are even a few that Sam doesn’t know the answer to. Maybe he needs to get on their laptop again; the more he knows about DID, the better.

Grace can keep holding back on a diagnosis but Sam knows what this is. The others may deny it but he can’t explain this away, not without admitting that he doesn’t exist at all. He can’t even fathom the idea.

The familiar spacey feeling comes when Soap’s rambling on about something to do with films. Sam fucking hates this bit. It feels like he’s losing reality altogether, except for the throbbing drumbeat in his temples, and the dizzying nausea that comes with the odd feeling of floating.

He wonders if It’s trying to drag him back, or whether this is Ghost fighting for the front. Maybe both. He just knows that there’s this pressure in his head, like it’s going to explode any moment. It doesn’t feel like a natural switch at all.

“Shit,” he murmurs behind a cloud of fog.

“Sam? Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he mutters. “Just feeling…out…of it. Fuck. I was gonna write something to Ghost again.”

There’s some small clattering and then there’s a pen being shoved into his hand and a small leather-bound journal. Soap’s. This is Soap’s journal. Sam’s heart shines for a moment, the reality of leather in his hands a tether for just a bit longer. “Okay, right,” he says, taking in a deep breath. “Uh, can you tell him I was here? That I’d like to talk to him more. That I’d like to have a letter.”

“Of course,” Soap says. “I’ll pass on the message.”

Sam nods and desperately tries to focus on the words. It doesn’t feel real, the world feels like a dream but he manages to scribble down a few lines before, like always, he’s gone.

— [redacted] —

Ghost wakes up in pain. It’s not unusual, not in this line of work. But it’s an unfamiliar throbbing in his head, rather than the usual aches that confuse him. He brings a hand to his head, digging into his temples like it might somehow relieve the pressure, and catalogues his body. He’s sitting up, he realises, on a traditional barracks mattress, a plush duvet under his hand again. And, in the other, a leather-bound journal. Soap’s.

He blinks and looks up, only to see Soap staring at him, eyes wide. “Huh?”

“Ghost?” Soap asks, throwing him an unconvincing smile.

“What happened?”

“Uh, maybe read the note. That might help.”

Confused, Ghost looks back at the journal in his hands and sees that the pages aren’t as blank as he’d first thought. No, there are four messily scrawled lines at the top.

Ghost, this is Sam. I’ve talked to Soap this morning. He can tell you what we talked about. Looking forward to hearing from you. Sorry for all of this.

P.S Don’t kill yourself

Ghost’s stomach drops, and suddenly the nausea feels so much worse. But he doesn’t move. Instead, he rereads the words on the paper. ‘Don’t kill yourself’. Don’t fucking kill yourself. Ghost wants to cry or laugh or scream. He wants to do anything to get this feeling out. If he doesn’t, he’s going to explode.

“Ghost?”

“That’s not my handwriting.” He’d noticed last time, obviously, but he hadn’t been paying attention. Now it feels like another slap in the face. Ghost’s handwriting is a little girly, in all honesty, cramped and round. This is a loose scrawl, the sort of writing an officer would berate you for before they all got saved by the invention of online forms.

This is, rather distinctly, Sam’s handwriting.

“What did he say to you?” Ghost asks, not once looking up from the journal. He almost wants to turn the page, so they can dig into Soap’s brain instead of his own, but he’s not that sort of cruel. He trusts Soap, and he wants Soap to trust him too. He needs, more than anything, for that to trust to be unbreakable. Because if Soap and Price are the only people outside of his therapist to know about all this, then they’re a loose end that Ghost can’t control. Trust is the only thing he has left.

He gets up, anything to feel like he’s getting away, and sits at the desk instead. He can still hear Soap breathing, smell the faint smell of his godawful aftershave, but it feels distant, like a mere metre can make up a mile.

“Not much. Told me he’s called Sam, that he’d like to hear from you, know more about you. That he knows a few of the other…alters. Apparently, that’s what they’re called, the other personalities. He’s been googling.”

Ghost’s been too much of a coward to use Google. Like if he looks it up, it’ll just confirm every bad thing he knows about his fucked up head.

“Okay.” Ghost snaps the notebook shut and puts it on Soap’s desk, keeping his back to Soap. If he looks at him now, he’s worried he’s going to crack. At least the mask-

Ghost’s hand flies up to his face. “What the fuck?” He mutters, shoving his hand into his pocket and ripping out the balaclava. He tugs it on with a desperation that must look weak, but Ghost can’t bring himself to care. He needs the mask. He is the mask. Taking it off feels like ripping off his own skin.

“Sorry,” Soap says, though how it’s his fault, Ghost doesn’t know. “Apparently Sam doesn’t like it.” Ghost scowls, wondering how the hell he’s supposed to be able to lash out at a figment of his imagination. “Says it’s scratchy.” Then, “He wasn’t going to keep it off. Just in the room. He said he knows why you wear it.”

Ghost releases a breath, clawing at his shoulder in some desperate attempt at release. His head still hurts, though the nausea is starting to pass if he doesn’t focus on it too much. It’s making him antsier than he wants to be. He wants to treat this like a field mission, like enough force of will means he can ignore it, but harboured in the safety of Soap’s room, he can’t find it within himself. All he feels is everlasting exhaustion.

He slumps onto the desk, eyes trailing Soap as he gets off the bed and approaches Ghost. One step at a time, arms out like he’s cornering a wild animal. Ghost hates how much he appreciates it.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do, Soap?” He’s weak. Weak. A fucking coward who can’t even pull himself together.

“Talk to Grace, probably. Write to Sam. Maybe look some stuff up. I- I can look it up, if you want, whilst you’re writing. Internet’s a bastard. I can try and sift out some of the shit.”

Ghost sighs (coward, coward, coward) and nods. “That would be useful.”

“Got your back, you know that.”

Soap slowly leads him back to the bed, hands gentle where Ghost’s feel on the edge of violence. Sets him down with more care than Ghost has felt before. Ghost clutches the duvet again, squeezing it so tight he can still feel his nails through it. “It says not to kill myself,” Ghost says, nodding at the notebook.

Soap sits next to him with a bittersweet smile. “He’s right. You shouldn’t.”

Ghost snorts. “Sure.” He waits and tries to find the words when his mind feels like an empty wasteland. He settles on, “I shouldn’t have said any of that to you. I don’t actually want to die.”

“Then why did you ask me to?” It’s the same question Soap keeps asking. But the thing is, Ghost still doesn’t fucking know. No, no, he does know. It’s just that saying it aloud feels like a fate worse than death. But he’s not a coward, he can’t be. Ghost swallows thickly and pushes further to his right, just enough so that his thigh is brushing Soap’s and says, “This will sound bad.”

“Say it anyway.”

Ghost looks down at him, sees the way Soap’s eyes look at him with more kindness than he deserves, and lets himself speak. “The voices wanted me to do it. Some of them, anyway. And I already said it. I trust you with my life. And my death. I panicked. My head got fucked up. You seemed like the most obvious option if I couldn’t do it myself. I…shouldn’t have, I know that, but it didn’t feel like that in the moment.”

Soap smiles. “Okay. You know, all this therapy stuff is making you better at this talking stuff. Don’t think I’ve ever heard you string so many words together before.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Ghost says, but he’s smiling now too. But almost as soon as it’s there, it’s gone again. “I don’t want you to have to deal with all this.”

“Yeah, but I want to. No getting rid of me now.”

Ghost raises an eyebrow. “Was there ever any getting rid of you?”

“Nope,” Soap says, popping the p. “You’ve been stuck with me since Hassan.”

They sit there for a few moments, a comfortable silence settling in the room. Soap doesn’t try to fill it with his usual noise, just presses his thigh further into Ghost’s and lets the time pass. Ghost doesn’t feel like he’s drifting, for once. The silence is everywhere, inside and out, and he can finally just let a minute pass without feeling sick to the stomach.

“Last night,” he finally says, “you called Price.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. That’s not why I’m bringing it up. But…” Ghost doesn’t know how to say this. He trusts Price with a lot, but the man also has the emotional intelligence of a brick sometimes. Ghost doubts Price has dealt with this well. “What did he say?”

“He seemed shocked. A little stressed. Tried to get you out of your head but couldn’t. When Grace came, he had to go back to his office. Intel’s coming in left and right, he hasn’t left his office in days.”

Ghost nods, the knot in his stomach unravelling enough for him to breathe. “I’ll have to talk to him at some point.”

“He’ll come to you. You know how he is.”

Another nod. “I don’t like him seeing me like this.”

“He understands. As good as he can, anyway,” Soap reassures, “we all do.”

But they never will. They’ll never truly know. Soldiers get PTSD, they all know that, like a distant fact that they don’t have to touch. Normal soldiers get PTSD. The weak ones get PTSD. Not only are they SAS, they’re 141. Untouchable, unkillable, dangerous. Men incapable of getting sidelined by injury, never mind a break in their mind. They keep going until they’re dead.

And here Ghost is. Undead, dying, weak.

Price is the strongest man he knows, immovable, a flag planted in the concrete. A man without scruples, with a moral code that adjusts to the enemy’s rather than his own. No fear to do what he thinks needs to be done, even if no one else sees it. Mental, sometimes, but more than capable.

He is what Ghost is supposed to be, even maybe was. But you don’t see him having breakdowns, or asking his friend to kill them, or going to fucking therapy. Price is never going to understand. Frankly, it’s a shock Price has even given the time of day, rather than ship him off to a safe house in the middle of nowhere and forget about him.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to him.”

“I don’t think there’s a ‘supposed’ to, in this situation. Just talk to him. He won’t hold it against you.”

Ghost nods, clutching the bedspread. “I want to write that letter,” he says, when thinking of Price brings him more agony than he can cope with. “To the other one. Sam.”

“You want help?”

“I’d appreciate it, Sergeant.”

Soap smiles and squeezes Ghost’s leg. He almost jolts. But Soap’s never been afraid to reach out. And where Ghost would have hit anyone else for even trying, he can’t help but relish in the small point of warmth. “Whatever you need, LT. Anytime.”

“You’ll regret saying that.”

Soap’s smile is sad, buried under the weight of what he’s admitting. “No I won’t. Never.”

“Stubborn bastard.”

“Your stubborn bastard,” Soap teases, knocking their elbows together. “I meant what I said. There’s no getting rid of me now.”

“God save us all.”

Chapter Text

“This is just a formality that has to be done.” Grace seems apologetic, at least, but Ghost has no doubt that this is more than a mere formality. He tried to kill himself. There’s a chance he’ll try again. They need to know whether he will.

The form in front of him is taunting, a whole bunch of boxes and lines and more pages than he’d like to think about. “I need you to really think about this Ghost. We do not want a repeat of what happened. Not if I can help it.”

Ghost nods and looks down at the page.

Question 1: What do you feel are the warning signs that a crisis may be developing?

Great. Fucking great. Ghost already knew what this was going to be like. Fucking shit.

He almost throws the pen across the room and forsakes the whole goddamn thing. He doesn’t. He just stares at the page, his mind retreating into itself. He knows the signs but he lets it. Let one of the others fucking do it. They’re half the reason he wants to kill himself anyway. They can fucking deal with the consequences.

(He doesn’t mean that. He’s scared of losing control. So, so scared.)

He scribbles down a weak answer that doesn’t even begin to cover the full extent of his warning signs (you’re lying: you liar, liar, liar). But what do they want from him? He was a soldier. Death is a part of him. How do you know that you’re going to feel suicidal when your job is practically a death wish in itself? His baseline is suicidal.

He thinks about death regularly, he has to. He’s faced with it on every mission, in every planning session and in every meeting. It’s a part of him by now. Ghost is death. But he knows if he writes that, they’re going to think that he’s fucked. They already do. But it feels safer to pretend he isn’t in writing. Grace can know, she always knows, but he doesn’t need it down on record. The Ghost shouldn’t leave records at all.

He holds the pen over the next question without reading it. He doesn’t know how to bring the others out but he knows how to get the fuck out himself. How to float like he’s a real ghost. It feels natural like this, to be unreal, to feel like the whole world is a dream and he was never born.

Fuck dying. How about never living at all?

— [redacted] —

“Ghost?”

Simon blinks, wincing at the bright lights. His head is throbbing and his eyes won’t clear. There’s something wrong here. Where is he? Where the fuck is this? Fuck, he can’t-

He can’t remember shit.

He looks back but it’s like his mind can only fixate on the worst moments. There are so many things, like a film reel flittering in front of his eyes. Oh god. He doesn’t want to see this. He doesn’t want to fucking see this. His breathing turns ragged. He’s distantly aware that he sounds like a dying animal, a quiet keen sounding between heavy pants. It’s fucking embarrassing.

“I need you to breathe with me,” the woman says. He doesn’t recognise her. She has kind eyes, though, soft and dim, the blue closer to grey. Her hair is let loose around her shoulders, softening an already round face. She doesn’t look like she could harm a fly.

Those are always the worst.

He follows orders, anyway. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s that, and he can’t see the benefit of any form of torture that asks him to breathe. If there’s gas in the room, she’s breathing it too. Unless she’s a decoy. She would be a good decoy.

“Okay, that’s it, just keep breathing.” Simon does as he’s told. He breathes until his lungs stop burning. His head is still pounding but it’s faded into a distant drumbeat now, he can work through it. He has to.

“Ghost, how are you feeling?”

“I-” Simon stops. He can’t trust her. She’s trying to get information. It only makes sense. He shakes his head, though he can’t remember the last time someone actually listened when he said no.

He expects a slap. Instead, she tucks away the paper on the desk and asks, “Oh, are you Sam?”

Simon doesn’t have a clue what he’s supposed to say to that. He’s not Sam. Or Ghost. Though he knows he’s gone by Ghost before. He thinks. It’s his callsign, right? Fuck, is it? His head hurts.

He nods anyway because it’s easier to go along with false information than to try and create your own lies. It’s a good tactic for interrogation. She must be pretty bad at her job to give such an obviously leading question for him to follow. If he didn’t feel like he was one second from just floating away, he’d try and make more of it.

“Great to see you again. You seem tired. Are you okay?”

Simon nods again. He’s so tired. He wants to go back to sleep again.

“I know these changes can be taxing sometimes. But don’t stress about it, okay? This is a safe space.”

Simon wants to laugh. Safe. Nowhere is safe. Simon can’t remember the last place that even pretended to be. They always get you eventually. Always.

(Where’s Alex? He wants Alex. He’s not safe without Alex.)

Simon musters another nod and manages to properly look at her. She’s still smiling, her false demeanour a cruel balm to the panic.

“Ghost wrote you a letter. Are you in a good enough space to read it?” Simon nods. He knows what happens when he says no. She leans down and opens a drawer. Simon half expects her to pull out a gun. Instead, she pulls out a single sheet of paper with sweat-soaked edges and ink bleeding through. She hands it over with a small and reassuring smile. Simon feels sick just looking at it.

He grabs at it and lets his eyes run over it. He doesn’t read it. The words just look like a jumble of indecipherable letters right now. When he thinks enough time has passed, he puts it back on the desk. He can’t bear to look at the woman anymore so he looks out the window instead. He looks to be in England, which is nice. He doesn’t know how he got here but at least it’s not the desert. If he has to look at the desert one more time-

“Do you want to write back?”

Simon’s head snaps up. He didn’t realise this was supposed to be a back-and-forth. The edge of panic rushes back in and his skin prickles. He picks at a thread on the couch, already loose, and continues to stare out into the trees. There are a lot of them, probably good for training. Is he on a military base? He must be. He can’t imagine they let him go home. Why is he here again? It’s all just a little…blurry.

I need you to step back.

He looks around but no one’s there. His body is primed for a fight, only to awkwardly let it go when he realises the door is still shut. The woman is looking worried now. She’s saying something but Simon can’t hear it through the cloister bells in his mind.

Simon, just step back.

“What?” He croaks. “What are you doing?”

“Sam? Can you explain what you’re experiencing?”

Simon shakes his head frantically, like an animal trying to wave off a fly. It doesn’t work. Stay quiet. Just come back.

“Shut up.”

“Sam?”

“Not you,” Simon spits, then wants to hit himself for being so fucking obvious. He’s cracked, he gets it, but she can’t know that. Is he going to have to kill her? He might.

You cannot kill her. Whatever you do, Simon, do not hurt her.

Simon feels spacey again. He doesn’t want to hurt her. Doesn’t the voice understand? They can’t let anyone know their weaknesses. They’re going to get hurt.

(Wait. Alex? Is that you?)

He turns his head to the window, eyes tracking nothing and everything.

“You’re not Sam, are you? Your accent’s changed.”

Simon sucks in a breath and continues to float. Reality isn’t what he wants now. He wants to go. Alex is right, he needs to go.

“Okay,” the woman breathes. “Sorry about that, I should be more careful. I’m Grace. I’m your therapist. Do you have a name?”

Simon looks at her. He can’t make out the features of her face anymore. It’s like she’s not even there. She probably isn’t. It isn’t the first time he’s had vivid hallucinations.

“I know this might be hard but I need you to trust me. I’m just here to help you.”

Simon shakes his head. That’s not true. It can’t be true. Simon doesn’t need help. He’s fine. He will be fine.

“Okay,” she sighs, “that’s fine. Don’t speak if you’re not comfortable with it. But a name would really help the others.”

Simon flinches. Others? Who are the others? Teammates? He doesn’t have teammates anymore. Who else could he be expected to help? He doesn’t understand.

“I’m going to explain some things to you. I don’t want you to be scared. There’s nothing scary about this.” She sounds calm. She’s lying, Simon knows she’s lying, but his body doesn’t want to believe it. She looks sweet, her voice gentle. It’s never made a difference before, but he wants it to. He wants to believe he’s safe. He’s not been safe in a long, long time.

“Have you ever heard of multiple personality disorder? From films or the like?” Distantly, Simon’s aware of it. He’s seen the films where people have evil personalities lingering in their minds, waiting to kill. The ones where the hosts panic like they’ve been possessed, desperately suppressing the monster inside. “Right now, there are a few other personalities I’ve been talking to. Two of them, actually. That’s who the letter is between. Right now, they’re trying to figure out a little more about all of you, and the more we can piece together the picture, the better.”

Simon stares blankly at her. Is he the monster inside? Or, god forbid, is the monster inside him? Simon doesn’t think anything can be worse than him. If it is…well, they’re all fucked then, aren’t they?

“That’s okay. You don’t need to speak. But are you okay with me telling them I met you?”

Simon just keeps staring. He still can’t see her face. There’s something on his face he realises. It’s making his peripherals dark.

“It would really help us.”

His hand drifts up to his face and pulls at the mask. It’s a balaclava, he realises. A thick one, ribbed, covering everything except a small area around his eyes. What is this?

“Do you not like the mask?”

He puts his hand down immediately and goes to stare at the window again. Eventually, even the green fades from view. For just a second, it feels like the headache's finally gone, and Simon is swept back under the waves.

— [redacted] —

“Ghost?”

Ghost blinks, wincing at the light. His head is throbbing as his eyes slowly clear. Grace is sitting in front of him, clicking her pen anxiously.

Something happened.

Oh, yeah, he fucked off, didn’t he.

“What happened?”

Grace smiles, practised to perfection. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Whilst you were filling out the sheet, you dissociated. Another alter came out. I think someone we haven’t met before.”

“You think?”

“He wouldn’t tell me a name. He wasn’t particularly cognisant at the time, but he did have quite a thick accent.”

“Accent?”

“Definitely somewhere up north. Given your background, probably Manchester. He barely said a few words, though. I wouldn’t know for sure.”

Ghost nods. The anxiety feels familiar now, a knot in his stomach instead of a boulder. Learning about more of them feels inevitable now, and curiosity is slowly taking the place of dread. Ghost is terrified of himself, terrified of what he might find, but he also needs to know. A mission needs intel, after all.

“This has brought up a concern for me, though. One that’s been on my mind for a while now,” Grace says, that stony smile still in place. “But I want to know that you are ready to discuss something that may be uncomfortable for you.”

His breath picks up a pace. “Just spit it out.”

“Not if you aren’t ready.”

Ghost scowls. “I’m ready.”

“Okay then.” Grace slides her notebook onto her lap and rearranges herself. “Right now, the best diagnosis I can give you is DID. OSDD is possible, though unlikely in this instance. I think the signs for DID are all there, and it’s certainly worth exploring. However, I do think that means you would benefit from talking to a dissociative specialist.”

Ghost frowns. “Explain.”

“Look, I came here on Price’s recommendation for having worked with a lot of soldiers. PTSD is my speciality when it comes to treatment and therapy. Dissociative disorders are not, and I feel that I’ve not been helping you in the way someone who knew more could. I wasn’t prepared for the fact that I wasn’t talking to Sam and that’s on me. But there are situations where it could have turned out a lot worse.”

The tight anxiety turns into fully-fledged panic in a heartbeat. “I don’t want to talk to someone else.”

“Ghost-”

“No. I won’t.”

Grace nods, biting her lip. “Why not?”

Ghost feels weak for having to admit it. To say that he can’t face extending his trust to one more person. To lose the one security blanket he’s got left. To have to face another stranger and tell them that he’s gone nuts.

“I trust you.”

“Do you struggle to trust people?”

Ghost scoffs. “What do you think?”

Grace’s smile is self-deprecating, but it feels like a brittle parallel of before. “I think you could get a lot better help from someone else. I’ll still be here. I’ve got other clients here, you can talk to me anytime, but getting a treatment plan from someone else would be really useful. I’m not here to sweep away your safety nets, I’m not leaving and I wish I didn’t have to refer you elsewhere, but it’s your best shot at really figuring this out. Right now, I can’t confidently give a diagnosis or make a good treatment plan. Even if we only bring someone else in to consult, you could make extraordinary leaps in your treatment compared to what I can give you.”

Ghost wants to be anywhere but here. He wants to be hearing anything but this, doing anything but sitting here and hearing the worst. He feels like every step crumbles from underneath him before he’s ready for the leap. It’s maddening.

“Ghost. I’m bringing this up now because this isn’t going to be some quick turnaround. I’ll talk to Price. Me and him can work on seeing who’s available. We’ll vet the options then talk them over with you. It’s not going to be fast, and we’ll still be having our sessions, I just want you to be prepared for a change. But I really hope you can see how much this will help you. But,” Grace says, leaning forward so she can lean down and catch Ghost’s gaze, “you know you can say no. Always. If you really do want to stay and talk to me then that’s fine, but I don’t think it’s the best course of action. Right now, I just want you to look at the options. If you don’t like the sound of them, we scrap the plan, that’s fine. But please just look.”

Ghost knows what she’s trying to do. To make it seem less daunting than it is. The sad fact is that it’s working. Maybe the ground isn’t crumbling as fast, and he can try and figure out the leap before it happens. Grace will still be here, now and afterwards. He can control the situation.

For once in his life, he can say no.

He doesn’t really know what to do with that.

“What’s on your mind?”

“I can say no?” He asks, feeling a little stupid for even having to ask. Normal people don’t have to ask these sorts of questions.

“Of course. Whenever. I know that soldiers struggle with this a lot. You’re used to orders and following them without question.” Ghost wants to laugh. Has she seen Soap? “But this isn’t the army. This is your life. And you can always say no. Always. That doesn’t mean I won’t sometimes push you out of your comfort zone but if I push a boundary too hard, you can say no. I’m sorry I didn’t establish that better earlier.”

Ghost shakes his head. She did establish it. She said is a part of her introduction when they first met but he just hadn’t listened. Now, it feels like she might actually be telling the truth. Ghost trusts her to stop, like he trusts his men to do what he says on the field, even Soap. And if she is a bit pushy at the boundaries, well, he’s been dealing with Soap for years now.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll say no if I need to.”

“And the specialists?”

“I’ll look at them.”

Grace smiles, probably her first real smile of the session. She seems genuinely relieved. “Great. I’m glad to hear that. I don’t think we should return to the list right now, not when it’s become an obvious trigger. We’ll tackle that in our next session. For now, well, I know the letter exchange didn’t go as planned, but I do think we should round this session with a discussion about how you want to continue with it going forward.”

— [redacted] —

There’s a brand new notebook on Ghost’s desk, open on the first page, only a quarter of it filled.

The first writes: This is Ghost. Grace (the therapist) wants you to write your names and/or any info about yourselves.

Then: Sam. I think some of you may know who I am. I’m looking forward to being able to communicate with you. It would be very helpful if you could put your names. Looking forward to learning about more of you. Thanks :)

Riley grabs a biro and, to the pounding pulse in his head, writes FUCK OFF in the biggest letters he can on the second page.

— [redacted] —

Soap stares down at the notebook with an amused quirk to his lips.

“This isn’t funny,” Ghost opines. “I’ve got a fucking mentalist in my head.”

“Honestly, looks a bit more like teen angst,” Soap says. “Sam said there might be a kid, maybe he’s just a bit older than we thought.”

Ghost grunts, snatching the notebook back and staring at the page from all angles. The handwriting is messy, but it’s hard to tell when the words have been written over so many times that it's more the type of writing you’d find in a horror film than a sane person’s notebook. “This plan is FUBAR.”

“No! Don’t say that. You learnt something about them, right? Not many people are the type to just write ‘FUCK OFF’ in big giant letters.”

“I’ve got a fucking psycho in here.”

Soap snorts. “Like we aren’t all a bit psycho. Come off it, it’s fine. Keep going with it, see what happens.”

“You’re a fucking pain in my arse,” Ghost says and throws the notebook at Soap’s head. Unfortunately, the man’s gone through enough training to shift just in time for it to hit his shoulder.

“Aye! Yer a wee fuckin’ bastard, you know that right. I’m gonna kill you.” Soap dives for Ghost and sends them crash-landing on the floor. And if they spend five minutes play-wrestling there like ten-year-olds, then no one needs to know.

— [redacted] —

Ashley wakes up in the shower, goosebumps up and down her arm, staring at that.

“Oh fuck,” she whispers before her hands fly to her throat. “Aaaaah.” Her voice is deep. Impossibly deep. Her body is male. Her body is fucking male and-

No, she knows this. Calm down. Calm down.

She shuts her eyes, it’s easier like that. The shower cubicle is tiny, wherever it is. It looks like she’s in a gym. Anyone could come up to her at any moment. Her eyes snap open and her heart pounds, even as blood rushes south.

She ignores the way she fills the cubicle and scrubs down perfunctorily. No one comes in or out. It’s just her. It must be late, she thinks, though this godforsaken room couldn’t even bother to put windows in. The room stinks of men and sweat, and the worst kind at that.

It reminds her of the cell.

She doesn’t like thinking about the cell.

She turns off the shower with a snap before gathering her towel. There’s an outfit lying out, and a mask above it. They’re hers, she knows they’re hers but it feels wrong to see them. For so long, Ashley hadn’t been allowed clothes, only whatever rags she still had on. These are clean, well-pressed and plain. Ashley’s pleased with the progress but she wonders whether she has enough freedom now to get something bright. She must be safe enough to do so. She’d never been allowed to shower alone back then, or have any privacy at all. Unless it’s an elaborate trick. But Roba never really bothered with being elaborate. He was always just there, or one of his lackeys was, and Ashley did well to do her part until they left.

She tugs on the trousers, ignoring the sight of all that and slips on a t-shirt and the mask. She doesn’t know why it’s there but she must have left it out for a reason. It’d be stranger to carry it. Maybe she needs to keep her identity a secret so Roba can’t get her again.

Or Roba wants her to hide her face. Maybe it’s too ugly to look at any longer.

She can’t find out where she is unless she leaves, though. She tugs the final layers on and makes her way outside, scanning down long blank corridors. There’s no one about, but there is a window. It’s pitch black out.

Why is she showering so late?

Where is she?

She ignores the prickle of fear. It’s not the first time she’s woken up not knowing how she got to a place. She’s forgettable like that. But it’s something she’s used to. She’s gotten good at blending in. Copying accents and smiles and doing her best to fit in wherever she ends up.

She wanders around, unsure where she’s heading. From what she can grasp, it’s some sort of military base. She’s found the running track, the armoury and seen more than one camo-patterned Jeep. If it's not a military base, someone really likes camo.

When she gets bored of snooping, she finds her way to a small picnic bench outside a fire door. It’s quiet out here, and the small green light above the door creates a strange sort of midnight ambience. For once, she lets herself relax. She takes in a deep breath, relishes the night air, and slumps over, chin balanced on her hands so she can stare at the moonlight’s reflection on distant trees.

Ashley doesn’t often feel comfortable in her body. It’s wrong in almost every way. But times like this she at least feels a little more settled. She can forget for just a moment that she’s probably a chronic amnesiac living in the wrong body. It’s just like Memento, she reminds herself; forgetting stuff can be cool, if a little fucked up.

It’s just a shame she seems to remember all the worst things. She wants to remember things like this, or the passage of a good book, or what the sky looks like at sunset. She wants the only moments she knows to be peace.

“Ghost, you out here?” A man’s voice, Scottish, still hidden in the shadows. Ashley doesn’t know anyone Scottish. Mostly, the accents she hears are Mexican, or American, though she knows at least one of her fellow prisoners was British. She never got to speak to them much. The Hotel Guys have all been English, though, so there’s that.

And who the fuck is Ghost? She knows her actual name is Simon — Ashley is something she chose for herself — but Ghost? What kind of psycho calls themselves Ghost?

Ashley doesn’t say anything. Eventually, the man steps into the small pool of light by the door. He’s funny looking. His t-shirt is a size too small and he’s wearing camo trousers. Probably a soldier, or at least another camo fanatic. But the mohawk. Surely someone has told him that it isn’t a good look. It makes you look like a dick. Then again, he pulls it off well. Shockingly well, really. He’s good-looking, though she’s sure the dim light is doing him many favours. It always does.

“Oh, so you are here. Stop ignoring me, ya cunt.” Whoever the man is, he seems comfortable with her. He takes the seat right next to her, legs brushing. She doesn’t move away, unsure of how to approach this. It makes her skin prickle. Nothing new there.

She nods slowly and turns back out to the skyline. There’s not much to see here but the silhouette of trees and the rolling fields that pass them. But it’s a nice sort of emptiness. It’s different in the desert. You feel like you could go for miles and find nothing. Here, there’s a safety in the cover, in the slightly different shades of each field. It must be Scotland, she thinks. Scotland’s bucolic, and has plenty of Scots hanging about it.

“Silent treatment, ay? Fair enough. Look, I’m sorry about taking the piss earlier. I know this shit is hard.” He looks awkward. Very military man of him. Ashley almost wants to laugh. It looks like the very idea of admitting his feelings is going to kill him. Fuck war, feelings will be the death of them all.

She smiles at him before remembering that the mask probably hides it so she pulls it up to her nose. They seem like friends and whilst there’s a compulsion to keep it on, it feels wrong to hide behind it.

“Ghost?” Soap asks, looking worryingly at her mouth. Did she do something wrong? Then, his eyes narrow, and Ashley knows she’s definitely done something wrong. “Or…not Ghost?”

She freezes. What is she supposed to say? This is uncharted territory with an uncharted man who, for once in her life, isn’t trying to force himself on her or torture her or mess with her mind. He just seems like a friend, the sort she’d dreamt about in the dark windowless room in Roba’s basement. Maybe he’s not even real. Maybe none of this is. Given everything, it would make sense. For it all just to be a very pleasant dream.

“Okay, so not-Ghost. You got a name?”

“Simon,” she says. She doesn’t want to explain being Ashley right now. Especially not to a man who may be a friend or just a very interested stranger. “My name’s Simon.”

“Is that…American?”

Ashley frowns. Is it American? She’s never really thought about what she sounded like before. She’s never had to speak much, always happy to keep her mouth where it’s put.

She shrugs. Best to keep her mouth shut now. She’s always gotten into less trouble that way.

“Uh, okay. Fuck, um, I’m not really the most helpful person here. Do you know about the rest of them? Sam seemed to know.”

Ashley shakes her head slowly.

“Ah, right, okay then. Fuck. Um, you’ve got something called DID? I- ach, I forget what it stands for. But it’s like having multiple personalities in yer head. Or something. Guess you’re one of them.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I know. Bit mental. I mean not mental. Yer not mental! Just…it’s all a bit mad, right? Hard to digest.”

Ashley snorts. “Nice save, wise guy.”

“Oh, fuck off. You try explaining this shit!”

Ashley finally lets herself laugh. The man is nice. Nicer than most men she meets. She nudges closer to him, pushing their legs together. “So,” she drawls, “what’s your name?”

“Oh! Shit. I’m Soap. Or Johnny. Ghost calls me Johnny.”

Ashley doesn’t want to think about the multiple personality thing now. The whole idea of dwelling on it sounds awful. So instead she focuses on this Johnny, smiling wide. “Nice to meet ya, Johnny. Hope you don’t mind me calling you that, too.”

Johnny flushes, visible even in the darkness, and stammers out, “Not at all! No, that’s fine.”

Ashley leans closer, ’til she’s right up in Soap’s space, drawing swirling patterns up his chest with her index finger. “So, what’s a man like you do around here?” Soap bolts out of his seat, eyes wide but mouth clamped shut. For a man tripping over his own words just a minute ago, it feels like a statement loud and clear. “Sorry,” she says, “didn’t mean to scare you.”

Her stomach drops. Oh god, she scared him. She’s just like all the others. Johnny looks terrified, paralysed by fear, and she doesn’t know how to fix it or make it better because he’s just taken away the only way she knows how to.

There are hands touching her but they’re her hands, because she’s doing it now. Pushing too far. Seeing the nerves and smiling like it’s a treat and not a turn-off. Touching, touching, always touching-

“Breathe,” Johnny orders. He grabs her by her shoulders and spins her so they’re facing each other. Then Johnny falls to his knees and holds her knees, thumbs rubbing circles on the inside. It’s nice.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, tears flooding to her eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t do anything. It’s fine. That was on me. I shouldn’t have flown off the hook like that.”

“I’m sorry,” she wails, his words barely registering. Johnny gets up again and gathers her in his arms. Johnny’s smaller than this herculean body but she feels small in his arms anyway. It’s nice. It feels safe in here. “I didn’t mean to,” she repeats into his shirt, snivelling.

“You didnae do nothin’ wrong, Simon. It’s fine. I promise.”

As the tears dry up and she’s left a hiccoughing mess, she finally admits, “I’m not called Simon.”

“Eh?”

“I lied. I know it’s my actual name but I don’t like it.”

Johnny leans back, hands on her shoulders, thumbs still rubbing comforting circles into her skin. “What do you like then?”

“Ashley,” she murmurs. “I know, it’s silly.”

“It’s not,” Johnny says, eyes softening. “Sam said one of you could be a girl. Not saying Ashley’s necessarily a girl’s name, but-”

Ashley just nods again, burrowing her face into Johnny’s chest and staving off another bout of tears. He’s being so nice and kind and Ashley can’t remember a single instance of ever being treated like this without it leading to more, whether she wanted it to or not. Johnny doesn’t seem to want to, though, he’s made that clear. Ashley doesn’t know whether that’s a blessing or a curse.

“Hey, how about we get inside, eh? It’s getting pure fucking Baltic out here.”

Ashley nods, though the idea of letting Johnny go now is undesirable. But he slings a hand over her shoulder and drags her inside, taking them an unbelievably quick route back to where she started and into a room she doesn’t recognise.

“Is this your room?”

“Oh, no, this is yours. Ghost’s. All of yours. I dunno. We’re all still figuring this out, really.”

Ashley doesn’t want to think about this ‘Ghost’. “Can you stay? I won’t do anything…bad, I promise!”

Johnny’s smile is weak, pitying beyond what she can take. But when he says, “I’d never think you would. Of course I’ll stay,” she can’t help but rush back into his arms, ducking down so she can feel small again. “Gosh, yer a right hugger, aren’t you.” But when Ashley goes to pull away, he just tugs her right back in. “Wasn’t complaining. Ghost never hugs me, the bastard, I’m making the most of it while I still can.”

Eventually, her back aches too much to keep it up and she’s forced to pull away, though she keeps a hand clutched around Johnny’s arm. She finally gets a good look at the room. It’s neat, more like a hotel room than someone’s actual home, but at least it’s warm and clean. Ashley’s never had anywhere to live before that wasn’t a cell. She’s slept in hotels before, and other people’s beds, but never one she could call her own.

She rips off the balaclava and throws it on the bed. Johnny’s already watched her cry, it can’t really get any worse than that. Then, she sets about untying the one thousand laces and throwing the boots across the room.

“Well, the military discipline really goes with you, doesn’t it,” Johnny teases.

“So I’m a soldier?”

Johnny’s eyebrows climb. “Yeah, you are. You don’t remember?”

Ashley shrugs. “Not really. I don’t remember much. It’s all been a bit of a blur.” She’s not going to say more than that. Talking about it makes it real and right now, sequestered in this little room that is apparently hers, she finally feels like she might be living something good. No need to ruin it with reality. “Top and tail?” She asks as she climbs onto the bed. The trousers won’t be comfortable to sleep in but she can’t be bothered to rifle through drawers. She already feels a little spacey from all the crying and nothing sounds better than falling asleep right now. Johnny’ll protect her.

He huffs a laugh. “Nah, I’ll keep watch. You just sleep, alright?”

She grins and burrows under the covers. “Thanks, Johnny. You’re nice.”

“I’ll pass the message along. Some of you don’t seem to agree.” He’s smiling, though, so Ashley thinks he’s lying. She can’t imagine a single version of herself that doesn’t like him. Stupid mohawk and all.

Especially mohawk and all.

— [redacted] —

Ghost wakes up in his room. He’s getting used to this now, even through the perpetual terror that he’s lost something important. Last thing he remembers, he was in the showers. He always goes at midnight to avoid the crowd. He uses the stall at the back so he can turn his back if someone comes in, but he prefers to not have to. A chunk of the 141 have seen his face, but that doesn’t mean he goes around parading it if he doesn’t have to.

What’s most surprising, though, is that Soap is sitting beside him in his desk chair, chin dipped down to his chest, snoring lightly. “Soap?”

A snort, a couple of bleary blinks and a slow smile. “Ghost?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Ah, brill. I’ve got a story for you!” The excitement is somewhat diminished by Soap’s yawn and the huge crack his back makes. All soldiers learn from basic how to sleep anywhere at any time but it doesn’t make the process of waking up any more fun.

“What is it?” Ghost is groggy but has miraculously appeared to have gotten a full night’s sleep. His trousers are digging uncomfortably into his balls but apart from that, he’s surprisingly well put together.

“I met the girl one!”

Ghost frowns. “You sound far too excited about that.”

“She’s nice,” Soap says, as his smile grows a teasing lilt. “She said I’m nice.”

“Then she’s right fucking mental. What? You got a crush on the girl version of me?”

“Ach! Come off it,” Soap says, whacking Ghost’s shoulder. “She wasn’t doing too good, but I’d like to think I helped.”

“Right,” Ghost says, because what the hell else are you supposed to say in this situation? Ghost doesn’t even remember why he switched. Normally he’s anxious, or scared, or at least feeling something strong enough to bring it about. This time, he’d just been taking a shower and-

Oh.

Oh fuck.

So he had a wank-induced switch. Just fucking brilliant. Won’t be trying that again.

“You alright? Looking a bit pale there.”

Ghost just waves him off. “Fuckin’ great, mate. Just fuckin’ great.”

— [redacted] —

The next day, Ghost manages to fill out the suicide forms without a switching incident. Afterwards, Grace deems the chance of another incident low, though they’ll keep an eye out for what happens in the upcoming months. Grace practices some grounding techniques with him and Soap manages to get some Scotch from somewhere and for just a few hours, Ghost doesn’t feel like the whole world is falling apart.

— [redacted] —

Jake cries a lot. He cries all the time. Sometimes it feels like all he can do is cry. But each and every time, he’ll get on the floor and slip under the bed. It’s a tight fit but he can just about do it. He’ll hide under there for a few hours and hold back the tears behind a closed fist. Dad told him not to cry. Jake knows what happens when he doesn’t do what Dad says.

Sometimes someone will walk in. Normally, they’re asking for a ghost. Jake doesn’t know why they’re hunting for ghosts. If he wasn’t hiding, he’d join in. Ghosts are interesting. Like dinosaurs. And Barbie dolls with their legs ripped off. Even with her legs ripped off, Barbie looks happy. Jake wants to be happy.

Normally, it’s the Scottish one who comes in. He has a funny accent. It makes Jake stop crying for a bit sometimes, though only for a little bit. The other ones are worse. They don’t sound like his dad, but they’re close. They could be his dad’s friends, for all he knows.

He’s not sure where his dad is. He doesn’t want to know.

Today, Jake hides under the bed with a notebook in his hand. He found a biro down here last time he hid and tucked it away in his own little corner. Ignoring the plumes of dust, he grabs it and tucks himself right at the top of the bed so he can watch the door and carefully starts to draw.

By the time he’s finished, he thinks he’s done a pretty good portrait of a Barbie doll with no legs. She’s still smiling.

— [redacted] —

“What did you want to talk about?” Grace asks, smiling as Ghost sits down. Immediately, he digs into his pocket and pulls out the notebook. “Ah! Have you managed to use it much?”

“A bit. Mostly it’s just Sam and me. There’s been no more ‘fuck offs’ but think this might be worse.”

Grace’s eyes crease in concern as Ghost hands the notebook over. She looks at it for one second, two, then places it in view of them both. “Yes, this does seem a bit concerning.”

Ghost winces. “Yeah, just a bit.”

Right on the centre of the fourth page, there’s a crudely drawn Barbie doll, legs ripped off and bleeding, with a childish scrawl underneath that just reads Jake :).

Chapter Text

“So, have you figured out much else about the alters?” Grace asks.

Ghost continues looking out the window, ignoring the open notebook on the desk. He doesn’t mind Grace reading it, it’s not like there are any deep dark secrets there, but it feels like being flayed regardless. Still, it’s easier than having to speak about it. “Just read it.”

Grace doesn’t seem pleased about that, but her expression smooths as soon as Ghost glances over at her. She grabs the notebook and flits through. Only six pages are filled, two of which are taken up by the FUCK OFF and the grotesque Barbie. The rest is mostly back and forth between Ghost and Sam, though there have been some rather telling additions.

Where Ghost has written ‘Soap is probably my best friend, trust him’ someone has conspicuously crossed out ‘best friend’ and replaced it with ‘boyfriend’. The chicken-scratch scrawl makes it look like something his friends used to do in his homework planner at school, just with a few less dicks.

Then, where Sam has written, ‘Should we go by Simon? It’s the body’s name.’ Someone, in little tiny writing underneath, has written ‘no’. Ghost agrees wholeheartedly.

The only larger contribution is one paragraph from an alter called Ashley who, at Soap’s behest, has written a little autobiography, and then gushed about Soap for half of it. It’s nothing new. Soap’s already talked about her, but it still feels wrong to think that there’s a girl hiding in there. That feels weirder than the kid, somehow. How does it even work? He can’t imagine many girls would be comfortable being a barrel-chested 6’5” man.

“Okay, so we have another name. And a little about her. Do you know much else about her?”

Ghost shrugs. “Soap probably knows more than me.”

“Does Soap talk to her much?”

“Just twice. First time, he didn’t realise I’d switched. Second time, they hung out a bit. She likes him. A lot.”

Grace frowns and does the head tilt of doom. “You don’t seem comfortable talking about her.”

“What the fuck do you want me to say? Oh, yay, there’s a fucking woman in my body. Hooray,” Ghost deadpans. The anger is so much easier to reach these days. Grace doesn’t even react. She’s always talking about getting him to go beneath the anger, to try and make sense of what might be lingering underneath. The fuel for the fire, so to speak.

“What specifically is it that discomfits you about it? Is it the idea that you feel your gender is being challenged, or is it something deeper?”

Ghost doesn’t know. Frankly, he doesn’t think about it when he doesn’t have to. But supposedly that’s what therapy is for, for better or for worse. So he sits there, still staring out the window, as Grace patiently waits for him to gather his thoughts. “At least with Sam, it sort of feels like me. Like, he just seems like a nicer version of me. A little more like what I used to be like. Ashley…she’s nothing like me. Like I’ve ever been.”

Grace jots something down and turns her attention back to him. “I feel like this is touching on something we haven’t really discussed yet.” Ghost hums noncommittally. New things have never spelled out good news for him in these sessions. “You say ‘like you used to be’. But we’ve never really addressed your past. Focusing on the present isn’t bad, especially when we’re learning more about your system, but it’s important to acknowledge that this isn’t something new.”

Ghost freezes. He’s never wanted to think about that. He’s been aware of a possible diagnosis for, what, a few weeks now? He’s aware that it’s been going on longer, these things don’t just spring out of nowhere, but delving into his past is like dipping into a cauldron of boiling hot acid.

“Okay.”

“I want to explain to you how DID forms, at least to our current knowledge.”

“Fine.”

Grace crosses her legs and shoots Ghost a comforting smile. “The DSM-5, which is one of psychologists' main ways to classify and diagnose mental illnesses, have a checklist. You might not have all of them, that’s normal, but above a certain threshold, and we can start to give a diagnosis. I don’t want to do that right now, I don’t think it will help anything, but I do think it would be good to go through some of the main things.”

“What’s this got to do with how it forms?”

Grace grimaces and puts her notebook down, spinning her pen in her fingers. “DID develops in childhood, usually under the age of 10, from severe and continued trauma. When a child is already highly dissociative, there is a chance that instead of a core personality forming, the mind splits, forming alters. Alters can be completely different genders, ages and more. They’re designed to protect the core person from the trauma. Usually because the child doesn’t have someone else to protect them or has some other form of disordered attachments. Key figures in your life rapidly changing how they act around you is a prime example, though not the only one,” she notes pointedly.

Ghost blanks. He feels like he’s been switched onto TV static. It’s not new information. It’s just not information he’s dwelled on. He hasn’t wanted to. Finally, he grasps the words he’s looking for. “I’ve been like this since I was a child.”

“In all likelihood, yes,” Grace says. “Although, there is a chance a lot of this lay dormant for a long time. You made a career for yourself without it getting in the way for over a decade. For such high-functioning, it’s likely that many of your alters weren’t fronting, or at least could blend in seamlessly, even in such a high-stress scenario. I think we’re seeing the effects of it coming through a lot more now.”

“Why?” Ghost doesn’t get it. Why now? What happened between his last mission and this godforsaken hell? Nothing. That’s the answer, fucking nothing.

“The mind is a funny place, sometimes these things aren’t clear. Do you remember anything from that first week that could have triggered something?”

Ghost shakes his head. “Everything was fine. I was fucking fine.”

Grace notes something down and Ghost wants to rip the notebook from her hands and burn it. “So you can’t recall anything?”

“Of course I fucking can’t!”

Grace doesn’t react to the outburst. She never does. This time, she doesn’t write anything, just hovers her pen above the page and lets the ink slowly bleed through the page. “Do you feel comfortable talking about your childhood right now?”

For a moment, he thinks he might be dying, like the mere word is enough to send him spiralling. The last thing he wants to talk about is his childhood. He’s tried to repress most of it and what he hasn’t, he willfully ignores with the tenacity of a leech sucking at skin. “No.”

“Alright. Then I think we might leave this here. But I’ve got a few things to ask of you.”

“Go ahead.”

Grace gets up and looks through the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. Ghost has never really been aware of it before, has always assumed it was empty, but the moment she opens it, files fall out onto the floor. “God, I need to sort this out.” She rifles for a few minutes before she pulls out a handful of pamphlets and papers. “Okay, I printed these off for you. You can find a lot of it online but see this as homework, okay? Read up on it. This isn’t just on DID. I know we’re leaning that way but I’m not an expert on this, I’m just doing my best to do my own research. Look through all of it, see how you feel, okay?”

Ghost takes the papers and sifts through them. It’s a lot of printed web pages, and one that just looks like a long list of symptoms. “I’ll look through them.”

“That’s all I ask. But I would like you to think about something else.”

“What is it?”

“At some point, we’re going to need to talk about your childhood, Ghost. With the way you froze up, I don’t want to rush into it, but it’s an important part of who you are. We don’t have to talk about it tomorrow, or even this week, but I would like you to start getting comfortable with the idea, okay?”

“Fine,” Ghost says, though it feels like a lie. Even the word has his skin crawling.

“Okay then. I’ll see you tomorrow. Look through whatever you can.”

— [redacted] —

“Ghost!” It’s Soap, bashing on the door like he’s trying to knock it down. Ghost jumps out of bed, throws open the door and stares down at Soap, who’s breathing like he’s just run a marathon.

“You alright?” He looks far from alright, but Soap’s also a melodramatic prick when he wants to be. Ghost doesn’t let himself worry yet. For all he knows, Soap’s going to tell him someone took the last serving of the shepherd’s pie before he could nab it.

“Can we talk?” Okay, so not shepherd’s pie.

Ghost opens the door and ushers Soap in, closing it slowly behind him. It’s like if he lets this go on long enough then he won’t have to face whatever’s about to come. He fights to keep his breaths even, just as he’s been taught, and pinches his skin to keep himself grounded. Grace doesn’t like it but when they’d gone through how he’s grounded himself before, it’s always been pain. Sometimes it's the only thing that makes him feel real. That’s what missions were for.

“Okay.” Soap stands in front of Ghost like he’s sizing up for a fight, chest all puffed up. “I’m being deployed.”

Ghost doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t feel anything. He expects himself to panic, to spiral right back down to where he started. But he feels oddly…okay. Soap will be fine. Bastard’s brilliant at this. Shit happens, that’s just a part of the job, but Soap is real good at getting out of it.

“How long?”

“Three weeks, if all goes right. Which it won’t. But a month max, I promise.”

Ghost smirked. “No need to make promises you don’t know you can keep. Who’s going with you?”

“Rook, Ozone and Price. I’ve got a proper meeting with the captain tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Ghost says. His chest still feels empty, almost eerily so. He thinks he’s supposed to be screaming, or crying, or just something. But all he feels is a suffocating acceptance of his situation. It feels like it used to, before Grace started prying off the top layers. It’s comfortable, in its own fucked up way. But as he watches Soap rock back and forth, worrying at the inside of his cheek, Ghost wonders whether the blankness is helpful. Soap is clearly waiting for something, worry written all over his face, and Ghost can’t feel anything, even though he knows he should.

“Just come out alive, alright?”

Soap smirks, though he’s clearly been wrong-footed. Has Ghost really become so fucked up that Soap expects some sort of breakdown? “Always, LT. Gotta come back for my best friend, don’t I?”

It throws him off. Like every time Soap calls him his ‘best friend’. He’s never been anyone’s best friend before. Not even as a child. And whilst Ghost hasn’t had much fear in calling Soap his best friend, it always feels like a blow to the chest to hear it back.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “If you die, I’ll kill you again.”

Soap laughs, the tension finally draining from his shoulders. “I’d like to see you try. Now, come on, if I’ve only got a few days left on base, I want to do something fun.”

Ghost hesitates. He’s surprised that it isn’t the same instant denial he gives every time. Instead, a competitive spirit rises up, because he knows he’s gone out with Soap before, it’s just never been him, not outside the once or twice it’s been mission-adjacent. But he’s Soap’s best friend, apparently, and he can’t have some other figment of his imagination overtaking him. It’s a little childish but in that moment, Ghost doesn’t care, he just buckles up his courage and lets it out in a rapid nod, giving him no time to back out.

“Great!” Soap knocks his shoulder against Ghost’s as he goes for the door. “Meet me at the pub? You know, the Rose and Crown across from the train station.”

Ghost’s never been there, yet he knows he’s probably been there with Soap before. It’s disorientating. “Sure. I’ll be there at seven.”

Soap’s smile is painfully bright as he leaves. For all the dramatics coming in, Ghost’s just glad to see him happy leaving. Ghost still doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be feeling about Soap’s deployment. The emotions still feel so muddied, like too many of them are trying to occur at once and they’ve all just cancelled each other out. Soap expected him to panic, that much is clear. Soap seems to be panicking. Ghost understands why. He still feels fragile, and whilst he’s still got Grace here, both Price and Soap being gone at the same time does leave him otherwise alone.

But he’ll be fine. He has to be. Maybe he can even figure this out a bit better before Soap comes back. Ghost’s always preferred his own company to others, it’ll give him the headspace to put a few more pieces together.

Ghost wastes time until the evening, manages to put in a half-arsed workout, a meal that makes his stomach turn, and smokes an entire pack until he can’t taste anything but tar. And when it comes half-six, he signs out of the barracks and heads into town.

It’s a tiny place, too big to be a village, but too sparse to feel like a real town. The high street is dull, with all the usual suspects, and the big pub opposite the station sits on a traffic-congested intersection that somewhat ruins the view from the benches outside. Every few minutes, a train streams by, its racket smothering the blare of car exhausts and beeping horns.

Ghost walks inside five minutes before seven and scopes out the room. It’s what he expected from Soap’s descriptions. The building is old, probably Tudor, with rotting wooden beams and a sloping roof, but the bar is busy, and there’s a restaurant at the back that has a few families sitting down for roast dinners. At least one baby is screaming, being rocked by a harried mother who catches Ghost’s eye for a moment before darting her gaze away.

Unsurprisingly, Ghost is overwhelmed.

“Ghost!” Soap’s across the room, tucked into a little alcove so that you can see everyone who passes without being visible to most of the room. The high-backed booths provide a surprising amount of cover, even if the wood wouldn’t be thick enough to stop a bullet. Probably not something to worry about in this neck of the woods, but you can never be too careful.

“Soap? Early? Miracles really do happen,” Ghost teases, sliding into the booth, where there’s already a pint waiting. There’s already an empty glass on the edge of the table.

“Sorry to get started ahead of ya. Honestly, I was bored waiting around, so I thought I’d come out here and catch the end of the match.” Ghost cranes his neck to see the nearest screen. Sky Sports is playing the after-match talk; the big-block subtitles at the bottom say that United have beaten City with a 91’ minute goal. Bastards.

“Stop scowling. They were all playing shite anyway.”

“Says the fucking Celtics fan.”

“Oi!” Soap yells. Ghost just enjoys watching him get riled up over nothing. Ghost’s tempted to start talking shit about Glasgow when Soap’s smile falls, eyes narrowing on something across the room.

“What is it?”

“Oh, don’t worry. Ex-fling. It’s fine. Just dinnae think she’d be here.”

Ghost raises an eyebrow. “When did you have time for a fling?”

“Okay, more like three one-night stands. Pretty sure she hates my guts, though.”

“And why’s that?”

Soap fidgets and takes a long drag of his beer, until the pint is already half gone. “Doesnae matter.”

Ghost leans forward and smiles a little wickedly. The effect is partially ruined by the balaclava. Not his full one, just a bandana he uses to hide the bottom of his face, with a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap to hide almost all the rest. People still stare, but it does reduce the chance of making some concerned citizen call the police. “You’re getting very antsy for something that ‘doesn’t matter’.”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

“Johnny.”

“Fine! I sort of, maybe, told her that she was really bad in bed! She wasnae too happy with that. But Jesus, Ghost, she was really bad. Like fuckin’ awful. And usually I’d say it’s just being incompatible or something, you know, but this- this was something else. I thought I was being attacked by a wild animal. I had bite marks, and not the fun kind. I’ve been attacked by an actual dog before, I know how much that shit hurts.”

Ghost snorts and takes a sip of his beer, revealing his smile for just a second before he’s pulling the balaclava back up. “You’re a right bastard.”

“I didnae want to tell her! But she kept pushin’ about it and I wasnae gonna lie.”

“Still a bastard.”

Soap kicks his leg, but he’s still smiling behind his pint, looking at Ghost with an indecipherable look. “Just pray she doesn’t come over here. She’s the sort to start something in public.”

Ghost rolls his eyes. “Fucking SAS soldier and you’re still scared of a civilian woman. Typical.”

“Oi! I like this top and she’s got a glass of red in her hand. I am not taking any chances.”

After that, things settle in a bit more. Ghost gets another round, ignoring the suspicious looks from the bartender. They keep to themselves, hidden away in the corner. Soap’s fling doesn’t seem to notice him, or if she does, she doesn’t care.

Ghost has to admit it: he’s having a good time.

“Glad you came?” Soap asks. He’s flushed with drink but barely tipsy. With the amount of muscle they pack on, it takes some pretty hard spirits for the feeling to start to hit. Ghost misses it, some days. But he’s scared if he starts going he’ll never stop. Half his family are addicts, the least he can do is not be fucked up enough to join them.

“It’s been alright.”

“High praise!” Soap teases. “You know, I’m glad you came. It’s different. But it’s nice.”

Ghost winces. He doesn’t want to think about the others right now, he doesn’t, but there’s no getting away from it.

“Less friendly?”

“Ach, no. Plenty friendly. Less outgoing, maybe. More fussy with the mask. But at the end of the day, you’re still you.”

Ghost isn’t so sure, but he doesn’t say it aloud. Ghost doesn’t feel like them, doesn’t even feel close to them. It’s like having a stranger in his own body. And yet, they all seem to be mimicking him, or the fucked up thing they’re trying to present as, whether that be Simon Riley or The Ghost that came in his wake.

He takes another sip of his beer and looks over at the screen, only to latch onto Johnny’s ex again. She’s sitting on a corner table with a bunch of girls, all fake blondes with makeup bordering on absurd, but happy. Laughing. Ghost wonders if that’s Soap’s type. Happy. Or does he just like blondes?

Ghost’s blonde…

“Ghost?”

“Hm?”

Soap snorts. “You were getting distracted there. Not gonna have to set you up, am I? Believe me, that’s not the group you want me to wingman you for.”

“As if.” Ghost doesn’t date. Can’t date. Won’t date. Any and all of the above.

“Ah, you say that like you got no chance. Mysterious man like you, you’d get plenty.”

“Don’t want to,” Ghost sighs, looking back at the girls.

“If it’s about everything that’s been-”

“It’s not.” It really isn’t. Ghost’s never wanted to date, ever. Or rather, he’s never thought he could. The urge has been there, sure, and it’s not like his libido is dead, even if it’s far from healthy. But dating isn’t for dead men. Even before then, it’s not for men like him, who can’t even look at a woman without thinking about a dead hooker in a nightclub bathroom. It was the first time he ever saw a vagina. It’s also been the last.

“Yeah, I get you. Sometimes it feels like you shouldn’t in this job. Like you’re just setting yourself up for failure. Or worse.”

Ghost looks at Soap then, really looks. Sees the bags beneath his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. The 141 carry the weight of the world on their back. That’s their job. Poor fucking Price probably hasn’t done something for himself in over a decade, unless you count the cigars. He’d probably say that’s all he deserves for all the shit he’s done.

Ghost doesn’t know if he disagrees. He’s not sure any of them deserve good things after what they’ve done.

But Soap, Johnny, he’s something else. Optimistic despite what he’s seen. Principled despite what he’s been made to do. Friendly, even when he’s seen friends turn to enemies on a whim. Trusting, even when he’s got no reason to be. It’s maddening and beautiful and Ghost is intoxicated with it.

“It’s not off the books.” Ghost doesn’t even know what he’s saying, just that it needs to be said. “Life in the 141 is tough. It’s supposed to be. It’s not for the weak-willed. But it also doesn’t mean you have to sell everything.” He thinks back, frowning. “Gaz has a girlfriend, doesn’t he?”

“Nah, she dumped him because he never came home.”

“Ah.”

Soap laughs. “Well, thanks for the pep talk, big man. But I think I’ll stay single for now. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll try, when I retire in some fucking mansion. Or,” Soap smiles wickedly, kicking a little viciously at Ghost’s shin, “we make one of those pacts.”

“What fucking pact?”

“You know, if we both make it to forty or whatever. Fucking old, I dunno. If we’re both single, we just get hitched for the laugh and go live our retirements together.”

Ghost gives him a flat look. “How fucking old do you think I am, Johnny?”

“I dunno! I’ve barely seen your face. Could be fucking anything.”

“Guess.”

“Fuckin’ thirty? Why you harping on about this anyway, I thought this was about getting married.”

Ghost wants to laugh. “I’m fucking thirty-five. I am not getting married to you in five years’ time.”

Soap gapes before he gathers his wits and pastes on a wide smile. “Then we’ll wait til ahm forty, you old fuck. Jesus, between you and Price. How fucking old is he?”

“38.”

“JESUS CHRIST,” Soap screams, slamming his pint down on the table. Half of it sloshes out onto the table. Probably doesn’t matter, Ghost’s skin sticks to it every time he even gets within a centimetre radius of it. “He’s not even that fucking old compared to you!”

“Yeah, I don’t think he appreciates the old man jokes.”

“Fucking hell. I’m having some fucking revelations. Yer not having me on, are ya?”

“Why the fuck would I lie about our ages?”

“Well, I don’t fucking know!” Soap complains, flinging his hands up in the air. “Jesus, I genuinely feel fucking shell-shocked. What the fuck.”

Ghost snorts. “Just because you’re a fucking baby.”

“Youngest to get into the SAS,” Soap boasts with a wink. “Sergeant by 25. Not bad, am I?”

“The juries out.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Soap laughs, kicking Ghost’s leg again. “Yer a cunt.”

“Glad to know I’m keeping up appearances.”

“Ah come off it. But seriously. How about it? Me, 40, you, fucking 50, old bastard that you are. We can go away to some cottage. You won’t have to see another soul, I can drive into town. We can live the good fucking life.”

“Sounds good, Johnny.”

It’s a lie. It’s all a big lie. It’s a fantasy they can’t hope to live for. For all that the 141 is revered — people have literally fought for the position before — its mortality rate is high. For a new team, they’ve already lost too many, though none of the officers. But luck can only hold out for so long. Especially with the risks they take.

But more than anything, more likely than Soap dying, is the fact that Ghost isn’t going to get to fifty. He just won’t. It’s like a strange security blanket in his mind, that he won’t have to deal with this for another fifteen years. Maybe he’ll go until 40, then blow out his brains instead of the candles.

Or, apparently, he’ll marry Soap. Fucking inconceivable, really. But if it makes Soap happy.

Ghost’ll do anything to make Soap happy.

Chapter Text

Ashley wakes up in a pool of her own sweat, goosebumps running down her arms. Her heart thuds, yet her mind is curiously blank. Whatever had woken her up is already gone, flitting away like dreams do.

She tries not to panic. She keeps her breaths steady and makes sure to look up not down. Like this, stripped down to pyjamas, she feels less like the bulky monster she always does, yet so much more is revealed. When Ashley comes out, the body is normally in a minimum of three layers. Two, if it’s a good day, maybe. But now, there’s no mask, no protection. She’s only wearing a threadbare t-shirt and gym shorts. She hasn’t even got socks on.

She doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t quite understand the body’s life. Last time, her curiosity had gotten her a few answers. Johnny had talked about some ‘others’. It’s all a bit fantastical, really. But she’ll go along with it for Johnny’s sake. She doesn’t like arguing, least of all with someone she actually wants to like her.

She knows there are voices, she isn’t stupid, but they’re not real. If she doesn’t pay attention to them, they can’t hurt her. Loads of people hear voices. And, sure, they’re not all fully sane but Ashley is fine. She’s absolutely, irrevocably, undeniably fine.

The notebook was a funny little joke. She bets Johnny did it, or maybe another friend she can’t remember. She liked the FUCK OFF a lot. She wrote her paragraph anyway, more for herself than anything else. Maybe she should get a journal, that would be nice. She likes writing down her feelings, makes them feel that bit more real.

But right now, that doesn’t matter. Whatever Johnny says, she’s decided that the body just tends to go on without her a bit. Like she’s blackout drunk for large swathes of her life. Maybe she’s an alcoholic. Or a drug addict. Or just got hit in the head one too many times. The bald guy in the Premier Inn had certainly rattled her a bit.

She’s aware of a few things. She’s a soldier, apparently. A Lieutenant, she thinks, and Johnny’s superior, though it’s never felt like that. The body is male and she is not but the body appears to be very good for, well, soldiering. And that this must be her bedroom.

Like she always does, she resorts to snooping. You can learn a lot about someone from their room, and if that room is her own, then no one needs to know. The body will do what the body does and she just needs to piece it together a bit. Surely, if it’s her own subconscious doing all of it, it will all come rushing back to her.

The mask on the back of the door is familiar, though she’s surprised to find two: a hard shell and a soft balaclava. She’s even more surprised when she finds a pile of them in the dresser drawer. The body seems to have an obsession with covering its face, though looking in the mirror, she’s not surprised. Whatever that is, it isn’t her. If the mask saves her from having to look at it, so be it, even if she finds it hard to breathe behind the thick cotton.

Eventually, she finds a nylon balaclava that does the job without suffocating her and sticks a baseball cap over it. It narrows her field of vision a bit but she’s just glad to not get jump-scared by her own reflection.

There are other things, just little small things, that paint a horrifying picture. The 3-in-1 shampoo in the bathroom. The ratty razor that has rust growing like spores on the blades. The sheer amount of knives kept everywhere, which must be illegal, surely, but are vastly better kept than the razor (if she shaves with the knives, she’s going to start crying). But she guesses that’s just how soldiering works. Maybe she has knives because of her PTSD and that’s why she can’t remember anything.

Apart from that, the room is spartan. A familiar pair of polished boots, laces tucked neatly in. The same outfit laid out on top of the dresser. The same blank walls and white sheets. She doesn’t make the bed, throws on the outfit that feels more like a costume and struggles to get the boots on for an embarrassing amount of time before she finally feels confident enough to leave the room.

She goes to the only place she knows. Tracing the line back to the rotting bench outside is surprisingly easy, taking turns as if they’re already ingrained into her. She would say it was muscle memory if not for how it felt like an utter labyrinth last time.

It’s sparse as she looks out onto the running track. It’s early — too early to be awake, really — but there are a few brave souls doing laps. No one acknowledges her. She’s not even sure if they can see her, though she thinks it’s better that way. There’s so much pretending to do otherwise.

Ashley isn’t sure why they expect her to be English, but it feels safer to just give in. She’s always given in. Johnny seems to find her accent funny, at least. Last time she’d been awake, they made a little game of accents. She can do Scottish shockingly well, actually. English best of all. A few regional American accents. Even more English ones. Manchester is easy, London is standard, and the Liverpudlian one had made Johnny crack up so loudly he’d almost fallen off the bed.

Johnny can’t do an accent to save his life, poor guy.

She wants to see Johnny. Johnny who laughs with her instead of touching her. Who smiles like there’s nothing wrong (when they both secretly know there is). Who’s a soldier like her but doesn’t act like it, not around her at least. He’s everything.

She doesn’t have a single clue where he is, but she’d like to see him regardless.

After thirty minutes of zoning out to the distant footfall of the runners, she gets up and tries to think this over. Last time, she’d been in Johnny’s room not her own but she doesn’t remember how she got there, just that they were sitting on the bed and Johnny had been all panicked over nothing. She doesn’t remember leaving either, but that doesn’t matter.

She traces back the path to her own room. When she reaches her door, she makes the flip decision to turn right and just keeps walking. All the corridors look the same, with the same white walls and fake-wood doors. None have names on them, though they all have numbers. Hers is 403. She doesn’t know Johnny’s.

It’s only when she’s wound her way down the stairs and to 307 that she realises that she’s being an idiot. She has a phone, and there’s no doubt that Johnny’s number will be in her contacts. She rushes back up the stairs, grabs her mobile from her room, dials Johnny and waits.

No answer.

She rings again.

Nothing.

She texts.

Unread.

She texts again.

Still nothing.

In a fit of desperation, she scrolls up and tries to see if there’s any message indicating why Johnny wouldn’t be answering, but all she finds is a 'thanks for coming last night, see you soon' which is vague enough to mean anything. She never even answered it.

Worried now, she starts to stalk the corridors once again. She searches all the floors, most of the barracks and even goes back to the running track. A few soldiers give her passing looks but no one dares stop her.

She keeps calling Johnny, just in case. She just needs some sort of symbol that he’s okay. Maybe he’s just busy. Or in the gym. He probably wouldn’t have his phone in the gym. Or in a meeting. Yeah, soldiers must have meetings, right? Does she have a meeting? She doesn’t know how she’d ever know. She’s never been to a meeting before.

It’s only when she’s running around the basement like a lunatic, checking weapon stores for the poor Scottish bastard she might be haranguing, that she almost tramples some beanpole. There are shouts on all sides as Ashley panics. On reflex, her voice drops, her shoulders square and she glares down at the poor kid with enough venom to kill a man.

“Ghost,” the man says with a salute, though the word warbles like he can’t quite keep it together. He puts up a good front, though: straight back, military stance, eye contact. Ashley doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t even know who this is, or why he’s here, or if they know each other. All she knows is that he looks scared and she doesn’t want him to be scared but she also doesn’t know if this is some weird soldier thing and-

She takes a moment to breathe. Then she looks up and down the corridor and asks in her best London accent, “Where’s Jo- Soap?”

The man frowns, masked poorly only a second later. Slowly, almost timidly, he drops the salute. “On a mission, sir.”

A mission? Why is Ashley not on the mission? She thought she was Johnny’s superior. Shouldn’t they go on all their missions together?

“Why was I not informed of this?”

The soldier is looking more and more flustered by the second, a vivid red flush burning across his face and chest. Like the guy in the Travelodge room where the window looked out onto a brick wall. He flushed like that when he was angry. Or horny. Or both.

“You were, sir. You were there when they got on the helo.”

Shit.

Okay, so backspace. Johnny is gone, Ashley doesn’t even remember seeing him off and now some random colleague is staring at her like she has two heads. She needs to recover this. Clearly, her body is doing things she doesn’t want again. Which is fine. Everything is fine. She just needs to sort this out before the soldier blabs to the entire barracks that she’s got a problem. She wants to keep her job, thank you very much, even if she doesn’t really understand what it is. She seems to have free rein to wander base without doing much. And apparently, she hadn’t been invited to the latest mission either, even though her direct subordinate was.

“Yes, of course. I meant-” Ashley fumbles desperately for something, anything, that might get her out of this. “I meant that- I just meant when is he back?”

The soldier just stares at her, scepticism written all over his face. The moment drags on too long. “Are you okay, sir?”

Ashley stares down at him, floundering. “I’m fine,” she grunts, holding onto sanity by the skin of her teeth.

“I just- permission to speak freely, sir?”

No, no, no, no, no-

“Okay, I’m just going to say this.” The man takes a breath in and shoots her a wobbly smile. “Price told us you weren’t going to be active on missions for a while and I just wanted to say, whatever the circumstances, we hate to see it. You’re a brilliant CO. Whatever got you sidelined, I hope it gets sorted soon.”

Sidelined? So she’s not on missions because she’s not allowed to be? Why? (Isn’t it obvious?)

“This is none of your business.”

“I know, I know,” the man says, wincing. “But gossip spreads fast here and the men are interested in what could possibly take a man like you out-”

“I’m fine,” Ashley interrupts before this charade can go on any further. “I don’t like you questioning me. Go. Now.”

“Sir.”

“Go.”

The soldier straightens up and nods before marching away, leaving Ashley to pick up the pieces of her own scattered mind. She wants to collapse. The world is suddenly crushing her, each drop of information another pebble on the infinite pile of concrete already piled on top of her.

Before she can think to do anything better, her back is hitting to the wall. She sinks to the ground whilst her mind floats, like it can’t quite stay in her body anymore. Something chokes in her throat as she suppresses a sob with hard-earned willpower. She doesn’t cry. She hates crying. And she won’t now over something as silly as the fact that she might not be okay. She just can’t.

A voice tells her to get up. She ignores it. Another one screams at her to get over herself. But she’s trying, she really is, she just can’t.

Time passes in a flurry of nothing after that, just impatient thoughts bombarding a fragile mind. She blinks back tears and bites her lip until it bleeds. No one comes down the corridor, no one even seems to come near, until finally, the door swings open and a pair of heels appear at the end of the corridor.

“Ghost.”

Ashley doesn’t recognise the voice. But it’s female, the first she’s heard around base so far. She keeps her eyes on her knees so that all she can see is the new woman’s feet, getting closer and closer until they’re barely a metre away. Ashley likes her shoes: sleek, black kitten heels with a little strap over the top of her foot. Retro.

Ashley doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing left to say. She’s gone mad. There are too many voices screaming in her mind. One says to kill herself, and another screams at it like they’re about to charge into war. It won’t stop. She can’t do it. She just can’t, she can’t. But all she’s left with is a body that can’t get up for the exhaustion and a woman crouched in front of her with a soft smile.

Trust her, the voice says over the noise. Ashley doesn’t know whether she can trust herself anymore, but she sees no other way out of this, so she looks up and pastes on a nervous smile before realising the mask covers it anyway. She hopes it hides the tears. Some people like the tears, but it’s always made her uncomfortable that they can take pleasure from her fear.

“Ghost? Are you with me?”

Ashley nods, clutching her knees in a vice-like grip. The woman nods and sits down properly, crossing her legs, smoothing her skirt down as she goes. She seems like a proper lady. Ashley wants to be like that. Wants to be able to wear a dress and look nice in it, to put on kitten heels and still feel small. Even sitting down, Ashley feels like she towers over the other woman.

“What happened?” When the silence goes on too long, the woman sighs. “Ghost, you know how I feel about you getting silent on me. You can tell me what’s happening. Would you like to know what happened on my end?”

If it saves her from having to speak, yes.

“Do you remember talking to Private Smith? He said you were forgetting things and got flustered. Do you remember that? He was worried so he decided to go to Colonel Brown and get help. He called me and told me to come down here.”

Ashley nods. She remembers all of it. She remembers so much she doesn’t want to remember.

She remembers men’s hands on her. Pain, so much pain. She remembers bleeding into desert sand and in hotel bathrooms. She remembers bruised knees and buying makeup from Boots, but only the coverup kind, because she doesn’t think anyone will like her buying the normal stuff. She remembers breakdowns and laughter and Johnny smiling at her and a man that treated her to a fancy room in return for a little action. There’s so much there, and so much not there, that Ashley doesn’t know what to do with it all.

“Can you explain what happened here?”

“I forgot Soap left,” Ashley croaks in her best British mimic. For a moment, she thinks about just letting it all go, about stopping the charade. In the end, fear holds her back. “I panicked.”

“What did you talk about with Private Smith?”

Ashley starts to shake so she sits on her hands, forcefully tamping down the urge to run. She looks up and down the corridor to check they’re alone. She doesn’t like men seeing her like this. This woman examining her is bad enough but she won’t take advantage, the women never do. The men love her like this, acting like it’s her first time.

“I asked him where Soap was. He said he’s gone on a mission. I asked why I wasn’t told. He said I was there. It unsettled me.”

The woman nods. “Do you think you weren’t out front yesterday?”

Ashley doesn’t know what that means, or how she’s supposed to answer. Who else could be out front? The voices? The others Johnny was talking about? They’re in her head.

Fine, if she has to admit it, she’s crazy. Absolutely bonkers. Off-the-wall. But she’s not like that. She can deal with the mean voices. And the nice voices. But she can’t deal with the voices taking over. She just can’t. She can’t do it.

“Ah,” the woman says, as if something’s only just come to mind. “I’m going to ask you quite a difficult question but it would be really useful if you can be honest with me. You’re somewhere safe. No one’s here. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. Can you answer me one question?”

Ashley nods.

“Are you Ghost?”

Ashley can’t do it anymore. The crying begins before she can tamp it down, tears spilling down her cheeks in unstoppable cascades. She untucks her hands and brings them up to the mask, tugging desperately at the constricting fabric as sobs wrack her body. Then there’s nothing.

Just nothing.

She’s stopped crying.

She still feels it: the lump in her throat, the burn behind her eyes, the way she can’t breathe through her nose. But she’s not crying. She’s not moving. The shaking is still there but she can’t move anymore. She’s not-

She’s not in control.

Stay calm.

No. No, no, no, no-

Right now, I need you to stay calm. That’s the only way we’re getting out of this.

The eyes look up (she didn’t look up) and meet the woman’s easily. “Grace,” the body says (her name is Grace). “Sorry about that.”

“I don’t want to guess who I’m talking to, just in case,” Grace says, though her shoulders have slumped.

“It’s Sam. Everything’s fine.”

Grace’s eyebrows climb. “It doesn’t seem fine. I know that you take a lot of responsibility in this system, Sam, I’ve seen it, but it is still helpful to be honest. You can’t hold the burden to yourself.”

He can and he will, Ashley realises. He’s holding everything up right now. Because Ashley doesn’t want to be here but doesn’t know how to go away, or how to stop the flurry of emotions that’s building up inside her. She doesn’t know who Sam is or what he’s doing, only that she can feel his exhaustion. And that even through the bone-deep tiredness, he’s still holding the body like a tightly-wound string.

“Another was out. I’ll talk to her. She’s…still there, I think.”

I am. I am. I am.

“You can hear her?”

Sam nods in the body and Ashley wants to curl away. She doesn’t want to be here, where she’s nothing more than a phantom. Here, she’s not real. She can’t move. She’s nothing. She’s just a figment of imagination in Sam’s head. Nothing’s real. None of this can be real. It’s a dream, it has to be. One crazy, horrific, nightmarish dream.

“Yes. She’s still panicked. I think we should go back to our room.”

Grace hesitates. “Okay. But I’d like you to come see me in my office as soon as you’re comfortable, okay. And I don’t just mean Ghost. Any of you. That goes for whoever I was just speaking to as well. I’m here to help you, all of you.”

“Thank you. For coming down here too.”

“No problem. I’ll see you soon?”

The body smiles, but Ashley can practically hear Sam’s denial. “We’ll be around,” Sam says, and then Ashley finally — finally — slips away.

— [redacted] —

Peasant likes to lie about how he got his name, though he’s never been particularly successful. It goes over the American’s heads, at least. They tend to think the accent is ‘cute’ or at least quirky enough to get nothing more than a small laugh. It’s the English he has to be wary of. Ever since basic, he’s been called every name in the book, from the ones that aren’t all too unrealistic (Farmer stuck for a while) to the ones that just seem plain cruel. He’s not a fan of the name ‘Peasant’ but it’s stuck, and when you’ve got as boring a last name as Smith, not many people really see the need to call you anything but.

West Country is not a place many people respect. It’s pretty much only above Birmingham and Grimsby, on the list of places people actually know and might even give a shit about. It’s just been a thing he has to deal with since basic.

It helps, at least, that he’s not the only one with a shit name. Poor Chemo has been stuck with that just for having fully shaved his head rather than the usual military buzzcut (the strongest theory being that he was too scared to show balding in his early twenties). Meat isn’t much better, or Toad. Roach, as mad as he is, seems to actually like the name. Then again, being named after an unkillable bug could be a lot worse. ‘Peasant’ is like asking to be killed.

Peasant has learnt to deal with the verbal punches, and even laugh along. It all gets a lot easier when you try to own it rather than fight it at every corner. He’d learnt that the hard way. But being a Private in an elite military team doesn’t lend itself well to having stupid nicknames. Price had called him a muppet (but he’s since heard that that’s common around these parts) and he felt like he’d had to work twice as hard to earn his respect. But he’s done it. Peasant works goddamn hard at his job, and he hopes he’s gotten at least some respect from the higher-ups. And if no one’s called him Jeff since he spoke to his parents a month ago then so be it. Maybe one day he’ll get the Pez thing to catch on.

But being the brunt of the joke has taught Peasant a thing or two. He knows how bad it can be to be kicked when you’re already down, smiling madly through it until the bullies finally see you as something other than a target.

So when people start going for Ghost, his hackles rise.

Echo, as the current highest in command on base, has called a meeting for the entirety of the 141 in the mess. Most people have only just finished their dinner and are lingering in small groups. There are at least two card games going and someone’s managed to get the Liverpool match up on their phone, a crowd of them crushing each other to watch the tiny screen.

Meat and Peasant stay in their corner, speaking lowly under their breaths as they wait for the final seats to fill out. Roach sits next to them, entirely silent, and seemingly somewhere else entirely, staring out of the window with a pensive look.

“Peasant!” Worm calls as he saunters over. The Liverpudlian has always been a gossip, and a bit of a show-off, but he’s one of the best strategists Peasant has ever met. On the field, he’s nothing but stoic. Back at base, it’s like he’s an entirely different person.

“Worm,” Peasant says, taking special pleasure in watching Worm wince. Worm’s been trying to get Marsh to catch on, but they both know as well as the other that they’re not changing their callsigns anytime soon.

“So, I heard you actually talked to Ghost before the incident.”

Peasant’s eyebrows climb. “What do you mean? What incident?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb!” Worm’s shit-eating grin only grows as he forces them to shuffle up so he can sit on the edge of the bench. “I saw Ghost having an absolute break from the corridor. Looked fucking mental. Guy’s finally cracked. But the Colonel says you were the one to report the incident to him.”

Peasant turns white as a sheet. “That isn’t any of your business,” he says. Peasant isn’t a gossip, he just isn’t, and he refuses to let this charade carry on any longer. “I’m not going to sit here and let you talk crap about our CO. I’m not talking about this.”

“Fucking spoilsport,” Worm says. “Don’t know what you’re protecting the guy for. It’s not like he’s been nice to any of us.”

Worm rolls his eyes. “You aren’t on his team. We’ve all had him as a CO,” Peasant says, nodding to Meat and Roach, “and he’s a damn good one at that. I respect him and I don’t like hearing people who don’t.”

“Fuckin’ hell, no need to get all protective. What, you got a crush on him?” Worm snorts and stands up again. “Guess I’ll fuck off then.”

“Jesus,” Peasant sighs the moment he’s gone. “This is going to be a shit show.”

Meat, like most Canadian stereotypes, is the sort of guy to agree without even saying it. “I heard some crap from Mask. I don’t even know what to believe.”

“Just don’t listen to it,” Peasant says, though he doesn’t confirm or deny anything. He won’t do Ghost the disservice.

Before Meat can say anything else, Echo is coming through the big double doors. He calls the room to attention and immediately falls into the banality of these sorts of meetings. It’s nothing special. An announcement that he’s now in command with both Price and Brown off-site; the new training regimen; the training exercise planned to happen in the upcoming weeks in the Brecon Beacons. It’s only when the man is coming to a close that Chemo puts his hand up.

“What is it, Chemo?”

“Why isn’t Ghost here? He should be second in command.”

Echo sighs. “Ghost is on medical leave for the foreseeable future.”

“Then why’s he still on base?” Worm asks.

“That’s not my purview. No more irrelevant questions. Especially from the Alpha Team. If Bravo Team have questions about the line of command, you’ll have to ask Captain Price when he returns. For now, you report to me. Dismissed.”He leaves the room in silence, only for the room to practically erupt the moment the doors are shut.

“Fuck me,” Peasant says, “they’re going to be on this like hounds. Poor man.”

“I’m surprised they haven’t explained the situation better,” Meat says, “it is all pretty secretive.”

Peasant looks at him and sighs. He trusts Meat, he does, but it still feels like a small betrayal to say, “I don’t think it’s medical leave for a physical injury. And I don’t think most people would be happy having their mental issues paraded around base. Especially not someone like Ghost.” Ghost is a phantom, he’s not supposed to be real. You trust him because you believe he can survive anything, that you can survive anything if you’re beside him.

No one likes to see a strong man fall.

No one likes to see a strong man fall to himself.

“Ah,” Meat says. “Poor fuck.”

“He’ll get through it,” Roach suddenly says, still staring off into the distance. Roach doesn’t speak much. When he does, you know it’s important. “He’s got Soap here. And Price. They’re doing what they can for him.”

Peasant doesn’t know why it’s so relieving. He’s not friends with Ghost, far from it. Peasant is the bottom of the pecking order, and probably at least a decade younger than Ghost. But in that moment, hearing worse and worse accusations being thrown across the room, Peasant wants to be there for Ghost, for a man who’s got him out of a million sticky situations with a level head and perfect aim.

“You’d think for an elite team, we’d be better than this,” Peasant laments. “It’s like a bunch of tween girls gossiping in here.”

“Then let’s get out of here, I’m sick of hearing this shit,” Meat says as Chemo and Worm argue hotly about whether a TBI or PTSD is more likely. Peasant leaves as fast as he can. He wants to make a plan, to try and stop this at the root, but he’s not a strategist. He’s good at getting out of a tight spot but people have never been his forte. It feels like running away. A retreat that might cost Ghost his dignity. But it’s better than staying. Better than admitting the truth. Better than letting Ghost’s name get dragged through the mud further because they can’t respect that some people might struggle with the burden of the job.

It’s a well-known fact that you don’t get into the 141 without being a little nutty already. It just feels cruel to judge a man for the final snap.

Chapter Text

Therapy seems to be the trick to unravelling this whole thing. Ghost would have been glad, once, to be able to be a bit less scared of his own mind. To find out more about the other passengers who are taking over, to see them more like people than ghosts. But the unravelling isn’t a process he can control. He doesn’t hold the ball of string, and he’s not the one pulling it apart. Someone has cut right down the middle and is watching the strings tangle as they fall.

Ghost doesn’t know what’s happening, but he knows it’s out of his hands.

More and more, the others are co-conscious, lingering in the back of his head, waiting to give their piece. Grace says that this is normal, maybe even promising, that the amnesiac walls are dropping just enough for some communication to be established. But with fewer and fewer writing in the notebook, Ghost is starting to feel like he doesn’t know his own mind at all.

Some of them are fine. Sam is a calm, steady presence in the back of his mind. He’s a supportive figure, overall, and mostly stays quiet unless something obvious draws him out. He likes the treadmill, says it clears his mind, and seems to be drawn forward when Ghost reluctantly gets going.

Ashley is…less fine, but he can manage. The idea of a girl in his head still freaks him out, but it becomes more of a nonissue the longer he has to deal with her. She’s impulsive, funny and has some really odd comments about the other soldiers, but overtly harmless. She’s embarrassed him now, which Ghost doesn’t let go easily, but given how he’s been going the last few days, he can’t really blame her. Her obsession with Soap has caused issues, primarily that she’s still panicked about him being gone, especially on a mission which could lead to his death. But the panic can be shoved down, as Ghost has always done, and if he carefully avoids looking at Grace’s shoes when Ashley is near the front, he can keep her tucked away.

The others are not fine. Unknowns in his head that spiral on a whim. There’s no pattern to their appearances, nor any regularity in what they do when they’re out. Ghost isn’t sure whether it’s one, two or ten personalities coming out. Grace has tried talking to them but has gotten nothing so far. Sam is being reticent about revealing the truth, though he says that there have been at least four who’ve come out in the last two days alone.

But Ghost can hear them. One of them won’t stop fucking crying, whilst another always takes his chance to shout obscenities. Mostly about Ghost, though he doesn’t hold back on the snide comments about the other soldiers around base. He’d gotten one look at Charly and called her a cock-sucking whore. Another voice said she looked like Simon’s mother.

Ghost’s taken to avoiding others around base for his own sanity, though it’s next to impossible when you’re living with over twenty other men. That morning, he attempts to go out early, sleep-deprived and still feeling the effects of last night’s nightmares. It’s still dark out, though he can hear the distant noises of the base waking up. Night shifters swapping out, engines revving, a drill sergeant shouting obscenities at the poor fucker who got put on early morning punishment laps.

“Ghost!” Peasant is running up behind him, slightly out of breath. He manages a hasty salute that Ghost reluctantly returns. “Sorry to run up like this but I’ve been hoping to speak to you.” Ghost can’t imagine what he has to say. Peasant, he knows, was the one to cause Ashley’s final spiral, or so Grace reported. Not his fault, per se, at least according to Ashley’s notebook entry, but the catalyst nonetheless. She also seems to be completely unaware of his name, calling him the ‘beanpole’, despite the man being at least 5’10 and having the type of brawniness that you just don’t see on ordinary citizens. Soap had gotten a good laugh out of it anyway.

For a moment, he considers continuing on, but he’s going to have to face the music soon enough. He hasn’t been near the others for good reason. He knows how these things go, and he’d really rather not hear what they’re saying about him. But there’s only so long you can avoid the people you live with: to eat at weird times, or to shower at midnight, or to train when you know they’re out on the tarmac.

“Peasant. I’ve been wanting to talk to you too.” He hasn’t, but he sounds a lot more professional saying it. He doesn’t want to act like a child, to run away at the closest sign of confrontation.

“Sir, I just wanted to say-”

“Save it. The situation was messy. But I appreciate you going to get someone, even if I didn’t seem it at the time.”

“Are you okay?” Peasant asks. He’s always been a sincere sort of man, with doe eyes that don’t seem to fit the rest of his demeanour. He perpetually looks eighteen, even though he might be closing in on twenty-five now.

“I’m fine. No doubt they’re all saying some mad things, hm?”

Peasant winces. “Gossip spreads fast around here, sir.”

“I know.” Ghost sighs and takes a step back. “I appreciate your care, Private. I know some men here wouldn’t be nearly so kind.”

“You’re welcome, sir. We all want you healthy, however we can do that.”

“Appreciated. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.” Peasant walks back the way he came from with loosened shoulders. Ghost has no doubt that the whole incident has spread around base already, but he can at least be certain that Peasant isn’t the type of man to make rumours worse. Peasant has always managed discretion well and has had his fair share of borderline bullying to know where the line is.

You trust so fucking easily, the voice sneers. It always sounds like a whiny kid, too high-pitched to be Ghost, that’s for sure. How he’d ever mistaken it as otherwise is beyond him. Fucking pathetic. What would Dad say?

His dad wouldn’t say anything, he’d probably just beat him black and blue and hope the message stuck. May the fucker rest uneasily in his grave.

You’re just a little pussy who couldn’t take it and now you’re gonna whine about it. Ghost ignores it. He’s too tired to deal with this shit. He wants nothing more than to lie in bed and forget the world. If Soap were here, maybe he’d divert by his room, let the endless chatter drown out the things inside his head. But Ghost also can’t let this voice near Soap, he just can’t. If the malignant fuck even touches Soap-

What? Scared I’ll run off your little boyfriend? Scared no one will be sticking their cock up your arse anymore? Whore.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Ghost diverts again. He doesn’t dare go by the gym, the one place the early birds tend to congregate, but Grace’s office will be empty. She has her other appointments on Mondays and Thursdays. Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays are for Ghost and drop-ins only. On weekends she’s at home, but she keeps her phone on so Ghost can call her. His session isn’t supposed to start until 1700, but she tends to use the rest of her time to write her latest research paper.

Ghost doesn’t quite remember how he gets there, but doesn’t question it for the sake of his sanity. When he knocks, Grace ushers him in with a smile, closing her laptop and putting it aside. “Ghost, you’re early. Really early,” she says, glancing at the clock.

“I didn’t expect you to be in yet.”

“Yes, well, I have another appointment before you today so I thought I’d come in early and get some things done.”

“I can go?”

Fucking Christ, you going to do anything the fucking slut tells you to do? Least you could do is show her who’s boss.

Ghost wants to be sick.

“No, no, come on in. Sit down.” Ghost takes his usual seat, resisting the urge to curl up, and instead digs his fingers into the open seams of the chair. He’s pulled out at least half the stuffing by now. Sometimes, he’ll spend the end of his session just picking it all up, though Grace offers to do it herself every time.

Cleaning up? Are you even a fucking man. Let the woman do it, Jesus Christ. It’s their job. What? You got nothing to say to that? Can’t even fucking talk now, is that it? Too afraid of what will happen if you do?

“He won’t shut up,” Ghost blurts. “The voice.”

Grace’s face softens. “What voice?”

“I don’t know. The fucking whiny one.”

Oi!

“And what are they saying?”

Ghost flinches as the tirade continues. “Insults. Slurs. Sometimes at me, sometimes at others.”

Grace nods. “Are they near the front now?”

Ghost nods. He can practically feel it. The phantom lingering over his shoulder, waiting to strike.

“Okay, this may work in our favour. Hopefully, if we can make things clear, we may be able to get through to them a bit more. If you don’t mind, I’d like to give my introduction.”

“Go ahead,” Ghost says, gaze shifting back to the window, reminding himself that he’s in green fields and not in an interrogation cell buried underground.

Grace is succinct, at least. Impressively so. She goes through her background, her role in Ghost’s life, the provisional DID diagnosis and what’s been happening. Ghost is surprised when she goes through a bit more of Ghost’s history too; not in detail, but enough to grasp a general idea of how they live their life, enough to make Ghost want to crawl out of his own skin.

Fucking bitch. Doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

“He doesn’t believe you,” Ghost mutters, though the words sound distant. He digs his hand further into the chair stuffing, but it’s like the softness is a million miles away.

“Do you know why?”

Because she’s saying some fucking mad shit. What kind of pussy would I be if I believed that nonsense? Dad would fucking beat her blue for even opening her mouth and she’d deserve it.

“No. Not really.”

Ghost isn’t looking at Grace but it doesn’t take a genius to know she’s frowning. She’s learnt to read him plenty well by now. “Honesty, Ghost. Please.”

“He thinks what you’re saying is too mental to be true.”

He can hear the scribble of a pen. “And what does he think about the current situation?”

Fucking dream, innit. Makes sense. That lucid shit. Don’t know why the fuck I’m explaining this to you, you schizo freak.

“He thinks it’s a dream.”

“Ah, that sort of logic is going to be a sticking point.” Grace sighs. “DID is a disorder primarily of denial. It’s how the brain can cope with what’s going on.”

“Then how the fuck do I get him to believe this is real?”

“I’m not sure we can,” Grace admits, biting her lip. It’s the first time Ghost has seen her truly get stuck. Worry paints her features as she runs over something in her notebook.

“He won’t stop if he doesn’t think this is real,” Ghost says, a little desperately.

“I know this is not what you want to hear right now but I’m really not sure what to do without making this worse. I- god, this is the worst time to bring this up, but I have got that list of specialists ready, Ghost. This is not some way of trying to push you to do something you don’t want to but they are trained in scenarios like this. I’m not. If this continues in this direction, I’m not sure what I can do.”

Ghost nods. He understands. Hates it, but understands.

How the fuck do you understand? You’re just as mental as her. What the fuck do you need a specialist for? To confirm you’re mental? We all fucking know that already, freak.

“Okay, I guess we can only try what we can right now. Do they have a name?”

Why the fuck does the bitch want to know?

Please, Ghost wants to beg. Ghost has dealt with all sorts of psychos in his career, ones who’ve done the sort of sickening shit you can’t even put on the news. But this is a new danger, a worse danger. This is internal, emotional, lacking the usual violence he’s learnt to deflect. It’s an unknown. Intel is short and the mission is already critical.

Fine, it’s Riley, if you really want to know.

Ghost’s eyebrows climb. “He says his name is Riley.”

“Good, that’s great to hear something more concrete.” Another scribble in the notebook. Ghost continues to focus on the outside. The wind is rough today, and the ground is still wet from overnight rain, but the sun is out. It hits his left side with surprising warmth. “Is Riley willing to say anything else about himself? Has he ever written in the notebook?”

Ghost can pretty much hear Riley’s smirk.

I wrote the ‘fuck off’. Bet I scared you, huh?

“He wrote the ‘fuck off’.”

“Ah. Well, that clears up one mystery. Is there anything else?”

— [redacted] —

Riley takes the front quickly, a wash of sensation pulsing over him before he looks over at the bitch of a shrink sitting haughtily in her chair. Riley doesn’t get why he’s here. What the fuck do they need her for? If it’s even real, that is. When Dad finds out, it’s game over.

“Ghost?”

It’s feeling less like a dream by the minute, but Riley doesn’t let that scare him. Fear is the sort of thing his dad will pick out like a bloodhound. He always does. He sees you tremble and he knows you’re prey. Stick your head up, chest out and put on the big tough guy act and he might think twice about messing with ya.

“Ghost? Are you with me?”

“Oh fuck off with the caring act, it’s sickening.”

Grace’s eyes widen. “Riley?”

“Why the fuck do you care? Can I go now?”

“If you want. The door is never locked. But I’d really like to talk to you first,” the bitch says. Riley wants to ignore her but Ghost seems to be gone from the picture and he doesn’t have any idea of how to get back to his room. He knows he’s in a barracks, and they apparently are — or were — a soldier. Riley isn’t old enough to be a soldier. Did he lie? He doesn’t remember lying…

“What the fuck do you want to say?”

“I’d like to get to know you better. I’ve been talking to a few of the alters. It can be very useful to learn a bit more about each of you,” Grace explains, a smarmy smile on her lips.

“I don’t get it.” The anger comes easily. Always has. He wants to lash out, to hit something to just get all of this shit out from inside him. He knows he probably shouldn’t hit a woman, people don’t like that very much, but his dad says they deserve it. Grace seems like the sort of bitch who deserves it. “What the fuck do you think you can learn from me, huh? Gonna pick my brain apart and dissect it and write it in one of your fag books? You can fuck right off. Either you shut the fuck up or I’ll shut you up myself.”

Grace reels back, though she doesn’t call for security like Riley expects. Instead, she takes a deep breath and looks him right in the eye. “Why are you so angry, Riley?”

“I’m angry because you’re fucking interrogating me!”

“No, I’m not. I’ve offered for you to leave. And I don’t want any information you’re unwilling to give. So I repeat, why are you so angry?”

Riley feels like he’s about to shake out of his own skin. To rip it off until it’s just the muscle underneath. To pull at his hair until the clumps scattered across the floor. Every bit of anger towards Grace u-turns inwards and Riley can’t take it. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Riley.”

“Fine! You want to know why the fuck I’m angry? Because I’m always fucking angry! Because every time I seem to come to I don’t know what the fuck is going on and I’ve got some fag in my head telling me to calm down and they don’t fucking understand!” He wails, an embarrassed flush rising like fire.

“What don’t they understand?”

Riley sobs, fists clenched so hard his nails dig bloody gauges in his palm. “They don’t understand what being weak will do to us.”

“What do you think will happen if you show weakness?”

He clenches his fists harder as another sob wracks his body. Even then, he doesn’t let any tears roll. Just the violent shakes of a boy who can’t hold it together any longer. “He’ll kill us.”

“Who will?”

“Dad.” He keels over suddenly, his stomach rolling madly in his stomach. “He says he’ll do it. I know he will. He’s gonna.”

Grace takes in a deep breath and stands up. Riley knows what’s coming then, how quickly the nice act can turn around. His mother used to do it. To smile and patch up his wounds, only to dig a nail into them when he said the wrong thing. A life lesson, she would say.

As Grace kneels before him, Riley wonders whether there’s any escape. The tough guy act was good and all but that’s all but flittered away. Now, he’s just a husk. A weak little boy who can’t even take a few carefully placed words without bawling.

“Riley,” Grace says, putting her hands on his knees. “No one’s going to hurt you here.”

He sobs again. It isn’t true. It just isn’t. He knows this. He knows the game. The warm smiles and the soft touches. It’s always a trick. Always.

“I’m going to tell you a few things. I don’t need any answer from you. I just want you to listen, okay?” He manages a twitchy nod as he stifles down a whimper. “Your dad’s dead. Long dead. You are not crazy, but you are ill. You likely have a dissociative disorder. Those voices in your head? Right now, those are the people who need your help, whose help you need. I know you’re scared, and angry, and tired, but I need you to trust me. To trust them. As a system, you need to work together. I know you’re trying to protect them but the person you’re protecting them from no longer exists, okay?”

Riley can’t say anything. Nothing makes sense anymore.

This isn’t a dream, is it?

He’s just a crazy son of a bitch who doesn’t know reality anymore.

The sort of fucker his dad would take joy in killing. He’d deserve it. He deserves to die.

Don’t, a voice warns. Calm down.

Riley hiccoughs, choking on it. “He’s going to hurt us. Someone’s going to hurt us.”

“You’re safe here. Riley, I promise. You. Are. Safe.”

“Stop lying to me!” Riley screams. His head is cloudy, a haze of emotion that he doesn’t have the energy to decipher. Instead, he just lets the barrage hit him all at once until he’s screaming and crying and growling in a fit of emotion that’s more fitting of a rabid animal than a human.

“I’m not. I promise you, I’m not. But I need you to calm down, Riley. Please, I need you to stay calm.”

Let me front.

“SHUT UP!” Riley screams, tugging at the mask, until he can fling it across the room and start pulling at his hair.

I need you to pull back, now.

“What’s happening to me?” He cries, ripping another shred from his head. “I don’t understand.”

Just let yourself float back. It won’t feel as bad back here. I promise. Come on, Riley. Please come back. It’s safer back here.

Riley hiccoughs miserably and lets himself float a bit. There’s a pressure in the back of his skull, like someone’s trying to shove their way forward, but he ignores it, simply floating on the waves until he can finally, finally, return to oblivion.

— [redacted] —

Things don’t get easier from there. Riley’s breakdown has made them twitchy, and alongside Ashley’s worry, the body is swinging between emotions like the worst mashup of a hormonal teenager and a lunatic.

Grace is off for the weekend, though she’s repeated numerous times that she’ll have her phone on at all times. Ghost knows he won’t call, though. Grace has a life, a family, and things to do that aren’t deal with his problems. Which leaves him trying to deal with them himself.

Riley just won’t let up, though. Whatever Grace said, it didn’t get through. Riley is a constant livewire, coming and going as he pleases. The only thing he has seemed to accept is that they’re a system, if only so the shit he spouts keeps going outwards instead of inwards.

He spends most of his time locked in his room, ignoring the stir-crazy feeling that sits heavy in his chest. The baseline anxiety won’t leave and Ghost has stopped trying to identify what is his and what is theirs.

Soap’s not supposed to be back for at least a week or two, and most of the base is in the Brecon Beacons on a training exercise, which at least leaves Ghost most of the day to do what he wants. And yet, he still doesn’t leave his room. He tells himself because he might run into Alex — poor fucker is still adjusting to his prosthetic and isn’t allowed on training runs yet — so he doesn’t have to face the truth. Fear is not something Ghost is used to. It feels new, like finding out about all this has cracked something open in him and now he’s bleeding all over the floor.

By the end of Sunday, Ghost is clinging to sanity by the skin of his teeth. He’s shaky, even though his head feels steady, and he can feel Sam lingering, like he knows he’s about to have to talk Ghost down from something.

“Leave me alone,” he grunts. Sam doesn’t even have to say anything to that. His presence is loud enough. Ghost doesn’t even have the energy to fight him on it, he just lets the paranoia linger as he beelines for the shower room.

Showers have always been difficult, but Ghost has never really had a problem with them. Sure, he has to grit his teeth when he gets under one, but it’s never caused problems before. He just doesn’t like the idea of someone coming up to him when he’s vulnerable like that. But right now, even the idea of taking his clothes off has him reeling. The anxiety crawls up until it’s blistering. It’s just Ghost and a fucking shower head and it does nothing to make him feel any less insane.

He checks the door again and scopes out the room but he’s alone. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabs one of the benches and puts it in front of the door. It won’t stop anyone from getting in but it’ll make a more distinct noise and give Ghost time to hide. He’s being a paranoid bastard but it doesn’t stop him from hiding behind the row of lockers as he slowly takes his hoodie off, leaving him in a skin-tight t-shirt. Then his boots, undone slowly and routinely, then lined up against the wall with the laces tucked in. Only then can he can contemplate moving further.

He tries to breathe. This isn’t him. He knows it can’t be him. He’s never had a problem like this before. He avoids others in the showers, for obvious reasons, but he’s never been scared of one before.

Someone else is fronting with us.

Ghost’s eyebrows climb. He can feel the presence, sure, but he hasn’t heard anything. But it makes sense, that whatever’s happening isn’t him. “Who the fuck is scared of the shower?”

Ghost, don’t. Some memories are best left alone.

Ghost swallows. “You mean I don’t remember why we’re fucking scared of showers?”

It’s not time to figure that out right now. They’re scared. You need to show them not to be scared.

Ghost doesn’t want to go near the shower anymore, stuck on the idea that he’s fucking scared of showers and didn’t even know. But he has to. He hasn’t had a shower since Friday fucking morning and he’s starting to feel the itch of it. There’s dirt caked under his nails from god knows where and his hair is sticking uncomfortably to his skin under the mask. God knows what he smells like at this point.

He grabs the hem of his t-shirt and throws it off like it’s a live grenade. Then drags down his sweatpants, so it’s just him in his boxers and his mask, still staring at the shower head like it’s on the other end of his scope.

It’s easier, in some ways, to think of it as a mission. Boxers next. Then, finally, the mask.

He walks to the shower like it’s a death march, chin held high but his heart pounding in his chest. He feels like he’s about to puke as he goes to turn the knob but doesn’t let the fear stop him. He never has.

As soon as the water beats his back, Ghost is gone.

— [redacted] —

Simon slams the water off and crowds himself into the first corner he can find, stuck between two lockers, with his boots digging painfully into his arse. There’s no one here. There’s no one here but god it feels like there are so many people here. He can see them. Grinning. Turning the water from hot to cold, hot to cold, hot to cold.

His face is buried underwater. He can’t even fucking breathe. There’s nothing but cold and burning and drowning and he’s naked and they’re going to-

— [redacted] —

Ashley feels sick. Her head is a hurricane, pain pulsing from her temples all the way down her back. Her skin is red like she’s got a rash climbing up her arms and her throat aches something fierce. She gasps in a breath and hates when she feels it burn on the way down.

Stay calm. I’m here.

Ashley knows Sam’s voice by now. Always the voice of reason, normally when she least wants it. But she can trust him. She can trust him.

You’re safe. No one’s here. I need you to get us back to our room.

“Okay,” she whispers. “What happened?”

Someone else had a flashback. The body is still weak but we can’t stay here. Clothes are on the bench. Boots are beneath you. Change quickly.

“What?”

We don’t have much time. There’s a bench in front of the door. You’ll hear if anyone comes in. But we don’t want anyone finding us like this.

“Grace?”

It’s the weekend. She’s at home. It’s just us here.

Ashley chokes on a sob and blindly reaches for her boxers. She can’t look at herself. Not that it even really matters, she can’t see through the cloudy tears. She doesn’t understand what’s happening. Why is her body doing this?

The body’s still reacting. But you’re safe, okay. You’re safe.

“I don’t feel safe.” She finds the mask and tugs it on. It feels suffocating but it does make her feel protected. Like she’s the Ghost: untouchable, powerful, emotionless.

You are. Trust me.

“Where’s Soap?” Ashely hiccoughs. “I want Soap.”

Still gone. I need you with me, Ashley. Don’t give up now.

Ashley’s tired. Her limbs feel like jelly as she pulls on the last things she sees. The laces on the boots take minutes longer than they should, but eventually she manages to get them loosely done up so they won’t fall off her feet.

Okay, now move the bench back to where it should be.

Ashley spots the gap against the far wall. “That’s far.”

I know you’re tired but I need you to do this.

“Why can’t you do it?” She whines.

I would if I could. But switching makes us tired. Any more and we’re going to pass out.

“Can that happen?” Ashley mumbles, stomach flipping.

I don’t know. I’m sorry. Right now is not the time to try.

“I wish Soap was here.” Ashley suppresses more tears, embarrassed by her own shamelessness, as she drags the bench across the room. Each step feels like a herculean effort, but eventually she gets it in position and stumbles towards the door.

The corridors are empty. They get back in less than a minute, collapsing through the door and slamming it behind them like they’re running into a panic room. Ashley’s still crying, as she shoves the desk chair under the door. A barricade against what, she doesn’t know.

The tears come unbidden now, hidden in the privacy of their own room. A flood that she has no hope of keeping at bay. Distantly, Sam is soothing her, but his voice is faint, like he’s too tired to be this close. His presence hurts. The migraine is practically an explosion now, though she doesn’t know whether it’s from the switching or the crying or both.

Oh, Jesus. I’ve walked in on a right fucking pansy today.

It’s not Sam.

“What? Who are you?”

Oh god, is that American? Bloody fucking hell. Now I really know we’ve gone off the fucking wall. Bit girly sounding. What, you a proper fag now?

Ashley stammers but nothing comes out. Instead, her lips warble and another embarrassing sob breaks through.

Fucking hell. You really are a fag. What the fuck are you even crying about?

“I want Soap.” Ashley wishes she didn’t sound so miserable. This pathetic act has worked before, gotten men to soften the blows, to touch her kindly, or just give her a goddamn smile. But the voice in her head isn’t a man she can manipulate into kindness. This is her. From inside her.

Riley, not now. Ah, there’s Sam. There when he’s needed. As always.

Oh great, the fucking BORING one is here. Can you leave us alone? I’ve got to teach the pansy a fucking lesson.

No, you won’t, Sam says, his voice darker than Ashley’s ever heard it. You spouting lies isn’t going to get her to stop crying, it’s going to make it worse.

Just turn off the fucking waterworks! It’s not hard, Riley shouts, and the headache explodes in her temples. Ashley stumbles towards the bed, clutching at the mask like it’s the thing that’s clamping down on her head and squeezing.

She can’t do this. She can’t. She doesn’t want to-

— [redacted] —

Riley rips off the mask and touches the tears on their cheeks. It’s fucking embarrassing. What the fuck does she even have to cry about? His heart still beats like mad in his chest and he can feel the burn of the tears but he beats them back with a mental bat. Instead, he focuses on breathing as he stares at the ceiling.

“Fucking pathetic.”

You shouldn’t say those things to her.

“And why the fuck not?”

The voice genuinely pauses for a moment. Because she’ll believe them.

“Oh fuck off. I’m just pushing her around. She needs to learn to grow up.”

Words fucking hurt, Riley, the voice says. It feels like how other parents spoke to their kids. Stern. Nothing like Dad. Not like a real man. Fucking weak. And she’s suffered enough to believe it, I don’t need you adding to the pile.

“Pfft. What? You gonna say she really is a fag? Fuck off.”

The body has slept with men, yes.

Riley is floored. He doesn’t have the time or the energy to deal with that statement. Right now, he just wants to pop a paracetamol (or five) and sleep. Get rid of this antsy energy.

“Wait, she’s actually a she?” He blurts.

She sees herself as female, yes.

“Jesus Christ. Proper queer then. What the actual fuck. I don’t get any of this. What the fuck is happening to me?”

God, do you even hear yourself?! The voice shouts, splitting Riley’s head in half.

“Fuck off. I don’t want to hear it.”

Then maybe you should! A moment. Then, quieter, But not right now. We need to sleep.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

Oh Jesus Christ, are you going to do anything I say?

“Probably not, no,” Riley huffs.

Let me front.

“Fuck off.”

Let me.

“I said FUCK OFF!”

There’s a push, then, more painful than anything Riley felt at the hands of his father. It’s like something is blinding him and crushing him all at once. It’s like being compressed and dragged and tortured all at once. And then, like nothing, he’s gone.

— [redacted] —

Sam almost wants to cry too, but he doesn’t let himself. The body is in agony, but he knows there’s no cure for it. He can’t take anything for it right now without puking it back up, and he doubts he has the energy to get food. It’s late, though, and if he can just fall asleep then at least he can put this behind him.

He can’t.

He can’t sleep.

He can’t put this behind him.

He can’t do anything but worry because everything’s falling apart around him and it's his one job to make sure they don’t and he’s fucking failing. The anger feels worse than the anxiety, or the sadness, or the pain. The anger is blinding and fatal, the sort of emotion that has unpredictable effects. He can only be glad he’s too tired to move. But that just leaves him and his thoughts.

The head is empty, for once. Almost worryingly so. It’s not often that Ghost isn’t there at all these days. Sam remembers when it was mostly Simon at the front, when Ghost was just a nightmare at the back of their head that only Sam seemed aware of. Sam seems to be the only one who’s properly aware of the others.

Sam can’t tell whether he’s the lucky one or not.

It takes him six hours to get to sleep, in the end. And he only manages two hours of it after that. He wakes up to a blinding headache and a session with Grace, so exhausted that he doesn’t even question why Ghost isn’t out yet. Sam’s tired of being out. He’s not supposed to be out like this, but he pushes through the session anyway. Tells Grace what happened, and how they might deal with it. It all feels like a farce, or maybe he’s just tired. In the moment, there’s nothing he can do. He’s tried calming them down, he’s tried anger, he’s tried just being a soothing presence. Nothing works. It feels like nothing can stop the spiral from happening. Nothing.

Chapter Text

“This is out of control,” It says. Angrier than Sam has ever seen them before. The black depths of their eyes look monstrous, like a black hole that could suck Sam inside. For the first time, he’s genuinely scared of the one part of their mind that he’d thought of as a reluctant ally.

“I’m trying,” Sam pleads. “I’m not a miracle worker. Aren’t you supposed to be the one-”

“Do not put this on me,” It cuts off with a vicious flick of their hand.

“You said you were going to take back control!” Sam shouts. “You said that. And now it’s like you’ve abandoned us all and I’m here to pick up the pieces!”

“I have been busy,” It grits out. “Despite your accusations, I have been bailing you out daily. But, frankly, there is more to do here than to make sure you are doing your job. ”

“My-” Sam gapes. Then, slowly, forcefully, shifts the anger, holding it in his fists rather than his mouth. “Fine. I will do my best to sort this out. But you have to help us. This endless switching is going to kill us.”

“Accepted,” It says. “I will attempt to help where I can. But I’m not all-powerful, Sam, no matter how it may look. You may have a much better chance at getting through to them.”

“Got it,” Sam says, though his stomach rolls with the responsibility. This is what he’s made for, what he wants to do, but that doesn’t make it any easier. The growing pile of guilt inside him is about to consume him and then what is he going to do. “Guess I’ll go do my job then.”

— [redacted] —

Soap returns after two disastrous weeks of ups and downs. It feels like Ghost has only been in the front for half of it. Grace has talked as much to the others as him this past week. He’s teetering on the edge of something, one foot dangling off the cliff, unsure whether the drop is a few scant metres or into the depths of hell.

Ghost doesn’t greet the helo touching down. He gives Soap his space. Everyone knows how hard it can be to decompress after a mission, when the adrenaline is still running high, and you need to start cataloguing your injuries and your losses. Ghost knows Soap’s routine off by heart: showers first, food second then sleep for fifteen hours and be as bright as a button the next day.

It’s funny how quickly Ghost had once fitted himself into that routine. How’d he leave Soap to shower as he grabbed enough food for two and brought it to his office. He’d spend an hour filling in forms whilst giving Soap more privacy than he could ever get in the mess. He’d always have to nudge him awake after an hour and order him to his room. There was no place for roles there, just two men holding onto what little they had left.

Now, Ghost doesn’t have an office, or the ability to face the mess to get food for either of them. He’s been lucky enough that one of the main chefs on site will prepare something easy for him before the mess opens in the morning and lets him in after hours. Ghost couldn’t deal with having to face the task force like this.

It probably shouldn’t be a surprise that Soap knocks on his door, hair still wet and a packed lunch in his hand, looking worse for wear but far from death. His eyes reveal how haggard he really is, but he musters a smile for Ghost regardless. It’s nice.

He’s so nice.

Ashley, of course. It’s like even the mere thought of Soap just brings her out these days.

I’m so glad he’s okay.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ghost mutters, much to Soap’s confusion. Ghost shakes his head, tries to ignore the growingly excited chatter in his head, and manages a quick “sorry” before holding the door open and letting Soap in.

“You alright?”

“Still going.” It’s the best answer Ghost can give. He doesn’t like lying, not to Soap. But fine is an overstatement beyond stretching the truth right now. “You?”

“Still going,” Soap teases, brushing past to put his lunch on Ghost’s desk, all but collapsing into the chair. “Fuckin’ scunnered.”

“All go to plan?”

“To a T. Long fucking deployment, though. Even Price was eager to get back.”

Ghost sucks in a breath theatrically. “Thought the man lived for deployment.”

Soap snorts and starts unwrapping his sandwich, sticking half of it in his mouth in one go and still speaking around the glob. Ghost is tempted to slap him for it, but he doesn’t want Ashley having a go at him. Though even she seems repulsed. It takes a concerted effort to keep her back, though, unwilling to sacrifice this moment.

“Yeah, he’s right fucking grumpy. I’d give him a wide berth for a while.”

“Losses?”

“Nah. Ozone got fucking battered but he’ll live.” Soap manages to swallow before he’s even half chewed it and goes in for another bite.

“You’re going to choke.”

“Nah, if I go, I’m going by a bullet.”

Ghost raises his eyebrows. “Not whilst eating like that. Slow the fuck down.”

Soap snorts, which sprays more food than Ghost would like onto his floor.

“You’re fucking disgusting,” Ghost gripes.

“Ah, you love me really,” Soap teases, starting on an orange. The tangy scent has Ghost twitchy. He’s always fucking hated oranges.

“Not like that I don’t. Jesus Christ.”

Soap finishes quietly, no more open-mouthed chewing, and just patiently smiles at Ghost as he futilely cleans the already immaculate room. It’s one of the last bits of control he has left, and the rest of them seem to agree. Even Riley hasn’t ruined the habitual order of the room, down to the way the lampshade has to be turned and the pens ordered.

“Christ, I need to sleep,” Soap says as he piles the trash in the bin. Ghost will need to take it out in the morning, all he can smell is the orange peel and he won’t let it rot in the paper basket under his desk. He has the urge to go to Soap’s room and check he didn’t leave anything whilst he was away, the dirty git.

“Sleep then.”

“Here?” Soap says hopefully.

Ghost pretends to be annoyed. “Fine. But you shouldn’t sleep in your gear.” Before Soap can say something inevitably flirtatious (Ashley does not need to hear it, though he doesn’t think she’s lingering anymore, not that he’s always the best at telling), Ghost rifles through his drawers and passes over a t-shirt and joggers for him to sleep in. He goes back to the bed and closes his eyes.

“No peeking, ey?” Soap teases over the quiet muffle of him changing. Ghost’s just glad to see that he’s put his boots away properly, even if his clothes aren’t folded as neatly as regulation orders. He lets him off because he’s tired. Next time, though.

“Go the fuck to sleep, Johnny.”

“Top and tail? Or do you want to get real cosy?”

Ghost, embarrassingly, wouldn’t mind sleeping next to him. To have someone there after days of having nothing to do but listen to his own screaming mind. Of the others snatching his consciousness and doing god knows what with it. But he can’t bear the shame of it, of the quiet whisper that sounds all too like Riley saying something awful about his sexuality (though Ghost’s never even had the wherewithal to think about such a thing). So he says, “Top and tail. This bed is fucking narrow.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Not a fucking Captain.”

Soap just snorts and gets in the far side of the bed. Ghost hadn’t thought to account for how close Soap’s feet would be to his face but at least they’re freshly washed.

Soap falls asleep quickly after that. Ghost isn’t even tired, but he finds time passes quickly when he gets to look at Soap. He’s almost certain that he’s lost a bit of time, but he doesn’t mind when Soap looks like he’s peacefully slept through it. It was probably Ashley anyway. Sam, if he was lucky.

It’s funny, after a month of hellish switches, how accustomed he has become to the mere existence of the alters. How quickly he can accept that this is his new reality, or maybe just an old one that’s been revealed. He’s not entirely sure it feels real yet, but it doesn’t feel disgusting and that has to be something.

He falls asleep in the early hours of the morning and wakes up with Soap kicking his face (bastard) and waking up with a blurry “mnghh.”

“What the fuck,” Ghost mutters, nursing the ache in his cheek.

“Ah, sorry, LT. I get twitchy after a mission.”

“Fuck me,” Ghost complains and swings his legs off the bed, glancing at the clock. He can smell the orange like a pervasive fucking tear gas. “Congrats, you slept for sixteen hours. Might be a new record.”

Soap laughs quietly. “Well done me. Come on, I’m fucking starved.” He pauses when he sees Ghost tense up. “You alright?”

“Just…” Ghost huffs. He looks like a fucking moron now. Weak, his own voice says. Who the fuck needs Riley when you know your own failures? “I don’t like going in the mess.”

“Ah,” Soap says and thankfully doesn’t push further. “Alright then, I’ll grab something for the both of us. But I’m gonna need a proper change. Mind swinging by my room? We can eat there.”

“You go,” Ghost says. “I’ll meet you there.” It’ll give him time to get rid of the stench.

Time flies a little after that but Ghost feels the most settled he has all month. It’s going to be short-lived, that much is inevitable, but he revels in it while he still can. Before Soap has to witness this mess. Before Soap has to hear about what happened whilst he was gone. Right now, he can luxuriate in the ignorance, in Soap’s warm smile and awful aftershave.

Ghost beats Soap to his room and lets himself in, even with a quick smoke break. The bin is empty, thank god, but Ghost can’t help but scowl at the state of the rest of it. Barely anything is visibly wrong but one look in the drawers shows that Soap has just tried to hide the mess inside. God knows how this man finds anything.

“Trying to find my dirty secrets?” Soap teases as he comes in. Ghost jumps and tries desperately to hide that he did. It doesn’t work.

“You need to clean your drawers.”

Soap barks a laugh. “Sorry I don’t meet your standards.”

“How do you find anything?”

“Ah, don’t worry your pretty little head over it. I know.” That doesn’t comfort Ghost one bit. Soap rolls his eyes and opens the drawer. “Look, it’s fine. Junk on the bottom, stuff I might need in the middle, papers on the top.”

Ghost sighs. “And if you try to get anything from the bottom, you’ll mess up the top.”

“Nah-ah, it’ll be fine. See?” Soap buries his hand in the drawer and rifles around at the bottom and miraculously gets something out without crumpling the papers on top. “Here, you liked it last time.”

It’s the fucking slinky.

“Fuck off.” He doesn’t let go of it.

Soap doesn’t pay him any attention and sprawls out on the bed, digging into his breakfast. Ghost follows much more timidly, pulling his mask up just enough to reach his mouth, taking the desk chair. He fidgets with the slinky and eats the off-tasting beans.

“Why do you even have this?” Ghost asks. It’s almost lurid. A cheap plastic toy in a garish rainbow colour that probably doesn’t even work for its intended function.

“Present from my niece. She says I’m too ‘boring’,” Soap says, with belaboured air quotes. “Though it does add some colour to the room, don’t ya say?”

“It certainly adds something.” Ghost pulls it up and lets it snap back down again. It’s oddly therapeutic.

“Well, you seem to like it.”

Ghost scowls. “I do not.”

“Yet you’re still playing with it.” Soap doesn’t push the point any further, just shoots Ghost an impish smile and finishes his meal in silence. Ghost manages to pick at half of it before shoving the tray away, despite feeling starving just ten minutes ago.

He thinks Soap says something but Ghost feels distant. It’s strange, to know what’s coming now, to recognise dissociation for what it is. He stares at the slinky in his lap and floats, frowning when he feels something foreign come to the front. It’s not Sam, he knows what Sam feels like. The sort of steadiness that belies his purpose, the sharp pain between his eyes. Even Ashley has a certain playful demeanour to her. This is something new.

This is fear.

— [redacted] —

Jake sees an unknown man in his room and screams.

Within three seconds, he’s dropped to the floor and rolled under the bed, pressing his back up against the wall. It takes him all of a few seconds to realise that this isn’t the usual bed. This is a new bed. Same type, same walls, same floors but different scuffs and bends. Jake’s traced them all by now. He knows what his looks like and it’s not this.

There’s something in his hands. He stares at it, fascinated. He’s seen nothing like it. A rainbow coil that stretches out and snaps back together. He wiggles it up and down like a wave as a timid smile slips onto his lips before he remembers what danger resides above him.

“Okay,” the man sighs, like he’s prepping himself for something. Jake doesn’t want to know what. But he recognises that voice. The Scottish voice. The one always looking for ghosts.

The bed creaks and there’s some shuffling before the man lies down on the floor. Not moving under the bed, just lying there, staring.

“Hi,” he whispers. He looks scared. Jake’s never seen a man scared before. (Only pussies get scared.)

Jake still doesn’t say anything.

“I know you’re scared but I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise.”

“Why do you sound like that?” Jake blurts. He’s not in Scotland. At least he doesn’t think so. He’s never even met someone from Scotland before.

The man smiles, though it tremors at the edges. “It’s because I’m Scottish. You never heard Scots before?”

Jake shakes his head. He has heard it before, he just doesn’t understand why it’s here. But the idea of trying to explain that sends another spark of fear through him.

“Ah, shame,” Soap says, misinterpreting Jake entirely. “I’m Soap. Or Johnny. Whatever you want. What’s your name?”

Jake frowns. “Why do you have two names?”

“One’s a nickname. One’s my actual name. Well, a shortening of my actual name. Ah, forget that. I’m a soldier, and in the army, they call me Soap. But my friends and family call me John. Ghost calls me Johnny.”

Fear forgotten, though safety still at the forefront of his mind, Jake scowls. Why does this man keep going on about ghosts? “Who’s Ghost?”

Soap huffs a laugh. “Hard to explain right now. Don’t think I don’t notice you not giving me yer name.”

“Fine. It’s Jake.”

“Well, hello there, Jake. Nice to meet you.”

“Where am I?”

“You’re in ma room. On base. Or…I’m…Jesus Christ, I really don’t know how to explain this to ya, kid.”

“Just say it,” Jake orders, putting on a brave face. He doesn’t move from his position in the corner of the bed, though the tight squeeze is starting to make holding the position uncomfortable. He clings onto the slinky. He likes it. It feels nice in his hands and he likes all the bright colours.

“Uh, look, maybe I should-”

“Just tell me!” Jake snaps.

“Okay, okay, right. Uh, could we do this somewhere else? My back is killin’ me.”

“No.”

Soap laughs. “Alright, kid. We’re following your orders here, I see. Always the Lieutenant, aren’t ya? Okay.” Soap rolls onto his back, turning his neck so he can still look at Jake. “You’ve got this thing, a thing in yer brain, called DID. It means you have a lot of personalities in your head.”

“Oh! Like Simon!”

Soap looks shocked. “Simon?”

“Yeah. We’re best friends! I help him out with all sorts of stuff.”

“Okay, right. Uh. But it’s not just you and Simon, you see. There’s more of you. Like Ghost.”

Jake frowns. Then agrees that probably makes sense. “Okay.”

Soap’s eyebrows climb. “Well, that was easy.”

Jake just shrugs and shuffles out from under the bed. Soap is safe. He doesn’t sound anything like Dad, or Dad’s friends. And he’s only been kind so far. Jake knows better than to trust that entirely but he can try.

Only once they’re both sitting up does he realise he’s bigger than Soap. He freezes. “I’m grown up,” Jake says, voice tremoring. “Oh.”

“Uh, yeah,” Soap says, “my friend Ghost, he’s the one who has the body normally. This is what he looks like.”

“Okay. I’m not sure I like being big,” Jake complains, curling up tighter so he can at least be down on Soap’s level, still holding onto the slinky.

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

They just sit for a moment, before Jake says. “You’re nothing like Dad.”

“Good,” Soap says, more serious than Jake has heard him so far. Jake can see how he’d be a soldier now. “He sounded like a right bastard.”

Jake just shrugs and ponders for a moment. “I like you more than dad.”

Soap smiles. “You better.” Then, more serious. “He can’t get to you anymore. You don’t have to deal with any of that shite.”

Jake shakes his head. “He can. He always comes back.”

Soap frowns and shuffles closer, so their knees are just a breeze from touching. “He can’t. He’s gone, Jake.”

Jake looks away, eyes growing distant. “I need to protect Simon. I can’t leave him alone. Dad will hurt him.”

Soap clearly doesn’t understand, however much he’s trying. Jake doesn’t mind. Simon’s his best friend and he doesn’t want to share. “He can’t hurt Simon either.”

Jake sighs, exasperated. “He will. It’s my job to protect him. Simon doesn’t like it so I do it for him instead.”

Soap’s eyes widen and suddenly, his gaze is boring into Jake’s. “Jake, I want you to listen to me very carefully right now. Can you do that for me?” Jake nods. “Your dad is gone. He can’t do anything. Not that you need to protect anyone from, okay? He can’t do anything to you or anyone else.”

Soap’s lying, Jake just doesn’t know why.

“Okay.” Jake sighs, too tired to argue any more. He curls up tighter, resting his chin on his knees and pulling the slinky out from behind them so he can fiddle with it. He’d rather talk about something much more interesting.

“Who else is there?” Jake asks. “Are they cool?”

Soap hesitates, like he doesn't quite understand the turnaround, before he relents. He laughs. “Very cool. Well, some of them anyway. Some of them are just dorks.”

“Tell me about the cool ones?”

Soap smiles and leans back against the bed frame. It doesn’t look comfortable, but he manages to pull it off anyway, watching Jake toss the slinky from hand to hand. “Well, there’s Ghost. He’s the one I know best. He’s very cool. That mask you’re wearing, that’s his.” Jake reaches up. He hadn’t noticed the mask. He’s gotten so used to having it on that he’s never even thought to question where it came from. Pulling it off, he turns it around so he can look at it. There’s a skull printed on the front in flaking white pain. “Cool. Is he a pirate?”

“Nah. He was a soldier, though. A really, really good one.”

Jake hums and put the mask on the ground so he can examine the art. It’s very well-painted. Jake wonders whether Ghost did it himself. “Who else?”

“Well, I don’t know many of them. There’s Sam and Ashley. Some we haven’t got the names of yet. You were one of them.”

Jake nods. “Is Ashley a girl?”

Soap smiles. “Yeah, she’s a girl. She doesn’t like being big either.”

“Huh.” Then, “You’re nice. I like you.”

“I like you too,” Soap says, looking like he wants to touch, before retracting his hand at the last second. Jake doesn’t know how he feels about that. “You can keep the slinky, if you want,” Soap says. “I don’t need it.”

Jake freezes. “It’s yours?” He hands it over, heart in his throat.

“I don’t use it. It’s yours. Keep it. My gift to you.”

Cautiously, Jake takes it back, rubbing his thumb over the finely-bumped side of it. “Thank you. I’ve never gotten a present before. Simon used to get all the presents.”

Soap’s eyes turned sad. “Then we’ll just have to start, alright? Anything else you want?”

Jake shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“You like toys.”

Jake shrugs again. “Maybe.”

Soap sighs. “I’ll think of something. You deserve some presents, kid. And I’ll be damned if you don’t get some.”

— [redacted] —

Sam catches the end of the conversation before he draws slowly to the front. Such rapid changes aren’t comfortable but they’re not feeling the true drainage of it yet. Seems flitting so fast between them these last few weeks has created a new baseline for what counts as ‘a lot’ these days.

“Ghost?” Soap asks as Sam puts the slinky to one side. He notices the mask is off too, laid out so the skull print is on show.

“Sam. Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. Just…that was…something.”

“It was. Glad to get a name, though,” Sam sighs. “I’m surprised he hasn’t come out sooner.”

Soap cracks his back and stands up. “Christ. Think the kid’s out to torture my back. No one should sit on the floor that long.”

“Now who’s the old man,” Sam teases, getting up himself. He grabs the mask and slinky and stares down at them both. “Can we really keep it? You’re not obliged, you know.”

Soap shoots him an unimpressed look. “Do you really think I have that strong an association to a slinky? Keep it. Jake seemed to really like it.”

“That’s kind of you,” Sam says, burrowing it in his pocket, ignoring the way the end jabs into his hip. “You were very kind to him.”

“He’s a kid.”

It’s Sam’s turn to be unimpressed. “Essentially, yes, but he’s also us. I know it must be weird for you.” He perches on the edge of the bed. “I’m glad you’re back, though. You dealt with it well. I don’t know what would have happened if you weren’t here.”

Sam sighs. His mind screams for him to put it all out on the table, whilst the sensible part tells him that telling Soap won’t be able to do anything. It’ll just make him worried, in the end.

Soap sits next to him, a worried crinkle in his brow. “Is everything alright?”

Sam swallows thickly. They trust Soap; he’s probably the only one the majority of them trust. Frankly, it’s going to come out from someone eventually. Better Sam than one of the others. “Ah fuck,” Sam hisses, burrowing his face in his hands. “It’s FUBAR, Soap. It’s like everything’s gone to shit.” The words slip out regardless of what logic dictates. His heart yammers in his chest but his mind feels oddly steady. Maybe he’s just tired. He doesn’t think there’s been a moment in the last month that he hasn’t been tired.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t even know what happened. Riley, probably. But can’t blame it all on him.” Sam looks over at the door, wishing more than anything that the room had a proper window. He has to remind himself that he can leave whenever he wants. “Riley’s a new one. He’s…vindictive. Angry. Fucking terrified, I think. He came out talking to Grace, threatened her. Never did anything. I don’t think he would. But he definitely scared her. Went into a full breakdown and the embarrassment seemed to make him worse. He went after Ashley.” Sam takes in a shuddering breath. He doesn’t realise he’s about to cry until his vision blurs, and then he’s blinking desperately, trying to get the words without a pitiful sob. Soap’s hand lands on his shoulder and he leans into his desperately, taking what he can. “It’s my job to help. I fucking know it is. It’s what I do. But Riley wouldn’t fucking listen. And Ashley was spiralling. And then the body was switching like mad and it fucking hurt. And then Simon spiralled in the shower and it was just all-” Sam cuts himself off. “Fuck, you don’t need to hear all this. Just, it went to shit and I couldn’t even stop it. What the fuck am I for if I can’t even stop us from spiralling off the edge?”

“Jesus, Sam. I’m so sorry.” Before he can fully understand what’s happening, Soap drags him into his arms, holding him tight. “You can’t do everything. You know that.”

“But I’m supposed to.”

“I bet you did,” Soap whispers into his hair. “Just because it all went tits up, doesn’t mean you didn’t stop it from getting worse. That’s just how you’ve got to handle FUBAR situations.”

Sam doesn’t cry. Doesn’t let himself. But he lets Soap hold him, breathing steadily into his chest.

“I’m sorry it didn’t go so well,” Soap says. “I’m sorry I left.”

“No. No, it was always going to come. And you’ve got a job, Soap, and it’s not babysitting us.”

“Could be.” Soap smirks and leans back to look at Sam. “You know I’d take some leave if you thought it would be-"

“Don’t. Not for us.”

Soap sighs. “Fine. But keep it in mind, yeah? I’m here for you. All of you.”

“I will. God, I just want to go and punch the shit out of a punching bag.”

“Yeah? I’ll wrap your hands.”

Sam clenches his teeth. “Ghost doesn’t like going to the gym when others are there.”

“And you’re not Ghost.”

“I know that, but if we switch out…”

“You can’t live your life on hypotheticals. What else are you gonna do? Lock yourself in your room until nightfall?”

Sam shrugs. “It’s been working alright so far.”

“Jesus Christ. No. These rooms don’t even have fucking windows. Come on, I’m gonna wrap yer hands and you’re gonna punch the shit out a punching bag, alright?”

“Alright.”

“Good man.” With a friendly slap to the shoulder, Soap digs around the drawers and brings out the tape. He does it methodically, each strip like a carefully placed wire, not a single thing out of place. For how haphazard Soap normally it is, it screams of care. Sam could really fucking do with it right now. By the time Soap is done, Sam’s feeling a lot more like himself.

At the end of it all, he hands over the mask. “There, all done. Go beat the shit of something. I’ll be here. Gonna make some calls home.”

Sam nods and throws a cheeky salute before beelining for the gym, pent-up energy thrumming under his skin. There’s not too many others there. Roach and Rook are sparring cheerfully in the centre of the room, nothing but the thuds of fists and the occasional slam against the mats. Driver is watching from the sidelines, taping up his hands, smirking every time Rook gets thrown to the ground. Those two have been thick as thieves from the start.

Sam goes straight for the punching bags. Two are slung up with metal chains. One battered, the other new, the hard plastic casing meaner on the hands than the softened leather of the old. Sam goes straight for the new one and slams his fist into it with all the strength he has left. It’s a pathetic attempt for what is supposed to be him at full strength but he doesn’t let that stop him. Given the capabilities of the body, it could still knock a man out.

From there, it’s natural. Punch, punch, kick. Punch, punch, kick. A repetition that never gets old. The pounding of his heart that isn’t from fear but adrenaline. The burn in his muscles that is physical rather than mental. The focus that feels so far from dissociation, that feels like the only time Sam actually might be settled in the body.

He sees a new group enter but he ignores it, staggering out his punches so he doesn’t tire before he’s ready, carefully blocking out their words. But they’re loud: rambunctious in the way FNGs tend to be. Sam doesn’t know any of them, but he can tell they’re new by their smarmy looks and strutting. Even Roach and Rook have stopped, warily looking between the new group and Sam like they’re expecting something to go down.

Sam does his best to ignore them. They’re from Alpha team, most likely. Sam’s seen them around but he knows his own squad better. They’re all 141, but there’s usually a fairly clear divide, though sometimes all the Privates like to hang out away from their superiors. No one likes being at the bottom of the food chain.

Sam keeps punching.

“Hey, Ghost!”

He doesn’t stop.

“Hey! Look, man, we just want to know what’s up with you.” The bald one struts up to him. Sam ignores him. “So everyone’s saying it’s a TBI but we all know that’s bullshit, right?” Keep fucking punching. Don’t let your focus go. Don’t let yourself go. Stay in the moment. Stay in the fucking moment. Please. “So what is it? Classic case of shell shock? Finally got too much for the big guy, huh?”

Sam whirls on him. He has at least a head of height on him. Sam knows how Ghost uses this mask, how fear can be the best defence. How it can stop a fight before it even begins.

“What the fuck are you on about?”

The smirk grows, a peek of too-shiny teeth coming out. “Just a bet going around. You know how gossip spreads around here. It’s not classified or anything, is it? Just thought, if you were still around, we deserved to know, you know?”

“No.” Sam steps forward, doing his best to loom. He’s not used to this. This doesn’t come naturally to him. He protects them, he protects this body, but he protects it from themselves most of the time. This sort of external attack is always what Ghost dealt with, or one of the other loose personalities Sam can feel rattling about inside. This isn’t Sam’s job.

Fucking deck him.

And it shouldn’t be Riley’s either.

Sam clings to the front with a desperation he didn’t know he could possess. If Riley comes out now, they’re all fucked. God knows Riley can make things go to shit real fast.

“Leave him alone, Chemo!” Rook shouts. Sam has never been so glad to hear that thick Australian drawl.

“This is none of your business, Rook! I just want some answers,” Chemo shouts back, undeterred. “Come on, Ghostie, what is it?”

One more word out of his mouth and I’ll rip his throat out.

“Leave now, or this won’t end well,” Sam tries. If he can just get him to go. That’s all he needs. He just needs him gone. Or himself gone. He’ll look like a coward, sure, but better a coward than a psycho.

He goes to walk towards the door but Chemo steps in his way. “Easy! Why you in such a rush?”

“Let me go.”

“Hey, I just want my question answered, man! We’re all a little curious.”

Bet he’ll shut up if we challenge him to a fight. No fucking way that weasel is beating us.

“It’s none of your business,” Sam grits out. He notices Roach dart out of the room, shooting a worried look behind him.

Come on, just fucking end this now. He won't be fucking pussy-footing around if we show him who's boss.

“You’re the one still here, so I think that makes it a little our business, Lieutenant.” The term of address is nothing more than a carefully placed condescension. The anger that bubbles up in Sam isn’t his, he knows it isn’t. Sam isn’t sure he’s capable of anger like this, all-consuming and ferocious. But it’s there all the same, an inferno waiting to be released.

“It’s really not.”

“Come on,” Chemo teases. And then sends a friendly punch at his shoulder. Just a jostle, a light tap, but it’s like Sam sees red.

— [redacted] —

Riley lets the punch meet, but keeps his shoulder set so Chemo is met with nothing but a brick wall. A step forward. Another. Looming over him with wide eyes and a grin he can only see in his eyes.

“Hey, man, back off, I didn’t mean-”

“Didn’t mean what?” Riley spits, pushing him backwards. Chemo stumbles but gathers his footing. Now he looks scared.

Another step forward, another push.

“You think going after this is a good idea?” Riley accuses, motioning at the mask. “You really think you’d come out of this okay?”

“Calm down, man,” Rook says, eyeing up the other witnesses in the room. “Let’s just all leave this alone.”

“I think someone needs to teach this fuck a lesson,” Riley continues, ignoring Rook entirely. “What, you scared? You’re gonna be a little pussy about going up against The Ghost, huh? You even gonna put up a fight?”

“Stop, man. Let’s just leave this,” one of the fucktard’s friends tries but Riley is already blinded by rage. He has to finish this. Men always finish their fights. No one leaves until at least one of them is rolling in agony on the floor.

Riley lashes out. It doesn’t take anything more than a few carefully placed hits. He doesn’t even have to hurt him, just show him who’s boss. He sweeps his legs out from under him and sends a boot towards his sternum, leaving him gasping for breath.

“Huh, you still want to know?”

“You’re fucking mental,” Chemo wheezes. Driver goes to get someone but Riley doesn’t even care. He just kneels down next to Chemo with a wicked smile.

“I thought you really wanted to know, though.”

“What the fuck is up with you? You some sort of schizo freak?”

Riley laughs. It sounds like the same sort of shit he’d spout. But he’s doing it for the good of the body. Chemo here is doing it because he enjoys the sadistic pleasure of pulling people down. Riley knows men like that. Has suffered at the hands of men like that. But he won’t hurt him anymore. He won’t. There’s no need for extra suffering. The lesson has already been learnt.

“No. Just thought you needed to be taught a thing or two about manners.”

The door slams in and another soldier appears in the doorway, Roach trailing behind him. Riley’s seen him before, when he’s lingering around the front. This must be Soap. They’ve never talked, but he knows they’re close. Knows the body trusts him.

Riley isn’t so stupid. You shouldn’t trust anybody.

“What the fuck?”

Soap rushes forward, checking Chemo to see if he’s okay, before redirecting to Riley. “What the hell did you do?”

“He fucking started it,” Riley raged. “He was asking for it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Soap mutters. “Okay. Fuck. We’re going. Now.”

“You don’t tell me what to do.”

Soap ignores him. Riley doesn’t even try to stop him as he grabs his arm and drags him away from Chemo. Whatever comes next, he’s ready for it.

“You can’t just let him fucking leave!” Chemo wheezes. “He fucking stamped on me.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have fucking provoked him then,” Soap says.

“I didn’t! He’s fucking lying!”

“What is going on here?” Riley freezes. He doesn’t know that voice but he feels like he does. He knows that sort of command, the veiled anger that comes behind it. He knows whatever he’d been expecting to come next is going to be so much worse.

He wants to stick up for himself. To say he’s just doing what he’s been taught to do. But before he can, he’s gone.

— [redacted] —

Ghost comes back to himself in a state. It takes all of three seconds to catalogue the room and realise he’s fucked. Chemo is on the floor, clutching his guts like he’s been shot (fucking hell, the man’s like a footballer with how he’s faking injuries). Behind perfect salutes, Worm and Mask are all staring at him like he’s finally fucking snapped whilst Roach and Rook do their best to look anywhere but Ghost. Then there’s Soap, his hand clutched tight around his forearm like a cuff rather than a comfort. And worst of all, Driver leading Price through the doors, both their faces thunderous.

“What?” Ghost’s eyes snap over to Soap, pleading.

Soap’s eyes go wide and he squeezes tighter, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Ghost?”

“Yeah,” he whispers back, unable to pry his eyes off Chemo. “What the fuck just happened?”

“Sam went to work out. When I came in, you’d kicked Chemo to the floor. Stamped on his chest. Price came in and shouted and then you came back.”

Ghost nods. It’s vital to have the intel before he goes into this, though he doesn’t see how he’s going to get out of this well. He’s assaulted another officer, provoked or not, and there are enough witnesses that there’s no use lying about it. And now his Captain is here.

“Are you two going to keep whispering over there?” Price asks, unamused.

“Sorry, sir,” Soap says immediately. Ghost stays quiet.

“So, anyone going to explain what happened here?”

Rook steps forward, looking nervous. “Chemo was pushing Ghost for information, sir. I understand that it’s not a justification for attacking another soldier but Ghost gave him plenty of warnings.”

Price looks at the scene laid out. “Is that true?” He asks Chemo.

“No,” Chemo grunts, clambering to his feet. They all know Price isn’t going to fall for the rolling-around act. They’re 141. They’re trained to take the force of a bullet and keep running. One stamp should not take them out, undeserved or not. “I asked him a question, jokingly, and he just attacked me!”

“Anyone else?” Price asks. “I’m not here for gossip. You answer truthfully and if one of you is lying, you’ll regret it. How about you, Ghost?”

“I-” don’t remember. “I didn’t mean to.”

“So you did attack him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. Ghost, come with me. Chemo, get yourself checked out at medical. If I hear you lot chatting about this, you’re in for a world of pain, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” they chant.

“Sir, permission to stay with you,” Soap says, “I have information that could be vital.”

“Fine,” Price says, “but don’t push your luck.”

They walk off together, Soap still clutching his arm, as the others disband, nervous looks abound. At least Ghost knows this won’t spread. It’s almost impossible to start the gossip wheel once it starts turning but Price is a terrifying man and few would risk crossing him just to spout shit.

They bundle into Price’s office, Ghost and Price taking up the chairs on either side of the desk whilst Soap plants himself at the door with a frown. “So, what the fuck was that?” Price asks. He just sounds tired now. There’s a pile of paperwork next to him and Ghost doubts he’s properly slept since they came back. And now he’s being forced to deal with all this shit.

“I think Soap might be able to explain better,” Ghost sighs. He can’t put this into words. Not in front of Price. For all the man has been understanding — surprisingly so for a man like him — he will have limits. And Ghost feels like he’s stepped well over the line.

“You sure?” Soap asks. Ghost nods, as good a permission as anything. “How much does Price know about the DID stuff?”

“Enough,” Ghost grunts and then goes back to tearing at the seams of his trousers.

“Okay, so I don’t know everything but Ghost wasn’t…‘out’ today, as such. He doesn’t remember any of it because it wasn’t him, it was one of the other personalities.”

Price just stares blankly.

“I know it sounds mad, sir, but it’s true. I met Jake this morning, and then Sam came out for a bit. Said he wanted to go to the gym. He wouldn’t attack anyone. I didn’t think any of them would but-”

“It was Riley,” Ghost interrupts. “Probably.”

“Oh,” Soap says. “Sam told me about him.”

Price looks genuinely baffled, looking between them like he’s watching a tennis match. “Alright. I don’t know where to begin with all that. But look, regardless of what’s happening, I can’t give you a full pass. Even if it wasn’t you, it was your body doing it. But I’m not your Captain anymore and I don’t have jurisdiction to give you punishments either. Just stay out of everyone’s way, alright? I don’t need Chemo shouting up a storm. I know he can be an arsehole but he’s a good soldier and the only demolitions expert on Alpha Team. I won’t let him off either if he was provoking you but I’ve got to make this fair.”

“Alright,” Ghost says. “That’s fine.”

“Okay then.” Price sighs. “You think this ‘Riley’ is going to continue being violent?”

Ghost shakes his head rapidly. “He’s an arsehole but he’s not violent, not really. I don’t believe he’d hurt anyone without being provoked.”

“Alright then. I’ll get a statement off the others. Dismissed.” Ghost gets up and heads to the door before Price speaks up again. “Oh, actually, before you go, I got an email from Grace.”

“And?”

“I’ve been asked to look through some specialists. I’ll have them ready by the end of the week.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Price smiles in that usual gruff way of his. “Don’t fret it. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry all this is happening. It’s a shame to have you off the field.”

Isn’t it just.

Chapter Text

Ghost gets a text from Price the next morning, asking for a time they can meet. It’s terrifying, how one message can feel so loaded. Price has always just sent someone to collect him before. Now he’s asking, and keeping his promise of keeping Ghost out of the way of the rest of the team for now. And now Ghost has to decide when he wants to do this shit show.

In the end, he decides right away is the best option he has. He shoots off a message to Price, then Grace, and runs for Price’s office the moment he gets a confirmation from both.

“Ghost,” Price says with a solemn nod, “come on in.”

Ghost doesn’t speak, can’t speak, so he just takes a seat and stares out the window behind Price’s head. It’s easier to look at the sprawling green than into the danger of Price’s eyes. Too much hides there, too many memories and promises and betrayals. There is so much left unsaid between them, so many things that Ghost knows they need to address, and the weight of it buries him.

They’re saved by Grace, who trots inside in kitten heels (pretty) with a few files in her hand. If Ghost didn’t know any better, it wouldn’t feel unlike mission prep. He’s seen CIA wear plenty of civilian outfits in meetings, Grace wouldn’t even look particularly out of place. But instead of intel files on potential threats, she’s supposedly got the files on the people that he’s supposed to entrust to help him.

“We’ve narrowed it down to three,” Grace explains. “None of them have been contacted yet but we know at least two should be free on short notice. Right now, I think you should just look through them, see what you think and then we can discuss the ins and outs.”

Ghost wonders why they weren’t just emailed to him until he opens the files. There’s a surprising amount of ‘classifieds’ on each one, blacked-out lines and blurry photos. “One’s ex-SAS,” Price explains, “there’s a lot we can’t release.”

“Ex-SAS?”

Grace smiles. “We thought you might like that. He understands you guys’ way of thinking. But he trained in psychology later in life, fell into DID almost by accident, but I’ve talked to him, he knows his stuff.” Ghost looks down at the name. Thomas Caldwell. 62 years old. Retired from the SAS over thirty years ago. Been researching DID for the last decade, with multiple papers published in his name.

“And the others?” Ghost asks, flipping through to the next file.

“More of a hunch,” Price explains, “I think you’ll like him.”

“He’s also ex-military, though not special ops. Younger too. Less overall knowledge about DID but that’s difficult when you’re up against the top in the field. He’s good, really good. But before specialising in DID, he specialised in trauma survivors, which could be very helpful in your case, especially about your time in Mexico.” Ghost knows Grace has seen his file but it’s the closest they’ve ever danced to fully acknowledging it. Ghost certainly hasn’t talked about it much. His file doesn’t cover his family life, except their deaths, but it does go into his time with Roba in enough detail to be harrowing. She’s never shown any signs of it before.

“You’d like him,” Price says. “I don’t know much about psychologists but you two would get along like a house on fire.” James Scott, the file reads. Thirty-nine. Retired from the army at 25. Specialising in DID for the last five years.

“And I don’t think that that’s necessarily what you should be looking for. But, in saying that,” Grace says, with a conciliatory look towards Price, “if it makes you more comfortable, then that is what matters here.”

“Okay. And the last?”

“More of a long shot,” Grace says, as Ghost flips it open. Sarah Callaghan. “But, well, we know you seem to like the Scots. She can be brutal, I’ll give her that, but in a good way. She’s not going to let you off the hook with anything. She’s blunt, knows her stuff, but isn’t as intertwined with your case.” Grace sits on the edge of the desk as Ghost reads the fine print; Grace’s summary doesn’t really give her justice in experience, background or temper. She seems like a tough nut, but Ghost thinks that might be what he needs. “Now, I know this is a lot so I’m not expecting you to do anything solid now but I did want to discuss how this might look going forward.”

“Go on,” Ghost says, eyes flickering up to Price. It feels wrong to have them both in the same room like this, like two sides of his world colliding. It’s a mismatched picture, though not necessarily a jagged one. But the whole point of Grace is that he can be weak with her, and the last thing he ever wants to show Price is weakness. He feels like he’s being split in two.

“What I want to do is make a team.” Grace sighs, never a good sign. “Look, frankly, your case is special. Not because of your symptoms but rather the scenario. Right now, your legal status is contested and you can’t leave base. But, the army owes you a lot-”

“You’ve got enough medals that they feel guilty,” Price corrects with a humourless smile. Ghost huffs a laugh. He appreciates the honesty.

“They owe you,” Grace continues, shooting them both a look, “so they are willing to cover the costs of proper treatment, especially because you can’t get it publicly. That means that you may have the facilities to choose more than one. I know you’ve had worries about extending your trust but right now, I’d say you would do well in talking to either Sarah or James, but keeping Thomas on for his expertise. Though, we’re not sure about James’ immediate availability which may mean that Sarah is the more viable option-”

“I don’t care,” Ghost blurts, much to his own surprise. “Make a team or whatever. I’ll talk to them.”

Grace’s eyebrows climb rapidly. “That’s a quick turnaround.”

“Yeah, well, Riley went mental yesterday and kicked a fucking soldier to the ground. I’ve had a month of fucking shit from all of them. And everything’s just fucked, frankly. I need this under control. And if I need a team to do that, then so be it.”

“We’ll get in contact with all of them then. With your permission?”

“Go ahead.”

“Okay, that’s that then.” Grace stands up and collects the files. “These are yours,” she says, handing them over. “Make sure they stay in the confines of your room. I think you know the drill. I’ll see you at five.”

She walks out, leaving Ghost and Price to sit in the leftover silence, neither of them quite sure what they want to fill it with.

Eventually, Ghost breaks. “Why are they actually doing this, Price? Funding all this, I mean.”

“I wasn’t joking with the medals.”

Ghost shoots him a look. “I know you weren’t. But they wouldn’t do all this because of some medals. Even if the media started hounding them.”

Price sighs and sits back, twiddling his thumbs over his stomach. “You know too much. We all do. But with a folder like yours, they’re worried you’ll blab.”

“So it’s appeasement.”

“You could say so, yes,” Price says, never one to mince words.

Ghost is surprised that he doesn’t much care. He’s never thought the brass had a particularly good view of him and he doesn’t even particularly care that they know he’s nutty. Maybe they do fucking owe him this. He’s stopped enough shit to save the country a few times over. He fucking signed up for this shit because he cared about this country. And whatever his current, ambivalent feelings are, he has done some good amongst the absolute pile of shit surrounding it, the least they could do is make it so he can move on with his life without topping himself.

“Makes sense,” Ghost concedes.

Another short silence follows. Neither of them has ever been too good with words. Both of them know the power of them, how to place them at the right time for the maximum effect. But this is a nuance that neither of them knows. This isn’t barking an order, or getting the right combination of words to break a recruit so you can build them back up again. This is the weight of a thousand things between them, with too many words to properly express.

Finally, Price caves. “I need you alive, Simon.” It’s almost an exact reflection of what Soap had said, almost a month ago now. Ghost still isn’t sure he believes it, but maybe he wants to, which is going to have to be enough for now.

“What did you see? That day?” Ghost has to ask.

“Enough.”

“I’m going to need more than that,” Ghost growls. This isn’t the time for implications and slipping between the lines. He needs honesty.

Price looks uncomfortable, but he still manages to say, “I came in after Soap called me. You were laughing. I went to get your therapist and waited outside until I was called away.” It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. Ghost nods. “Soap was good to you. He took it well.”

“He’s got a good head on him,” Ghost says, which feels like so much of an understatement that it’s almost a lie.

“I don’t begin to pretend that I understand what’s going on but whatever it is, I know Soap’s good for you.” Price is leading towards something, he can feel it. “You two seem close.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Look,” Price sighs, “whatever you two get up to in your spare time is your business but if it’s going to affect Soap’s ability in the field then-”

“What exactly are you accusing us of?” Ghost snaps.

“I’m not accusing you of anything. But I need to know whether Soap is compromised.”

“Oh, come off it,” Ghost sneers. “You think we’re fucking?”

Price just shrugs, unashamed of the accusation.

“Whether we’re fucking or not isn’t any of your business. I’m not under your command anymore, Captain.” Ghost feels like there’s a beast inside him, something snarling and scared, unwilling to even entertain the idea of something so…ludicrous.

“But Soap is. And I would rather not go behind your back and ask him because I know out of the both of you, he’s a lot more likely to blab.”

Ghost wants to bare his teeth. He doesn’t, out of the limited respect he still has for Price. “We’re not fucking. Neither of us are fucking gay, Price.”

Price shoots him a look about how much he believes that. Which is…Jesus Christ, that’s something. “I’m not,” Ghost says, heart battering in his chest. That feeling is back. The one where it feels like the rug’s been tugged out from underneath him. Or the Earth is rolling and he can’t run fast enough to keep up. Where everything is just too far out of his control and all he can do is-

Calm down.

Ghost can admit that Sam’s presence is steadying, but not enough to stop the earthquake beneath his feet. Price continues, oblivious. “It’s not illegal anymore. No Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell on this side of the river. Forgive me if it feels like you’re hiding something.”

Ignore him, Ghost. This isn’t going to help anything.

“I’m not. Fucking. Gay.”

“And what about Soap? You going to talk on his behalf too?” Ghost thinks over every single one of their interactions. Remembers all the times Soap has talked about girls back home, and the few he’s had his eyes on since he joined the army. Soap’s never mentioned a man. Ever.

Ghost doesn’t even know what the line between friendship and romance is anymore. That got shattered a long time ago. And the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks he might have been treading it wrong all along. Not if Price looked at them and saw this. Price doesn’t even know the half of it. He doesn’t know the soft touches and the bright smiles. He doesn’t know what it’s like to bask in Soap’s attention when everything else is falling apart.

Price doesn’t know how much Ghost cares about Soap. But no in a gay way. Never in a gay way. Ghost can’t be gay, he just can’t be. (It would fuel to add to his father’s fire, another thing to prove Roba correct, just another way to prove-)

“Ghost?”

— [redacted] —

Sam takes over. Ghost has let the silence go on too long and is fading out anyway. It feels good, to be able to do his job properly. No more of the train wreck of the last month. He just wants to do his job.

He keeps his voice low, gruff, and rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not. Look, I just don’t like you throwing accusations like this about. Soap and I are friends. He’s not compromised. Especially whilst I’m off the field. You can be assured of that.”

“Good,” Price says, “that’s all I wanted to hear. You’re free to go. Read the files, Ghost, I need you certain of this. No more incidents like the last one, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No longer sir, Simon. It’s John.”

Sam smiles. “Fine, John.” And with that, he stalks out before he can let his own anger bubble up. Price’s digging isn’t cause enough to start shouting, even if it feels like another knife under the nails that he doesn’t need. That none of them need.

Sam doesn’t care what Price thinks of them, or what Ghost’s relationship is with Soap, but he does care when it makes Ghost feel like that. Sam is there to keep this system stable, not allow something as inane as a comment on Ghost’s sexuality to make them spiral.

“Ghost!” Sam turns to see Soap rushing down the corridor. “How’d it go?”

“Fine. I’ve got the files,” Sam says, unsure of how much Soap knows.

“You look through them yet?”

“They went through them with me,” Sam says as they make their way down the corridor. “I’ll have another look properly. Maybe try the notebook again, see what the others think.”

Soap winces. “You think they’ll be happy about it?”

Sam almost laughs. What comes out is more of a huff. “Of course not, but I’ll bring them around.”

They reach the end of their journey outside Ghost’s room, Soap still leaning for information that Sam just isn’t going to give him. “You seem awful sure about this all of a sudden,” Soap says.

“We need it,” Sam says, “you don’t know what it was like when you were gone.”

Soap softens. “No. Guess I don’t. I’m sorry I-”

“Don’t,” Sam snaps. “We have to be able to live without you, Soap. You can’t be there all the time.”

Soap shifts suddenly, jumping from foot to foot like he can’t find a way to stand normally. “You’re awful comfortable with the whole ‘we’ stuff now.”

Sam stiffens. “Well, we have to get used to it.”

Soap’s eyes narrow further. His eyes dart up and down the corridor before he leans in. “Sam?”

He grits his teeth. “Yes.”

Soap shakes his head with a confused smile and bats Sam’s arm. “Why didn’t ya just say something? I wouldnae have minded.”

Sam shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just automatic sometimes.”

“Ach, I guess. But you know you can always tell me who you are whenever. I won’t mind.”

“I know,” Sam says with a smile. He wants to reach out, a friendly slap or even a light hug, but something distinctly Ghost holds him back. “Look, I need to have a look through these myself. And maybe try and let a few of the others have a look too. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Alright. Just wanted to check-in. Tell Ghost I said hi. And the rest too, I guess.” Soap smiles and nods his goodbye, making his way back in the direction of the armoury. Ghost doesn’t know Soap’s schedule anymore but he does know Soap still has a fair few responsibilities on base, probably more so with Price swamped and Ghost out of commission.

And yet still, he makes time for them.

Is that fucking normal?

I don’t know, Ghost, Sam thinks. I really don’t know.

— [redacted] —

It takes two weeks for them to organise Ghost’s psychiatric team. Two weeks of clinging onto sanity, onto reality. Soap gets put on sorting out the new recruits, which at least keeps him on home base for another few weeks. Price is in and out. That man travels the world in a few days if he needs to, landing back home just often enough to fill in the paperwork before he’s off again. Whatever’s going down, it’s huge. And Ghost isn’t a part of it. He’s still having to come to terms with that.

He sees Grace five days a week and hides away in his room for two, but if it’s what keeps him going, then so be it. It doesn’t matter that Grace keeps trying to push him out of this rut, where he isn’t backsliding but he also isn’t getting anywhere. It annoys Ghost as much as it pleases him. The idea of change — so much of it looming over the horizon — is paralysing. But the idea of staying like this is frustrating beyond belief. If he could brute force his way through therapy he would. He wouldn’t sit here for weeks on end trying to unpick his own tangled mind.

Soap is a bastion of hope amongst it all. Always smiling. Always kind, even when he puts his foot in his mouth. Always willing to lend a shoulder or a hand or just some help when Ghost doesn’t know how to ask for it.

But Soap can’t always be there.

“I worry about the co-dependency forming between you,” Grace says, though she looks anxious about it, like she knows that she may be stepping on a landmine with this.

“Do we have to talk about this?”

Grace sighs. “You’re meeting the experts tomorrow and until then, I’d rather tackle some of the issues that may not be as embroiled in the DID diagnosis.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me and Soap,” Ghost says, practically orders. He doesn’t want to talk about this. First Price, now Grace. It’s like they want to pick this apart. But it’s the only good thing Ghost has. That most of them have. Ashley still practically writes poetry about her ‘Johnny’ in their notebook. Sam sees him as a rock, someone to take a little bit of his burden. Even Jake enjoyed hanging out with Soap. (So fuck Riley’s opinions on it). Soap’s good for the system. He is.

“I’m not saying there is,” Grace assures, “I just wonder whether you’re relying on him. It’s good to have support. Really good. I’m not saying it isn’t. But I also don’t want you to put your entire journey on Soap’s back. Things happen. What if Soap goes away for a month again? Longer? He can’t be your only support.”

“I have Price,” Ghost says. Though, given their last conversation, Ghost doesn’t know where the hell he stands with Price. Dissociating because a man accuses you of being gay isn’t a situation covered in the usual relationship handbook.

“Who’s Soap’s Captain. They’re often deployed together.”

“Then I have you! Fuck’s sake, Grace, it’s fine!”

She nods. “Okay. That’s fine. I just want you to be careful, okay? I’m not saying you should draw away from Soap, I just want you to know that the bigger the safety net, the better. I know you can’t talk to the others right now but expanding your friendship circle could be really beneficial-”

“No.”

Grace frowns and jots something down. “Why not?”

“They’re saying shit about me. On base.” Ghost shuffles awkwardly. There’s no filling left to pick out of the chair so picking at the threads will have to suffice. Grace has joked about Ghost having a vendetta against the chair on more than one occasion. “They’re all bastards.”

“All of them?”

“Most of them,” Ghost corrects.

“Then talk to the not bastard ones,” Grace says with a smile that says she thinks she’s caught him out.

Ghost just shutters her with a look. “They all know I’m mental. Even before all this, I wasn’t exactly the guy they were screaming to hang around with.”

“I know new relationships can feel difficult but it seems like you’re putting out a lot of negatives without thinking about your own positives.”

Ghost raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Well, Soap certainly sees something in you, doesn’t he? He seems rather pleased about being your friend.”

Ghost shoots her a disbelieving look. “You talk to Soap often then?”

Grace slams her mouth shut, a small flush rising to her cheeks. “I have spoken to him a few times, yes, but I can’t reveal more than that.”

A veritable fuck tonne of anxieties run through his mind. But one of them rings louder than the rest. A relentless repeat of ‘Is Soap okay?’ It’s like the warning bells draw out the others, a muddle of voices all in a muddle over a single insinuation.

Ghost knows he can’t ask. Won’t ask. Won’t risk breaking Soap’s privacy like that, but he wants to know, so badly it almost kills him.

“We’re getting off-topic here. I want to discuss a few ways that you could reach out to people. Is there anyone you think you’d be comfortable approaching that you don’t regularly talk to at the moment?”

“No.” Ghost is shuttering, he knows he is, but the others are still rampaging at the front and he can barely focus. Never mind think about the veritable minefield that is having friends.

“Ghost-”

“I need to go.”

Ghost doesn’t think Grace understands how these sorts of things work. Then again, maybe it is how they function out in the real world, outside of barracks and training that brings you to your mental brink and then drags you back again. What happens in Credenhill doesn’t lend itself well to ‘opening up’.

“I would prefer you didn’t.”

Ghost doesn’t listen to her. Instead, he rushes out of his seat and ignores the fact that he’s being a coward, still fixated on the fact that Soap might be struggling and Ghost didn’t even know. Sometimes it’s easier to think about someone else’s problems than your own. To feel guilt instead of pain. Ghost is nothing if not a brilliant compartmentalist.

It’ll be fine, Sam assures, though he doesn’t sound sure. Focus on tomorrow, for now. Soap will be fine.

And if he isn’t? Ghost asks.

Then that’s on him to tell us. Come on, let’s go back, before someone catches us out here. And as he always does, Ghost lets Sam take the lead.

— [redacted] —

Thomas Caldwell and Sarah Callaghan drive onto base Friday morning, with James Scott on hold as a possible alternative if Ghost finds himself not clicking with the former, though he’d be working remotely no matter what. The idea of doing therapy over Zoom makes Ghost want to be sick.

Thomas Caldwell is a big man, possibly rivalling Ghost in the sheer span of his chest, though at least an inch shorter. Sarah Callaghan is almost comical in comparison. Small, round, with pursed red lips and a look that says she could obliterate him in a second if she wanted to. Somehow Ghost is more scared of her than the genuine ex-SAS captain.

“Captain Caldwell,” Ghost says, over the churning of distant helicopter blades, another group flying out, “Mrs Callaghan.”

“It’s Sarah,” she shouts. “Lead the way, Lieutenant.”

Ghost does his best to seem put together, dragging the bits of himself from the army back together so that he can nod politely and walk through the halls without fixating on the eyes of his squad. There’s been a division, or so Soap says, between those who think he’s gone nuts and the rest who think he was provoked. Ghost isn’t sure he cares, but if there was anything that would make people stop staring then he would do it in a heartbeat.

Ghost leads them to where their offices are located, just down the hall from Grace’s. It’s technically the psychiatric wing, though it’s just converted offices. Back when this was an SAS base, there was a lot more brass to fill the halls. Right now, there’s only the 141 on base. Technically, two other spec ops teams have rights to it but one has a much larger base in the US that they use and the other’s numbers have dwindled so drastically that they’re talking about disbanding. In the interim, this is the 141’s private paradise with rooms to spare.

He ushers them into what will be Caldwell’s office, decked out with more cheap IKEA furniture because the army is averse to spending money that isn’t on several-million-pound tanks. It’s almost an eerie reflection of Grace’s, except the armchair is a little less ragged and has a lot more filling.

Caldwell immediately goes to sit behind the desk, peering into the desk drawers with a keen eye as Sarah drags up a chair next to the large armchair and smiles at them both.

“Okay, I’m sure Price has explained much of the situation, as has your current therapist,” Caldwell says, “but, I’ll say it again, for the sake of clarity. Right now, Sarah is going to be working as your primary therapist. You will be meeting her five days a week, just as you are doing with your current therapist. However, I will be getting reports from her and aiding her in making a treatment plan, as well as getting you on medication that may help you. I know you’ve signed the contract that states you’re okay with Sarah handing over information but you can retract that at any time. Though I ask you not to do so unless you are at risk of doing something dangerous because you think I’ll find out something you don’t want me to know. I will still be here on weekends, though gone on Monday and Tuesday, and you are free to talk to me in this time if you need to.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, I think it’s best to get a grasp on your situation. Are you comfortable talking about this now?”

“I’d rather get it over with,” Ghost grits out, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. He’s tempted to tear a hole so he can start taking out the stuffing again but there’s something about Caldwell’s temperament that suggests he won’t be so happy about the casual destruction of his furniture. Military men tend to be a bit uptight about tidiness.

“Okay, then I’m going to ask you a few questions. Sarah, you can input at any time.” Caldwell digs into his bag and brings out a crumpled piece of A4. After he digs out his glasses, he asks, “Can you go through some of your symptoms? Just the main ones will do.”

“It started with memory gaps,” Ghost says, doing his best to simplify this into something that seems presentable. He’s plenty practised. Post-op meetings are all about summarising what happened as quickly and simply as possible, though there’s something a lot more vulnerable about picking apart your own brain in the same way. Made worse by the fact that Caldwell has dug out a pen and started ticking boxes.

Ghost is starting to be glad that Sarah will be his main go-to. Despite her strict demeanour, she is soft now in a way that Caldwell just isn’t. It’s not like the man’s even done anything off-beat. Maybe it’s just the familiar posture, or the steel behind his eyes. It feels like having Price for a therapist (and no sane man wants that).

Ghost knows that this man understands what it’s like to be in the military and Ghost realises he doesn’t want him to. It’s a layer peeled back too soon. An empathy he doesn’t want.

“Go on,” Caldwell says.

“After that, there were voices. Or maybe there were always voices. But I was made aware they were voices and not just…me. Ends up they’re alters. Probably. The others probably know them better than me.”

Caldwell nods and jots something down. “How would you describe these alters?”

“Different,” Ghost shrugs. “I don’t have that much communication with them. We tried the notebook but it’s only been partially successful.”

“In what way?” Sarah asks, her face a perfectly blank mask. Ghost suddenly understands why so many people are off-put by his general demeanour. There’s something comforting, though, in the complete lack. He wants to know what she’s feeling, of course he does, but he feels a lot better pretending it’s good than knowing it’s bad.

“We write. Mostly just me and Sam, though. Ashley sometimes writes, but it’s not very useful. Riley just defaces the whole thing and Simon doesn’t really say anything. We have to guess what parts are his. They could be Jake. We’re not entirely sure. I didn’t even know he was called Simon until Sam told me.”

“Are those the names of your alters then?” Caldwell asks.

“The ones I know of, yes.”

“Are they all the ones you know of?”

Ghost wracks his brain. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Okay, that’s all I need to know right now. A more in-depth assessment will come after Sarah has talked to you properly. Right now, your previous therapist has made a good case for a DID diagnosis but I don’t want to jump the gun. Although it may seem obvious, there are plenty of other disorders that are very similar, or that can make a person think they have DID. I do not want to doubt you, but I want to proceed with caution. Getting it wrong can mean life or death here.”

“Okay,” Ghost says. It only feels like an extension of what Grace has always said.

“I know it may not feel brilliant right now, Ghost, but we are here to help you,” Caldwell says. “Your previous therapist will be down the corridor and has openly expressed that she is happy to talk whenever you need. We want to make this as safe a place as we can for you, whatever that may mean.”

Ghost doesn’t feel safe. But that’s a feeling that comes in time, it always has. Soap is safe. Price is safe. Grace is safe. But they weren’t always. He knows the initial distrust, the way it can be broken or shattered. Knows the way it can be reinforced too. He can only wait and see.

Whatever happens, it’s a new chapter. A chance, just a chance, that he can finally start to tackle this beast.

Chapter Text

Sitting in front of Sarah’s desk is borderline terrifying. He’s been on exposed land during a gunfight, he reminds himself, though it doesn’t do anything to settle the burbling anxiety. Sarah looks composed, flipping through a few pages of her file whilst Ghost tries to make himself comfortable.

Sarah’s office is probably the most disparate of the lot. It looks like she actually furnished it herself. The furniture is nice, in a way that belies it being personal. The layout of the room is done purposefully so Ghost’s chair — just a chair, no stuffing to pull at — looks out the one window. It’s south facing, and gets the best of British sun, beaming straight down onto Ghost’s light-starved skin. There are picture frames on the walls of serene vistas and potted plants on shelves and one large houseplant in the corner. It’s homely, in a way that Ghost almost doesn’t recognise. He’d grown up with fuck all in a flat that looked like shit most of the time, where blood stains had been the only decorations on the wall. In the army, it was tidier, cleaner, but more barren. Or maybe that’s just Ghost. Soap’s room has those little twinkles of personality. Ghost’s never has.

Ghost tries to focus on the sun. The warmth of it touches on the few bits of bare skin he has on show. The gap between his hoodie and his gloves, the tiny sliver of skin where his balaclava doesn’t quite reach down far enough. The tiny area around his eyes. It’s a rare sunny day and Ghost longs to be outside. It’s been too long since he could during the day, too scared to run into others. Most of his excursions are in the middle of the night, though they now tend to bring out Ashley more often than not. She likes to look at the stars. Or so Ghost assumes. He’s never cared, and it seems odd to keep waking up with his back aching on a wooden bench as he lies looking up at the night sky.

“Okay. I think we can start.”

Ghost snaps back to reality, though he refuses to let his eyes stray from the window. It feels like the only thing keeping him down to earth right now.

“I know you’ve probably done all this before but I would like to go over some things to begin with, just to make sure we’re on the same page.” Her accent is subtle, though maybe Ghost’s just been with Soap for too long. For a man who’s worked with predominantly English and Americans for the last decade, he’s certainly clung to his accent with vigour.

“Okay.”

“First, nothing leaves this room that you don’t want to. And anything that does leave this room is only to Caldwell. But I do want to put this down right here, right now, that you can always tell me not to, and anything I pass on I will attempt to keep as abstract as possible. No personal details, no stories, just an overview of what might be applicable to his role in all this.”

Ghost doesn’t realise his shoulders are drooping until Sarah continues. “We aren’t here to pick your mind for information. That’s not how this works. The more we know, the better, but pushing yourself too quickly won’t help anything. It’s more likely to box you up than get anywhere useful. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She snorts quietly. “I told you, it’s Sarah. No ma’ams here. I know this is the army, but I’m certainly not. Capiche?”

“Capiche.”

“Good. I wanted to mention another thing. Although I have come in as a DID expert, don’t expect that that’s all we’ll tackle. DID has a very high co-morbidity rate, and given the files that have been passed along, there’s already signs of a few of them and there’s no point in focusing on the DID when there are other major factors that are getting in the way of your day-to-day life.” She pauses and flips to the next page. “That brings me on well to the final thing. What I’m here for, Ghost, is to make your life easier. It’s not necessarily to cure you of all and everything. DID is complicated, so is anything trauma related. We want to tackle quality-of-life things first, then we’ll move on to trauma exploration, which will probably be the longest stage. At the end, there will be a discussion about integration and fusion, whether you may want to merge your system or just work cohesively as a system, but that’s not something to think about now. I have a number of references if you want to look at the general way we treat DID. I find that when people can look through those sorts of resources, they feel a lot more confident about going through it. But, it’s about what you want to do. I know it may not seem like it but you really do lead this. I can’t bully you into getting better. All I can do is expect honesty and give you honesty in return.”

It’s a lot. Frankly, Ghost feels a little like he’s been slammed into a wall, too fast for his brain to even start to process it. “Okay,” he croaks, simply because Sarah looks expectant.

She hands over a piece of paper with a sympathetic smile and Ghost is grateful she doesn’t push for more. “It’s all written down here. Links are on the back if you want to research further. I know this seems like a lot, and it might seem like that for a while, but it’s best to give this to you early on and get you acquainted with it while we do the general getting to know you stage.”

Ghost clutches the paper like a lifeline, crinkling the edges. He scans over the first paragraph, reading disclaimers and garish text bubbles about the order of treatment and even a small paragraph on expectations and rules. For both of them, he notices.

“Now,” Sarah says, clasping her hands on the table. Her nails are painted a rich pink, which has something of Ashley rattling about in the back of his mind, but he ignores it in favour of looking back out the window, fingers tearing at the edges of the paper. “I think the first thing on the agenda is getting down what you want to tackle with all this. What are your biggest problems at the moment? What would you like to approach first? That sort of thing.”

Ghost has a list as long as the Wall of China. But he starts picking at his nails instead, scared of ruining the paper beyond legibility. “There’s a lot.”

“Just tell me the broad strokes. We can work inwards from there.” Sarah just stares where Grace usually smiles. It’s unsettling, though not necessarily bad. Grace always seemed like she was doing her best to present this calm aura, but never quite reaching it. Sarah doesn’t lie. Her face says it all, even if her face says next to nothing.

“I’m switching. A lot. I’m not remembering at least half the day.”

“But you are noticing the switches?”

Ghost nods. “I have help. Soap normally tells me. Sometimes we’re both in the front seat, you know. It’s the only time I can properly talk to them. We have a notebook but it’s never worked very well.”

Sarah nods. Unlike Grace, she doesn’t have a notebook in front of her. Just the unrelenting stare. “So no inner world then?”

“No what?”

Sarah’s eyebrow climb. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be so surprised. A lot of patients that are already aware of a DID diagnosis tend to do a lot of Googling before they see me. Sometimes for good, sometimes not,” she explains.

“One of the alters did a lot of Googling. I don’t trust that shit.”

Sarah nods. “Probably for the best. There’s as much bad information out there as good. I’ve made sure to direct you to some of the better places,” Sarah says, nodding at the paper. “It’s a mix of academic papers and personal accounts, whatever you find easier. A lot of the academic writing is dense, even for those who’ve studied it, so I’ve tried to pick out the ones with more accessibility.”

Ghost nods, folding up the paper and tucking it into his pocket for safekeeping. “I’ll look at it.”

“Good. I think it will make it a lot clearer what an inner world is, especially the first-hand accounts. Academic literature tends to be a bit…muddled on the point, I’ll admit. Or puts it in terms that don’t feel particularly sensitive. I find the personal accounts have something much more real to them, especially for my other DID patients. Though to boil it down, it’s a way in which the alters in a system communicate when they’re not in control of the body. It can be big, or small, and is varyingly comprehensive, but it can make the system a lot more cohesive. It can often make the whole thing seem a bit more real to the patient.”

Ghost’s stomach swoops. “So I could talk to them? Properly?”

“It’s possible. Some systems operate without inner worlds. Some operate extensively within them. It all depends on the system. We find great variation within presentations of DID, as with most things the brain does. As so much of it’s based on personal experience, the outcome is whatever the person’s mind can come up with.”

“But if I don’t have one now-”

“We can work on it. Just because you don’t have one now doesn’t mean we can’t try and set one up. Again, it’s about how the brain works here. I’m not a miracle worker and this isn’t magic. I can’t just snap my fingers and give you a way to communicate, but there are certain techniques that can help.”

“Okay.” Ghost doesn’t know what to feel. These last few weeks, it’s like he’s hit a brick wall. The alters are crumbling around him and whilst Sam seems to be picking up the pieces, Ghost is just blank. Blank, then terrified, then blank again, like the only thing his body is able to feel anymore is fear.

There’s so much information, so much to think about, so much he doesn’t want to think about. The idea of making this real — properly, truly real — is beyond comprehension. But the idea of losing just a little less of his life, of being present is so tempting that he doesn’t dare turn back.

He doesn’t know whether he wants the alters gone, or whether he just wants to get them to shut up, but he wants to do this. He needs to do this. And to do that, he needs to be able to talk to the phantoms in his mind. Maybe he has to finally accept that they really are real. It’s not just hallucinations. Or him pretending. Putting on a funny act and somehow forgetting it. He’s not schizophrenic or just insane beyond definition.

He is Ghost. He is Simon Riley, maybe. He has other people in his head and they’re called alters. He has a mental disorder called dissociative identity disorder. And maybe, just maybe, this isn’t a prolonged nightmare. This could be his reality. One he would fucking be rid of in an instant if he could. But he isn’t, he’s here, and if there’s one thing Ghost is good at, it’s surviving. So survive he will, as he always does.

Ghost spends four days looking through Sarah’s sources, fielding his questions with her like he’s trying to strategise a mission. Maybe he is. It’s the easiest way to do it: to approach his new life with a plan, something feasible to hold onto.

They start going through exercises to build up an inner world, to no current success. Ghost is familiar with most meditation techniques but every time he attempts to picture something in his mind, it tends to spiral into something horrible and leave him a writhing mess. For now, they’ve diverted onto more grounding techniques, keeping him in reality, what makes him feel more like himself and what might be drawing some of the others out. They learn that Ashley comes closer at any and all mention of shoes, whether it be fancy heels or the latest Nikes. Sam likes really shitty pop music, and Riley likes death metal. They even bring Simon out once just looking at a picture of the ocean. Jake’s triggers are simpler: anything and everything that a kid would love, Jake is there for. But no matter what, however many things he tries, the thing that undeniably brings Jake to the front is the rainbow slinky they keep tucked in their bedside drawer. Sometimes Ghost will get it out at night and let himself fall back a bit. He’s getting better at the co-consciousness thing, which Sarah says is a positive, another way the amnesiac barriers are falling. In those hours, he’ll just watch Jake have fun for a while. It’s not always like that. Jake cries a lot, a worrying amount, but it makes it feel so much better when he doesn’t, when Ghost can leave out a set of coloured pencils and watch Jake draw silly little pictures for an hour before he’s put back behind the wheel.

It’s not so easy with all of them. Sam has a tendency to co-front whenever he’s needed, and Ghost is getting better at sharing with him, even if it brings out a prolonged headache for the day. But some still feel untouchable. Simon is still something that only exists in other people’s accounts. Even Riley only seems to co-front for a minute or two before he’s either out or he’s gone.

By the end of the week, Ghost is exhausted, but he feels like he’s made more progress in just these few days than he has in the last few months. Hope isn’t a feeling Ghost is used to but it’s starting to feel like he could do.

“Guess who brought dinner.” Soap appears in the doorway, two trays in hand, one precariously balanced on his forearm. Yet he doesn’t spill a drop as he barges in, putting them both down on the desk and throwing Ghost a wide grin. “And, more importantly, whiskey.” Soap slings a small rucksack off his back and opens it up to reveal the cheapest shit you can find in Sainsbury’s.

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to poison us?”

Soap laughs. “Nah, just what I had lying around.”

“You need better fucking taste.”

“I have brilliant fucking taste!” Soap shouts, indignant. “Better than yours, Mr Old Man Bourbon drinker. But I didn’t have time to go off base so this is what we’ve got.”

Ghost pretends to be put out as he snatches the plastic bottle from Soap’s hand. “This is why I didn’t miss you.”

Soap snorts, collapsing onto the bed beside Ghost. “Liar. You missed me fucking loads.” It’s been strange, actually. Ghost hasn’t seen Soap since the beginning of the week. Ghost has been throwing himself into his new regime, whilst Soap has been dragged around training the cadets with his usual rigour. For the first time, they’ve both just been busy.

“How’re the cadets?”

“Fine. They keep asking questions. But Echo gets more. Don’t know what the fuck is going on with the Alpha Team but if they don’t shut it, Price is going to go mad on them.”

Ghost sighs and unscrews the cap. “Still on about me?”

Soap nods with a wince. “They’ll get over it, eventually. They’ve got to have something to talk about that isn’t Alex’s pining. I mean, Meat managed to twist his ankle on the pavement, which gave everyone a bit of a laugh, though Price wasn’t pleased. That managed to get people going for at least a day.”

Ghost rolls his eyes. “Elite team, my arse. You need to be on them more, Sergeant.”

“Sure thing, LT. I’ll give ‘em hell.”

They grab the trays and start to eat before they get to the worst of the drinking. Despite how much they pack on, 40% cheap whiskey is a quick enough knockout to be a favourite. And whilst Soap has the day off tomorrow, no one should see their Sergeant stumbling around base, trying to work off a hangover.

By the time they’re three drams in, both of them are lightly flushed. Soap is taking to it worse, already slurring a little as he waves the bottle around, as if he doesn’t have a glass right next to him.

“So, how’s the new therapist?”

“Fine,” Ghost says, fiddling with his sheets. “A lot. She’s got me reading a lot.”

“You know, I meant to look some of this stuff up,” Soap says with a frown. “I was gonna. I told you I would.”

Ghost just shakes his head. “It’s fine. Sarah gave me good things to look at.”

Soap nods, a little too viciously to be sober. “That’s good. Yeah, really good.”

“Jesus Christ, who knew you were such a lightweight. Though the Scots were supposed to have iron stomachs.”

Soap flails. “Ach! Shut yer trap. I’ve been fucking training, not exactly drinking every night, am I?”

Ghost just smiles. He’s a little loopy himself but he’s always found alcohol dragged him down rather than up. A tired blink, a slow smile, staring at Johnny like he’s a fucking angel.

Or not doing that. Jesus fucking Christ, maybe he really is fucking drunk.

“Price thinks we’re fucking,” Ghost blurts.

Soap doesn’t say anything, just turns with a comically wide mouth. He flaps it around for a few seconds before he finally manages, “What?”

“Price fucking asked me if we had something going on. I don’t fucking know. Accused me of being gay.”

“Uh…that’s…something.” Soap looks shifty, eyes darting around before he throws Ghost a wicked smile. “Well, you know if I was gonna fuck any guy, it would be you,” he teases.

“Oh, fuck off. Don’t know what Price was on.”

Soap snorts. “That man’s bonkers, you know that. He covers all his bases. Just ignore it.”

Believe him, Ghost’s trying.

They’re another dram in before Ghost finally feels a little ropey. That unreal feeling is strange, and he honestly can’t tell whether he’s drunk, dissociated or both. He doesn’t mind. It’s nice like this. The world feels far away but he doesn’t feel the need to be there either. Soap is leaning against him, dragging on about something inconsequential, though he doesn’t seem to mind Ghost’s obvious distraction.

A memory surfaces, slow and gentle, though it brings with it the anxious tide that seems to come with too many of his memories. Soap is halfway through a sentence when Ghost asks, “Are you seeing Grace?”

Soap’s eyes widen. “Where’s this coming from?”

“Grace said she might have been seeing you.”

Soap frowned. “That’s supposed to be fucking private.”

“She didn’t mean to,” Ghost explains, though now his heart is yammering in his chest. “She didn’t say it was sessions. But I could assume.”

“What the fuck,” Soap says, genuinely peeved. Ghost doesn’t know what to do, what to say, to get out of this again. He regrets the words ever coming out of his mouth in the first place.

“I wouldn’t mind. If you were.”

Soap barks a laugh, too sharp to mean anything good. “You wouldn’t mind? Oh, well, thanks Ghost. I’m glad I have your permission. Fuckin’ hell. Yes, I’ve seen her a few times. I needed my head back in the game and she was helping you. Thought she could help me.”

Ghost wants to apologise but the words just won’t come out of his mouth. Ghost can’t honestly remember the last time he said sorry. “Oh.”

“Cat got your tongue? Fucking hell, Ghost,” Soap sighs, though he falls back against Ghost’s side, the press of shoulders better than any other grounding technique Ghost has tried. “Don’t fucking pry, alright? I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Ghost asks. He has to. Because whatever Soap may say, the subtext is clear. Soap’s head isn’t on right because Ghost’s isn’t on right and hasn’t been for a while. Because Ghost has put half of this on Soap because he can’t trust anyone else with it. That Soap has had to suffer his superior asking him to kill him, and then taken the emotional fallout of everything afterwards.

Ghost has been ruining Soap since day one.

“I am,” Soap confirms. Ghost doesn’t believe it for a second.

He floats as Soap picks up where he left off, like the interruption never happened. But the energy still thrums between them, something unspoken that can never be said aloud. Instead, they just brute force their way through it, unable to open up about what they should, in case it comes with accusations and destruction.

Ghost is his seventh dram in when he can barely feel anything anymore. He can’t even tell whether an alter is starting to take over the body or whether he’s just leaving it, somehow managing to stay upright even with no one at the helm.

“I need to tell you something,” Soap says. His words are barely words anymore. On top of the slurring, there’s a healthy scattering of true Glasgow style making his English sound like a different language altogether. The man doesn’t even speak any Gaelic, but he makes a good pass at sounding like he does.

Ghost hums. Anything more feels like it’ll take energy he just doesn’t have. He’s not there and he is. His body is there, for sure. But he’s…trapped. Blocked. Stuck. Fuck knows. And he thinks he should be scared, that the paranoia should be creeping up by now, but he’s so drunk that he doesn’t even care, so long as he can stay in this realm of nothingness and not slip into something worse.

“I know you didn’t want me to know about your brother. But someone told me anyway. I thought…I’m sorry I kept it from you but Jake mentioned some things about your dad. A few weeks back, actually.”

Ghost should be angry. Should be worried that his system is yet again doing things behind his back. Should be angry that Soap didn’t tell him. But like all dreams, the emotions seem to flitter away.

“Man’s a fucking dick,” Ghost mumbles with a snort. “Absolute fucking dick. I wish I’d been the one to kill him, you know. I really do. Would have put a bullet through his head in a heartbeat.”

“Ghost-”

“No, I would.” Ghost can see it. The gun against his head, the heady smell of gunpowder and blood, the splatter on the wall, the look of horror on his mum’s face. He can see it perfectly.

Who knows. Maybe that is how it ended. He never did see him die. Maybe one of the alters just got it over with.

Good for them. Good for fucking them.

“He was your dad.”

“He fucking tortured me. You know, he’s the reason I passed torture training with flying fucking colours. I was so used to it already. Not even the physical shit. That’s not what gets to you.” He looks down at Soap, finally feeling like he’s closing back in on his mind again, a sharp focus coming with a desperation to drill this into Soap’s thick skull. “Never think the physical is the worst they can do to you,” Ghost says, boring holes into Soap’s eyes. “It never is. It’s how they fuck with your mind, Johnny. It’s how they shape you into what they want you to be and then beat you down for it. It’s how they make you not believe yourself anymore, how you can’t trust anything or anyone because nothing is safe. How you live your entire life in fear, so much fucking fear, and you know it won’t end. It won’t ever end, because as long as they’re alive, you’re not safe.”

“But they’re not alive,” Soap says, though his voice tremors. Still, he holds the eye-contact. Soap’s never been a coward. “You’re safe now.”

Ghost smiles behind his mask, stretched into a Glaswegian smile, all sharp teeth and elongated edges. “I’m never safe. There’s always people who can betray you. And the ones who already have? They stay in your brain, Johnny. They sit there and they torture you, day after day after day. And they don’t leave. Ever.”

“I’m sorry,” Soap whispers, then brings his hand up to the back of Ghost’s neck, clutching the balaclava. “But you’re safe with me. You know that right? I wouldn’t let a fucking thing happen to you. Ever.”

“I know,” Ghost says, bringing his head down to rest against Johnny’s. “Sometimes I think you’re the only thing I can trust in this world.”

“Good. I won’t betray you. Ever. We’re a fucking team, on the field and off.”

They sit like that for a while. For once, the creeping thoughts don’t come. Ghost doesn’t care how this looks like to anyone else. He just wants this, this warmth, this safety. He wants to stay here forever. He doesn’t want his alters to ever snatch another minute from him if every minute can be like this. Let them suffer the shit, try and deal with everything life throws at them. Let Ghost just have Johnny. Just this. Them. Safety. Warmth.

Please, God, always let him have this.

Chapter Text

“Why is it,” It says, “that every time I look away for even a moment, it all goes rather wrong.”

Sam sighs. He doesn’t have the energy for this anymore. He’d come here for help, not to hear another lecture. He can’t even berate It for not helping. It has been helping, in their own way. But even they can’t stop everything.

“Riley is out of control,” Sam explains, though It already knows.

“The fight was a low point, yes. Though I’m intrigued by the new therapist.”

Sam snorts. “Thought you hated the therapists.”

It rolls their eyes and raises an eyebrow. “I do not hate therapists. I hate being pushed too far too soon, which many of them have a propensity for. I want us safe, that is all.”

“I know,” Sam says. He does. He’s just the same, even if they have vastly different tools at their disposal to ensure it. “I’m not sure what there’s left to do,” Sam sighs. “Ghost is getting through things, if a little bit unhealthily, but the others are flailing.”

It pauses for a moment, fathomless eyes drifting to the far window. Outside, the wind tosses up the ground, like a sandstorm is coming. “Go get Ashley from the hotel. She can move to the mansion.”

Sam glares. “You know I can’t get over the wall.”

“Not anymore. Go get her, hopefully that will calm her down.”

“That’s not going to sort out the Riley problem,” Sam warns.

“I know. One step at a time. Unfortunately, Riley and Ashley are not my priority right now.”

Sam scoffs. “Then what the hell is?”

“You know there is far more to this system than the alters you know about, Sam. Someone has to make sure they stay where they are.”

His gut clenches and his muscles lock up. “Are you trapping people?”

“Right now, you are seeing the destruction Riley can cause. I am not trapping anyone but I am keeping people separated, yes.”

“Then why is Riley not separated?!”

It sighs, like Sam is a child who’s asked one too many questions. “Because Riley was already too close. Stop questioning me, Sam, I do not like it. I understand your care for those in our system. Despite what you think, I care for them too. But going into this with your head clouded will not help anyone.”

Sam waves It off. “Rationality doesn’t always work either. But I’ll go. How do I get over?”

“That’s for you to figure out.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Thanks then, I’ll see you once I’ve got Ashley.”

“See to it.”

Poncy fucker. And an absolute cryptic bastard. But helpful, Sam will admit, if only to open a few doors Sam has otherwise found locked. A seed of hope has been planted; if he can get over the wall, he can finally explore the corner of their mind he hasn’t been able to truly touch before. He has a chance to help. Once and for all.

— [redacted] —

Soap and Ghost both wake up with pounding heads and a list of regrets as long as the Wall of China. Yet they manage to pretend that it doesn’t lie between them. That they didn’t sleep in the same bed, curled around each other; that they didn’t drink a whole bottle of whiskey between them and are suffering the consequences; that Ghost didn’t accidentally spill his heart out; that Soap didn’t make promises as good as wedding vows for men like them.

Instead, Soap gives him a lazy salute and a groan, and says he wants to die. Ghost grunts and presses the butt of his hand against his forehead as if he can somehow push the pain away.

They stumble around each other as they both try to look presentable. Soap doesn’t want to sneak out early in case people think something ‘untoward’ so they spend the morning lazily going about their routines. Ghost gets out his laptop and scrolls through some more of the articles Sarah gave him. He keeps his notes in their notebook now, and every now and then someone will make a comment next to them. Sam is especially vocal in his opinions about the system, though he was always going to be. The man practically runs the whole thing. Ashley likes to put little cartoony exclamation marks next to points she finds interesting too, though.

Meanwhile, Soap takes a page that Ghost has ripped out for him and doodles.

“Look, it’s all of you,” he says, showing Ghost a frankly horrific cartoon of Ghost, Sam, Ashley and Jake. It’s cute, by all means, but that only goes to make it all the more horrific. Ghost is in his mask, as always, basically nothing more than a floating skull, whilst Sam is a plain blonde with the same scars that cross Ghost’s face. Ashley and Jake are something else entirely though, nothing more than guesses.

“They don’t look like that,” Ghost says.

“And how would you know?” Soap asks, still smiling like he’s proud of some silly little drawing. And maybe Ghost does like it. Just a little bit.

Then he blanks. Because he doesn’t know how he knows. He just knows it’s wrong. Jake isn’t blonde like that, and Ashley’s face is a lot more round. And Sam’s eyes are light, not dark, which is…

Huh.

“I think I just do?”

“Huh,” Soap says. “You’ll have to describe them to me one day. I’ll get you some proper portraits.”

Ghost snorts, but he does think it over. “I think they’d like that. Ashley hates the body.” She’d made that clear in the notebook. There’s just one paragraph that screams hatred, discomfort and this endless cycle of controlling the body but not feeling like it’s hers. She’s never brought it up again, and yet it lingers in Ghost’s mind. “She’d like to see someone see her for…her.”

“Aw, look who’s being nice to the others,” Soap teases, though the warmth in his eyes is so bright that Ghost burns with it.

“Shut up. Anyway, shouldn’t you be fucking off by now?”

Soap shrugs. “Trying to get rid of me, huh? Rude. But fine. I need a shower.” Soap gets up and flings the little doodle onto Ghost’s lap. “Oh! Before I go, I was supposed to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“My birthday’s coming up. Some of the guys are throwing a small celebration. Not for a few weeks. Just wanted to give you good notice. Want to come?”

Ghost frowns. “Johnny-”

“I know, I know. Crowds aren’t good and you aren’t really supposed to be near the others at the moment but…” Soap sighs and tucks his hands deep into his pockets. “I’d really like you to be there. It’s just going to be a small thing.”

Ghost looks at him and finds that he can’t say no. Like it’s a physical thing. A pull inside him that can’t see Soap look dejected like that and prolong it any longer. So against all his better judgement, he says, “Fine. But I’m not sticking around, alright?”

“As long as you show your beautiful face,” Soap says with a wicked grin, his cheeks an alarming shade of red. “Okay, I’m gonna go. Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“Never do,” Ghost says. Then Soap is gone and Ghost has to wonder whether he’s just made an awful fucking decision.

— [redacted] —

Ghost storms into Sarah’s office. He’s been high-strung for days and the hangover is doing him no favours. His appetite is nonexistent, his stomach is cramping, and his head still pounds something fierce. He’s tired, floaty, and the idea of having to speak about himself feels as bad as sticking knives in his eyes.

“Ghost,” Sarah says, looking up and shutting her laptop, “you seem agitated.”

“You think?” Ghost deadpans, throwing himself into his usual chair. He doesn’t even bother looking out the window today, just rests his head back and shuts his eyes like that will somehow stop his skull from trying to crush his brain.

“Do you want to tell me why?”

“Not, really, no.”

“Ghost.”

Ghost grimaces. “I’m hungover, the alters are fucked and I admitted shit to Soap that I shouldn’t have.”

“Like what?” She asks. He can hear her packing away her things, ready to give him her entire attention. Ghost wants anything but. He doesn’t want to be seen right now.

“I don’t fucking know,” Ghost laments. “I just said some shit. Trauma shit. Nothing specific. But Soap looked worried.”

“And why are you worried about that?”

Ghost rolls his eyes and purposefully keeps his eyes shut. “Soap doesn’t need this shit. He’s got enough on his plate.”

“And yet, it sounds like he’s always been willing to listen. You’ve got to let other people set their own boundaries. Worrying about it won’t get you anywhere. You have to trust that Soap wants to listen.”

Ghost scoffs. “You think Soap would tell me to fuck off? He’s not like that.”

“Then you should make it clear he can. Communication is vital here, for both of you.”

Even the sound of it makes Ghost shudder. He’s told Soap so much more than he’s told anyone else. Even Price only knows because of his file. The words never had to come from Ghost, he never had to figure out how to explain.

But with Soap, it’s something different entirely. Their conversations have always been some form of lashing out. Or a desperation to make Soap understand, coming out in an unstoppable flood. It’s never been out of some deluded sense that he might better himself. It’s just to try and throw his burden onto someone else.

And how’s he supposed to admit that? To go up to Soap and say ‘Oh, yeah, tell me your boundaries so I stop dumping all my fucking trauma on you’. He’ll sound like an idiot.

“You’ve gone very quiet,” Sarah points out.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to say to him.”

“I know it may seem unnatural but the only way to get used to it is practice. This isn’t said enough but I promise you, it will feel better in time. It will seem out of place to begin with but with enough use, both of you will be able to communicate comfortably and effectively. You just have to try.”

Ghost doesn’t voice his protests, he knows it’s futile. Instead, he drags his head down to stare out the window, taking in a deep breath and mustering up some courage. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Of course.” Sarah switches tracks so easily that Ghost’s stomach swoops. So often he’s had to fight to get his way, or to pull rank on those who have no other choice. But here he is, setting down a boundary, and having it taken. “There’s actually something I’ve been wanting to bring into our sessions,” Sarah continues, oblivious to Ghost’s shock. “I know that your attempts to get into the inner world so far have failed, but it’s unclear whether that’s because there isn’t one or if you are being blocked out. I think discussing it with another one of the alters might give us a better perspective.”

Ghost nods. He’ll admit, he does want answers, even if he’s scared of what he’ll find. But he can’t exactly bring out the alters on a whim. His brain is surprisingly empty. Even the usual presence of Sam is gone. It’s funny, how the silence is now almost as daunting as the voices had been. How the ghosts that had haunted him are now becoming his safety blanket. Some of them, anyway; just small handholds of sanity in a sea of chaos. There are still more than a few alters that Ghost would rather do away with entirely but Sarah’s been very vocal about accepting part of his system. Ghost doesn’t know how, but he’s willing to at least try.

“Are you willing to try some of the positive triggers again?”

Ghost nods and settles in. They have a routine for this now, not necessarily to bring other alters out, but often just to practice grounding. In the end, it’s all about coping with dissociation. Ghost is just guiltily glad he won’t have to hold the reins for a while.

“Who do you think I should try and talk to?”

“Sam,” Ghost says immediately. “If anyone will know, it’s him.”

“Okay then. Do we have something we can bring him to the front with?”

Ghost digs his phone out of his pocket and goes into the music app. There’s a lot of shit on there now. Sam has his own playlist, though, just below the single metal playlist Riley saved that Ghost can’t even look at without his fight-or-flight response going wild.

Ghost clicks in and presses shuffle. This shit is awful, but it’s not unsettling. Ghost doesn’t really like music at all. He finds the whole thing a little too close to the one thing he doesn’t want to think about. But music like this is soft enough that he can’t complain, even if it is a little twee.

There’s an uncomfortable few minutes where nothing happens, but Sarah manages to make it better by bringing out her laptop and getting to work whilst Ghost focuses on going internal, of falling inside into that limbo space the others reside in. Well-practised breathing patterns settle him as he lets his eyes drift out of focus. Eventually, he can feel the encroaching presence of Sam, a tingle right between his eyes like Sam is the third eye in between them.

“Got him,” Ghost reports. “I think.”

“Good,” Sarah says, shutting the laptop. “Do you think you’ll be able to switch out?”

Ghost nods hesitantly and pushes deeper back into his head. Is that possible?

We can try, Sam says. I need you to push back as I push forwards, okay?

How the fuck do I push back? This is in my head, Ghost complains.

Just try, okay? And like always, Ghost follows Sam’s orders, trying to imagine his consciousness as a tangible thing, and lets it recede into the background. And then it’s like there’s a click as Ghost becomes the phantom over Sam’s shoulder. He’s there, he knows he’s there, but it certainly doesn’t feel like him. It’s like he’s performing against his will, his body just one step out of his control.

It’s not a pleasant feeling.

“It’s Sam,” he reports, shaking out the body like he’s trying to adjust to it. Ghost can feel his mouth moving, but knows equally well that he’s not the one moving it. “Jesus, what’s up with our head?”

“A hangover, according to Ghost,” Sarah says with a slight up-tick to her lips. Ghost is glad someone finds it funny.

“Ah, that would explain it. Did you need something? Seems like you were trying to draw me out.”

“Yes, we were. I was actually hoping to discuss something with you.”

Ghost doesn’t know what this feeling is. The complete lack of reality whilst knowing it’s real. The desire to stay so he can understand whilst feeling the draw of nothingness like it’s programmed into his brain. Co-consciousness isn’t unusual anymore, but it’s so rare that he’s on this side of things.

He’s starting to feel like a real ghost again.

“What is it?”

“The inner world. I’ve been working with Ghost to gain access to it but we haven’t been successful.”

“Ah,” Sam says and looks away. Outside, the sun glares down, a proper English summer’s day. Ghost relishes in it, even if it doesn’t feel like he’s the one feeling it. “Sorry. There’s been a lot going on.”

“Internally?”

Sam nods and Ghost feels himself lock up. He’s even more surprised when the body locks up with him, like some part of him had barged forward and taken control. Sam slowly unclenches their fists, one finger at a time, and forcefully relaxes their shoulders.

“Sam?”

“Sorry. Ghost didn’t like that. But I can explain,” Sam says, mostly for Ghost’s benefit. “The inner world is…it’s confused, if I can put it like that. Most places are locked off. Some keep moving, like they’re trying to evade prying eyes. I’ve been working on it but…”

“But what?” Sarah urges.

“I’m not making much progress. I’ve had some discussions with other alters and there are things I may be able to do but I haven’t tried yet.”

Sarah looks curious. “So you do have at least some internal communication?”

Sam nods. “Not much. I can talk to around two or three other alters.”

“Which ones?”

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t think we should talk about that.”

Sarah’s eyebrows climb. “Is there a reason?”

“Ghost doesn’t need to know about that yet.” Sam’s anxiety is palpable, Ghost can hear it like a war horn in their head. Ghost’s anger flares. He doesn’t like secrets. Can’t stand having shit hidden from him. He trusts Sam, he does, but he wants the truth.

Tell me, he orders.

Sam hangs his head low and runs a hand over their mask, tugging it outwards so it leaves him more room to breathe. Ghost huffs. He knows the feeling. “There’s already enough stress in the system. We don’t need more. But I can try and help Ghost get inside. I’m not sure how, though.”

“We’ve been trying some meditation techniques. Some trance and hypnosis too. There might be someone blocking Ghost’s entrance.”

Sam nods sagely. “I’ll talk to them then. See if I can sort something out.”

“So you do know who’s blocking us?”

Sam starts to fidget, picking at the edge of one of their nails. Ghost’s never seen him like this. Sam has always been a pillar of strength. But the recent weeks have taken their toll. More than anything, Sam just seems exhausted. Ghost is exhausted. He’s not sure how much longer they can do this.

“I do,” Sam admits. “But if they want to come forward, they’ll do it themselves. I don’t want to talk about them."

“Okay,” Sarah relents. “But you’ve been very helpful Sam, thank you.”

Almost as soon as she’s done, Sam is shoving his way back, past the zone of consciousness and in the back door to nothing. Or maybe not nothing, Ghost realises. What is just empty time for him might be something for Sam. The thought is alluring, in its own way. Ghost wonders whether Sam has a mansion there, like the one Ghost always imagines. Somewhere safe, with everything they could ever want within its walls.

Ghost doubts it. They’ve never been that lucky.

“There is a few other-”

“It’s Ghost again,” Ghost interrupts, examining his finger. Sam hasn’t done too much damage but it stings nonetheless.

“Do you know what was said?”

Ghost nods. Words feel too difficult to put down. Instead, he just lets Sarah talk. There’s something comforting in the safety blanket of keeping his mouth shut. Of letting life wash over him. He nods, sometimes, but even that takes from a slowly dwindling pile of energy. Ghost’s fucks are finite right now.

The session ends early, almost as soon as Sarah realises that she’s not going to get him out of his shell again, though she does give him homework that Ghost probably won’t fill in.

Ghost returns to his room, dissociation muddling his mind. He’s exhausted with all this. He’s exhausted with the system, with Sam, with trusting people who go behind his back. With not ever knowing what the fuck is going on. He just wants life to be fucking simple again.

Perching on the edge of his bed, he reaches into his bedside drawer and pulls out Soap’s slinky. Then he gets his phone out and switches out of Sam’s playlist and onto some shitty kid’s hits chart. Ghost doesn’t mind too much, not when he knows who it’s for.

It takes some digging around but he eventually manages to get a set of coloured pencils and a raggedy notebook and throws them on the bed. He makes sure the door is locked, takes off his mask and then just sits on the bed and waits.

It doesn’t even take that long. Jake slips out, his anxiety a little jarring.

It’s okay, Ghost soothes, it’s safe.

Jake nods and curls up against the wall, dragging the notebook and pencils with him. Ghost is always surprised by how small Jake can feel, even when they share the same body. Curled up in the corner, hunched over and scribbling, Ghost can understand that Jake really does believe he’s a child. This isn’t some fucked up game of pretend, this is a little boy doing his best to get through a really shit situation.

Ghost hovers in the front for a while, just watching Jake doodle. First, little squiggly monsters with disproportional arms and wide smiles. Then something softer, more real. It’s all of them, Ghost realises, at least the ones Jake is aware of, which is basically bound to whoever has used the notebook.

There’s Ashley, with red lips and long blonde hair. Ghost, who — for inexplicable reasons — is grinning like a loon and has short white-blonde hair. Then Sam, with tight blonde curls and a smug smile, his eyes a startlingly bright blue.

And Soap. The most realistic of the lot, with his stupid mohawk that reaches to the sky and a grin that screams warmth and safety.

I like it, Ghost says.

Jake just smiles and scribbles away, writing their names in shaky hands underneath their respective stick-men.

Soap draws too.

Jake fumbles for a moment. He does? Jake says, eyes drifting to the horizon.

Yeah, he drew us too. You should ask to see it sometime.

“That would be nice,” Jake mumbles aloud, vision blurring. “My head hurts.” Time doesn’t pass right for a moment and Ghost can’t tell whether he’s back in control or just stuck in the front. Everything just feels…far away. A minute could pass or a decade.

Ghost comes to an unclear amount of time later, Jake’s drawings in his lap but the alter nowhere to be seen. Ghost’s mind feels blank, lacking even the usual hovering presence of Sam in the back of his mind. He does feel calmer, though, settled in a way that he usually doesn’t after a switch. The sense of unreality is there, it always is, but there’s something less terrifying about watching a little boy draw than the endless blank space of an unknown entity taking over your body.

Ghost settles back and keeps the notebook open, staring down at the four of them on the page. After a moment, he realises his figure and Soap’s are touching. Holding hands, he realises.

Christ, kid.

Ghost traces the connection anyway, smudging the crudely drawn lines. Something patters in his chest, a feeling he doesn’t understand. He wants to be frustrated. It’s just another person accusing of something he just…isn’t. Of him and Soap being something more. But this is Jake. This is some kid who doesn’t understand relationships. Someone who saw how Ghost talks about Soap and thought it was love.

Ghost may not be gay (he’s not, he’s not) but he will have to admit, somewhere deep down, that love is not far from the truth.

— [redacted] —

Sam doesn’t leave the main office building much. Usually, he only does when It sends him on an errand, often sent via note, even if their office is only one door over. Most of what he needs is in his own office anyway. He can go to the top of the hill if he wants to but then he’d have to put up with James and his smarmy remarks. Though it’s always nice to see Matilda out and about.

Sam’s scope of what else there might be is limited. He knows that the door out the back of It’s office leads to something…bad. He wouldn’t have even needed It to tell him. The darkness that seeps through the cracks is obvious enough. Whatever’s back there, he doesn’t want to know.

Out the front is another matter entirely. The wall blocks most of the left side away, brick rising up far above Sam’s head, with no ladder to get over. But the hotel sign peeks over the top, wonky as it clings onto the decrepit building it advertises. The terraced buildings attached to it are nothing more than a couple of chimneys and antennas, shut away from Sam’s knowledge. He’s almost certain It knows exactly who’s back there but the information he hands over is sparse. On a need-to-know basis, he likes to say, with that smug little grin that is designed to grate on Sam’s nerves.

If nothing else, he knows Ashley is back there, and that he’s got orders to retrieve her.

Sam walks alongside the wall, looking for cracks, but the wall is as sturdy as ever. There are no ladders, no gates, nothing. It’s as good as blocked off from him.

Sam frowns. Even jumping won’t get him over. He’s not even sure getting someone else to boost him over would help. But the only other vantage point he can think of is the mansion’s garden. He can probably jump the fence there, if he’s clever about it. He might even be able to sneak past James. The mansion is huge and he knows James’ usual spots.

The hill isn’t steep, nor that long, but Sam finds himself tiring of it quickly. He wanders up the winding dirt path, a constant clock ticking in his head, before diverting off to the side to avoid the front door. He enters through the side gate, unlatching the old mechanical lock with a few strong jerks and makes his way into the garden.

James looks after it well, Sam will give him that. Pruned trees, fruit hanging low on branches and bushels of flowers in full bloom. The grass is neatly trimmed and there’s a small swing set for James’ little girl; it’s all a little too perfect, like James spends more of his time out here than inside. But it’s nice. Sam’s never had a proper garden before. Even his office looks out onto the endless expanse of sand that makes up the surrounding desert.

Better than anything else, it’s empty.

Sam darts to the fence that separates the garden from the city, looking for weak points. But in the end, it’s all too obvious, just not what he’s expecting. In the far corner, hidden behind the large willow tree, Sam finds a step-ladder, corroded and decrepit and completely out of place amongst the flora.

Sam takes one final look around before dragging it to the fence. He climbs precariously, cautious of the rusted metal and weak joints, but makes it over the fence without issue. And then he’s faced with a whole new world.

He lands in a sprawling red-brick estate, with polished Mercedes and gussied up front-doors. But behind it, the city looms, a mix of tower blocks and Victorian terraces. The hotel stands out, a hulking beast of a building in the middle of it all, at least a few stories taller, and brutalist in almost every aspect.

Sam rushes through the estate, curiosity burning as brightly as his fear. He’s surprised to find the city bustling. At least compared to his empty office building on the other side of the wall. This feels real, not just in the way it attacks his senses but in its sheer reflection of the outer world. There’s noise, indistinguishable chatter from all sides, that is nothing like the almost desolate quiet of the desert. Even the smell of petrol, smoke and dirt attacks his senses viscerally.

Sam wants to put his guard up immediately, the urge to hide just as strong as on the outside. But he’s not Ghost here, he’s not in hiding. In this world, Sam is just Sam. The protector. The one who needs to save Ashley from wherever she’s trapped.

The hotel is not hard to find. The streets are signposted and the hotel looms far above the other buildings, its tattered sign so much more nefarious up close. Sam wouldn’t be surprised if it dropped down on his head and crushed him.

It’s dank inside and out. Crumbling brick and rotting wood but Sam enters unbothered, smiling at the bored teen behind the reception desk. The decorations are at least a century old, giving it the look of an old B&B rather than an eight-story hotel.

“Hi, I’m here to meet someone, can I go up?”

The teenager barely glances up from their phone, giving Sam a side-eye that is deserving of awards. Slowly, she peels herself upwards and puts something into the computer. “Who are you going to see?”

“Ashley?” No last name. Not that he knows of anyway. Did she take Riley? Is his last name Riley?

“Oh, I think she has company. But you’re free to go up and knock. Room 404. Lift doesn’t need a key or anything so you can go on up.”

Sam nods gratefully and rushes to the stairs, unwilling to suffer the metal monstrosity that actually has the gall to be so old-fashioned that it has a gate instead of a door. Lifts should have fucking doors, that’s not up for debate. It reeks of piss anyway.

The stairs aren’t much better. He takes them two at a time until he’s on the fourth floor. His heart batters the closer he gets. He can’t tell exactly what it is. Anxiety? Anticipation? Or that awful gut feeling that something is wrong? A feeling that has served them on the field over and over, that has saved their lives on more than one occasion.

In an instant, Sam is on full alert.

He cracks the door open into the fourth-floor corridor, peering down it like he’s looking for targets, but all he hears is a distant thud in one of the rooms.

Room 404. Ashley’s.

He bounds down the corridor. “Ashley?” He calls, pounding his fist against the door. “It’s Sam. Are you alright in there?”

Silence. The banging stops, but no footsteps approach the door. Just nothing. Sam tries the door but it’s locked and he doesn’t have the key. “Ashley,” he says again, “I really need you to open the door. Whatever’s happening in there, I won’t let it hurt you, okay? I just need you to open the door.”

A whimper, followed by a growl. Sam doesn’t know what the fuck is going but he doesn’t care. Ashley sounds scared and he won’t fucking stand for it. He looks at the door, examining it for weak spots. He doesn’t exactly have a battering ram or any explosives (though that would be as likely to harm Ashley as save her). All he can attempt to do is kick it down.

“Get back, Ashley, okay? Just get back.”

With as much strength as he can muster, Sam sends his boot at the latch. Once, twice. Then, with all the force he has left, one last time. The door flies open, revealing a damning picture.

Ashley cowers by the window, makeup dripping down her face and her dress pulled up around her waist. The man in front of her, some plain corporate type, is crowding her, hissing in her ear. Sam can already see the black eye blooming on Ashley’s face.

“Get the fuck off her!” Sam storms in, rage boiling over. He feels out of control but he doesn’t even care. He rips the man away, sending him flying into the wardrobe, caving in the door. It’s a surprisingly nice room, given the circumstances, and Sam feels a little too much glee in destroying it.

Ashley starts crying, pulling her dress down hastily as Sam goes for the man. “Sam, don’t. Let’s just go. I- I want to go.” Ashley chokes on a sob and hobbles towards the door. She doesn’t even have shoes on but she makes no move to retrieve them, just slips out of the room like a phantom.

Sam looks at the man, goes over every scene where he kicks the man’s head in, but in the end, he can’t leave Ashley alone. He follows her out, glaring one more time at the man inside before slamming the door behind him.

“Ashley-”

“Don’t,” she whispers, lips warbling. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sam wants to leave it, he really does, but there’s something shuttering in Ashley and he can’t watch that happen. Not again. “I know, but I think you should.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Ashley reassures, curling her arms around herself. She darts to the stairwell, eyes locked on the floor, Sam hot on her heels. Sam almost bashes into her when she stops abruptly at the top of the stairs. She stares down at them, eyes lidded and legs wobbling.

“Hey, you’re okay,” Sam says, reaching out to put a hand around her waist. Ashley immediately flinches away, back hitting the wall. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. Fuck, Ashley, I didn’t mean to.”

“No, no, it’s fine, come back,” she says, pushing herself off the wall, eyes so wide Sam could mistake her for a spooked deer. She approaches slowly, then just waits by his side until he tentatively brings his arm around her waist. The moment he’s there, she clings to him with everything she has. “Sorry,” she whispers, “I’m just…it’s the adrenaline, that’s all.”

They make their way down, one step at a time, each step looking like a herculean effort. Once they get down one flight, Ashley looks like she’s about to collapse. Sam is holding up a decent portion of her weight, even though there are no visible injuries except her eye. He can’t not ask.

“Tell me what happened. Please.”

Ashley looks up at him through wet lashes, a sob wracking her body. “I didn’t mean to,” she whispers. “He came up to me in the bar downstairs and I just said yes. I don’t even know why. But when we went back up, he started-” Ashley cuts herself off, hiccoughing violently.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Shit, we should go somewhere better than this. Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.” Sam hoists her up and gets them down the stairs, nothing on his mind but getting them out of this hellhole.

But the outside world poses more of a problem. Ashley has no shoes and Sam doesn’t look great dragging a battered woman through broad daylight. It doesn’t help that Ashley is struggling to walk at all, when they’ve got at least a few miles to cover.

“Fuck,” he hisses, stopping them at the bottom of the stairs. “Here,” Sam says, tugging off his hoodie and slipping it over Ashley’s head. There wasn’t much he could do about the shoes but he could at least do something better than bare feet. “Wait here.”

Sam strolls out into the reception. “Hi, any chance you’ve got some spare slippers for the rooms? Women’s.” The girl behind the desk manages to look incredibly put upon getting out of her chair and leaning into the back room.

“Darren! Some guy is asking for slippers!”

There’s some shuffling in the other room before the girl comes back out with a pair of slippers in her hand. “Will these do?”

“Perfectly. Ta.” Sam rushes back to the stairwell, slippers in hand. “Got something for you,” he says with a small smile. Ashley even manages a tremulous one in return. “Come on, don’t want to run into that guy again.”

Ashley doesn’t say anything but she isn’t crying anymore either, which is the best Sam can hope for. She rips open the plastic packaging and puts the slippers on before hurrying out, weight leaning on Sam. She’s drowning in his sweater but she seems pleased with it, tucking the sleeves over her hands, the bottom of it falling below her hemline.

They make it through the streets with only a few odd looks. Ashley is improving with each and every step and by the time they’re in the estate, she’s walking on her own two feet again, nothing but a black eye to suggest that anything had even happened.

Then they reach the fence.

“Ah,” Sam says, coming up short.

“What is it?”

“I used a ladder to get over. Nothing over this side. I’m going to have to boost you.”

Ashley nods, hands still shaky. “Okay. But how will you get over?”

“Do you think you can throw the ladder over?”

Ashley frowns and swallows thickly. “I can try?”

“That’ll have to do. Come on.” Sam gets down on one knee, hands out and pushes Ashley up. She scrambles a bit at the top, yelping as she rolls over to the other side.

“You okay?”

“F-fine!” Ashley calls, out of breath. “I’m going to try and throw the ladder.”

“Alright. I’ll stand back.” Sam doesn’t know what he expects, but it’s not the easy throw that sends the ladder flying over the wall. “Jesus Christ, Ashley!”

“What?”

“Where the fuck are you hiding that muscle?” Sam laughs, grabbing the ladder at least a metre from the wall and dragging it back to where he’d hoisted Ashley up.

Ashley doesn’t reply so Sam just climbs up and over, leaving the ladder behind. It’ll probably come in handy later anyway. “You alright down there?” He asks, swinging his leg over so he can sit on top of the fence.

“Fine,” Ashley whispers. “Where are we?”

“Right, guess I’ve got to give you the tour. Just shout if you need a breather, okay?” He hops off and lands in a crushed patch of flowers.

Ashley nods and latches on Sam’s hand. Sam doesn’t mind; her hand is still hoodie-bound and warm, clutching to Sam like a lifeline. “This is the mansion. Uh, our mansion. Though I don’t spend much time here.”

“There are more of us here? Alters?”

Sam nods and leads her through the garden, watching Ashley look at it all with nigh-childish wonderment. “This is the safest place for all of us. I’m working on getting everyone in here but I don’t have that much time.”

Ashley nods and turns to Sam. “Am I the first?”

Sam shakes his head then cuts himself off. “Sort of. You’re the first I’ve managed to get but there’s alters who’ve always lived here.”

Ashley’s eyes widen. “Who?”

Sam unlocks the back door with a large keyring he always keeps on his person. “James lives here with his daughter Matilda. It’s just those two for now.”

Ashley follows him inside timidly, through the back conservatory and into the kitchen. Unfortunately for Sam, James is standing at the stove, stirring something in a large pot.

“James,” Sam says, pasting on a smile.

“Ah, Sam,” James says, turning around, “and guest.”

“Another alter. This is Ashley,” Sam introduces, watching Ashley step closer. They’re like dark reflections of others. Ashley: short, bright-eyed and light-haired, swamped in Sam’s hoodie and terrified. Then James towering over her, with his brown hair and dark eyes, dressed in nothing but a compression shirt and gym shorts, looking like the confident arsehole he is.

“Nice to meet you, Ashley,” he says, surprisingly warm. Sam shouldn’t be surprised. Whatever tense relationship they have, Sam can admit that James is nothing less than adoring with his daughter.

“Hi,” she whispers, voice dropping off. Neither of them offers a hand. “Sorry, I’m still a bit shaky.”

“It’s okay. Where did Sam find you?” If he’s surprised by the American accent, he doesn’t show it.

“In the hotel,” Sam says, leaning against the large counter in the middle of the kitchen. This place could probably easily fit ten people in, with a double stove and a fridge the size of a car. That’s not even including the dining room.

“Ah. The one with the dingy sign?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Well,” James says, smiling beatifically, “I’m glad you’re out of that place. Will you be staying here?”

Ashley looks back at Sam for reassurance. “No better place, right?” Sam says.

“Brilliant. There are plenty of rooms free upstairs. It’ll be obvious which ones are occupied.”

However suspicious Sam is of James’ apparent welcomeness, he doesn’t mention it, leading Ashley out of the room and up the stairs. James isn’t a bastard, this certainly won’t be a trick, but he is protective. His daughter lives here, of course he is.

“Wow,” Ashley says, peering in each door. “This place is insane.”

Sam is quick to agree. However little time he spends up here, he can admit that it’s a dream. Large bedrooms with enough room for whatever you want to fill them with, all perfectly cleaned and — importantly to Sam — each and every door has a lock on it.

“Do you have a room here?” She asks.

“I do,” he says, pointing to the end of the corridor. I’m the one just before the stairs. James and Matilda are over this side.”

Ashley nods, her eyebrows twitching. “How is that possible? For us to have…family, if we’re all the same person.”

“Because we’re not the same. And this is our world,” Sam says simply. “We share a body out there, sure, but we don’t here, so we make the most of it. James dotes on Matilda like nothing else.”

Ashley still seems unsure but she doesn’t push it, opening one final door and nodding. “I like this one.”

Sam can see why. It’s calming, almost oddly so. Warm walls and a fluffy carpet, a king-sized bed with so many cushions you can barely see what’s underneath, and a large walk-in wardrobe with enough racks to hold all of Sam’s clothes four times over. There’s even an en-suite at the back. “It suits you,” he says. “It’s yours, if you want it.”

Ashley nods rapidly and approaches the bed, hand outstretched like she’s not sure what she’ll find is real. The moment her hand makes contact, a small smile appears and she hops onto the cushion pile. It’s like the moment her body hits the bed, she melts, leaning back and swaddling herself in a swarm of cushions.

A moment passes, Sam hovering in the doorway and Ashley staring absently at the ceiling, before she finally asks, “You still wanna know?”

“If you’ll tell me,” Sam says, shutting the door behind him and taking a spot in the large cream armchair in the corner, giving Ashley as much room as he can.

Ashley pushes herself up slightly, so she can lean against the headboard (or the cushions covering it) and fiddles with the end of Sam’s hoodie. “Like I said, I met him at the bar.” She draws her legs up to her chest and pulls the hoodie over them, resting her chin on her knees. Barely an inch of skin is revealed. “He was nice, flirty, so I thought I should go back to my room with him.”

“Did you want to?” Sam asks. Her phrasing is odd. Worrying, really, that she uses should instead of want. Sam doesn’t know too much about Ashley but he does know what her role has been to cope with. It has drip-fed him information, tiny glimpses into what happened. Sam is ashamed to say he’s glad he doesn’t have those memories. What he already has is bad enough.

“I guess,” Ashley says, which is as good as a no. “He said he’d be good to me but when we- when we got back, he started being rough with me. I tried to push him off. I d-did, I tried really hard, but he was strong than me. He hit my face and I just…lost…I don’t know, I just couldn’t think straight. But I stopped fighting. Didn’t seem worth it. Never is. Normally I don’t even try, but I just thought- recently- I don’t know,” Ashley trails off, then shrugs. “Then you came.”

“Ashley,” Sam says, getting out of the chair and inching closer. When she doesn’t flinch away, Sam perches on the edge of the bed and hovers a hand over her knee. She looks up at him, a flash of want in her eyes, and he lets his hand fall. “I’m glad you fought.”

Ashley shakes her head. “I shouldn’t have.” She chokes on a sob and brings a fist up to her mouth. “It just gets me hurt. Every time.”

Sam sighs. “Why did you bring him up to your room in the first place?”

“Because that’s what I do, isn’t it?” Ashley hiccups and rushes at Sam, wrapping her arms around his waist as her body shakes. Voice muffled in his shoulder, she says, “Every time, I think it’s going to be better, that I’ll have a time where it blots out all the other ones. But it’s always the same. Always.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Sam whispers, running a hand down her back. “You never have to do that. Sex should be safe. It shouldn’t be relying on random strangers. You need to trust someone if you’re going to do that.”

Ashley nods, eyes half-lidded and weary. “I don’t even know why I keep doing it.”

“It’s okay,” Sam says, leaning down to press a kiss against her hair, “you’re alright.”

Ashley rides out the waves of her crying before she finally shifts and settles for sitting next to Sam, head resting on his shoulder and looking at the painting of the ocean on the far wall.

“I’ve always wanted to go to the beach,” Ashley says. “I don’t like sand but the ocean…it sounds nice, is all.”

“We’ll go, eventually. I’m sure we can tell Ghost to take us to a beach.”

Ashley snorts. “Imagine. Him? On a beach? Skull and all.”

“I’d pay to see it,” Sam says with a wink. “I’m thinking just the swimming trunks and the mask. What a picture.”

Ashley giggles lightly, though it tapers off quickly. “Thank you,” she says suddenly, “for saving me.”

“I didn’t save you. I just helped you get out, that’s all.”

Ashley rolls her eyes. “Also known as saving me. Stop deflecting.” She peels herself off his shoulder and whacks his arm with a smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I like it,” she says suddenly, “being able to see you. You’re not what I expected.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. I don’t know, I thought you’d be bigger. Like the body. Guess the blonde is to be expected,” she says and then pulls one of his curls up and lets it snap back to his head, “curls aren’t, though.”

“Oi,” he says, chuckling lowly, “get off my hair.”

She laughs, finally letting out a toothy smile. “Fine, fine. Just saying. I wonder what the others look like.” Then, “Are you going to find them too?”

“If I can. But I was told to get you first. Not sure why but those were my orders.”

“By who?”

Sam shakes his head. “That’s a story for another time. Anyway, I should really go. It’s no good leaving Ghost on his own for too long. Will you be okay here?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Go do your thing. Say hi to Ghost from me, okay?”

Sam won’t, but the sentiment is nice all the same. “See you around, Ashley. And remember, no doing things you don’t want to, alright?”

“Alright,” she sighs. Sam doesn’t think she really understands, not at that moment, but maybe she will. She fought the guy off, after all. She knew she was better than that. But another punch and she reverted right back. Sam doesn’t know how he’s going to help her but he will.

It feels good, to have purpose again, to feel like he has the reins on something. One piece of the puzzle slotted into place. And the rest may still be scattered but he can find them. He will find them. He has to.

Chapter Text

“I want you to shut your eyes,” Sarah says. “Breathe in deep, hold it and then let it out again. Don’t let yourself focus on any specific thought, just let them pass.”

Ghost knows the routine by now. Hates the routine by now. But Sam has assured him that certain discussions have been made ‘inside’ and now Ghost should have access to the elusive ‘inner world’. If this is what it takes to get there, so be it.

It feels somewhat like a fantastical story, or just a fucked up version of Narnia. Sam hasn’t told him much about it, though. For all he knows, it could be a horror set, some twisted reminder of Roba’s torture. Sarah has explained that inner worlds are very often metaphorical representations of trauma and safety. 

Ghost doesn’t think that bodes well for him.

He follows orders, though, like the good little soldier he is. Draws in a deep breath, holds it, lets it go, and tries to not get carried away with his thoughts. By the time he feels a little sleepy, he knows that they’re getting somewhere.

“I want you to picture a place. A safe place,” Sarah says. “It can be anything.”

Ghost thinks of that mansion, the building that’s haunted him through his childhood and up until now. The one dream that little Simon Riley had had, a working-class kid with a black eye and a dream of being somewhere better. A place of luxury and riches, of anywhere but the shithole he lived in with his father.

A safety blanket from the realities of life.

“Describe it to me,” Sarah says.

“It’s big. A mansion. On the hill. Beige, sort of Georgian in design, like the stuff you see in Jane Austen films.” Not that Ghost’s seen many of them, but he has a distant memory of his mum watching them when they came on Film4. She was always a romantic at heart.

“Is there an obvious entrance?”

“Yeah,” Ghost says, looking at the red front door, completely untarnished. “It’s locked, though.”

“That’s okay. What’s behind you?”

Ghost imagines turning around but things go hazy. He blinks a few times but there’s an unerring pressure on his head, pushing him down instead of back. Ghost loses his grip on Sarah’s voice, then the mansion ahead of him and speeds into unconsciousness like he’s being dragged down by a riptide.

Then he wakes up on desert sand.

He looks down at himself and is surprised to find he’s in full gear: skull gloves, scuffed jeans, his cape fluttering in the wind. It’s good camouflage in the desert, better for stealth than high action but enjoyable all the same. He brings a hand up to his face and knocks against the skull plate. It’s definitely his hard-shell one, though he knows that by the weight alone.

Is this it? Whatever Sarah was drawing him towards, this isn’t it, but this feels more realistic. God knows he would imagine the desert, wouldn’t he. Over half a decade later and he still can’t get out of this fucking desert.

The wind howls, his cape snapping at his neck. The mask provides a modicum of protection against the flurry of sand but enough of it lands on his skin anyway, like it has a mind of its own, burying itself under his clothes. Each step comes with a crunch, and the uncomfortable gritty feeling in his mouth.

It all feels unerringly real.

Ghost looks around. Recon is vital. His gut tells him to stay alert, that danger could be around every corner, but he doesn’t find much. He’s trapped within a high-walled fence on three sides and what looks like a military office block on the other, outfitted in the classic style with a rusting metal door. Locked.

The only other things are two graves, marked by nothing more than a fine stick and a mound of sand. Ghost sucks in a breath, heart yammering in his chest. He knows that grave, better than he knows himself. He knows that blood, those claw marks, the devastated howling from inside. 

He is simultaneously inside and outside the grave.

He turns his back, like that will make any difference. Like he can remind himself that he’s free, that he’s already done it. Whatever his mind conjures up now is just another fucked up hallucination. He’s free, he is. 

Ghost should knock on the door. Someone will let him in, surely, but instinct takes over. Before he understands what’s going on, he vaults the fence and escapes into the great desert expanse, away from graves and blood, away from memories and traumas.

He wonders if it’s a memory in there or even an alter; maybe he’d just made it up to make himself suffer. Ghost remembers digging his way out perfectly; the memory hasn’t been stolen from him, for sure. It brings a modicum of comfort to think that he hasn’t made another person suffer down there, that it’s just another nightmare in his head.

Ghost doesn’t know where to go from here. It’s barren, nothing but empty desert stretching on for miles. Heat haze coats the ground ahead, the horizon nothing more than a blue blur in the distance, barely visible through plumes of sand. He can’t imagine any other alters lingering here, surviving here. 

He curses Sam for not explaining this more. Do they all live in the desert? Or is Ghost just trapped in a world of his own imagination, suffering blistering sandstorms and a field of view that barely extends a metre ahead?

Ghost walks. It’s all he can do. He keeps going, powering against the wind, hand raised, cape whipping behind him. Each step is a stagger, slipping in sand, but it’s familiar, at least. He remembers this crawl. Remembers doing it bloody, tired and beyond injured. Remembers getting all the way to the border, suffering starvation, dehydration and malaria all at the same time.

He’s lucky to have survived.

Some days, it doesn’t feel like it.

He’s been walking for what feels like forever when he finally hits a wall, a towering brick monstrosity. He can’t jump over it, that much is clear, but he can search for gaps, something that will allow him to scale it. He walks down it for a little while, examining for cracks or handholds. It soon becomes clear that there’s nothing to find, and his desperation to get out of this sandstorm rises to a peak.

The wind is getting worse and there’s sand everywhere, so all he can do is dig. Praying that eventually he’ll be able to get under the wall. If he reaches foundations, he’s fucked, but this is own mind. Surely if he wants to leave enough…

He has to be able to leave. He has to be.

After thirty minutes of digging down, fighting against the swirling sand trying to undo his work, he finds it. Underneath the wall, there’s just more sand, no foundations. From there, it’s easy. Another half an hour of digging out sand until he can squeeze his way under, praying that the wall doesn’t collapse on top of him.

Can he die here? Surely, he can’t. Surely.

He digs his way up the other side, covered in sweat, his clothes sticking to his skin. All he can feel is the sticky heat, a small part of him grateful that the hole is a small protection from the storm above. 

He’s made it, though, and that’s all that matters. He heaves himself up and sits on the sand on the other side and watches the wall crumble.

“You couldn’t have done that to start with?” Ghost sighs. He could have just gone over the wall. Though he should still be glad that the wall didn’t collapse on top of him. Luck is on his side for once.

He stands up and turns to examine wherever he's made it to. He’s surprised to find a city, the sand slowly bleeding into concrete. It feels a little wrong. The edges of the city look like somewhere in Mexico, maybe even Texas, and yet the city itself is his mind’s fucked up combination of London and Manchester.

Guess he shouldn’t expect consistency from his own mind palace.

Aware that he’s still decked out in military gear, he keeps to the edges, taking ginnels and empty streets, whilst trying to get a layout of the city.

He manages to lose himself in the concrete, each street seemingly identical to the last, until he finally finds himself in something more akin to the suburbs than the urban sprawl behind him. He trespasses through gardens instead of taking the streets, wondering if he hasn’t run into anyone because he doesn’t want to or whether this place just doesn’t have any people at all.

Then Ghost lands somewhere familiar.

He hops out of the final garden onto concrete, a great big tower block looming up amongst the houses like an out-of-place obelisk. Concrete, broken down cars and lads on bikes looking for trouble. He’s on the estate. The one he grew up on; it even has the graffitied dick on the front door that no one ever bothered to wipe off, knowing it would be back the next day.

Ghost wants to turn away now. But as it looms up ahead of him, he gets a flash of memory. Of his family, in that same flat, screaming for help as Washington and Sparks broke their way in, Ghost too far away to help.

What will he find up there? Their dead bodies? Or something from before then? Could he find his father? Tommy?

Ghost can’t bear the thought of not knowing, even if the answer will kill him. Something draws him up the stairs like a psychic is tugging on his mind, drawing him up, up, up until he’s on the sixth floor, where someone has crudely graffitied a 9 next to a large, painted ‘6’. Ghost huffs a laugh. Some things never change.

The walk down the catwalk is familiar, he can almost say how many steps it will take down to flat 604. Ghost used to smoke on this balcony, ignoring the neighbours coming in and out, or the little girl who used to try and cycle up and down it on her sparkly Barbie bike, regardless of who was in her way.

He approaches cautiously, hand resting on his thigh holster, ready to draw at a moment. He can only hope one of the neighbours doesn’t come out. Can he get arrested here? Surely he can, though god knows what would happen if he went to jail in his own fucking mind.

If this is his own mind.

It has to be.

The door is open. Ghost’s heart leaps in his chest, blood pounding like he’s been thrown onto the battlefield, unarmed and terrified. But he is kitted, he reminds himself; decked to the nines, really. No civilian could do shit against him like this, not without some extraordinary luck. Then again, Ghost’s never had a good relationship with luck.

Deep breaths. Focus. He nudges the door open with his foot and peers inside. The front room is empty, and everything he remembers. All the bad fucking memories crop up like Tangos in an infested minefield. The Christmas tree fucking sparkles in the corner, twinkling lights hidden beneath copious amounts of tinsel. It’s clean, though, no trace of the blood that should be pooling on the floor. No dead bodies. Nothing that speaks to the horrors this room saw.

But there is an extra door.

Ghost stares at it and wonders whether this is what a heart attack feels like. This is death, it has to be. Nothing else has ever felt like this.

He reaches out with a violently shaking hand and grasps the handle. The door is locked. Ghost rattles it, over and over, but someone has worked hard to make the door impenetrable.

Whatever’s on the other side of that door, Ghost already knows it’s going to be his worst nightmare.

Abandoning his plan, he decides to scopes out the rest of the flat and rushes (flees) to the kitchen, though there’s a service window that looks right into the living room, which feels like a fucked up form of torture right about now.

So Ghost goes where it’s always been safest.

He goes back to his and Tommy’s room.

It’s almost exactly how he’d left it, mementos of his life scattered about; a story of life that Ghost wishes upon nobody else. Everything from kid’s toys to high school textbooks, all of them tattered at the edges with enough dicks in them to fuel a few orgies. The walls have always been an oppressively dark, almost-navy but Ghost can still see the rusty colour of blood splattered in unlikely spots. One of them is covered with Tommy’s shitty Korn poster that he printed off because he didn’t have enough money to buy a proper one.

Then Ghost hears a whimper.

He freezes in his tracks, the light of the hallway still spilling past him, his shadow like a gargantuan monster creeping up the walls. Ghost would be terrified too.

With more care than he thinks he’s done anything before, Ghost gets to his knees and peers under the bed.

The child screams.

Ghost should take off the mask. He should. But he can’t. He doesn’t know how but he just knows he can’t. That here, it isn’t just a mask. Here it’s a visualisation of him, a part of his entire identity. So he does the next best thing and prostrates him in a deluded form of worship and hides his face in the floor.

“It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you,” he tries, the words rusty in his mouth. The screaming cuts off but the terror doesn’t. Ghost can feel it, a palpable stench in the air.

“Ghost?”

“Jake? ”

Almost immediately, the boy is flying out of the bed and onto Ghost’s back, just a dizzying array of brown hair and eyes that are too old on such a childish face. Ghost locks up, all too aware of what’s happening with his arms, and the pressure where Jake’s body weight is on top of him.

He’s distantly aware that this is not how you should treat a terrified child. That he should get up, maybe hug him, or at least try and speak to him. Instead, Ghost doesn’t move, like shuffling an inch might give Jake an excuse to run away.

“Hi,” Jake whispers against Ghost’s neck. “I’m sorry I screamed.”

“It’s fine,” Ghost says, too snappy to be considered kind, but Jake doesn’t seem to mind, clinging onto him tighter than before.

“Normally only dad comes in here.”

Ghost doesn’t know what to say to that, but is unerringly aware that he’s supposed to say something. Fuck, this was so much easier when Jake was just in the back of his head. When Ghost could just step back and let Jake take the wheel. Being in the same room is…different. Ghost hasn’t been alone in the same room as a kid since…well, probably Joseph.

Fuckin’ hell.

Ghost peels himself up onto his knees, letting Jake hang from his neck for a bit before prying him off and bringing him around to Ghost’s front. God, the kid is tiny, a skinny wee thing with a too-big, cuffed-sleeve jumper and very 90s jeans. All he’s really missing is a backwards cap and a skateboard. With Ghost kneeling and Jake standing, they’re about the same height. “Hey, kid.”

“Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” Ghost asks, “this isn’t a good place for a kid.”

Jake shrugs, shuffling closer so his feet brush against Ghost’s knees. “I know. But Dad locks the front door on his way out.”

Ghost tries to breathe through that, tries to imagine how Jake has managed to live in a world Ghost created where he still has to suffer at the hands of their father. “Not anymore. We’re getting out of here.”

Jake’s eyes widen, glistening with unshed tears. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

A few silent tears roll down Jake’s face as he gapes. “B-but what about dad?”

“Dad can’t hurt you, not while I’m here.”

Jake looks at Ghost then, really looks. Takes in the mask and the guns and the fucking grenades he still has strapped to his chest. For a moment, Jake looks like he really does believe that. Then, “Dad won’t care. He never cares. He never stops.”

Ghost doesn’t know what to do. There’s no rusty child-rearing skills in the back of his head, not even from Joseph. The most he’d ever done was smile pleasingly when Tommy showed him off, and maybe played with him the odd time. Nothing on dealing with some traumatised kid.

In the end, he just does what he wishes someone would have done for him.

He puts his arms on Jake’s shoulders, looks him right in the eyes and says, “I will protect you with my life. And believe me, if it came down to a fight between me and him, I’m the one coming out of it. Understood?”

“Yes,” Jake says, in the smallest voice imaginable, but it’s good enough for Ghost. “Can I bring things with me?”

“Of course. Go get a bag, we’ll take what’s yours.”

Jake scampers over to the wardrobe and digs out a battered Adidas bag that Ghost remembers had this small little hole in the corner that any small object would fall through. Ghost lost a lot of snacks that way.

The packing is as simple as it is light. A few changes of clothes, Jake’s small drawing kit and a ratty teddy-bear that’s seen better days. One of its ears is burnt to a crisp and its fur smells oddly like olive oil. But they pack it in with the rest of it and Ghost hoists it over his shoulder and starts down the corridor when Jake reaches out and grabs his hand.

“Wait!” Jake orders, tugging back slightly. “We have to go get Simon.”

“Simon’s here?” Ghost asks.

Jake nods viciously. “Yeah. He used to live in my room with me but then he went away. But he couldn’t have got out. Dad wouldn’t let him.”

Ghost isn’t so sure but he also doesn’t understand a single bit of this world. Whether it acts like a complete reflection of the outside world, or whether it’s more like a dreamworld he’s conjured up. So far, it’s been hard to tell. It feels real, he’ll give it that much, but the details are all off. It feels more like visiting a foreign city than riding on unicorns through Rainbowland.

“Okay, we can check the other rooms,” Ghost sighs, trying to not act put-upon, however much he’d rather leave right this instant.

Jake leads the way, clinging to Ghost’s hand. There’s only one room left to check. Ghost had never been in his parents room much, there just hadn’t been called for it, and he was more likely to get his head chomped off than find any comfort there. He’s almost surprised by how…lacklustre it is. A bed with no headboard, a sagging mattress and a wardrobe on its last legs. Next to no personal items at all, just the clinging of cobwebs and three layers of dust.

It looks like it hasn’t been touched in years.

“He’s not here,” Ghost says as Jake finally lets go to peer under the bed.

“He has to be,” Jake argues, “he couldn’t have gotten out.”

“Maybe he snuck out.”

“He couldn’t. The door’s locked.”

There’s plenty of other ways to leave, Ghost wants to say, but keeps his mouth shut. Instead, he gets to his knees and looks Jake right in the eye. “We need to go, J. He’s not here.” The nickname comes out on a reflex, a flicker of something in the back of his mind.

Jake stares. One moment, two. Too long. “Simon used to call me J.”

“Oh.” Ghost doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Come on, we need to go look for him.” Ghost almost falls on his arse as Jake bulldozes past him and back into his bedroom. The search is becoming a little frantic and Ghost can’t do anything more than wait in the doorway as Jake works himself into a tizzy throwing things up in the air as if Simon will miraculously appear underneath.

“He’s not here,” Ghost says, for what must be the fifth time.

“No!” Jake screams, throwing himself on his stomach to look under the bed again. “He is. He has to be. He can’t be gone!” Jake’s crying now, on the edge of hysterics that Ghost is more than familiar with. Joseph had been a sweet kid but he’d had a temper, and had gone through the usual Terrible Twos with maximum fuss.

“Jake, calm down,” Ghost orders, trying to haul himself back to a time where he’d watch Tommy parent, the only good example he has. Then again, it might have been a shit example, but Joseph had always looked like a happy kid. Whatever Tommy was doing, it was better than what their dad had done, at least. Tommy’s dark side, though always something that lingered in the back of all their minds, never seemed to turn on Joseph.

“No! I want Simon!”

“Jake,” Ghost repeats, terrified of raising his voice. But desperation lingers in the edges of his mind and he wishes for nothing more than that little voice in his head (usually Sam) that takes control of the situation. But Ghost can’t get help here, he’s on his own. And he can’t clock out either, because that would be a disservice to Jake if nothing else. This kid is screaming out a cry for help and whilst Ghost is the least qualified person for it, he’s also the only person here.

“Bring him back!” Jake screams, sobs wracking his body as a veritable flood of tears pours down his cheeks.

“Jake, please,” Ghost begs, getting down on his knees and hauling Jake up into his arms. “Come on, J, I need you calm. Calm down.”

“I want Simon,” Jake says through jerking hiccoughs. He buries himself in Ghost’s shoulder, ignoring the heavy duty tac-vest in the way. “Simon needs me.”

“Wherever he is, we’ll find him, but not right now,” Ghost assures. “We need to go because if we stay, then we won’t be able to help Simon. Dad will come back and we’ll be stuck here.”

It’s a dirty tactic, all in all, and Ghost feels guilty the moment Jake locks up. But they need to go and they need to go now. Ghost doesn’t know whether his dad actually exists in this place but he does know that plenty of bad things linger regardless. Jake hasn’t mentioned the door, acts like he hasn’t even noticed it, but Ghost has. Ghost can’t stop noticing it.

“Okay,” Jake whispers. “But we will save Simon.”

“Yeah, J. We’ll save Simon.”

Jake nods, picking at the edges of his fingernails until he finally says. "I want to write something. So he knows where I've gone."

"Okay," Ghost sighs, ignoring the desperate itch to get out right this second. "You can write a note. Just be quick about it, alright?"

Jake nods rapidly and rushes off to the cluttered desk in the corner, grabs a pencil and messily scrawls a note before hiding it under a small toy robot. "It's Simon's favourite," Jake explains. "He'll find it."

"Good. Now let's get out of here."

Jake takes Ghost’s hand again. He’s short enough that Ghost has to lean down a bit to keep his hold but he doesn’t mind. Jake seems bolder with Ghost on his arm, like he knows that the big bad monster is on his side rather than coming to get him.

Ghost rushes through the living room and shuts the door behind him. Doesn’t lock it, by Jake’s request, just in case. Ghost doesn’t exactly care. People can rob whatever they want from there, it’s got nothing he wants left.

The journey down is easy and still thankfully absent of people. Ghost doesn’t know how most people would react to a fully kitted-out soldier with a ghost mask walking hand in hand with a child but he suspects it wouldn’t be anything good.

Jake doesn’t talk and only grows shyer the further they get from the flat. He’d probably be hiding behind Ghost if he could. As it is, he’s attached himself to Ghost’s leg like a limpet, legs working double time to keep up with Ghost’s long strides.

“Where are we going?” Jake eventually asks, so quiet that Ghost almost doesn’t catch it. It’s the question Ghost’s been dreading this whole time. Frankly, he doesn’t have a clue. They can’t go back by the main roads for the same reason he came in through the gardens, even more so with Jake on his arm. And even if he did, he doesn’t know where he’d be heading. He can’t take Jake back into the desert. He can’t go back to the desert, not with the amount of stress currently going through his system. He needs a level head for this. He needs an action plan.

“Do you know anywhere safe around here?” Ghost asks. Stupid question to ask a kid, really, and all too revealing. Jake just looks up at him with wide eyes and shakes his head.

“Okay.” Ghost heaves a breath and tries to look like he’s got his shit together. He’s good at it, at least. Two decades in the army will do that to a man. Ghost’s pretty sure the world could be ending around him and he could keep a straight face. Especially if it meant keeping his men in line. It’s always when he’s been alone that’s been the problem.

It takes him a few minutes to think of a half-decent plan. A stupid plan, probably, but a plan.

There’s a woods behind the gardens Ghost ran through. If they trek through them, they’re unlikely to be spotted, or at least have a good chance of running away. Ghost can easily carry Jake if need be. Then they wait until nightfall before making their way through the city and find the first hotel that looks decent enough to stay in.

Simple.

But Ghost knows exactly how often plans go his way. It’s best to plan for all eventualities but Ghost has such limited information available that he can barely think of one. All he knows is that if it comes down to it, he’ll protect Jake with his life and that’s that.

Jake listens to the plan, oblivious to Ghost’s lack of confidence in it, and easily follows him into the woods. For a kid who was so spooked earlier, he doesn’t seem to mind the woods at all. He even lets go of Ghost’s hand at a few intervals to jump on logs or peer into foxholes. Maybe it’s the novelty of it, or just the knowledge that Ghost never takes his eyes off him, but Jake seems a lot more comfortable here, in the anonymity of nature than in the ever-present eyes of the city.

When they’d left, it had already been getting dark. Ghost doesn’t have to wait out the sunset in the woods. The darkness arrives just as they reach the border between trees and city, lamplight illuminating barren streets. 

He gathers Jake close and keeps him within eyesight; he doesn’t like him going too far, especially without any night vision equipment. Ghost may be a soldier, but he’s not a miracle worker.

“You gonna be warm enough?” Ghost asks as they make their way onto a suburban road.

“I’m fine.”

Ghost doesn’t believe him. So he just digs into the duffel and finds an absolutely disgraceful 80s puffer jacket that he pushes Jake into. “It’s only going to get colder,” Ghost says, trying his best to not think about how much he sounds like a fussy mother. Jake huffs like he’s genuinely put upon being warm but buries himself into the collar almost as soon as it’s on. “Come on,” Ghost says, moving them on, “we don’t want to be out here all night.”

Ghost is a little disheartened when they end up on almost entirely suburban streets. His internal navigation is usually excellent, it’s been trained to be, but whatever route they took back, it hasn’t spout them out where Ghost started, and now they’re stuck in some redbrick estate with nowhere to go.

Then, “Why’s there a ladder?”

Ghost’s eyes dart to follow Jake’s and see that there is, in fact, a step ladder set up against a tall fence on the far side of the estate.

Ghost’s hackles rise as Jake drags him forward. “Be careful,” he warns. He’s seen plenty of traps in his life, and this one seems almost too obvious entirely. “Don’t,” Ghost warns, when Jake steps onto the first rung. “Why do you want to go over?”

“I just think we should,” Jake says, with the total confidence of a little kid. “It feels better than here.”

Ghost frowns. “And how would you know that?”

“I just do. It’s fine.”

Ghost pulls him down and says, “I’m going first. I want to have a look.” Jake just shrugs and leans against the wall, fiddling with the ends of his jacket. It feels bad to take his eyes off him, even if it’s literally only to peek over the wall but Ghost doesn’t really have a choice.

“It’s just a garden.”

“Is it a nice garden?” Jake asks.

Ghost rolls his eyes. “Yes, it’s a nice garden.”

“Then let’s go.”

“It would be trespassing.”

“I think we should-”

“Jake.”

“Ghost.”

They’re locked eye to eye, a tiny little kid and a giant beast of a man and yet Ghost feels a little like he might be losing. “I don’t know what you’re expecting.”

“Just go,” Jake says, comically exasperated, “I’ll follow you.”

Like the good soldier he is, Ghost obeys orders and swings his leg over just as someone comes running into the garden, a little harried and a lot surprised.

“Ghost?”

“Sam?” Ghost would recognise that voice anywhere, if not the rest of him. He knows it’s him, deep in his veins, he thinks he would even without the familiar balm of a voice filled with certainty.

“Is Sam there?” Jake says, jumping a little on the ground.

“Yeah, J, he’s here. Come on. Up.” Jake clambers up the ladder and joins Ghost on perching at the top, looking down at Sam.

“I didn’t expect you so soon,” Sam says, looking at Ghost. “But I’m glad you’re here, and that Jake’s with you.”

Ghost nods. “I’m going to jump with you,” he tells Jake, “come here.” Jake practically leaps into Ghost’s arm and Ghost lands on a beautiful bush of carnations with a perfect landing. Jake almost immediately rushes off to look at Sam.

“Hi,” he whispers, stuck somewhere between shy and curious. He doesn’t touch Sam, but he certainly doesn’t seem afraid of him either.

“Hey. It’s nice to finally meet you. Where were you then?”

“I was at home.”

“The old house,” Ghost corrects, “the one I — we — grew up in.”

Sam’s eyes widen but he pastes on a brittle smile regardless, for Jake’s sake. “Well I’m glad you’re here then. Welcome to the mansion.”

Only then does Ghost realise where he is. That he knows this place, that he’s seen it a thousand times, though maybe not from this angle. “What the fuck?”

“You alright?” Sam asks.

“I know this. I’ve always known this,” Ghost says, heart ratcheting in his chest.

“Let’s talk about this inside.”

They pile in through the back door, through the kitchen and into a grandiose living room with enough seating for twelve and a TV the size of a country. A girl is sitting there, feet up on the coffee table and a cup of coffee in hand.

“This is Ashley,” Sam introduces, which shouldn’t be a surprise. And yet, inexplicably, it feels shocking to be faced with her. The reality of her. Ghost has always seen her as some sort of fuck up in his psyche, really, the part that desperately wanted to be anything but himself. But this is different, watching her relax with a pair of ludicrously bright fluffy socks and swamped in a hoodie.

“Oh, I wasn’t expecting anyone,” she says, putting her coffee down. “Jesus Christ, you’re terrifying.” But she’s smiling, getting up to her feet. “Oh, and there’s a kid.”

“You don’t know him?” Ghost asks. He never thought to ask who the other parts knew. It always felt like he was the one out of the know, it’s almost confusing to think that the others were in just as much of a state.

“I saw the drawing,” Ashley says which, yeah, not the best first impression, admittedly. Especially to a kid as sweet as Jake.

“Well, this is Jake,” Sam says, though he makes no attempt to put them any closer together. “Oh, and James and Matilda are upstairs. Though…maybe leave that for another time. But you’re not even the youngest,” Sam tells Jake. “Welcome to the circus.”

Ghost snorts. “Jesus Christ. I never thought about what it might look like on the inside.”

“But you’ve seen the outside?”

Ghost nods and perches on the edge of the far sofa, too scared to dirty it. His uniform is far from spotless and there’s still sand sticking to every part of him. “I used to want to live in a place like this. Always looked like this. The outside anyway. I think apart from the bedroom, I never really bothered to think what actually might be inside.”

Sam smiles. “It makes sense. This place is supposed to be a part of us, this house is just a part of you. It’s nice, I’ll give you that,” Sam jokes, “bang up job with the imagination.”

Ghost smiles. “Yeah, thanks for that. But this is really it then? The inner world?”

Sam nods. “Yup. Welcome. You're free to a room, if you want, though I don’t know how often you’ll be around.” Ghost raises an eyebrow and Sam clarifies. “You’re at the front the most, you have the least need to be in here. Same with me, mostly. I’m at the front quite a lot.”

“Ah.”

“Can I go upstairs?” Jake interrupts, practically jumping on the balls of his feet.

“Go for it,” Ghost says, “be careful. Oh Jesus,” Ghost laments, “I sound like a fucking parent.”

Sam laughs. “I’m impressed.”

Jake runs in to give Ghost a final hug and waves his goodbye, muttering something about Simon under his breath, though he seems shockingly unworried about it given his earlier breakdown. Ghost is too afraid to ask.

“You’re good with him,” Ashley says, a warm smile on her face. “At least, he really seems to like you.”

“Not sure why. But I’m glad. He’s a sweet kid.”

Sam smiles. “You should meet Matilda. Bit of a nightmare sometimes but hilarious too. Real sweet.”

Ghost frowns at that. “How do I not know about her?”

Sam sighs and sits down. “It’s a lot more confusing than just who comes to the front. Matilda has always been more internal. Thought Jake was too. Probably an effect of the job honestly, we knew it wasn’t safe for them to come out.”

“And this James?”

Sam grimaces. “That’s more confusing. But please don’t dig now.” At Ghost’s glare he rolls his eyes. “I know, I know, not what you want to hear, but don’t bombard yourself with this all at once.”

“I’m not, it just sounds like there’s things you don’t want me to know.”

“It’s not,” Sam assures. “It’s just…James isn’t always the most personable, okay-”

“He’s always been plenty nice to me,” Ashley interrupts.

Sam wipes a hand down his face. “Yes, I know he has. But you’re different. Look, just please don’t question me on this. We’ll get to it but right now…just, oh, I don’t know. Ignore it?”

Ghost settles him with a look.

“Okay! I get it, you don’t like that. Christ. Just give it a few days. Please ?”

“Fine,” Ghost relents. “Though only because I’m too tired to deal with arseholes right now. Fuck, I feel out of it.”

“You think you’re going back out to the front?”

“Fuck would I know?”

Sam laughs. “Okay, yeah, fair point. Just stay here. Wait it out. There’s no rush.”

There’s really not. He’s safe. He’s warm. His alters feel more real than they ever have. And Ghost finally feels a little like they might be getting this under control. And he may not want to think about the house he just left behind, or Jake’s terror when he walked in, or even this incessant talk about Simon, but in here, sitting among the smell of coffee and flowers, it all feels so far away. And for once in his life, Ghost just waits.

Chapter Text

Riley has learnt a few things since being told they were a system. Things fall into place quickly, things that he’d never understood before. Air-headed becomes dissociated. Unreal also becomes dissociated. The verbal assaults from his dad that weren’t about him but someone else entirely. Someone that Riley couldn’t trust, because they clearly were doing something wrong, where Riley was doing everything right. He did everything his father wanted and more. He was the model child to a man so fucked up that he’d made Riley clean up his own blood stains. He was good.

Riley doesn’t feel good anymore.

Confusion is a perpetual friend. Dangerous, lingering, igniting the flame of Riley’s anger.  There’s an inferno inside him that never seems to die. Sometimes it dulls to embers but the sparks never fail to fly.

But that’s not all he’s learnt. He’s learnt the body is thirty-five, but he isn’t. He’s learnt that he’s lost almost two decades of time to oblivion. That one night he went to sleep and didn’t wake up for another nineteen years. That something inside his head pushed him down so deep that he wasn’t even aware of time passing.

He’s aware that his life has been stolen from him.

This is more about not trusting his alters. This is more than disliking them. This is them having stolen from him. Who have taken years from him. All this talk of unity and communication and no one has faced up to the fact that they’ve already fucked it. That Riley won’t trust a single one of those fuckers because they’ve already betrayed. He’ll protect them, because that’s what he’s always done, that’s how he protects himself too, but he won’t expect shit in return.

He comes out in flickers, mere moments of co-consciousness before he’s slipping back. Control is elusive. Riley isn’t even sure he wants it. But then new things start to form. Inside. Instead of gaps, there is now…something.

It’s dark. Always dark. But it’s tangible. Scratchy floors, wooden walls, a tiny space that he has to fold his legs just to fit inside. A box for his consciousness to hide in. A place where he’s himself, he thinks. His hair is longer, for sure, and he can feel the rips in his jeans, the spikes on his bracelet.

The box gives him room to think. He should be scared, he thinks, but he’s learnt to push through fear. Fear is nothing. And fearing the dark is better than fearing a man; being alone is better. There’s nothing to fear when alone.

So he thinks. And he festers.

He thinks about how Sam wouldn’t protect them from an angry soldier who clearly wanted to hurt them, that Riley had to come out just to save them. He thinks about how Ghost is forcing them to therapy like a fucking pussy. He thinks about how all of them have stolen more than fifteen years of his life.

He thinks and thinks and thinks until there’s nothing but boiling blood and fury-red vision. The box can no longer hold it. He wants to pace, to scream, to make someone understand this feeling inside him that won’t leave him, blinding in its pressure.

Then the door to the box opens.

Light filters through, blinding, until Riley can blink away the dots in his eyes. It’s not much, just a thin corridor with peeling wallpaper and carpet that probably used to be white but is now a mangy brown.

And someone is screaming.

Riley clambers out of his box, cracking his back and stretching his legs, and peers down the corridor. There are two doors. One on the other side of the corridor, one at the far end. One wood, one metal. One with a dozen bolts and locks and another cracked open, golden light filtering into the room, battling against white fluorescent strip lighting.

Riley takes one look at the metal door, hears the screeching, and walks past it. Even when he hears scratching against the door. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t. They’re probably some crazy fucker, and that’s not for Riley to deal with. He has enough shit going on himself right now.

He just wants to leave.

But regret hits the moment he shuts the door behind him. He knows this place. Has lived in this place his whole life, down to the outdated TV his dad found at a scrapyard and the silverware his mother had always been saving for a special occasion, never once used. Tommy had sold half of it in a fit of desperation anyway. It’s a shock Dad didn’t beat him to it.

The flat hasn’t changed one bit.

In an effort to distract himself, he diverts to his bedroom. It’s always been the safest place, if only by a small margin. There’s some comfort in seeing the old tattered posters and maths textbooks. It’s shockingly soothing, even if this place has haunted him. The familiarity is warm, in a way that the real world isn’t. He doesn’t know how he conjured this up, how he got it right to the very last detail, but it’s here, and it doesn’t seem like Dad is. So that’s something.

He sits on the edge of the bed, looking over at Tommy’s bed. It isn’t made, never was when they were kids, and even less so as teenagers. But it looks untouched for the most part, even the dirty magazines under his bed are collecting dust (and they never collected dust).

In an attempt to think of anything but his own lingering rage, Riley takes to flipping through some old textbooks. He has no interest in them. He never really cared about the whole school thing, and it mostly felt like the whole thing passed him by (which it might have, now that he thinks about it. Even more time stolen). He laughs at a few of the awful, outdated photos, and the dicks drawn around them. He’s not even entirely sure why they kept them. They’re school property, as is written in very large letters on the first page, and god knows how much his parents would have had to pay when they didn’t give them back. His father would have thrown a fit.

Maybe he did.

The gaps are feeling more and more like a gaping hole. This isn’t just moments of his life, or going through events in a haze, this is more and more of his life that he doesn’t know. That he’s not sure he’ll ever know. Good and bad. Stolen from him by the twats who let this happen in the first place. Riley doesn’t understand why none of them get that. Why he’s the only one who’s doing any fucking thing to actually protect them, or who’d ever tried to give them a proper fucking family. He knows his family is fucked up, he’s not a fucking idiot, but it’s what they were given and it’s better to try and please them than get battered fucking black and blue.

The rage rises again, a sickening bile in the back of his throat. It’s always like this. An endless rollercoaster he doesn’t know how to get off. Flinging him between emotions like he’s in the goddamn circus. Out of control and fucking sick of himself, sick of everyone, Riley chucks the textbook at the wall with a battle-worthy scream. It lands with a satisfying thud, the plastic wrap sticking to the wall for a long second before it clatters to the floor.

It feels all too good.

Riley picks up all his textbooks and starts to throw them, lobbing them at every surface he can find, over and over and over, screaming up a storm. Each fucking slap like a catharsis, each scream another additional breath. When he runs out of textbooks, he takes to picking up anything he can find. A pencil case, a fucking rock Tommy had found on some shitty beach in Southport, the flip-knife Riley had been given from their grandfather, rusty but more than useable. When that doesn’t feel like enough, he just starts flinging around the real detritus. Toys that haven’t been used in years, pieces of paper that float to the floor, a jar of blunt pencils. It’s only when he goes to grab another piece that he notices what he’s picked up isn’t a blank piece of paper, but one with a childish scrawl slathered over it.

Simon, it reads, Ghost came to get me. He wants us to be safe. If you come back, the door is unlocked. You can leave.

-Jake.

Riley stares at it for a prolonged moment, reading it over and over, chest heaving. Ghost was here? Jake was here? And no one fucking thought to check the other door? No one even thought to come get him. No. Ghost came in and fucked off with the kid because of course he did. They all fucking hate Riley, that much is obvious. Who the fuck would want to get him safe?

Riley is a problem to them and he knows they’d all rather get rid of him if they could.

Alone, terrified, and filled with that familiar, endless, perennial fucking rage, Riley storms out of his room, shoving the note deep in his pockets, and flees the flat before he can even think about what his plan is.

He doesn’t have one, that much is clear. He’s stuck in some shitty part of the outer city, where the houses are clustered but big, surrounding the monolith of the estate at its centre. Rage blinds him to logic, and he can’t even begin to follow their path. Instead, he storms down street after street, passing through housing estates then some mucky parts of the city until he’s back in the suburbs again. Redbrick houses, scuffed but relatively well kept, with large wooden fences and an abandoned playground that probably attracts more druggies and drunk teenagers than little kids.

He can smell BBQs and sizzling meat, plumes of smoke coming from family gardens. He only realises then just how sunny it is, the beating sun shining down on his back, his hands already a little red from exposure. A proper British summer, tailored for him by his own fucked up brain.

How nice of it.

There’s only one thing out of place. The step-ladder. It’s leant up against a tall wooden fence, neater than the rest. The house it belongs to is obscured by trees but Riley has no doubt that some rich fuckers live there. Did they get robbed? What else would the ladder be for? Though it’s a little strange that no one’s taken it away, but it wouldn’t be the first time people ignored strange happenings in the city.

Curiosity gets the better of him as he gets closer, first foot on the rung before he can even second guess himself. But fuck it, it’s his brain. Surely he can do whatever he wants here. No one can hurt him here.

It’s only when he’s standing on the top of the ladder that he sees them and realises he’s got this whole thing wrong.

As soon as he’s at the top, he realises that he’s the odd one out. The rest of them are lounging in the sunshine, fucking beatific smiles on their faces. Riley doesn’t even recognise all of them, though he thinks he can name a few. It’s not like he’s ever seen their faces before. And yet he just knows. 

Sam, the bold one with an open can of a beer, watching over the others. The girl, that’s gotta be Ashley. There are two kids, a boy and a girl. The boy has to be Jake, whose note is burning in Riley’s pocket. Which only leaves two.

“So you fuckers decided to have all the fun without me?” Riley accuses, swinging his leg over the fence and dropping into an already crushed patch of carnations. “None of you thought to come fucking get me?”

Sam is out of his seat in a moment, can set aside, face grave. “Riley?”

“One and fucking only. What the fuck is going on?”

“Riley, calm down.”

“No, I won’t fucking calm down!” He screams. It’s so easy to clutch onto the anger, to spit it out in vile words and tainted thoughts. To make the internal external so he doesn’t have to fucking feel it anymore. Jesus Christ, he’s becoming fucking morbid. “You fuckers left me there!”

“Where? Riley, we didn’t know where you-”

Riley laughs. “Didn’t know? So you found everyone else but miraculously I was the only one you couldn’t find? Ghost was in the fucking flat and he couldn’t fucking see the door? Yeah, real believable, Sam.”

Sam sighs. “How did you find us?” He redirects. He looks tired, more than, and Riley feels a flash of guilt before he quashes it beneath the veritable fuck tonne of whatever he’s feeling.

“Well, the ladder was a bit obvious. Otherwise, well, my door was finally unlocked, found Jake’s note, ended up here, why do you care?”

“What note?”

“The one I left for Simon,” Jake whispers, eyes wide. “Where is it? Did you take it?”

Riley rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I took it, what of it?”

“Give it back,” Jake orders, hands outstretched. “That wasn’t for you.”

“Fine, kid. Geez.” Riley digs out the note and slaps it into Jake’s hands. “Happy?”

Jake doesn’t say anything, just clutches the note tight to his chest and scurries off to talk with the other kid under his breath, eyes darting rapidly between Riley and his friend.

Sam sighs, running his hands down his face. “Fuck, I need to go talk to someone. Stay here.”

“You don’t tell me what the fuck to do!”

Sam’s not even listening anymore. He’s already sulked back inside, the others staring at Riley like he’s made some egregious mistake. “What?” He says. “I’m not the one in the fucking wrong here.”

The kids are looking at him like he’s some sort of murderer. Ashley’s not any better, though as soon as he looks over, she finds sudden interest in the grass. The only one who seems to have any fucking guts here is the unnamed man, who’s sipping on some horrific-looking cocktail, lurid pink with an umbrella and everything.

“I would rather you didn’t speak like that in front of the kids,” he says, though he somehow manages to sound completely nonchalant about the whole thing, spinning the stem of his cocktail glass, sun glinting on the edge of the glass. 

“Fine,” Riley says, with a begrudging respect for the one person here who still has some balls. “I’m not wrong, though. None of you came and got me.”

“The others have only been here a few days themselves. We would have found you eventually,” the man sighs. “Are you going to keep complaining or are you going to take a seat?”

Riley gapes. “Who the f- hell are you?”

“James. I’ve heard plenty of things about you, Riley. Now either you calm down and get a seat or you go inside. Your choice.”

Riley stomps over to Sam’s sunlounger and throws himself onto it. It feels easier to let the energy out physically. At least they can see he’s still upset, even if he’s being a pussy and doing what he’s told.

He pulls his hood over his head and crosses his arms over his chest. Next to him, James laughs. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a walking stereotype?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

James smiles easily and takes another sip of his cocktail. He urges the kids beside him to run over to Ashley, all of them hesitantly moving on with their day without making any sort of eye contact. “The black hair? The emo fringe? Eyeliner. It’s all very impressive. Very…2005. Even the clothes are all black. What’s next? Going to sing some My Chemical Romance in the shower?”

“Shut up,” Riley says, cheeks aflame. “It’s cool.”

“Sure,” James says, in a way that manages to be both condescending and comforting. Somehow, Riley doesn’t want to punch him for it. There’s something a little freeing about people finally speaking their minds. Unlike the rest of them, James actually doesn’t seem to mind Riley being here. It’s nice.

“Well, you’re not much better, Mr Hawaiian-Shirt. Where’d you get that? Fucking Oxfam?”

James rolls his eyes. “My daughter chose it actually.”

Riley reconfigures everything he thought about the little girl and James. “How the fuck does that work?”

James huffs a laugh. “Question of the week apparently. I don’t know. But she is my daughter and I won’t hear otherwise.”

Riley frowns and burrows himself deeper in his hoodie. “I don’t fucking get any of this.”

“I can imagine it’s been confusing,” James says, suddenly serious. “You didn’t know you were in a system until recently, did you?” Riley shakes his head. “Whilst I haven’t been in your position, I do understand that fear. There’s plenty of things that are uncomfortable about all of this. I’ve questioned many things about myself. But at the same time, some things just don’t have to be that deep.”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

James’ smile is a little wicked; too much teeth and a dangerous glint in his eye. “You’ll find out soon enough. Everyone questions themselves eventually.”

“You’re fucking mad,” Riley gripes.

“And you swear a lot. Look, if you don’t want to be out here, there’s plenty of room inside. You can pick a room.”

Riley’s breath catches. “…A room?”

“Everyone has a bedroom. All of us are on the second floor at the moment but there are plenty of rooms on the third if you want to take a look.”

Riley agrees easily. He’s starting to hate the heat. There’s sweat pouring down his neck and his jeans are starting to genuinely burn his legs. Never mind the skin that actually is on show. If he doesn’t wake up with severe sunburn, he’ll be shocked. So he leaves the rest of them to their weird family picnic and goes to explore the inside of the house, away from prying eyes.

The most obvious thing is that the place is huge. Three floors, with corridors so long that you could do a decent sprint down them. Riley even finds a staircase down to a basement level, though the door at the bottom is locked.

Eventually, he decides on a room on the third floor. It’s pretty much been made for him anyway, with dark navy walls and a massive gaming centre on the wall. It’s even got a PlayStation under it. It could do with a few posters but those can come in time. Riley’s sure he can make it back into the city from here.

He sits on the edge of the bed and looks at all this… grandeur and doesn’t know what to do with himself. Only a few hours ago, he was doing the same in a room a quarter of the size and shared with one other person. This isn’t even close. 

He wants to do everything at once, whilst feeling like he’s not allowed any of it. Dad once threw him against a wall for asking for a fucking fiver, never mind buying him an entire gaming setup. Then again, he’d also paid for every single one of Riley’s concert tickets. 

(He wasn’t all bad, really. You just had to get him in a good mood, was all, and avoid him when you could see the way the flush crept up his cheeks. On the days when work was just a bit too much, or mum said the wrong thing, or Riley put his foot in the wrong place. But on the good days, he’d smile and teach Riley how to ride a bike, or scream along to heavy metal with him in the kitchen, or cook awful meals with him and laugh about it when they were done. As long as Riley did what his dad wanted, he was safe. They were all safe.)

The creeping feeling of wrongness seeps into him. This isn’t what Riley’s life is like. This is too good. But everything about this is too good for him, isn’t it? They think they’re too good for him. Riley is severely out of place, he knows he is. But this is his, and he wants it like he hasn’t wanted anything before. James said it was his. And they can’t take that away from him. They just can’t. If they try to throw him out, he’ll fight them. He will. They’ve already taken so fucking much from him. So many things and so, so much time. He won’t let them do it again.

They don’t understand him. They never will. They’ll never get why he does what he does and why he hates them like it’s a parasite in his chest. They will never understand what it’s like to be alone in a crowded head, an outcast from yourself. 

Riley feels that anger building again, like it’s a vat that James had only temporarily drained. It always happens like this, as the world spirals out of his grasp and Riley feels like an onlooker in his own life. Anger is the only thing that makes him present, that gives him some degree of control in an otherwise uncontrollable world.

But there’s nowhere to put it, and he’s certainly not wrecking his room again, even if he’s feeling the rising urge to. It’ll be safer to just get the fuck out of here. Get back to the city where he doesn’t have to look at them. Because if he sees a single one of those motherfuckers he’s going to-

“Ashley.”

She’s on the stairs, clutching onto the bannister and staring at Riley like he’s some fucking mugger or something. Moments pass, both of them frozen, eyes locked in a battle of wills. Ashley looks fucking petrified, white-knuckling her dress in her free hand. 

“What the fuck are you staring at?”

Ashley doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Does she think he’s a monster or something? That if she doesn’t move he somehow won’t see her and will just walk on by? He’s not the monster here. She is. She’s the fucking whore who spread the body’s legs for random men on the street. Who stole his time to act like a fucking slut. And yet, no, he’s the bad one.

“Why you look so scared, huh?”

Silence.

Her eyes drift, just a little left of his eyes. There is genuine fear there, the kind that Riley remembers seeing on Tommy’s face when Dad would come in their room, just before he’d start his goody-two-shoes act. Tommy was always better at it, though Riley thinks he did a pretty good job at mimicking it. 

Riley doesn’t know whether that fear makes him more or less pleased with himself.

“You not gonna say anything?”

“What do you want me to say?” She whispers in her stupid American accent. Where the fuck did that even come from? They’re not fucking American. Least she could do is fucking speak normally.

“I want you to stop acting like a little bitch,” Riley says and takes a step towards her. She flinches but doesn’t move away, utterly paralysed.

It feels too good. He knows he should stop, that this is going to bite him in the arse sooner or later, but he can’t. The power is addictive. They can try and get rid of him as much as they want but he’s the one in control here. He has this. If they won’t fucking like him, he’ll make them fear him. 

“Riley-”

“Shut up, you fucking had your chance to speak. It’s the man’s time to do the talking alright, sweetheart?” Mimicking his dad comes all too easy. It was always the best way to survive and now it’s a skill engraved in his brain, easy to reach, easy to throw. 

Riley doesn’t want to be like his dad. No, he wants to be the good version of his dad. And this isn’t the good version. This is the version that had Riley crying himself to sleep and spending the morning trying to cover up his bruises, only for the teachers to get on his case again anyway. But the nice side didn’t have this power. And he wants with every fibre of his being to have the power his dad had. But it’s like the more he uses it, the more he knows he’s stuck following in his dad’s footsteps rather than crushing the memory of him underneath his giant combat boots.

Ashley isn’t looking at him again, eyes stuck on the horizon. Her mouth moves but she can’t speak, except for one tiny whimper. It makes it all too easy to continue, to latch onto the fear and carve it. To tell her her real place. To tell her that being a whore has its consequences in the end. That she’s lucky they don’t just lock her away so they don’t have to deal with her anymore. 

“You know, my dad used to kill whores. Well, not kill ‘em, but he’d laugh as they died. Wouldn’t fucking help them. Because you know what?” He says, stepping right into Ashley’s space. “Whores don’t deserve to live. You don’t deserve to live. And if you don’t end it quickly, I will.”

“I- no,” she whispers, a broken plea that Riley doesn’t bother to listen to, not until she stumbles back, almost falling down the stairs. Between one moment and the next, she flees, practically tumbling down as Riley just watches, grin stretching his mouth wide. It feels good to watch. Terrifying to watch. Guilty to watch. 

But if they’re going to hate him, then he’ll give them none of his guilt. None of his fear. Just his rage. They deserve that much. 

— [redacted] —

One minute Ashley is running down the stairs, the next she knows she’s jolting up from bed, heart pounding a war beat in her chest. The mansion’s gone, Riley’s gone, but she can feel him like he’s still there.

And yet, she’s alone.

It couldn’t feel more distant from just a few minutes ago. She’d only gone inside for a second, feeling like the sun was a bit too much, and now it’s pitch black outside, with rain pelting the window. A summer thunderstorm.

Ashley doesn’t know what to do. She can’t bear it, this feeling inside her, like something is out of place. The one she used to always feel. But she only knows one way to get rid of it and Sam had told her not to. For her own safety, she knows. Her choice of men has been far from good so far, more damage done than not.

But, well, he’d said she should do it with someone she trusts. And she certainly knows someone who fits the bill.

Her and Soap’s first meeting comes to mind. Sure, he’d flinched when she’d even got a hand on him, never mind anything else. But he’d never said no, he’d just been surprised. The more she thinks about it, the clearer it is in her mind. She’s sure Soap wouldn’t mind. That’s what people who are close do. Moros had taught her that, with a kind smile and a soft touch. He was the softest touch she’d ever gotten. Addicting in a world of violence. And if he slapped her around a few times? Then so be it, so long as it was a way to escape the rest of the violence, as long as it meant kindness at the end of it. 

But right now? Right here? Where safety is something real and not a pipedream, she knows as good as anything that Soap can help. Will help, if only she asks. 

She throws on a hoodie and looks passably presentable before making her way over to Soap’s room. It’s 102, or so Sam had written in the notebook, a just-in-case he couldn’t be there sort of thing, alongside the routes to Sarah and Price’s office. Sarah is the first port of call. Soap, the second. But Ashley can’t go to Sarah right now, she just can’t. Sarah will give her soft platitudes and understanding but Ashley doesn’t want that. She wants Soap, the distraction of body on body, the kindness of a soft touch and that dazzling smile he shoots her. 

Ashley knows the base better and better each time she makes her way through the winding halls. Knows the back passages and the least used routes to avoid people, or the fastest way to the outside when it’s all just feeling a bit much. It’s not like she needs to know the normal things. She couldn’t direct you towards the armoury, or even the training grounds, though they take up a decent half of the base.

She manages to only get a passing glimpse at one of her colleagues before she’s at Soap’s door, knocking in rapid, endless succession until he opens up.

“Ghost?”

She doesn’t bother to correct him, just smiles at him and barges past. She realises too late that she still has the mask on and with this amount of tension in her shoulders, she probably looks pissed.

Soap fumbles for a moment, slamming the door and approaching Ashley. “What is it? Did something happen?”

Ashley shakes her head. She doesn’t want to get into it, not with Soap, not with anyone. She doesn’t want to think about what Riley said, what they all say, over and over and over-

(If she’s already been branded a whore, she’ll show them what that really means.)

She reaches forward and rests her hands on Soap’s shoulder, heaving in a breath then lets it go ever so slowly.

“Talk to me,” Soap pleads.

Trust, Sam had said. Someone you trust. Well, she trusts him.

Ashley lets her hands slide down Soap’s chest before removing them entirely, bringing them to her back and flinging their hoodie off.

“What are you doing?”

She doesn’t listen and throws off her top too, leaving her bare-chested and scarred up. She remembers the mask and flings that off too, punting it somewhere on the bed. Not like she cares, the thing’s uncomfortable.

She needs this, she reminds herself, as she unbuttons her trousers. The beginning of tremors run up her arms but she ignores them, fiddling with her button for seconds longer than she should before she can shove her trousers down to her ankles and step out of them.

“Ghost, stop.”

Ashley doesn’t listen. They never listen. Sometimes Ashley doesn’t even mind that they don’t listen. She’s sure Soap won’t care. It’ll be fine. Everything’s fine.

“Please stop, you’re scaring me.”

Ashley throws her boxers to one side and sits on the edge of the bed, legs spread salaciously. She doesn’t dare look down, she’s scared she’ll hate what she sees. She doesn’t need one more reminder that this body isn’t hers, has never felt like hers, because that will only remind her why she needs this so much. Why she needs Soap to make her feel like a woman, to dominate her, to fuck her, to ruin her.

Soap is staring. Though he’s purposely not looking down, boring into her eyes like he’s trying to find something. “Ashley?”

“Just fuck me. Please, I need it,” she begs, game over. She isn’t even sure what game is being played, just that it’s the easiest one to fall back into. To pretend to be the body. To pretend to be Ghost. To pretend to be who Soap wants, because it’s obvious in every starry-eyed conversation and subtle rejection.

Ashley loves Soap. She’s just not sure Soap loves her back.

“Ashley, no.”

“Please,” she begs.

“I said no.”

She spreads her legs wider, leans back so he can see even further down. But his eyes don’t even stray. “Don’t you want to?”

Soap fumbles then, like a flustered teenager with an offer to touch a girl’s boobs after prom. And yet, he holds out. Not looking down. Not looking interested. So even Ghost’s body can’t get him, it seems. Especially not with Ashley at the helm.

“No. Not like this.”

It clicks. “So it’s me you don’t want,” she says, bottom lip wobbling dangerously. She doesn’t want to cry. She really doesn’t want to cry. But nothing can stop the flood once it starts. “It’s not this horrible fucking body, you just don’t want me .”

She sobs and tries to hold out, but her lip warbles and then there’s nothing she can do to stop it. She curls up into a ball on Soap’s fucking bed because she can’t even see where she tossed her clothes. And she can’t get out. And she’s almost sure Soap’s going to hit her because they all hit her, even the nice ones. Especially the nice ones. Moros would always smile so sweetly first.

“Ashley, no.” Soap’s panicking, still frozen a metre away, arms flailing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He reaches out to touch her and then pulls back like she’s something toxic. Ashley cries even harder, burying her face in her knees and praying that Soap can’t see. But of course he can. He can see everything.

Dissociation is easy. It’s the only available out when the whole world turns to shit, and the awareness of it has made it somewhat easier to go back, especially when you have a destination in mind. Ashley doesn’t want to see Riley but she does want to sit in the sun and drink shitty cocktails and get dragged into Matilda and Jake’s games. She wants anything but this reality, or the bomb crater she’s left in it.

Easier than ever, she slips away.

— [redacted] —

Ghost comes to curled up on a bed that is distinctly not his own. He knows those plush sheets, with the same bedspread that Soap always uses; Ghost’s almost certain he has the same set four times over. 

And then there’s the fact that he can feel it on his bare skin.

Blinking blearily, he takes stock of himself. Completely naked. Shaking. A pounding in his head so loud that it almost drowns out the stickiness of tears and the thick ball of fear in his throat.

“What?”

“Ghost? Jesus Christ, please say that’s you. I really fuckin’ need you back.”

“Why am I naked?” Ghost mumbles, patting his body down like he’s somehow imagined that all his clothes are gone. But no, there’s the meat-hook scar gouging out a pattern in his chest. And the claw marks over his abdomen. And the precise nicks right near his balls where Roba had some fun.

This is…Jesus Christ. This isn’t good. This is fucking awful. Soap is there. He can fucking see this. This isn’t some fucking conjured nightmare, this just is.

“Ghost?”

He can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe. It hasn’t been like this in so long. No amount of breathing techniques can do anything. Dizziness turns the world into ragged edges and wavy blurs. Soap is still speaking but Ghost isn’t listening because the more Soap speaks the more Ghost is reminded that this is happening and it’s real and Soap is seeing this.

Ghost feels Sam rush to the front, feels distantly like his control is slipping away but then it’s just like it’s…stuck. Sam is halfway out and Ghost is halfway in but nothing is happening, a limbo whilst the body is still heaving, their skin blotchy like an almighty rash.

Soap has flung himself to the other side of the room, staring desperately at the ceiling. Ghost isn’t sure who’s controlling the body, whether it’s him or Sam or some other fucking part of him, but they shut their eyes. It has to be Sam, right? Only Sam would be that sensible.

Why doesn’t he know?

It’s like a wall has been put up, and all that communication he’d fought for dies in a moment. The panic fucking spirals and Ghost isn’t even sure if it’s only happening on the inside or the outside anymore. He fucking hurts but he can’t tell where. It’s just everywhere. A constant barrage of something.

He’s distantly aware that the body is moving. Being moved. Soap is suddenly there, worried eyes and hushed words. Comforting words. Ghost tries to speak back but all that comes out is a mumble.

Soap is dressing him. 

Fuckin’ hell.

Ghost forcefully shoves the panic down, desperately trying to regain control. He can still feel the others but none of them are answering him, an open comms link with no receiver.

Soap gets him back into boxers and then slowly layers him up. No mask. Where the fuck did the mask go? Soap’s looking, he thinks. Yeah, he’s looking, but he can’t find it. Ghost wants to cover his face but he can’t.

Slowly (his influence? A plea answered?) his hands come up to his face, covering it. Then it's like the walls slam down again and Sam is there, in the front but not fronting, almost as panicky as Ghost. There’s an edge to it, the sort of bitter sting that always makes Ghost think of Sam. It’s a specific type of panic.

Ghost, Sam says.

I’m here, he thinks, taking stock of his body. His head is killing him but when is it not these days? The rest of his body doesn’t feel much better: his back is stiff, his lungs ache something fierce, and he still somewhat feels like he’s floating outside his body.

“You good?” Soap asks. He’s on the other side of the room again, wringing his hands. But now Ghost is dressed, if without his mask. Ghost frowns, shuffles to the side. It’s the only place Soap hasn’t checked and there it is, crinkled and inside out. He must have been fucking sitting on it this entire time.

Desperate for relief, he grabs it and rolls it over his face. He lets out a sigh the moment his chin is fully covered, head back, relief coursing through him. He shouldn’t need this, for fuck’s sake. But he doesn’t feel safe without it. Not like this.

Then it’s just the two of them. An empty room and thick silence. Ghost finds Soap’s eyes but can’t decipher what’s behind them. Can’t tell it’s anxious fury until-

“What the fuck was that?” Soap asks. His chest is heaving too, like he’s gone through the fucking rounds. Ghost feels the burden of the pressure he’s put on Soap deepen, a guilt that crops up from time to time. There are only so many reassurances he can believe. Watching Soap like this, terrified and confused, Ghost knows, as sure as anything, that he is the biggest burden in Soap’s life.

“I-” He cuts himself off. He doesn’t fucking know. He woke up naked in Soap’s room, how the fuck is he supposed to know why? “I could ask you the same.”

“Well, I don’t fucking know!” Soap bursts out, eyes darting with nowhere to land. They flicker around the room like he’s scanning for enemies. But there’s nothing but them and the weight of the unspoken between them. “You’re the one who stormed into my room wanting to have sex with me!”

Ghost sucks in a breath. “I did what?”

Soap groans, dragging his hands down his face. “It was Ashley. At least I think so anyway. Sounded American. Asked me to fuck her- you. Oh fuck, I don’t know anymore.”

They stare each other down, so much to be said and no words to be found. “This isn’t real,” Ghost whispers, shutting his eyes. “This isn’t fucking happening.”

“Ghost-”

“Shut up,” he orders, through a shuddering breath. “This is just some fucked up bit of my brain trying to…” To recreate past events? What fucking past events? “They’re not real, they wouldn’t do this.”

“What are you on about?”

“I’m just fucking making it up,” Ghost continues, desperate now. “This is just some fucked up voice telling me to do things I don’t want to fucking do, isn’t it? Just- just-”

“Ghost, calm down.”

“I’m not going to fucking calm down!” Ghost shouts, so loud Soap looks hurt. Fuck, Ghost sounds like his father. He sounds like his absolute shitbag of a fucking father. And-

You’re safe, Ghost. He isn’t here.

No, he doesn’t need to be. Because Ghost is here in his stead.

“You’re not real,” Ghost whispers. “None of this is real.” It’s all one fucking long hallucination. Next thing he knows, he’ll wake up in the dank basement of Roba’s complex, drugged into a neon haze and at least three knives sticking out of his leg.

He can’t fucking breathe.

You’re safe. Stand up, Ghost, we need to go.

“You’re not fucking real!” He rages. But the voices don’t care. They don’t care one bit. “I’m making shit up.”

None of this is made up-

“Then why the fuck am I trying to fuck someone, huh? What fucking trauma is that? No one ever fucked me! Jesus fucking Christ, I’m speaking to the fucking voices. I- I-”

Soap is staring at him, bewildered. He looks a little like a spooked animal, frozen to the spot.

This is not the time to talk about memories, Ghost. We need to go.

He wants to deny it, to scream at the voices so they’ll go away. But he can’t. Not when they’re being the fucking reasonable ones and some fucked up part of his brain still understands that. 

Clambering to his feet, weak-kneed and wobbling, he glares at Soap and jabs him in the chest. “If you tell anyone about this-”

“Ghost, what are you on about? Of course I wouldn’t.”

Ghost shakes his head, grimacing. “I- just fucking don’t, okay?” And with that, he lumbers out and just tries to make it back to his room in one piece.

— [redacted] —

Ghost won’t leave his room. He just won’t.

He doesn’t know what’s real anymore and he doesn’t want to know. If he just stays here, it’s safe. Nothing can hurt him here except the voices. He can deal with the voices. He’s always had to deal with the voices. Maybe he just is schizophrenic and some fucked up part of him is trying to lie to himself that all this shit has happened when it hasn’t. It just hasn’t. The voices aren’t him, they’re just some malignant force going against every last moral standpoint he has.

It can’t be DID. So his dad was a fucking shitstain, fine, they can all agree on that. And if he was battered around a bit, so what of it. But he’s not the only kid to get abused. Not all kids end up having other fucking people in their head. This is just…he’s just making it up. Some deep part of him wanted an excuse to leave the army or something. Or to talk to someone. To finally get help for a brain that’s too fucked up to fix.

But thinking about it hurts so he stops thinking about it. He stops thinking about anything at all.

The voices come and go. Sam — no, that would be making him real. The worried one comes often, trying to coax Ghost out of it. Sometimes Ghost can feel this pressure in his mind, like something’s trying to come out. But Ghost locks the door and makes sure to hide the key when the voice isn’t around. He doesn’t want to go out there and nothing can make him.

The other voice isn’t much better. It’s faint, so faint that Ghost sometimes doesn’t even hear it, but it whispers to do awful things. Horrible things that Ghost knows he doesn’t want to do but will do if it will just get them to be quiet.

At least that voice doesn’t want to leave either, probably more so than Ghost.

It doesn’t want to move, or eat, or live it seems. Ghost’s not even sure if it is alive. (Is he alive?) It feels like a malignant force trying to give Ghost to the slowest death it can. Or the fastest, if only Ghost will just give in. But he doesn’t, not quite.

He expends so much energy just pushing out the voice that he accidentally gives in. He doesn’t get out of bed for five days and stops taking all his meds, flushing them down the toilet with an apathetic shrug. He doesn’t remember drinking a drop of water in that time but he must be, or something must be because Ghost would be dead by now otherwise. He knows better than most the limits of hunger and thirst. The limits of any human need. He’s been pushed to them before, sometimes even over. He’s clawed back to the land of the living over and over and over. But he’s sick of it. He’s sick of trying. He’s sick of trying to block out the voices and find his own. He’s sick of living.

So he just doesn’t get out of bed.

It’s not as agonising as he expects. He’s too apathetic to think about the cramping in his stomach, or the way the world spins if he even shifts an inch. He’s sleeping at least twenty hours a day and is completely dissociated for the other four, coming out in bursts like he’s shooting a stim into his arm. That’s when the voices come.

Ghost doesn’t like the moments of lucidity.

He’s had visitors, he thinks, but it’s nothing but a hazy memory. He thinks he told one of them to fuck off but he’s not even sure he was the one to do it (there is only you in here).

At the end of the fifth day, the visitors get desperate.

Someone gets a fucking ram and bashes the door in. Ghost doesn’t even jump. He’s aware of the noise but he doesn’t give a shit anymore. He just doesn’t. He doesn’t flinch when Price moves into his line of sight. Doesn’t flinch when they pick him up and put him on a stretcher, or when they stick an IV in his arm, or shout and scream at his bedside. Price looks like he’s ready for murder.

Ghost wishes he would.

The voice wishes he would.

He doesn’t. It’s starting to feel a little like he can’t. Like he is the Ghost not because he’s dead but he’s stuck in the world of the living, haunting it like a living nightmare. Forced to live day after day after day after day after-

“Ghost.”

He inches his eyes over to Price. He hasn’t spoken a word since they battered his door down. Price has been in and out, as has Soap. Even a few others dropped by, or so Soap reported, though they weren’t allowed in. Or to know what was wrong. Ghost doesn’t know if he’s glad or irritated by the secrecy of it all.

“What was that?”

Ghost wants to shrug. He doesn’t. Moving feels like too much effort. He just keeps staring at Price.

Price huffs, mutton-chops twitching and looks away. “Fine. If you want it to be like that. But I know you, Simon. You’ll come back from this.”

Ghost wants to laugh. Or cry. Or scream. Who the fuck does Price think he is?

“You came back from it last time,” he says, like he can read Ghost’s face, even behind the mask. “You can do it again.”

But Price doesn’t understand. Simon never came back from Roba. Ghost did. The scattered parts of a lost man made it back to Price’s doorstep, ready to be put back to work. Ghost is not a man, not a whole one. He never came back. He’s just haunting a body that was never his to begin with.

Chapter Text

Without a proper inpatient facility available, Ghost is relegated to the med-bay on a permanent basis. Dr Alcock oversees his care, though there are two nurses that monitor him throughout the day. The first, Sally, always comes in with a large smile and checks if he’s okay, and usually covers the morning shifts so she can pick her kids up from school. The late-shift nurse, Ryan, isn’t nearly so smiley, or even soft at all. Ghost is almost convinced that Ryan hates him, though he can’t imagine why. He’s working the same shift cycle and Ghost doesn’t think he’s causing much fuss. He spends most days just sitting there , punctuated by the occasional nap or smoke break (which gives Ryan a smoke break too, for god’s sake). But that only lasts a few days, whilst they work on medically stabilising him and on getting his stomach to expand. Then, the inevitable comes.

“We could have done this in your office.”

“It’s safer for everyone right now for you to be here,” Caldwell says, bringing up a squeaky chair and sitting at Ghost’s bedside. The lights make his face look harsh, deepening wrinkles and extending the dark circles under his eyes, his skin taking on a pallid edge. Ghost can only imagine how bad he looks himself.

“I’m not going to ask for a full account of events, not yet, Sarah is going to talk to you about that later on and with permission, will inform me. Is that okay?”

Ghost nods. What the fuck does he care anymore? “What are you here for then?”

“I wanted to ask about your medication doses. Given what happened, they clearly weren’t working. Right now, I want to up your dosage of olanzapine as well as the doxepin. But I think we can keep your prazosin dose the same, unless the nightmares have increased?”

Ghost shakes his head. That’s one thing they have fixed, at least to some extent. The nightmares are far from daily now, and not the thing that interrupts his sleep. If he still wakes up screaming some nights, then that’s just how it’s going to be.

“Good. If the new doses don’t work well then we’ll think about changing your medication cycle entirely but I don’t want to change too much now. Changing the dosage will already have an effect. You know the drill. If you become increasingly tired, that’s normal, but inform us if it lasts longer than two weeks. But given that you’re here, you’ll be monitored well. The risks are much less.”

Ghost just nods again, unsure what to say. Caldwell is his first visitor since Price and he’s scared that if he opens his mouth again, it’s all going to come tumbling out.

“Okay, so I don’t have much else to say, but I do want to talk about what happens from here.” Caldwell sighs and leans back in his seat. “Look, we both know that this is a bad scenario to be in but it’s far from unrecoverable. I want you to stay here for now, especially given that your room is the site of your attempt. You’ll be monitored until we can be certain that you are no longer a risk to yourself, and hopefully you and Sarah can work to more successfully stabilise you. For now, I don’t want you to leave the med-bay without permission but we’re not trying to lock you in a prison here. Eventually, you will be able to use the base as usual, though check-ins here will be mandatory and you’ll still stay here overnight. After that, we’ll discuss getting out and the next steps. But don’t be too hasty about it. I know it’s not an enjoyable space to stay in but right now, it’s the safest place for you. We can’t let another incident occur.”

Incident, Ghost thinks, can no one just say what it is anymore?

“Do you have any questions?” Caldwell asks. Ghost shakes his head, despite the numerous swirling around his mind. Most of them sound embarrassing or just fucking childish. Better to just see what happens. You can’t plan for all eventualities.

“Good. I think that’s all I need to talk about with you. But remember, if there’s anything you want to tell me, you can. Sarah isn’t the only person you can go to.”

“I know,” Ghost whispers, something dangerous welling in his throat, fighting to get out.

“Good. Then that’s all from me,” he says, slapping his knees and getting to his feet. He goes to walk out and then stops at the curtain. “Though I do ask one thing,” he says, curtain clutched in his hand. “Be honest with her. Instances like this aren’t rare but how we respond to them can vastly decrease the chances of it happening again. We don’t want you gone.”

What a light way to say death, Ghost thinks, huffing a laugh as Caldwell makes his way out. Gone . Like it’s the same as just Ghost slipping out of the door. If only it were that easy, then maybe Ghost wouldn’t be here.

— [redacted] —

One hour before Sarah is supposed to arrive, Soap appears from behind the curtain, carrying the lunch that Sally usually delivers. “Hey,” he says, not quite looking Ghost in the eyes.

“Hey.”

“I brought lunch,” Soap says, peering around the curtain as he holds up a plastic bag.

“I noticed.”

Soap winces and lets the curtain fall behind him. “Just wanted to see you. After…all that.”

Ghost’s sick of this. “You can say it, you know.”

“Say what?”

“That I almost died.”

Soap rolls his eyes. “ Fine . I wanted to see you after you almost died.”

Something satisfied curls in Ghost’s stomach, another battle won. Ghost doesn’t know what the war is, just that somewhere between Soap walking in and now, it’s become one. They eat their respective lunches in silence, Soap glancing up every now and then before he goes back to his food.

Ghost doesn’t know what he’s going to say. There’s a veritable fuck tonne of awful scenarios that have gone through Ghost’s head and yet the one they land on is…this. Where nothing is said, the tension between them thick enough to choke.

“So, what happens from here?”

Ghost shrugs. “I stay here until they think I won’t off myself.”

“I know-” Soap sighs and cuts himself off. “Look, my party is at the end of the week. You don’t have to come but-”

“I’ll see if they let me,” Ghost says, if only because he said he would. He’s always been a man of his word, even if it’ll fucking destroy him. He can barely stand the sight of Soap right now but he won’t back down because they’ve fucking sectioned him. He has a little self-respect left.

Soap lets out a sigh of relief and smiles at Ghost. “That would be nice. I’d like to have you there.”

No he wouldn’t. If Soap is sensible, he’ll never want to see Ghost again. But Soap has always been a fucking idiot, hasn’t he.

“I’ll be there,” he promises. You know, also like an idiot.

— [redacted] —

Sarah sits down on the chair by his bedside and gives him a long look. “So,” she says, expression telling.

“Yeah.”

How the fuck did they get here then.

“Look, right now, I just want to know what happened. In your words, start to finish. Triggers, causes, thoughts running through your mind. Anything and everything that might be relevant.”

Ghost stares at the ceiling. Heaves in a breath. In, out. Again. Focus. “And if I don’t want to?”

“Can you tell me why?”

Ghost grimaces. “It’s not a fun story to tell.”

Sarah settles him with a look. “Therapy isn’t supposed to be fun. Unless you genuinely think it might cause you to go into a dangerous headspace, this is really important. If you don’t do it now, then we will later, but I’d rather not delay it unless we really have to. It’s up to you, though.”

Ghost sighs and wipes his hands down his face. “Fine. But I don’t have the full story.”

“Then tell your side of it.”

Ghost nods and stares at the ceiling like it’s his last drop of water. He can’t bear to see what Sarah’s face is doing right now. “I woke up in Soap’s room naked, he told me I’d tried to have sex with him. I fucking panic and bolted. Then I just…didn’t want to leave my room.”

“Why is that?”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” Ghost justifies, though it sounds weak, even to him. “I just…I was tired. Of everything. Of dealing with all this. And I just- nothing feels real anymore.”

“Explain that to me.”

Ghost’s heart clenches, a sour burning spreading through his chest, an anxiety so encompassing he feels like it might really be a poison designed to kill him. “I don’t think I’m real.”

“Why not?” Sarah pushes.

“I’m not like other people. I don’t feel… human . It’s like it flickers. One moment I’m there, the next I’m not. And I can’t fucking bear it. Add on the fucking voices, like I’m some sort of psycho, and…” Ghost cuts himself off and grits his teeth so hard his jaw hurts.

Sarah frowns. “The alters?”

Ghost shakes his head. “I don’t think we got it right. I mean, I was diagnosed so quickly that there could have been a mistake-”

“Stop, stop, stop,” Sarah says, hand held out. “Let’s take this slowly. You don’t believe your DID diagnosis?”

Ghost rapidly shakes his head. “I’m probably fucking schizo or something. Just not…this.”

“Why would you think that?” She seems genuinely bewildered but Ghost is steadfast. He knows this like he knows the sky is blue. The alters aren’t real. They can’t be. He’s practised this spiel in his head a hundred times, like if he gets it just right that Sarah might actually believe him.

“You said that DID, it’s like they’re all…pieces of one puzzle. Like the parts are separate but it’s still one person. But I wouldn’t do that. No part of me would do that.”

“Which part?”

“Try to fuck Soap.” Ghost looks Sarah right in the eyes, desperate for her to understand. “I’m not gay.”

“Ghost-”

“No, I’m not. I’m not .”

“Okay, okay, I need us to take a step back here. I’m going to tell you a few things here that you are not going to enjoy hearing but I think you need to, okay?”

Ghost grimaces and opens his mouth but Sarah just blunders right over him. “Your DID diagnosis is unquestionable. Your symptoms more than fit the diagnostic criteria. We have evidence of alters. You have communication with your alters that is improving every day. I think you know as well as I do that they’re real.”

“But-”

“And onto the second thing,” Sarah continues over him. “There are two things at play here. One, whilst DID might be a lot of parts of you , there is still huge variability to that. And we don’t know whether an alter did this for a reason that links to sexuality or Soap, or whether it was merely a coping mechanism. Until then, you can’t truly begin to understand why what happened happened. Okay?

“Second, I just want to ask one thing. Why is it such a bad thing to be gay?”

“It’s not,” Ghost says reflexively. “I mean, I don’t care if people are gay. That’s fine.”

“Then why don’t you want to be gay?”

Ghost shudders and grits his teeth. There’s a moment of prolonged silence, whilst Sarah patiently waits for him to find his words. Ghost wants to crawl out of his own fucking skin . He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to…

But he’s going to have to, isn’t he?

“Because then my father would be right,” Ghost whispers, feeling like he’s ripping his own ribcage open, bearing his very fucking essence.

“About what?”

“About me. It would prove everything he said about me right.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds before Sarah finally nods and leans back. “Okay, that is something we can go into later. But Ghost, please, whatever you think about your situation right now, the alters are real. You know that, I know that. Denial will only fracture the progress we’ve made so far.”

“What progress?” Ghost snorts. “Look at me.”

Sarah leans forward again, brows drawn in tight. “If there is one thing that is more important than anything right now, it’s what I say next. Recovery is not linear . This might seem like a huge step back but it’s not, I promise . You have made leaps and bounds since I started talking to you. And we are close to real stabilisation, I can feel it. There’s been a hurdle and you struggled but that’s inevitable. My job now is to make sure that you have better strategies to cope with it next time so it doesn’t end up like this again. Passive suicide is no joke but nor is it a death sentence. You lived , and now we’ve got to figure out how you can live the best life you possibly can, with all the ups and downs on the way.”

Ghost feels tears well up but he doesn’t cry; he never cries. Instead, he starts to drift. It’s safer than trying to process that, than to realise what that truly means. He doesn’t want kindness right now. Doesn’t know what to do with it. Doesn’t need the optimism or the future or even an inkling of hope.

Hope is for real people.

— [redacted] —

Sam comes to slowly, a blurry world slowly morphing into something understandable. The sight is both shocking and all too unsurprising. The hospital sheets are scratchy, the lights too bright, and he’s in some god-awful hospital gown with his dick practically hanging out. They couldn’t have gotten a better size?

The body hurts, the head hurts even more, but it’s nothing Sam hasn’t experienced before. He shuts his eyes, does three rounds of breathing exercises and comes back.

“How are you feeling?”

Sam’s eyes drift over to Sarah, surprised to see her anywhere but her desk. Has he ever seen her fully? Possibly not.

“It’s Sam.”

“Hi, Sam. How are you?”

He shrugs. He can’t even begin to put into words his feelings. There’s a fucking hurricane of emotion inside him right now and parsing them might as well be like leaving his fragile safety in the centre. “We’re in hospital.”

“Yes. Ghost attempted suicide. Or committed passive suicide. It’s not entirely clear that dying was the aim.”

Sam frowns, trying to push his mind back but the memories are foggy. “Did he…he hid the key.”

“Hm?”

“He didn’t want us getting out so he locked the door and hid the key,” Sam repeats, the memory clear. Just a torrent of panic as Sam tore the room apart. But he never did find it.

“Do you remember much else?”

Sam shakes his head. “It was like he managed to push us all back. But there was another presence. At the front, anyway. But I wasn’t focused on them. I was…distracted.”

Sarah frowns. “Distracted by what?”

“There’s been…turmoil. Inside.”

Sarah nods and carefully rearranges herself, prepared to listen. “Then I’ll ask you what I did Ghost. Can you recount the events you remember from the top? The more we know about the situation, the better. Internal or external. Whatever you can remember.”

Sam nods and shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to put the pieces together. So much of it feels blurry and he’s not sure why. “It started with Riley,” he says, brows drawn in tight. “He escaped to the mansion and started throwing around accusations. He thought we’d purposefully left him behind. Ashley told me she went upstairs and he just…started screaming. Threatened her. Told her she should be dead. She’s…not okay. And I know what she did is wrong but she’s terrified now. That Riley will hurt her. Or that she’s caused us to lose Soap. I wasn’t aware of what was happening until I was near the front. Ghost switched out with Ashley and it was like his mind just shut down. I got him back to our room but after that, it was harder and harder to access the front. I tried for days. And in between that, it was trying to deal with everything still happening inside. Ashley won’t leave her room. Riley is trying to tell everyone that this is all her fault and everyone is too scared to stop him. There’s just…” Sam sighs and squeezes his eyes closed tight. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits, barely above a whisper.

“Okay,” Sarah says, face softening. “How about we make this simpler then. Let’s make a list. What are the main things that you need to do?”

“The inner world needs, god, there’s so much to do there.”

“Then let’s break it down. How about we write it down on your phone.” Sam agrees readily, hungry for any advice he can find and opens up the notes app. There’s something there. Something he doesn’t recognise.

Why don’t we just die?

Sam stares at it, and stares and- “Sam?”

“I think I might have found something.”

“What is it?”

Sam frowns. “It must be from the alter that was fronting with Ghost. Or in the front.”

“What does it say?”

His hands shake, fuck his voice warbles, and he feels like a child as he says, “Why don’t we just die.”

“Do you think this alter could have been a large part of why Ghost attempted suicide?”

Sam sighs. “It would make sense, wouldn’t it? I know what Ashley did was severe but we’ve got ways to deal with that now. It makes sense that someone else would be dragging him down. He was doing really well with the therapy stuff.”

Sarah nods. “It’s good to know. How about we put that on the list? There’s a chance you may be able to find them in the inner world.”

“Okay,” Sam says, opening up the notes app. The list comes together quickly, through a back-and-forth that must only last ten minutes.

1. Find the new alter. Ask others.
2. Talk to Riley (get Riley to talk to Sarah?)
3. Talk to Ashley (DEFINITELY get her to Sarah)
4. Discuss system responsibility as a group. Write in notebook. APOLOGISE TO SOAP.
5. Start writing down coping mechanisms so that other alters can also try them.

It feels less overwhelming when he sees only five points. Like something he can actually tackle. Something reasonable.

“Okay, I think that’s all from me. But I really want to emphasise the system responsibility thing. This is new to a lot of the alters but what one alter does affects you all. It’s something we haven’t discussed enough yet and is going to be crucial to how we carry on from here on forward.”

Sam nods, turning off his phone and putting it back on the bedside table. “I can feel Ghost close to the front.”

“Would you mind me waiting? I know switches aren’t always easy but there are things I’d still like to discuss with him.”

Sam agrees, more than ready to start his job. He’s got a list and he’s determined to get through it, and he needs to do it quickly. The system is on the verge of collapse and Sam is Atlas holding it up. But his back is straining and he can feel the curve of his spine. If he doesn’t lighten the load, he’s going to fall with it.

He shuts his eyes, focuses on his breathing, and when he feels that whisper of a presence, the sort of presence that feels like mist curling around his neck, he lets go.

— [redacted] —

Ghost comes to, his head now pulsing something deadly. Sarah is still there, and he has the vague inclination that they’ve been talking for the last while. But she’s shifted her chair, and her entire countenance is different. Ghost has no doubt that more time has passed than he thinks.

“Ghost?”

“It’s me.”

Sarah smiles. “Okay. I was just talking to Sam. I got a much clearer picture of events.”

“Tell me,” Ghost orders, heart ratcheting.

“It looks like it was set in motion by Riley threatening Ashley. In response to the stress, Ashley went to see Soap. It also appears that the suicide attempt may have been somewhat accelerated by the presence of a new alter. Do you have any memory of them?”

Ghost grimaces. “There are more?”

“Some people don’t find out about alters until years later. Plenty of your current alters appear to have been dormant for a long time. There is a good chance there are still alters we have not discovered.”

Ghost shudders and breathes in deep, desperate to feel his lungs fill. But it’s like they can never quite get there, an asthmatic burn tightening his lungs every time he tries. “I just…I remember a voice. It told me to do…it wanted to die. Or me to die. I- I don’t know. I know Sam was speaking to me. But, the other voice wasn’t him. Wouldn’t have been him.”

“So there were multiple?”

Ghost nods. “Someone made me drink water too,” he remembers, a flash of a memory in his mind. “It didn’t feel like Sam.”

“Were you present?”

Ghost frowns, wracking his brain. “I don’t know. It’s just…I don’t remember much of it.”

“That’s okay,” Sarah assures, “we can work on that. Look, I think we’ve got through a lot of the basics this session so I want to leave you with a few things, okay? Sam has left a list on your phone, most of them are things he wants to do but I think it would be useful to see for yourself. Especially the final two. The sooner we get on that, the better your system will be able to work cohesively. Also, I’m going to email you my formal diagnosis. I know you’ve seen it before but I do think it can be really helpful to be reminded that this is not something you made up or any other mental illness. This is something you have and something we can deal with.”

Ghost nods, overwhelmed but grateful, clutching onto the sheets so he won’t dig his nails into his palm. “Okay.”

“Last thing I want to do is ask for your permission to talk to Soap.”

“What?”

Sarah sighs. “Look, Soap is a part of this as much as you are. He should have made someone aware a lot sooner of what happened-”

“I told him not to.”

Sarah shuts her eyes for a moment and ponders. Then, “Ghost. If something like that happens then someone needs to know. Even if you ask Soap not to. I know that you two have a strong bond of trust but your life was in obvious danger. Initially keeping it a secret is not a surprise, if still dangerous, but you were in your room for almost a week with no idea of a trigger. If we had, we would have likely broken in a lot earlier. I know this isn’t something you want to hear but I do think it’s something Soap needs to be aware of. But I don’t want to talk to him without you being aware.”

Ghost heaves in a shuddering breath and lets it out with a shaky nod. “Fine.”

“Thank you. Well then, I’ll be back tomorrow.” Sarah gets up, straightens up her suit and walks to the curtain. “Oh, and please know that everything from here on out, it’s for your sake. No one is trying to work against you here. I know that we don’t always do what you want but we’re doing it for your continued healing. I know it’s difficult now but trust the process . You get what you put in. Capiche?”

“Capiche.”

Chapter Text

For the first time in Soap’s life, he feels like he can’t breathe. Constantly. There’s an endless hand squeezing his lungs, holding them tight so one breath is never quite enough. That his lungs just won’t fill. That his heart just won’t stop thudding.

It feels like everything is happening at once.

With Ghost out of commission, Soap’s role in the 141 has increased. He is now acting as unofficial Lieutenant, with the starting rumblings from Price about going to officer school to get his qualifications. Soap still isn’t sure why he’d been picked over Gaz but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t have the time to ask.

Between training the recruits, doing his own training, keeping himself alive and trying to plan a birthday party, it’s just all too much. And then there’s Ghost.

Soap loves Ghost. That’s just a fact. One that Soap will admit to readily. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. Soap isn’t gay, never has been. He’s always liked women. But he’s aware that…

It’s stupid.

Soap has always prided himself on confidence, on barraging his way through his FNG status over and over and over again. Of keeping a level head and working damn hard. But now he’s been sidelined twice because he can’t keep his head on straight and his energy is flagging. He’s even had complaints from his own goddamn subordinates.

He’s had three meetings with Price now, worried looks and bitter words. Officer training looks more and more like a pipe dream. But Soap is just trying to fucking swim, struggling with the anchor around his ankle, sinking deeper and deeper, the surface further and further away.

And in the meantime, Ghost is in inpatient.

Soap has seen him just the once, where stilted words barely made up for the fact that Soap could do nothing to stop Ghost from trying to fucking kill himself. It haunts him, almost as much as the patchwork of scars that cover Ghost’s body. He hadn’t meant to show them, Soap should have never seen them, and he knows why.

They’re gruesome. Soap’s seen plenty of scars in his life but Ghost’s chest looks like someone has taken a soup spoon and started scooping from his chest. Gaps where there shouldn’t be, lines and cuts and bizarre lightning patterns. It’s honestly shocking that Ghost can still serve.

Soap says none of this.

Soap powers on, as he always does. He trains his subordinates, his friends, and does everything he can to make sure they don’t die out there. He goes to the gym, pumps iron until he can’t feel his arms and then runs until his legs are about to collapse. He eats, he sleeps, he does it all again.

The end of the week is rushing in, his birthday party getting closer and closer. Soap will officially be 27. Then if he dies he at least gets to say he joined the 27 club (but he won’t die because he won’t let his team down like that, himself like that). He wants to be excited, for so long he has been. He couldn’t get leave but he can get all his squad in one room to let loose and get so drunk they don’t remember anything the next morning.

Now it feels like an omen.

“Soap!” He spins on his heel to see Sarah rushing down the corridor. Soap doesn’t know much about her, just that she’s Ghost’s therapist and is seen wandering around base from time to time. Quiet, Scottish and as stern as any drill sergeant. 

“Ma’am. Can I help you?”

“Oh, you military men are all the same. Sarah is fine. I was just wondering whether we could have a chat?”

Soap’s stomach drops. A million thoughts run through his mind, each worse than the last. “About anything in particular? There’s a lot I have to do.” Not so much now. It’s just his own training regimen, but Soap finds it his only release of the day. The only thing that might be keeping him sane.

“This is really important. If you’re not free now, could you come to my office later?”

“No, no, if it’s important, I’ll come now.” Soap wants to sigh, to drag his feet and whine, but that had been drilled out of him a long time ago. Instead, he straightens his back up, puts his arms by his side and does all but march to Sarah’s office.

Soap feels so high-strung when they sit down that he might explode. He can no longer even think of the possibilities, his mind just a high-pitched, inescapable whine.

“Is Ghost okay?” Soap finally asks, trying his best not to fidget in his seat.

“Yes, he’s fine. Improving, both physically and mentally. We’ve been putting down a lot more safety nets this time. But I do want to talk about something you could help me with.”

“Anything,” Soap promises. “I want to see him get better more than anything.” It’s the root of his anxiety, he knows. Grace doesn’t fail to mention it and no matter how Soap tries to deny it — to blame it on work, or the lack of sleep, or just himself — he knows it’s true.

He loves Ghost, he really does. But he also doesn’t know if he has anything left to give him. Because Soap tried, he tried so fucking hard, and Ghost still ended up hospitalised. Soap’s lucky that Ghost isn’t dead.

“That’s good, it really is. I know Ghost puts a lot of trust in you. But I wanted to talk about the incident that started all this.”

Soap gulps. He promised not to tell. Promised. But if Ghost has already said…

“About Ashley?”

“Yes. I can imagine that her doing that was really tough for you.”

Soap nods. He and Grace have gone over it, about his feelings about it. But there’s one thing to talk about it, there’s another thing in unpacking it. Soap knows he’d been scared, anyone would be, but fear is a common friend, something he can put aside. It’s the torrent of feeling surrounding it that Soap refuses to touch, safely standing in the centre of a stage-5 hurricane. 

“I know Ghost asked you not to talk about it,” Sarah says. “But I wanted to discuss that with you.”

“What about it?”

“If something like that happens again, I need you to tell me. I know you don’t want to betray his trust, Soap, but especially once he’d locked himself in his room, knowing what could have caused it would have been extremely helpful in not letting the situation get worse.”

So it is Soap’s fault.

It’s like ringing bells in Soap’s ears. Your fault, your fault, your fault. He knows he should have told someone, but every time he thought of it, he thought of Ghost spitting and screaming in his face, betrayal scarred into his eyes. Soap would never betray Ghost. Never.

“Sorry,” Soap says, chest heaving. “I didn’t know what was happening until it was too late.”

“I know,” Sarah says softly. “None of us did. Otherwise we would have gotten him out of there a lot sooner.”

Soap nods, guilt like bile in his throat. “I don’t want to betray his trust.”

“I know. I’m not asking you to tell me everything. I certainly don’t want to break his trust either. But if something extreme like that happens again, I’d rather Ghost is safe than worry about our own personal stakes.”

“Yeah. I know,” Soap says, sick to his stomach. He really is a fucking selfish bastard, isn’t he? He fucking put himself above Ghost’s life. 

“Soap, I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty. This is just important for how we move forward.”

“I know,” Soap lies. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Thank you,” Sarah says. “Are you still talking to Grace?”

Soap nods. “Just once a week, though. I’m pretty busy right now.”

Sarah smiles, though it feels sickly. Soap wants to be anywhere but here. He wants to be running so fast he can no longer feel his legs, or out on the field, where the adrenaline burns out the bad thoughts. 

“It’s good to have someone to talk to,” Sarah says, regardless of Soap’s spiralling thoughts. “I know being someone’s main support in difficult times can be very difficult in itself. Don’t downplay your own feelings here. You can only help when you’re in your best state. Don’t let yourself get swallowed by this.”

Soap smiles, false and sticky. “Of course not. I just want Ghost to be happy again.”

Sarah nods and rolls her shoulders back casually. “I’ve told him this but I’ll tell you too. Recovery is not linear. This may look like a massive setback but Ghost has more coping mechanisms than ever. This will get better. Just watch.”

Soap feels a flicker of hope at that, even if the guilt smothers it almost instantly. What fucking use is hope when Soap has already ruined everything? “Okay. I’m glad to hear it. Anything else you want to talk about?”

“No, that was all.”

Soap does his best to be polite, though his interaction with civilians has been vastly lacking over the last few years. He ends up going for a salute before awkwardly breaking it off halfway and nodding, striding out before he can embarrass himself more.

The guilt lays heavy, rivalled only by the battered anxiety that has been tailing him the last week or so. Before he really understands why, he swings by the infirmary, desperate to talk to Ghost. His biggest comfort and his greatest weakness.

“Ghost? You awake?”

“It’s like 4pm,” Ghost grouses, shooting Soap a look. Soap is familiar with it, used to seeing the way his eyes narrow behind the mask. The sort of death glare Soap usually receives when he does something idiotic.

Soap doesn’t know what he’s done this time.

Apart from, possibly, everything.

“Can I come bother you?”

“If you want.”

Soap lets the curtain fall behind him and takes up the squeaky chair that constantly resides by Ghost’s bedside. It’s uncomfortable and makes a horrific shriek every time Soap so much as redistributes his weight, but it doesn’t matter if he gets to be by Ghost.

His heart pounds and his head swims but he doesn’t care because Ghost is there. Alive. Okay. Even if Soap almost ended his life.

“How are you getting on here? It’s been a while.”

“Fine,” Ghost says sharply. “You look wrecked.”

Soap snorts. “I’ve been busy. There’s probably going to be a deployment soon. Price is working up to something, I can tell. Training is on full blast. Price has me putting the guys on the obstacle course every morning. No one’s beaten Gaz’s time yet but some are getting close. They’re good.”

Ghost nods but doesn’t add anything, barely looking at Soap at all.

“I just talked to Sarah,” Soap continues, pushing back the urge to bite at his lip. He wants to be strong for Ghost. He’s pretty much all but failed, but he can at least hold the remains of his dignity intact. There’s a difference between exhausted and scared.

Soap doesn’t want to be a coward.

“She told me off, you know. For not getting help. I know you didn’t want me to say but yer life was in danger and I-.” He cuts himself off and fights in a breath. “I should have done something.”

“What the fuck were you supposed to do?” Ghost says. “It was our fault for doing a fucking strip tease for you.”

Soap wouldn’t exactly call it a strip tease. “It wasn’t your fault. Ashley probably didn’t mean it like that-”

Ghost snorts. “Mean it? The whore was fucking gagging for it.”

Soap almost stumbles with surprise before it clicks into place. The sullen silence, the dark looks. This isn’t Ghost at all. This is Riley. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“She fucking meant it. I made sure of that. Fucking whore can’t feel safe unless she’s got a cock rammed up her-”

“STOP!” Soap shouts, before that can go any further. “Jesus Christ, how fuckin’-”

“Oh, like you don’t know it too. Come off it. I bet she begged .”

Soap’s heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest. There’s acid in his veins and he can’t think straight, a fog sleeping into his grey matter until he can only feel rage, confusion, anxiety, desperation. All in one heady cocktail that finds no words to express it at all.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Soap hisses.

“Doing what?”

“Saying shit!” Soap bursts out. “Insulting the others like they’re not fucking terrified of you.”

Riley doesn’t say anything for a moment, eyes inscrutable through the mask. “Are you scared of me?”

“What?”

Riley rolls his eyes. “You heard me. Are. You. Scared. Of me?” Riley asks, over-enunciating like Soap is thick. 

“Of course not,” Soap says, denial laying heavy on his chest. “But you shouldn’t be doing this shit. You are scaring the others.”

“Because they don’t fucking understand what they’re doing!” Riley shouts, flinging his arms up in the arm. "You’re all fucking morons and you don’t even realise it.”

Soap suddenly feels the weight of the world on his shoulders. One wrong word and he could tear the system to the ground. Listen to Riley or make him stop? Scream until his face goes blue? Or compassion? Compassion that Riley may not even deserve.

Soap stops and stares down at Riley, trying to think what he’d do if he wasn’t a part of Ghost. But no, he is and there’s nothing Soap can do about that. It’s just a part of their lives and-

He doesn’t know what to say.

He’s too tired to think at all.

“I don’t want to keep doing this.”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“Watching you do this cycle. Yer all good one minute and the next you cannae wait to top yourself. Most the time because someone like you is goin’ fuckin’ mental. Just fuckin’ stop, alright? Please.”

Riley glares at him, eyes calculating. “You’re the reason she did it, you know.”

“What?”

“Ashley. She wants to fuck you. Ghost wants to fuck you too, but the pansy will never admit it. They love you. Gay for you. Whatever the fuck you want to call it. Ghost will never admit it but probably wants you to stick your dick in-”

“SHUT UP!” Soap shouts, desperate for relief. Desperate to think of anything else because he can’t pile another thing on his back. He can’t. He can’t bear the fucking weight of keeping it down, or compartmentalising it and pushing it aside. He’s stuffed it all away and it’s going to come tumbling down on top of him.

To blame Ashley is one thing. To blame Ghost is something else entirely.

“I’m done with this,” Soap spits. “Yer lyin’.”

Riley just laughs. “We both know I’m not,” he says with a manic grin. “Look, we all know what happens to gay soldiers. Think it’s best for both of us to part ways, don’t you think?”

“I know what yer doin’. I won’t let it happen.”

“Won’t you?” Riley says. “You look tired. Is this weighing on you? We’re a burden, we all know it. To you especially. You’ll give up eventually.”

“I won’t. I’d do anything for Ghost.”

Riley raises his eyebrows. “Even sacrifice your career? Come off it, we all know you won’t. This means everything to you, like it still means everything to Ghost. The twat still wears his fucking camo shit in the inner world. You wouldn’t give this up, even for him.”

“Stop it.”

“Ah,” Riley says, grin stretching from ear to ear, “but I’m getting to you now, aren’t I?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I’m not having this conversation with you,” Soap says, legging it to the edge of the cordoned-off section that makes up Ghost’s room. “You’re wrong. You are .”

“We’ll see,” Riley says, a dangerous glint in his eyes. He raises a hand and waves goodbye. “Ta ta.”

— [redacted] —

Riley wakes up in his bed. The nice one. His room. He likes to remind himself of it. That even if everything else feels horrible, fucking sickening, this is home.

He feels good, though. He’s done what needs to be done, even if none of the others realise it. Soap was always going to leave, best to do it now whilst they’re still being monitored than when Ghost will go all macabre and try and fucking kill himself again. He didn’t even have to lie. Soap would choose the 141, just as Ghost probably would too. They can care for each other as much as they like but at the end of the day, the 141 is their lives. Without that, there’s nothing.

Fucking look at what getting kicked out got them. The body is stuck in a hospital bed with daily visits from a woman who keeps suggesting fucking mindfulness. How they’ve fallen.

Without Soap, they don’t have to worry about the gay thing anymore. Get rid of the temptation, get rid of the problem. No one can give them shit for it if nobody knows. And once Soap’s gone, they can figure this shit out without worrying about what Soap will think about it. Riley knows that look in Soap’s eyes, that one that says he wishes he hadn’t seen what he’d seen. The body is gruesome, a tale of stories that shouldn’t be told.

Riley is glad every fucking day that he isn’t the one who had to deal with getting most of them.

Effort deserves reward so Riley boots up his console and flings himself onto his bed so he can waste away a few hours but when the TV loads up, it’s not the menu on the screen. It’s plain text.

Riley.

Please come down to the offices at the bottom of the hill. I would like to speak with you.

No one has signed off on it.

Riley is caught. He could ignore it, which is more than a little tempting. He can sit here and waste away a few hours doing something he enjoys. Or , he can give into curiosity. Can go to a mysterious place he’s never been to before to meet with someone he doesn’t know. Sam works down in the offices most of the time, but that’s reason enough for Riley to never go near them.

Riley doesn’t want to interact with Sam if he doesn’t have to.

After five minutes of deliberation, staring blankly at the TV, Riley decides to say fuck it and hops off his bed. There’s nothing he can think to bring but he grabs his phone and his headphones so he can at least blast some music during the walk over there.

It’s a short walk, though, shorter than he expects. The only reason you can’t see the offices from the house is the thicket that hides it away on one side. But past the trees, it’s just plain green fields and the sort of mobile offices that usually only go up on building sites that the army repurposes as actual offices. 

But when he walks inside, there are only two marked offices. Sam’s on the far end, on the front side of the building that faces the house. And then the door right in front of him, a white paper label in the door frame that just reads: GATEKEEPER.

He knocks.

“Come on in,” a deep voice says. Androgynous, if only because it seems to drop below human possibility altogether. Its voice sounds vast, filling the room and yet, at the very same time, sounding like it’s coming from Riley’s headphones.

He pulls them around his neck and is surprised to find nothing has changed when they say, “Take a seat.”

It’s a skull in a suit. It’s a fucking skull in a suit.

“Who the fuck are you?”

It settles him with a look, if it can even look. Its eyes are nothing more than pits, a swirling vastness inside them that Riley can’t even begin to comprehend. “I do not have a name, though Sam refers to me as ‘It’ if that suits your tastes. Now please do take a seat, I think you will be more comfortable that way.”

Riley wants to growl, to lash out and show his claws, to try and find his footing in a situation he doesn’t understand. Instead, he complies, not quite sure why he does, just knowing that right here, right now, he’s the prey.

“Well ‘It’ is a pretty odd fuckin’ name, innit,” Riley says, clutching onto the armrests like his life depends on it.

“I would take that up with Sam. But now, let’s not dawdle. We need to have a serious discussion.”

Riley’s stomach drops. “About what?”

“You.” Those bottomless eyes lock onto Riley’s and there’s something like a tug in his chest.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. I am merely making sure you are listening. Because this is serious. I have let you go on as you are for too long because I thought that you served a purpose. But you are now a threat to the system and for that, there are only a few solutions.”

Riley’s breathing takes up a desperate rhythm, lungs spasming in his chest. “I didn’t do anything fucking wrong.”

“But you did. It’s obvious. Regardless of feelings or intent, you were the primary cause of a suicide attempt. And are now possibly even the cause of losing the one friendship this body still has, which is likely to damage recovery even further. I understand your intentions and what you are trying to do but it will not work.”

As Riley’s heart pounds, he desperately tries to get his own body under control. You’d think in his own fucking mind that he’d be able to control himself. But no. He’s never in control. Never has been in control. Desperation isn’t control; his father was never desperate. Riley is but a poor fucking mimic of control.

“You have two options here, though I’m not certain you will like either of them.”

“Just fucking tell me.”

It looks at him and sighs. “Dormancy is a must. Your access to the front has been a constant issue. Your choice in this is merely whether we do this with your permission or not.”

Riley’s stomach drops. “What?”

“Right now, we need you away until the system can handle you. So either you agree to this or I force you away.” It keeps his eyes locked on Riley’s, never faulting, no awkwardness from something more god than man. “Purposeful dormancy or imprisonment. Your choice.”

“No fucking way!” Riley screams, bounding out of his chair. “You don’t get to do that.”

“But I do,” It says. “Right now, I am the last resort for this system and you are a problem that seems immune to fixing it. Either you choose to go away for a while or I put you away for a while.”

“You can’t do that,” Riley whispers, fear flooding through him, ice-cold and yet burning. “I don’t wanna go. You can’t make me. I fucking live here.”

“I can and I will. I am giving you warning to give you a choice here.”

“This isn’t a fucking choice!” Riley explodes. “You are…fuck, you’re fucking insane. Is that why we’re all batshit? Because you are the one at the head of it.”

“Anger will not fix anything,” It says, passive as ever. It isn’t even ruffled. Can it even be ruffled?

Riley has a memory in perfect clarity, his father’s face imposed over It’s. A wicked smile and harsh words. A lesson to be learnt, he’d said. It only took a chair under the handle. An endurance test, his father had said.

He remembers trying to batter his way out of the wardrobe, only to have his first glimpse of sunlight and his father’s fist in his face. He hadn’t fought after that.

His father had looked just like It. Blank, ethereal, deadly. 

And Riley turns desperate.

“Please,” he begs, lips trembling. “I want to stay.”

“I’m afraid that’s just not possible.”

“I’ll be better,” Riley promises desperately, the first tears rolling down his cheeks. A ruddy blush spreads, shame rushing across his face like a bruise. “I won’t do anything bad, I promise, just let me stay.”

“You have yet to make your choice.”

“No,” Riley sobs. “There has to be a third way. There has to be. I’ll do anything. Anything. What do you want? I’ll get it for you.”

“I want only for us to be safe,” It says. “And in lieu of your lack of choice, I assume that means you will not go willingly. Please follow me.”

“No,” Riley hisses, feeling like a desperate dog, ready to bite. “I’m not fucking following you.”

“You do not have a choice,” It says. Then everything changes. It’s like the room is shrouded in fog, a hilarious mimic of dissociation, before the entire scene changes. No longer are they in an office, but a sand-ridden complex, with dirty a floor and bloodstains on the wall.

“I apologise for the state of this place but I don’t currently have anywhere else. Time passes quickly here, though, and you’ll be safe. Just separated from the others. Try not to be too scared, it is only a temporary measure.”

“You can’t say that,” Riley whispers, body trembling. He can’t fucking control it. Is he having a seizure? It feels like a seizure. “I want to go home.”

“You will. Eventually. But the rest of the system must stabilise first.”

“The others won’t let you do this,” Riley says, though more to himself than It. It’s not like he believes it. They all hate him. Who cares if he disappears? They all want him to anyway.

But if they knew he was here.

In this fucking prison.

Would they at least try to help?

Riley sobs, grabbing onto his hoodie so tight his knuckles strain. He wishes he brought more. Anything. More than just his phone and this fucking hoodie.

“I have to go now. Everything will be fine, I promise.”

And with that, It’s gone. And Riley is trapped in another cell, this one not of his own making, or his father’s making, but of this fucking system’s making. It’s dark, it’s always fucking dark. Riley can’t breathe. 

Once the sobs die down, and it’s just Riley, curled up on the sandy slate floor, reality sets in. Anger burns like magnesium, a flare so bright that Riley can’t think for it.

All he knows is that he wants this place to burn.

Chapter Text

Ghost lives. Survives, maybe. This doesn’t feel much like living. Things have settled at the very least, but his new med regime has driven him to new heights of exhaustion. He spends most of his days in a malaise, a whole gathering of alters floating in his mind. There’s been at least two days now where he’s not even sure he’s real, stuck between his own person and another. Sam is a steady, endless presence, but the others enjoy making themselves known. 

He can only be grateful that Riley seems exempt from the mix.

His actual communication with the others is limited at best. Apart from a few sparse notes in the journal, he hasn’t properly spoken to any of them since this whole thing began. It’s like his brain can’t latch onto reality enough to remember these things, floating through in a haze.

The day of Soap’s birthday is something they all dread. But in stilted notes and half-forgotten sentences, they build a plan. With Ghost all but out of commission, it will be on James to do his job, or so Sam says. Ghost is still wary of him but he can barely muster the energy to write a note, never mind argue with Sam. 

Whilst the rest of them fumble through a minefield, James feels normal. An ‘apparently normal part’ Sarah explains, trauma-free and able to get the body through life when the host can’t. A fucking blessing in disguise. 

Whilst Ghost relives Soap’s vacant-eyed stare, the tinge of disgust as he looked over Ghost’s chest, James makes sure they get through the day. Each morning that Ghost struggles, James steps up when he never did before. James is more than a distant part now, James is the one that keeps them going, even if Ghost knows nothing but a name. And for that, Ghost is grateful.

— [redacted] —

James never meant to take this much onto his plate. He doesn’t regret it, though. Even if it does take his time away from Matilda. They need this and James isn’t ashamed to step up when he’s needed.

James is used to this anyway. He’s always been the social one, able to paste on a smile and make small talk with strangers. He doesn’t love it. He’s never been a social butterfly per se, but he doesn’t find it difficult the way the others do. He prefers the one-on-one conversations, sitting in some corner, talking deep into the night without even being aware time is passing. The times when the darkness makes your mouth loose, where a bright smile is enough to spill something you shouldn’t. Enough to mention the unmentionable.

But parties? Not his purview. He can’t remember the last time he went to a party. It’s not like many people look at the mask and hand over an invite, even less likely that Ghost would say yes.  

He makes sure the body eats, showers and looks presentable. Shaves so their stubble will stop scraping against their goddamn mask and takes his time rifling through Ghost’s depressing wardrobe. Ghost doesn’t keep many clothes around but James has always been good at putting something reasonable together. If he’s going to pass as Ghost, there’s no use going too mental.

James puts on the simplest balaclava they have: the thin one that Ashley prefers too. James likes that people can hear him better through it. In loud pubs, it’s not so great to have your mouth covered, and even worse to have your ears covered too. He’s made do, always has, but that doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it. 

In the end, the ensemble is only a plain black t-shirt and some jeans. But he looks…presentable. Good, even, with a leather jacket on top to hide the scars. They almost look normal.

James grabs their phone and does one last check. Sam has given James the necessary run down, perfunctory but useful. Soap is an unknown quantity for the most part. They have spoken since the ‘incident’ but tension has been high. Alpha Team are still at odds with them, tensions definitely running high, but it’s also unlikely any of them will be there. Bravo Team are more split, though caution has still been advised, just in case. 

James is okay with that. If he only has to make a quick appearance, all the better. He doesn’t want to be out too long. It’s been taking its toll on Matilda to be out all day already, never mind all evening too. God knows she’ll probably follow him around like a little duckling all of tomorrow.

Not that he’s complaining.

Soap has texted the details. It gives James a little hope. His knowledge of the situation is vague at best but he does know that if Soap really was angry, they wouldn’t be going to this at all. Soap is a decent guy, all in all. Fuck knows he deserves an apology. But James can’t see this destroying them. If there’s one thing James knows, Soap has a soft spot for Ghost. It’s clear in his eyes when they talk, how Soap goes starry-eyed and dazzled whenever James speaks. Soap would forgive Ghost anything. He shouldn’t, all things considered. But he will. James knows he will. 

Getting around base is a little tricky but James manages it, trying to not be too obvious about looking at the signage, until he gets to the 141’s main rec room. It’s not a particularly large room. Just a small kitchenette and a few sofas scattered about, with a TV that must be from 2001 wasting away in the corner.

James is just glad to see it’s not too full either.

Sam had given him a rundown of the possible guests, a long list at the back of the notebook, a mix of explanations and doodles for each member of the 141. He already knows Soap and Gaz, of course, but the others are nothing more than common background characters in James’ life. And yet he knows the short one is Roach and the Australian one is Rook. The banged-up one is Ozone and the two that are whispering in the corner are Peasant and Meat. Lingering somewhere behind Rook is Driver, South African accent thick as he shouts at Rook to down his next drink.

It’s the entirety of Bravo Team, excluding Price. And apparently not a single person from Alpha Team. It’s pointed in a way that James only partially understands but he’s glad for it nonetheless. As much as he’s ready for it, he’d really rather not argue with anyone today.

“Ghost!” Soap calls. He’s already drunk, which apparently has pushed him straight past the awkward stage and into the ‘nothing ever happened’ stage. He looks wrecked, though. Dark circles under his eyes as he stumbles across the floor. “Thought you would be the last, honestly.”

“There's more people coming?” He almost shudders.

“Just Alex. Though not sure he’ll be up for it today.” James nods. He doesn’t have a fucking clue who Alex is, except that he has a prosthetic and is quote-on-quote ‘a nice guy’.

“You good?” Soap asks.

“I’m good,” James says with an easy smile. He’s surprisingly good, honestly, despite the turmoil he’s been surrounded by for the last week. James feels like the only one who still has his head on straight. Someone needs to.

“Great!” Soap shouts, beaming a smile so bright it could blind a man, with all the wobbliness of a man too many drinks in. “Come on, get a drink. Everyone chipped in a bit so we could get something half decent.”

He’s not lying. They’ve got a full spread: beer, spirits and even a snazzy bottle of red. James fucking hates whiskey, despite his best efforts to try, for Ghost’s sake. He goes for a beer instead, hoping it will raise the least questions, and follows Soap over to the corner where Gaz is lounging, G&T in hand.

“Your taste in drinks is girly,” James deadpans.

“Nothing wrong with a G&T, mate. Better than that shit.”

James has got to agree. It’s some rank lager that somehow manages to be both too strong and too weak simultaneously. James takes another sip anyway.

“Ah, now you both have it wrong,” Soap argues, stumbling a little. Jesus Christ, how far in is he? The party only started an hour ago. “Tequila. That’s where it’s at.”

“Fuckin’ hell, how many shots have you had?”

“Too many.” Soap laughs, giddy and drunk and fucking annoying. James doesn’t mention it. Whilst he has a bit of a soft spot for Soap, he’s fully aware of Ghost’s full blown delusion about the man. He’s a nice guy and all but there’s no rhyme or reason for the way Ghost has fallen for him. Soap is all ego and overconfidence, smiling through social situations like it will get him through to the other side. Desperate to prove himself, even when he doesn’t need to, because he wants people to think anything other than the FNG. It’s not working. The eagerness is probably why he’s still called the FNG.

James has never told him this, though. For obvious reasons. Pretending to be Ghost can be a bitch.

They chat for a bit, mostly just Gaz and James, whilst Soap puts in some drunk intermissions and tries to stand up straight. It’s nothing memorable, but it’s nowhere near painful. Just another bit of drudgery to go through until he can go back inside. The boredom isn’t helping to keep him at the front but he powers on regardless, gripping his bottle in a death grip, trying to use the condensation as a grounding point.

“You alright, mate?” Gaz asks.

“Cake!” Soap suddenly screams, before James can begin to scramble his act together, eyes trained on the door. Alex is standing there, large grin on his face, with a cake that holds a dangerous amount of candles on it. Surely more than Soap is old even. It’s like a fiery inferno. All James can think is that the wax is going to drip all over the cake. He can feel Jake hovering behind him, an excited string of nonsense running out of his mouth. James huffs a laugh. He can be so much like Matilda when he’s doing good like this.

There’s a chorus of Happy Birthday going on but James can’t pay attention. Jake is still rattling off things in his ear, redirecting James’ gaze to the cake. Can I have some? Jake asks, practically climbing over James’ shoulder.

Not now, Jake, this isn’t a good time.

But he isn’t fading. And James is still staring at those goddamn candles. The wax is dripping onto the cake. God knows they shouldn’t eat any of it. Who the fuck wants to ingest that much wax? 

I wouldn’t mind the wax, Jake says.

You wouldn’t like the taste of it. And it’s no good for you, James says, eyes flickering to his shoulder. But Jake isn’t there. Of course he isn’t. He’s inside.

Come on, I need to focus here, James urges, hand scratching his shoulder, as good a shoo as he can get. But Jake lingers, lingering over his shoulder, a pressure that feels all too real.

Jake-

But he’s already there.

— [redacted] —

Jake has never seen candles before. They’re really cool. And there are so many of them. Jake wants a birthday cake. Wax or not. Will Soap let him have some of his birthday cake? Does Jake ever get his own birthday cake? Does he have a birthday? It’s all a little confusing…

The world rushes in quickly. What started as an observation over James’ shoulder becomes full-blown control. He counts nine people, with more possibly coming. It’s more people than Jake has been in a room with since Dad-

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Panic clutches at his chest, eyes darting around the room. He pushes against the wall and ducks his head, chest heaving. Without the cake in sight, everything feels so much worse. He doesn’t want to be here. This many people is never a good thing. People aren’t good. Soap is good. The others inside are good. But not most people. People are dangerous.

“Ghost?”

Jake doesn’t know who this is. He’s never seen him before. He doesn’t want to be here.

“Hey, mate, come on, let’s get out of here.”

The man’s voice is soft, his face kind. His smile puts Jake at ease. It’s not like Dad’s smile. Dad’s smile was always two-faced. One part delighted, one part horrifying. But this man has a smile that Jake could look at forever.

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, a gentle pressure urging him to move. Jake follows, head ducked low, heart yammering in his chest. They manage to get about halfway out of the room before the lights blast on.

“Where are ya going?” Soap shouts. He’s sitting next to the cake, all the candles blown out. Jake wishes he could have blown out the candles.

Jake freezes as his new friend keeps walking. There’s an awkward moment where he keeps pushing him and Jake tumbles forward, catching himself on the wall with the entire room watching. He wants to dive into the floor and have it swallow him whole. He doesn’t want to be here. He just- he- he can’t breathe. 

“Just getting some air,” the man says calmly, not a single emotion betrayed on his face. The smile is gone. He even looks a little scary like this. Fierce. Like when Sam goes all serious, or Ghost found him in his room. Protective.  

“ No !” Soap whines, smile wide. “You’re gonna miss the cake.”

“I’ll be back for cake,” the man promises, grabbing Jake by the bicep and tugging him along. They’re almost there when Soap bounds past them and fills the doorway, arms outstretched to barricade a smooth exit. 

He pouts and makes his eyes wide. Jake has never seen him like this. Never really seen anyone like this. It’s like he’s a different person entirely. Is he drunk? Mum said drink can do funny things to people. But it always made dad angry, sometimes just sad. It never made him this.

“Don’t go, it’s my birthday,” Soap pleads, all exaggerated pout and wide eyes. Jake practically hides behind his new friend, staring at the scuffs on the floor as he tries to find some air.

“We’ll only be a minute,” the man gripes, easily pushing Soap aside, “someone needs to give you some water.”

“Ghost, back me up,” Soap begs, flinging himself all over Jake. He doesn’t like it. Hugs are nice, hugs are always nice, but this is like someone is trying to suffocate him.

He remembers what it felt like. To have Dad’s hands around his throat, squeezing tighter and tighter, feeling the world fade at the edges as he clawed at his dad’s hands. This isn’t like that, Jake tells himself. This is nothing like that. And yet it feels just as suffocating.

“Please stop,” he begs, his voice barely reaching above the din. There are so many people talking. So many people watching. Jake can’t take it anymore. He ducks out of Soap’s hold and sprints out. There’s a large thud and a drunken yell but Jake pays no attention to it.

He can’t breathe. It’s like someone has plugged up his throat, each breath an asthmatic whistle, never quite filling his lungs. He feels dizzy with it, like the world really is fading in and out.

He keeps thinking of his dad’s hands there, squeezing, harder and harder and harder.

“Ghost.”

Jake doesn’t have the wherewithal to remember that that’s supposed to be him. All he can feel is his dad’s hands around his throat and he can’t breathe and he thinks this might be what a heart attack feels like and- and- and-

“Breathe, man. Come on. Breathe with me.”

He keens as a hand latches onto his, taking it from his throat (when did he put them on his throat?), and placing them on a foreign chest. Through hazy vision, Jake sees his new friend staring at him, ostentatiously breathing in and out, his chest moving under Jake’s hands.

Desperate to think of anything that isn’t the same nightmare he’s been having for so long now, he focuses on the man’s top. It’s soft. Softer than anything Jake owns. So he clutches it in his fists and strokes his thumb up and down the fabric, another whimper escaping unbidden. It’s nice. It feels nice. He likes things that feel nice.

He feels the chest move and copies obediently. After that, the world filters back in slowly; it takes so long that Jake is a little convinced he’s already dead. That he really did suffocate and he’s lying on the floor, watching himself continue living like a ghost. Maybe that’s who Ghost really is. Just the one that kept on living when Jake died.

He keeps feeling the fabric, clinging onto the one thing that feels real right now. 

“Hey? Ghost? You with me?”

Jake nods, still brushing his thumb up and down. He wonders what fabric it is. Maybe he can persuade Ghost to buy it for them. Or maybe he can’t. He’s still not entirely sure he didn’t die. Can he talk to Ghost even when he’s dead? Ghost is a ghost, after all. At least he thinks he is. He should ask…

“Can you tell me where you are?”

Jake doesn’t know what they actually call this place. It’s the body’s home, he knows that. But it’s not really his home. He has the mansion now. He loves the mansion, it’s really nice, and it has so many different places to play. And now Matilda will play with him, and she’s really funny and nice and silly. She likes to play pranks on her dad and although Jake still thinks it’s a bad idea, he finds it nice when James will smile and spin her around even when his hair is dyed neon pink.

“Uh…the army?” Jake guesses, wincing.

The man frowns.

The base. You’re on base. In Credenhill.

“I mean, Crayden…Hill? On base. I’m- I’m on base,” Jake stammers, looking anywhere but his new friend, even if it strains his eyes. Sam lingers in the front, though he doesn’t take over. Jake would really like to go now.

We can attempt to switch out, but we don’t want this to be obvious.

Jake nods, and realises too late that he’s answered some question he never heard. Somehow, it isn’t the wrong answer, though it hasn’t allayed his friend’s suspicion any.

“What’s today's date?”

Uh, fuck. Sorry Jake. I know it’s July. Late July. 29th?

“The 29th? Of July?”

The man’s frown deepens. “Of what year?”

2023.

“2023,” Jake says confidently, glad to just have any information at all. This feels like sitting for a test you haven’t studied for. A list of questions designed to confuse.

“Ghost, it’s the 21st.”

“Oh.” Jake looks down at his knees, ignoring the dangerous thud of his heart. He still feels like he’s lying on the floor, splayed out like dead people are in movies. This double vision is unimaginable.

You’re safe, Jake. I promise. Come on, come back now. It’ll all be fine.

Jake trusts Sam. Maybe not as much as Ghost, but he still does trust him. It’s Jake’s job to protect Simon but Simon isn’t here anymore. He doesn’t seem to be anywhere. Jake doesn’t need to be in the body, not really. 

Not unless he can get a birthday cake.

— [redacted] —

Sam slips into consciousness slowly, blinking rapidly and locking onto Gaz as quick as he can. Switches aren’t necessarily difficult to hide but it can break up the continuity. But Sam knows where they’re at. He feels confident he can get through this and get Ghost back out front ASAP. Or James. Though god knows they’re better off leaving the party for good. They don’t need a second disaster on their hands.

Sam pushes away the heaviness of his head, the agony of his chest, but doesn’t hide his wince. “Sorry,” Sam groans, keeping his voice gravelly. “It’s been a long few weeks.”

“No worries,” Gaz says, though he still looks worried. His shirt is all wrinkled up. Was Jake clutching it? Shit. “You seemed overwhelmed in there.”

Sam snorts. “No shit.” He clambers to his feet, using the wall as a support. “I should go back.”

“I’ll tell Soap. God knows he’s gonna pull something.”

Sam frowns. “Hm?”

Gaz’s eyebrows fly up. “Come on, he didn’t even want you leaving the room. Look, I won’t put you back in there. Soap’s gonna drape himself over you like a limpet at this point and it’s just embarrassing. I’ll cover for you.”

Sam is surprised by the depth of his gratitude. None of them knows Gaz that well. They’ve worked with him, worked well with him. Gaz is a brilliant soldier for those in the system that have done active military work. But to the rest, he’s a stranger. And yet he pulls such acts of kindness out like it’s nothing, when it’s absolutely everything to them.

“Thank you,” Sam says, as sincerely as he can muster.

“No worries, man. Now go, sort yourself out. I’ll do damage control.” Gaz is gone before Sam can even react to that, abandoned in the corridor with a switch-induced headache and a line of problems as long as the Great Wall of China.

It feels like nothing can go right anymore. That each and every step taken forward is another ten steps back. Whatever good they’d clawed out for themselves is coming back down like an avalanche.

Sam doesn’t even know where the fuck to begin.

Chapter Text

Ghost is sick of this place. He’s sick of his doctors, of the nurses, of Sarah having to sit in a squeaky uncomfortable chair for their sessions, for only being allowed out for a monitored smoke break or an accompanied walk. Privacy is something Ghost has learned to live without since the moment he signed up, but he’s not in the army anymore, and he’s had months of relative peace. It’s strange how quickly it can start to feel like an invasion instead of an everyday occurrence. 

At the very least, he doesn’t feel stuck in a dark void anymore. It’s almost strange how quickly it can feel like things turn around. One day he can’t even get out of bed, the next he’s raring to be free, to fucking live. Maybe it’s therapy finally paying off, maybe it’s the almost comical lack of stress in living the same day, day in and day out. Maybe it’s just that they’ve finally let him wear his own fucking clothes instead of that bloody hospital gown. But Ghost doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t think he ever did. Hindsight is a hard beast to wrangle, though, and he’s not sure he can ever be certain.

He now has two types of day: the good and the bad. The mundane and the awful. But it’s better. It doesn’t feel like the same persistent terror of the last month, where PTSD symptoms rule his life more than he does. Now he has days where things just feel normal. Plain. Boring. The kind of boring that has him craving more, to punctuate the bad days with something to make up for it.

But for all that Ghost is living the mundanity, it seems the others are taking the brunt of the bad. Or even just the brunt of the responsibility. Sam has been having conversations inside, though Ghost isn’t sure how many of them have been fruitful, and leaving more and more notes in the notebook. Rather than a disused journal they use in desperate situations, it’s become more of an obvious diary, even if they have less and less to put in it. Mostly the bad things end up there, emotionless sentences about panic attacks or flashbacks or some other new terror that’s crept up on them. 

So Ghost doesn’t feel good, it’s not like that. But he doesn’t feel bad anymore. He’s tired a lot of the time still and the medication changes have been making him woozy but he’s ready to get out of here. If he can just get Sarah to permit it, he can try and put things back in the right order. To get his life back where it should be, whatever it is these days. Whatever stabilisation is supposed to look for him.

Ghost comes to in the morning with a vague idea of the last hour or so, though he’s almost certain he wasn’t the one in the front. He knows someone came to check on him, though he isn’t sure if it was the nurse or the doctor, and he knows he pushed down a meal at some point. But apart from that, it’s some sort of fog that is starting to feel more and more familiar.

He sighs and goes straight for the notebook, flipping to the latest page, marked with a post-it note because it’s all the nurse could find him, and starts to read from his last entry the day before.

Ghost. feeling switchy. Soap’s party coming up. Am I the one going?

Sam. If you’re up for it. If not, I’ll get James out. NOTE: SOAP’S PARTY DETAILS HAVE BEEN SENT VIA TEXT

James: Can’t get to Ghost so I’m going to take over. Heading there now.

Sam. not sure what happened but things didn’t go to plan. Had to leave early. Gaz helped us out, we owe him one. Jake was at the front instead of James.

And scrawled right underneath, James has told me that Jake came out at the sight of birthday candles — note new trigger. Crowds might have overwhelmed him. Felt like a panic attack. Will talk to Jake.

Ghost breathes in, out, deep, calm and tells himself that this isn’t another fuck up, just like Sarah tells him to. This is just a hiccough, a bump in the road that they can sail past. Ghost promised he would go and he did, in a way. His body made it anyway. He’s still in fucking hospital for god’s sake, Soap can’t really expect much more from him.

Ghost grabs a pen and starts to scrawl his own message. Ghost. Do I need to do damage control? Did people see us leave? Going to ask Sarah about leaving today. Feeling better.

He shuts the notebook and puts it back on the bedside table, sagging against the headboard. He doesn’t want to dwell on it. If he dwells on the shit anymore he knows he’s going to spiral, he can feel it. What are all those techniques Sarah gave him again? His brain feels foggy.

Oh, right, do something nice. Comforting. Something he likes to do.

But what does The Ghost like to do? Murder. Kill. Watch rivulets of blood spill from someone’s throat as they die.

No. He’s not sure that’s it at all.

And, besides, he has no want to be a murderer. Killing aimlessly isn’t what he does. He’s a gun to be pointed, for a cause he hasn’t kept up with in a decade. The thrill of death comes with the thrill of a fight, of doing what is right and doing it well.

So what else is left?

The Ghost is not a man with hobbies. The Ghost is barely a man at all. It’s something that survives through impossible odds. Ever-lasting and already dead.

But he clearly is a man. In a body. A body that can no longer be a government-mandated weapon. The Ghost is now just…Ghost. And Ghost has to find a hobby.

What does he usually do with his days? Nothing, he supposes. Does his training routine when he can be arsed. Eats when he has to. Smokes his way to an early grave. It’s not like he has many options. He’s not an artist, not by a long shot, and writing has never been his thing. But everything outside that feels…inaccessible. All he’s got is the notebook and his phone.

He picks up his phone, five years out of date with a battery that doesn’t last the day, and spins it lazily in his hand before a thought strikes. He’s pretty sure he’s got a chess app on here that he’d gotten back in the day, under the false impression that he could ever beat Price. When it became clear that he definitely could not beat Price, he’d given up entirely. But chess is a good hobby, right? Chess takes mental energy and Ghost needs the distraction (he’s fucking desperate for it).

It’s funny how time can slip once he really gets into something. Once the competitive streak in him grasps onto it, determined to win at least one match against the fucking mad AI that he’s playing against (on extreme, because he’s nothing if not a masochist).

It passes the time all the way until Sarah is peeking around the curtain, a gentle smile on her face. Her eyebrows jump up when she notices Ghost engrossed in his phone. “Anything interesting?”

It’s funny, Ghost realises, how she’s never seen him like this. She’s seen him in pain, angry, sad, neutral. But never invested in any sort of activity. It would go against their usual setup.

“Chess,” he grunts, though there’s a little flame of pride within him. It’s the closest he’s been to productive in months. It’s something with an end goal in sight, a visible improvement to be made. It may not be for anyone but himself but it’s something and that has to be enough.

“Oh? Do you often play chess?”

Ghost shakes his head. “You said I should have an activity to pass the time. It’s as good as any.”

Sarah nods, though there’s a soft smile on her lips and Ghost knows she understands that this means more than he lets on. That this is one of the first moments where he’s starting to look to the future rather than being stuck in the present or swallowed by the past.

It’s so small. So fucking small, but it matters to him. Because it’s probably the first thing he’d done for himself in a long fucking time. And it’s nice. Really fucking nice.

“So, what would you like to talk about today?”

Ghost takes in a breath and makes his final move before he tucks his phone into his pocket, the next few moves already in his head. He wants to write them down, honestly, but he won’t. That would be fucking rude, wouldn’t it. Though it’s not like Ghost hasn’t been rude before.

“I wanna get out of here,” he finally says, forcing his mind onto the right track. Fuck, he used to be better at this shit.

“Ghost-”

“I’m not trying to lie my way out. I do think I’m ready.”

Sarah winces. “I’d like to see some more progress before we do that. I’m sorry, Ghost. I know you want to go but right now, I don’t think we’ve put enough time into getting you stabilised.”

“I just- fuck,” Ghost hisses, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s like I’m trapped in here.”

Sarah frowns, her empathy welcome if painful. “I can always ask for your time outside to be increased. I know it won’t help entirely but not being in here all the time is likely to alleviate some of those feelings.”

Ghost rolls his eyes. “Inside, outside, I’m still trapped, aren’t I?” He sighs and looks back down at his pocket. The chess move comes back to his mind and he blinks, trying to push it away. Why the fuck is he still thinking about it? Jesus Christ.

“I know this is difficult. It won’t be much longer. There are plenty of things that go into the decision to get you released but I promise, it will be soon if things keep going as they are.”

Ghost nods but he’s distant. He feels caught between two thoughts, one part of him still playing that goddamn game of chess, the other part desperately trying to focus on Sarah. Fuck.

Sarah frowns. “Is there something else you’d like to talk about?”

Ghost shrugs, eyes burning a hole into his pocket. “Apparently Soap’s party didn’t go to plan.”

“Oh?”

Ghost knows he’s starting to switch, can feel the signs easily now, but he’s also confused as to why. Normally he can feel someone starting to front these days, a familiar presence looming over his shoulder, or burning between his eyes, even, rarely, coming from below him.

“Jake had a panic attack,” Ghost mumbles. “Or so Sam said. I-” He stops, frowns and blinks. Nothing changes. “I think I’m switching.”

“Okay,” Sarah says, as calm as ever.

“I don’t recognise them.”

“It’s okay,” Sarah reassures. “You’re safe. They’ll be safe.”

“I-” Ghost forces himself into well-worn breathing techniques, pushing his breaths into a pattern that finally feels like it might be normal. “Okay.”

They wait it out, as Ghost has learnt to do. It’s uncomfortable to let go for someone he doesn’t know but he does it anyway. He doesn’t have a choice. And then, Ghost is gone.

— [redacted] —

Alex snaps into reality, desperately confused. He’s…not in his cell. Not in a cell at all, it seems. Just a curtained off-room, with sickly white walls and a pale green curtain. No doors, no locks. Nothing. There’s a sickly flower on his bedside table and if he cranes his neck up he can see some placid, soothing landscape on the wall behind him.

He’s on a bed. 

“Here,” a woman says. Scottish, brunette, serious face but softer than he’s used to. In her hand is a small ball. He takes it cautiously, examining it. It’s squishy. Sinks under his fingers like flesh. He squeezes it and watches it puff back up to size.

What is happening?

He doesn’t- he doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to do. There’s always been a routine, a manual, a list of steps that keep them safe, to not anger the beasts roaming outside their cage. But this is unprecedented. A trick? Or something far more?

Alex doesn’t say anything. It’s safer like that. Words are dangerous. Words garner punishment. Simon can’t go through any more of that. Alex needs to make sure they stay unnoticed. Unproblematic.

The woman stares at him, frigid gaze penetrating right through him. Alex can’t look her in the eye, so instead he stares at the ball, thumb smoothing over the slightly tattered curve. He hasn’t seen something so clean in a long time.

His hands are also clean. He can’t remember the last time he was clean. The stench is gone, he realises. All he can smell is the faint scent of earth and flora, not the usual mix of piss, shit and blood.

A memory comes back, faintly, of another room. They’d…moved him, hadn’t they? There’d been a cleaner cell, with a well-made bed and freshly laundered clothes. There was even a bathroom to wash up in, and a tap to get fresh water. No more brown liquid that could only dubiously be seen as drinkable.

He’d done his best to get them in good order before Simon came back. Simon would like being clean. A small piece of comfort in an otherwise ruthless world. Alex liked doing the little things like that for him. But the little things mean everything in that godforsaken place.

Alex wonders why they’d move them again. He’s frustrated that he can’t feel Simon. Sometimes they can balance a co-existing act, though Simon finds it deeply uncomfortable. But Alex likes to hear Simon’s voice. It’s comforting, even if it sounds a little rough.

“Could you tell me your name?” The woman asks eventually, sitting high in a somewhat stiff but otherwise clean plastic chair. She’s at a healthy distance now, though, out of his swing range. It seems purposeful, just a little too far to be natural.

“Ghost,” Alex says. It’s Simon’s codename and the only name they have agreed to use here. Names have power, and Ghost has always brought them the power to hide. Simon’s theory was always that Ghost was another one of them, hidden in the shadows. Alex never believed it. It’s always been just him and Simon. If there’s anyone else, they’ve never made themselves known. Simon’s not always too easy to believe these days. He gets confused easily, especially if his head’s been rattled.

“Is that your only name?”

Alex winces. There’s a choice to be made, with no correct answers. Just risk after risk after risk. He can refuse, and risk punishment. Or be truthful and face whatever that means, a hundred thousand possibilities that all seem as bad as the last. Or it could end in nothing.

It’s almost funny that no one has thought to ask that before. They’ve been taunted before, goaded with their real name. Another treat Vernon left behind. But only Roba knew. But he always enjoyed having the leash on Ghost, like he’d leashed the monster. So much more exciting than plain, old, weak Simon. The name Ghost had simply become commonplace. 

(Alex doesn’t think Simon is weak. But he’s always been glad Roba does. He underestimates them, and that’s the only thing that’s kept them alive this long.)

Maybe he should tell her Simon. It’s probably a lie, anyway. The body’s name is Simon. Simon was there first. Alex was made, or conjured, or whatever this is, long after. Simon likes to call Alex his miracle.

There’s no reason for him to tell the truth, and all the more reason to protect myself. But there’s something in that look that Alex isn’t certain he’s ever seen before. Something kind. Almost against his will he says, “Some people call me Alex.” 

Only Simon. Only ever Simon. But Simon’s the only one who matters.

“Hello, Alex. I just want you to know that you’re safe here, okay. Nothing bad will happen.”

Alex doesn’t believe it. Can’t believe it. But then he looks down at his clean hands, runs his thumb along his palm lines, and thinks. He doesn’t have many choices. He can run, if he dares. He can fight, if he believes he can. He doesn’t have that much faith in himself, though, nor the true motivation. Alex doesn’t like hurting people. But he can’t promise he won’t. He’s at Roba’s behest and whilst he won’t break, he also can’t let them die either. Sometimes that means doing the dirty work. But he’s also not here on orders. He doesn’t seem to have a reason to be here at all. Which just leaves one more choice. To stay. To believe her. To think that this might not be a convoluted trick designed to chip another part of them away.

Alex takes a moment to truly look at her, sitting primly in a chair that is clearly not designed for her height. He wonders why she’s here. What could a middle-aged Scottish lady possibly be doing in the middle of the Mexican desert?

“Do you know where you are right now?”

Alex frowns. He looks around, trying to find confirmation of his suspicions. Tries to think where they could have possibly moved him. And then his eyes land on the window and his whole world rocks.

That’s England. It’s definitely England. There’s no other countryside that looks quite like it. He’s home? He’s home.

His eyes widen, tears welling up against his will. “No,” he says, simultaneously desperate for a confirmation. Please, please, please-

“Right now, you are on a military base in Credenhill.”

He’s home.

They’ve made it.

Simon got them home.

Alex can’t help his grin. It feels blinding, all bare teeth and naked joy. His cheeks ache with it. “Are we…are we actually safe?” He stammers.

“You are. You have a lot of support here.”

Alex turns to the woman, grin fading slowly into a pleased little smile. It feels like a happiness to covet, like if he lets it burn too fast, he won’t be able to feel it again. “That’s good. Very good.”

“I’m your therapist, Sarah. I’ve been with you for a month or two now.”

“Months?” Alex blurts before he realises how revealing it is. But Sarah doesn’t seem to care at all.

“It looks like you’ve been away for a while, Alex. But yes, I’ve been your therapist for a few months, and you had another for a few months before that.”

Alex's mind is reeling, thoughts spinning like a film reel across his vision, flickering and dancing and- “Oh.”

“I’ve been helping you with something called Dissociative Identity Disorder. Previously known as Multiple Personality Disorder.”

Alex’s eyebrows fly up. For a moment, it feels like the world stops. Something clicks into place. “Other identities…like Simon?”

“So you know of another alter?”

“I know of Simon,” Alex says, stomach dropping. “It’s always been me and Simon.”

“But no one else.”

Alex freezes, heart-clenching, shifting awkwardly when he becomes too aware of how sweaty his palms are. “There are others?”

“I think you have something that will help you. In that drawer, there should be a notebook. I’d have a read through it.”

Alex tentatively reaches over and rifles through the drawer until he finds a small, moleskin notebook with crumpled pages and frayed edges. It’s well-used, its spine cracked, but when he flicks through the pages, it’s only about a quarter filled.

He goes back to the first page and he starts to read.

It’s like reading a story. Except he’s somehow both the main character and an extra. This is him, in the same way Simon and him share a body, but it’s also someone else entirely. This isn’t about Alex protecting Simon — no, well, it is — but it’s not just about protecting Simon. It’s about multiple parts trying to live in one body, figuring things out as they go along.

Alex is in shock.

He finishes the last page, something about Soap’s birthday party, and feels like something clicks into place. He’d never thought about the existence of others, had always pinned the memory gaps on Simon, but it makes sense that there would be more. Simon dealt with so much but there were still some things that Alex is too terrified to even mention that Simon seemed to forget. Things they’ve only whispered about in the dark, hypotheses about blank gaps and fuzzy moments.

For all Alex wants to deny it, Ghost is not a surprise. Simon was right after all. 

Ashley is even less of a surprise.

But the children? Sam? A protector like him but for someone else entirely. And Simon. Lingering in the fringes. Alex can tell it’s his handwriting, even if he’s never seen it before. He just knows Simon, like he knows no one else on this earth. Even when it’s barely a few words he’s written.

“There’s so many,” he whispers, closing the notebook. He wants to re-read it all again, to see each and every one of them, to figure out who they are. How many need to be protected like Simon did, how many had to deal with a dank cell with no sunlight and rusted bars. How many had to deal with things before that, things that Alex isn’t even aware of, that are danced around in short sentences and inferred paragraphs.

“Right now, we have evidence of about ten of you, though plenty of those are just guesses. No one has mentioned you yet.”

“I only know Simon,” Alex confesses. “It’s always been me and Simon.”

“It seems like you two are close.”

“Very,” Alex says, with all the force he can muster. It’s always them. Alex and Simon against the world. “I protect him.”

Sarah nods. “Is there anything you want to ask about the system? I don’t have all the answers, but I can certainly help you navigate this.”

“I- will I meet them?” Alex asks. “They all seem to be aware of each other.”

“Not all of them, and it’s been a long fight. It may just be that you are split apart right now but there has been recent progress on making a lot of the alters closer inside. But the process has been organic so far. Though you coming to the front is extremely hopeful in terms of integrating with the rest of the system.”

Alex smiles. “It would be nice. To meet them, I mean. Simon used to talk about his old squad mates all the time. But I’ve only ever had him. It would be nice to meet some others.”

“There’s people on the outside too,” Sarah says. “You do have friends, especially from your time in the army.”

Alex will admit to a little shock. It all just seems so…far-fetched. Only a few minutes ago he’d thought he was still in Roba’s prison. Now, he’s back on a military base, with a therapist and friends, and more people that could be like Simon.

Simon always accused Alex of too much optimism. But after this much suffering, Alex has learnt that the last thing you can cling onto is hope. Hope that things will get better. Hope that things won’t be like this forever. Hope that things might just work out, if you try hard enough. Without hope, there is only death. Or, worse, Roba wins and they break. To break is a fate worse than death.

“Like who?” Alex asks, unwilling to dwell on dark thoughts any longer. This should be a moment of joy, not fear. 

“Soap and you are…close,” Sarah says, suspiciously hesitant. “And you have an extraordinary amount of respect for Price, which seems returned tenfold.”

Alex knows that two isn’t many friends. He’s not completely sheltered. But after years of having no one but the terrified man inside his head, it seems like a revelation.

A pressure grows between his eyes but Alex ignores it. Instead, he stares back down at the notebook, thumb skimming the leather cover with a secretive smile.

He gets that familiar hazy feeling, blinking rapidly as he tries to press it away. It doesn’t feel like Simon. He knows Simon. He doesn’t want to go just yet.

“Alex?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “I’m just…” He loses his train of thought and looks back down at the notebook, now nothing more than a black blob in the distance.

Sorry, but I’ve been asked to bring you back, a voice says, English, soft, deep. Definitely male, but nothing like Simon. Maybe more like Alex himself. That hint of something that sounds more London than Manchester.

“I don’t want to,” he whispers. “I have more questions.”

And we can answer them. Just come back.

Alex frowns, looking out the window one more time. It’s a wash of green and gold, an abstract painting on the horizon. No details are left at all.

“Okay,” he finally agrees. He peers over at Sarah. “I think someone else wants to come out.”

“Alright then,” Sarah says. “Thank you for speaking with me, Alex.”

Alex smiles at his own name. He likes having his own name, of people actually knowing it’s his name. It’s not like when Simon says his name, but it’s still something.

And with that thought, he lets himself fade out.

— [redacted] —

Ghost comes to in fragments, different levels of reality piling on top of him until finally the camera comes into focus and he can see that he’s back in his hospital room, completely spaced out in his chair as Sarah scrolls through her emails.

Ghost is eternally glad to have her focus anywhere but him as he clenches the notebook in his hand. Grounding himself has always been arduous and it takes a force of will to fully remind himself that this is reality. It feels all too easy to just float. He thinks Sam is somewhere in the front, just a vague phantom checking in. Not close enough to talk to, or even to really be certain about, but it’s disorientating regardless.

“I’m back,” Ghost grits out eventually. “It’s Ghost.”

“Ah,” Sarah says. She turns off her phone and shoots him a small smile. “Hello again. Do you know what just happened?”

Ghost shakes his head. “No. I just remember…someone…they were pushing forwards.”

“Yes. It seemed to be a new alter. Alex.”

Ghost grits his teeth. “Another one?”

“I know it doesn’t sound like good news to learn about new alters but I don’t think there’s anything to worry about here,” Sarah says earnestly. “His job seems to be protecting Simon, and it also seems to be his main focus. Though he did seem excited to meet you.”

“Did he write anything?” Ghost asks, shaking the notebook.

“We didn’t have time before someone took him out of the front. Though it does bring up something I’ve wanted to discuss. Just an idea.”

“Okay,” Ghost says tentatively. A new idea can be anything from a new grounding technique to something that seems utterly mad. But Ghost does trust Sarah and even if he ignores her advice, he’ll always listen to it.

“I know that the notebook hasn’t always been the most successful. So I think we should branch out in terms of communication. Since you’ve been struggling with denial, I think that videos might be the best solution.”

“Videos?”

Sarah nods. “Writing is good but I know patients who have found videos a lot more…real, in a sense. A way to truly see the other alters. And you’ll probably learn a lot more about them when they speak than you do when they write.”

Ghost…doesn’t hate the idea. He’s surprised by it, in fact. The idea of filming himself makes his skin itch but who’s going to see him? Himself? And it’s something else to do here other than sit and dissociate. 

Ghost nods. “Fine, I will. Do it, I mean. The videos.” 

Sarah shoots him a look. “Don’t do it because I’m telling you to. Do it because you want to. This isn’t going to help if you’re doing it because you think it’s something you have to do.”

Ghost shakes his head and looks out the window. Grey clouds have rolled over the horizon, bathing the world in shadow. “No. It’s not that. It’s just…I don’t know. But I want to do it.”

“I’m glad. The more communication you have, the better, and sometimes that means having as many communication approaches as possible. Keep up with the notebook, keep up with the inner world, start with the videos, and you’ll have plenty of tools at your disposal.”

— [redacted] —

It’s dark outside. Not too late but the nurses have mostly settled in for the night, talking quietly at their station outside as Ghost attempts to entertain himself for the evening. He and Sam are trying to get through some history book that Sam’s enjoying and Ghost is clearly lagging behind in; Sam’s pink post-it is at least a hundred pages ahead. 

Ghost sets up his phone, balanced precariously against the footrest at the end of the hospital bed. He sits with his legs outstretched before realising that his toes are in focus, so he sits up and crosses his legs like he’s in a primary school assembly again. It strains his thighs more than he expects.

He keeps the mask on. Looking at it is surprisingly discomfiting, but less so than having it off entirely. He just stares at himself for a bit, like enough exposure will eventually get him to stop hating the picture he sees. When it doesn’t, he leans forward and just taps record. Ripping the plaster off and all that.

“Great,” Ghost sighs, keeping his voice low. His eyes flicker up to the curtain but no one outside seems to be paying any attention. “Honestly not sure what I’m supposed to say. You know, I used to crack jokes. With some people anyway. The ones I liked. Feels like it’s been a long time since I did. So, you know, here we go.” He looks right at the camera, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips and says, “I don’t trust stairs. They’re always up to something.” The punchline can’t really hit if you don’t have an audience, but Ghost huffs a laugh anyway. It feels good to tell a joke again.

“Sam will probably say I’m avoiding things,” Ghost admits. He’s not thick . But after weeks upon weeks of macabre shit running them into the ground, he doesn’t want to start this with yet another sombre moment. A few of them probably need something light. God knows Ghost does. He’s exhausted of constantly fighting their demons. Of sitting in here and barely managing the PTSD symptoms on top of all the other shit. And don’t even get him started on whatever the fuck is going on inside.

Ghost rolls his shoulders back and tries to get more comfortable. “I guess I am. Sarah wanted me to make these videos for you guys, maybe have a few of you return them. Increase communication and all that. I’ll put a note in the book but I presume Sam will do the rounds, he always does.”

Ghost finally just leans back against the headboard, half his head out of view, and fiddles with his fingers. “I know things have been shit. For a lot of us. And, uh, I went through some real shit to ignore that. Didn’t want you guys to be real. It would be nice to…hear from you, you know. To make this feel less like a fucking fever dream. I mean, I met some of you. Inside. But that feels sort of like dreaming.” Ghost ducks his gaze, scraping the dry skin off his thumb. “Apparently there’s someone new. Alex? Never knew you existed which…fuck, I’m scared. There, I said it. Happy? I’m fucking terrified and it feels like half of you are too.”

Ghost tries to breathe but it becomes a shudder, brows furrowed as he tries to rein in the welling anxiety in his chest. “Okay, fuck this. I’m not- I’m not doing this. I just, fuck, I wrote some stuff down that I wanted to say to each of you. Sarah helped me with some of it so sorry if this sounds…therapy-ish. I’m just going to do that and then turn this fucking thing off before I smash it.”

He takes in a deep breath, only mildly more successful than the last, and peers down at the post-it he’d stuck to his bedside table. “Alright. Let’s go. Uh, first. Sam. I know I’ve been an arse and you’re doing your best. You’re doing the best you can.” He smirks as he reads the next bit. “Being a CO isn’t an easy job,” Ghost teases, “especially with us fucking muppets. Sarah said you’re struggling, at least a little. But don’t. We can look after ourselves. This isn’t all on you. Yeah, just, that. Alright. Moving on.

“Jake. Keep being you. You’re a great kid, and don’t be too sad I’m not there all the time, alright?

“Uh, Ashley. Just, fuck, I don’t know what I’m even supposed to say. Look, you’ve been doing some batshit stuff. And yeah, I know, I’m not supposed to say that sort of thing, but these issues are affecting more than just you, alright? I’m not blaming you. But please listen to Sam, or Sarah, or fucking someone sensible, okay? We can’t keep doing this.” 

He grits his teeth and shifts his finger to the next point, reading carefully. “Riley. Don’t know where the fuck you’ve gone but uh, when you’re back, calm the fuck down, alright? You’re causing even more issues and I can’t be fucked with it anymore. I don’t know what the fuck is going through your head but change it, pronto,” Ghost says in his best CO voice. If the kid won’t listen to reason, he’ll have to listen to something worse.

“James and Matilda. Don’t really have much to say, honestly, but I thought I’d make sure to cover everyone, in case any new alters are watching. Introductions and all that. Stay safe. I’ll see you when I see you. Fuck knows why Sam is keeping us apart but…ah, I don’t know. You did alright at the party, though, given the circumstances, so I can’t exactly hate you, can I? Still just feels weird having people in my head that I don’t fucking know…” He shakes his head. “Sorry, this isn’t the time for that. Uh, next is…”

He squints at the post-it and has a fleeting worry about the need for glasses. “Oh right, Simon. We don’t know much about you. A video would be appreciated. And Alex, the same would be good. Like I said, it’s fucking weird to hear you’ve got people you don’t know in your head. I mean Alex, you didn’t even show up to anyone until today. It’s just…if we’re going to sort all this out, then we need to know who you are, even if it’s just a note, alright?”

Ghost leans forward and hovers his hand over the recording button. “Uh, I think that’s everything. Sorry for the…listing, I guess. Not really sure how I wanted to do this. Just…reply, alright? I want to see you guys. This is Ghost, out.” He stops recording.

— [redacted] —

For a while, Ghost just focuses on getting better. And it’s working, slowly. His days are mostly just playing chess, therapy sessions and trying to survive. Panic attacks are more limited in the confines of their hospital room but the trapped feeling has them switching more than is comfortable, each of them trying to escape the off feeling that they just can’t name. 

Ghost doesn’t leave much regardless, except for the routine smoke breaks and the occasional awkward walk in which he keeps his head down and hackles up. If anyone else sees him, they don’t mention it.

He will admit that he’s avoiding Soap as much as everyone else. There’s so much he needs to work on for himself and so many minefields in every conversation with Soap that it just feels easier to ignore him entirely. To focus on getting better before focusing on making them better. 

The stuff Ashley did is just another trigger to send them spiralling, another thing to avoid like the plague. And the birthday party is a blank spot with too many dangers to fill in the empty parts. Ghost doesn’t want to touch them with a ten-foot pole, even though he knows he has to. Sarah is still pushing for it but Ghost wants to talk to the others first, and despite them being thrown rapid-fire into front, none have left him a video yet, and Ghost’s access to the inner world has been entirely shut off.

You can never avoid things forever, though. In the end, Soap comes to him. Soap only has so much patience and the sort of rampaging risk-tasking that it makes it surprising he hasn’t barged in sooner. He’s never been the type of man to wait, always bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s ready to shoot off at any second. And yet, as he waits at Ghost’s door, he looks…tired. In a way that Ghost has never seen before, even after missions that fucking destroyed them. This isn’t physical, or even mental, it’s emotional. Ghost can see it in his eyes.

“Can I come in?” He asks. He won’t look Ghost in the eye, hiding behind the curtain.

“Of course.” Ghost watches Soap drag himself inside, only to tuck himself in the corner, shoulders curled in and head hung low.

“You are Ghost, right? This isn’t someone else.”

“It’s me,” Ghost assures.

“Good,” Soap says, though it sounds far from good. His eyes dart around a bit before he seems to settle. He walks over to the bed and perches on the edge, looking down at his hands; his nails are worryingly short, bitten down to the quick. “Fuck, I don’t know how to put this.”

“Just spit it out,” Ghost says, his anxiety going from its usual baseline thud to an all-out screeching.

Soap looks up, eyes wet and fucking desperate. “I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“This,” Soap says, voice warbling, “be your only support like this.”

“You’re not my only support.”

“But I am!” Soap shouts, flinging his arms in the air. Finally, he meets Ghost’s gaze. “I know you’ve got yer therapists but I’m yer only fuckin’ friend, aren’t I? And I just can’t.”

“I don’t get where this is coming from.” Ghost feels frozen, paralysed by the shock, paralysed by the fucking terror of what Soap is saying.

“I spent my whole fucking birthday party wondering what had happened to you and fucking fielding a shit tonne of questions about you. You fucking embarrassed me, Jesus Christ. I got fucking barred from training again because my head wasn’t on straight because I keep thinking about how much they must have fucking hurt you to get scars like that. But this is my fucking livelihood! And I can’t do it when yer fucking constantly worrying me!”

Ghost’s throat feels tied up in knots. When he finally manages to speak, it’s barely above a whisper. “You said you could cope with this.”

“Then maybe I fucking lied!” Soap shouts, tears in his eyes. “I just don’t- I didn’t think it would be like this.”

“Then what the fuck did you think it would be like?” Ghost asks, standing up and looming over Soap. The rage is so much easier to grab onto than the fear, the one thing left that can fucking protect them, as they get betrayed over and over and over again. This is why Ghost doesn’t fucking trust people.

“I thought I would be able to help. But I clearly fucking can’t. And I thought that maybe, just maybe, you’d be able to act normal for one fucking day. For me. That you would do one fucking thing for me after all the shit I’ve done for you.”

“After- you fucking bastard,” Ghost hisses. “You think I haven’t fucking done anything for you?”

“That’s not what I meant!” Soap immediately backtracks, fists clenched on his knees. “I just don’t get it. Twenty years you managed to keep this under fucking wraps. I just don’t get why you’re breaking now!”

Ghost stares at him, his chest suddenly all too empty. Emotions feel distant, fuck, everything feels distant, except the anger. That feels right fucking there, in a way it hasn’t since Riley. “You don’t fucking understand a thing,” he hisses, taking a step closer until his shadow encases Soap. “You don’t understand what we’ve gone through and what I had to do to get where I was in this fucking institution. And if I can’t get through your stupid fucking birthday party, it’s because I have suffered through things you cannot even begin to imagine. But you don’t get that, do you? You don’t get that I can’t just push that all aside for you. Ha! Embarrassed, my fucking arse. You’re just a fucking liar. I thought I could trust you. Clearly, I was wrong. Now get out.”

“Ghost-”

“Get out. Now.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“If you fucking value your life, Soap, you will leave and you will never come near me again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now go.”

— [redacted] —

The next day, the whole world stops. Or it feels like it does. Ghost lives it in a daze, whiplashing between anger and desolation in equal measure. He writes a shaky note in the book and then leaves what must be the most embarrassing video of his life. He’s not crying, he doesn’t think he’s capable anymore, but there’s a manic sort of stillness to him that he knows seems unnatural.

He can’t even be fucking upset correctly. 

If nothing else, he has time to think. Where Soap went wrong, where he went wrong, how the fuck they ended up here after everything. How time after time after time, everything goes to shit.

As the clock drifts towards five, Ghost sits on his bed and fumes. Relishes in the anger like he hasn’t relished in anything since he sunk a knife into a man’s jugular so cleanly that Ghost managed to rip it out in under a second.

He fumes until he can no longer think of anything besides anger, of the words Soap spat out like they were nothing, when they mean fucking everything to him. Because how fucking dare Soap, how fucking dare he.

“Ghost?” Sarah stands at the curtain, looking puzzled. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he grunts, unable to look her in the eye. His chest heaves, the rage like a balloon in his chest, ready to burst.

“You seem deep in thought.” Sarah enters and takes her usual seat, leaving an open silence for Ghost fill. But what is he supposed to say? How can he fucking explain what’s happened.

“Soap started spouting shit,” Ghost eventually settles on, staring into the middle distance with shamefully wet eyes. Fuck, he didn’t want it to be like this. He wants to rage, to spit and claw at the bars of his self-made cell. But instead, he just feels weak. Lonely. Standing on an island with only one route out. And it’s up to him to make it.

“What did he say?”

“He just started about being my only fucking support. But he knows he’s not. I…I’d fucking left him alone for ages. He was getting on with things. I don’t- it fucking came out of nowhere!” He shouts. “I don’t fucking understand what he’s on.”

“Let’s go through the situation from the top. What happened?”

“Soap comes in, all fucking…morose. Can’t even fucking look at me. And then he just starts saying all this shit about being my only support. That he can’t do it anymore. That he can’t deal with worrying about me. He-” Ghost chokes on his own words and heaves in a shuddering breath; he forces it into his lungs like he’s dragging a body through a mud field. “He said that I should be able to control myself better. That I kept it together for twenty years and he doesn’t get why I’m like this now. So I told him to fuck off and never come back.”

Ghost feels empty.

He feels like a fucking ghost again.

But no. Fuck that. He’s not fucking backsliding again, he just fucking won’t. Not because Soap was being an arse. Fuck that.

“And how do you feel?”

Ghost snorts. “Angry. Fucking spiteful. I think,” he swallows and huffs a slightly painful laugh, “I think I may actually want to get better just to fucking spite him.”

“Spite can be a good motivator. Though, I know I’ve said it before, but the best way to get better is for yourself, not because of someone else.”

Ghost rolls his eyes. “I’m not doing it for him. I’m doing it to prove a point. To him and to me. I- I’m fucking sick of this. I’m sick of being here, I’m sick of being confused, of not knowing what the fuck is going on. This feels like the first time I’ve ever wanted a fucking future because then I can prove to him that this isn’t the fucking end of me. And it’s probably a bleak fucking future but it’s there. I just- I want to get a handle on this. I want to feel okay again. Because if Soap thinks I’m a fucking mess, then I’ll prove him wrong.”

Sarah smiles softly. “Sounds like you really do want to get better.”

Ghost snorts a quiet laugh, a tiny grin on his lips. “‘Course. Think maybe I just needed the wake-up call.”

“And what about Soap’s…statement was the wake-up call you needed?”

Ghost frowns and stares down at his hands, analyses the scars and calluses and sees a human. A real living, breathing human. Him. “Maybe him being sick of my bullshit has made me sick of it too. He’s fucking- he’s such a fucking dickhead but I know I’ve been a burden to him. He should have fucking told me before it got to this point. We’re not fucking teenagers anymore. But, I do know that however much he’s sick of this shit, it’s worse for me. I have to fucking live it. He’s got to keep his job, his life, his fucking everything. I’ve lost it all! I’m fucking floating through life trying to find some fucking purpose and-” Ghost cuts himself off and wipes his hands down his face. “I don’t want to feel lost anymore.”

“I think you’ve made real progress,” Sarah says. “I know you’re angry but this is a really good turn of mindset for you and I want you to try and keep it. I know it can be hard but this is exactly what the coping mechanisms I’ve taught you are for. Something bad happened and yet here you are, determined to fix it, rather than staying in a cycle of recurring negative thoughts. Positive thinking can make a huge impact and I’m really glad to see it.”

Ghost smiles, a tad proud. He knows the pain will truly settle in later, that the loss will feel more vicious with time, but right here, right now, he wants to get better. He wants to prove Soap wrong. He wants to do right by his system.

“It feels good, you know.”

“And that’s the power of it. It won’t always be possible, that’s just life, but the more you practise, the more it will come naturally.”

Ghost nods and leans back in his pillows, anger slowly drained, leaving nothing but a tired man with a small dream for the future. “So,” he says, looking Sarah in the eye, “where do we go from here?”

Chapter Text

The next week is novel. It’s the only word Ghost can give it, in that he hasn’t had a week like it since this godforsaken journey started. His moods are far from stable but they’re more predictable, at least. Enough so that he’s now allowed back to his own room, a new room, oriented differently to avoid potentially triggering memories, which feels comically futile in a building where almost all the rooms are identical. But it has new sheets and a bed turned the other way, which is more than he expected. Ghost honestly doesn’t remember much of the days before he was hospitalised but that’s not the point. This feels like a fresh start, if only a small one. A way to put one foot in front of the other.

He still has to go in for checkups and has agreed to keep his door unlocked at all times, but his sessions are back in Sarah’s office and he got to say at least a partial farewell to his nurses. Or rather just Sally, with a promise to not come back too soon (Ryan did not get the same treatment).

It’s progress.

Ghost spends most of his time on his phone now, having upgraded from a chess app to an online website where he can play against real people. There’s something satisfying as he watches his rank go up. He even watches tutorials on YouTube now, determined to use his time productively, rather than sitting in a malaise for most of the day. It doesn’t always work and he’s pretty sure Sam had a go on his account and dropped them down a level. But it’s something. 

But things are inevitably emptier without Soap. Even in the times they didn’t see each other much, they’d shoot a text. Or even get just a glimpse of each other in the corridor. There isn’t anything now. And the absence is felt, more than Ghost expects it to be. He doesn’t want to want Soap, and yet here he is. But he powers on, ignoring the Soap-sized hole in his chest, like he’s ignored all the shit in his life. (And look how that’s worked out for him). 

Ghost has a deal with Sally going so he gets his meals in the med-bay, and he still isn’t really supposed to be in the busy areas so training is off the books. Ghost spends most of his time either in his room or at Sarah’s office, with the occasional smoke break or walk around the grounds. If Soap is doing the same, he’s managing to avoid Ghost well.

Which is for the best, probably. Ghost won’t deny the rage still boils, hot enough to fill the gaping hole in his chest. There’s no time to think about the loss when he can still rage against it. He plays the words over in his head sometimes, torn between fury and guilt, only to shut it down with a desperate attempt to keep his sanity.

There are only a few things it boils down to, really. At the heart of it, Soap wasn’t wrong. That’s the worst of it. Ghost is aware that he’s a fucking burden, he’s not thick. But it was Soap’s responsibility to bring it up. To deal with it. To move away. To fucking just tell him. It was on Soap to be forgiving when Ghost is trying to deal with this shit. It was on Soap to make out like Ghost is somehow just playing it up for attention. For making it seem like if he just tried hard enough that he might have been able to push it all away.

Ghost still doesn’t know how it all fell apart, not really. He has his theories but none that quite feel right. But it’s not fair to make it seem nonsensical. He fucking lost his job, his livelihood, his very essence over a fucking sentence. He lost everything. The 141 was his crutch, his ability to push past the shit-fest of his mind and towards something important. Without it, of course it was going to fail. And for Soap to dare utter that Ghost should just hold it the fuck together is-

Ghost stops before the tirade can start again, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out in one harsh pant. He doesn’t feel any better.

Life goes on, regardless of his anger. Ghost tries not to bury himself in it, using the endless techniques Sarah gives him to try and work through the anger productively. Mostly he just distracts himself, knowing that if he starts to burn off the adrenaline, he’ll push himself too far. The chess is an oddly healthy outlet, the competitive streak redirecting the anger to some anonymous opponent (with only a few unhealthy incidents in chat).

The system is similarly coming along, though Sam’s work behind the scenes is far from perfect. Ashley is all but unreachable, locked in her room in the inner world and leaving next to no trace on the outer world except for the one time Sam apparently came to stargazing on her bench. And Riley hasn’t been seen at all, inside or out, in days.

But, there is communication. Maybe even good communication. Convoluted at points, but bearable.

Ghost’s video has garnered two responses. Unsurprisingly, the first is from Sam. A perfunctory list of what he’s doing, a vague sort of introduction of him in the body. It’s fascinating, watching himself act…well, different. The body he’s so used to seeing, the body he fucking hates, moving so much more casually, a crooked smile on a fucking bare face. Ghost has seen him inside, it’s nothing new, but there’s something surreal about seeing it right there. Making these people beyond something in his imagination. Ghost was not the one to film that video but his body was. Not a fiction, not made up, not even a hallucination. Reality. At least, his reality.

The second one is from a new source entirely. Alex introduces himself with a small, almost shy smile and a timid wave. It’s almost cute, which is not something Ghost ever expected to say about his own body. The mask has stayed on, which is comforting beyond explanation, but Alex gestures enough that his face isn’t even necessary. It’s like he’s a tightly wound coil. His words stilted and quiet, whilst his arms fly around to try and make up for it, energy thrumming under the skin, just waiting to be released.

It’s another step towards getting better. It’s another step towards proper communication. So by the time he goes to Sarah’s office, he almost feels good, if that’s really a word that can be applied to him.

“You are certainly approaching things with a more positive outlook,” Sarah notes about ten minutes in when Ghost recounts the last few days. “It’s really good to see. Have you managed to check off any of Sam’s list?”

Ghost shakes his head. “Well. Nothing on the new alter. I think Sam is still trying to contact people inside but Ashley’s locked herself in her room and no one can find Riley. But he’s definitely talked to Jake and James, I think. We’re getting there. Jake especially. We’re working on being able to switch better.”

“That’s good,” Sarah assures. “That's all I ask. This isn’t going to happen overnight but the more communication and the more standards we set in place, the better it will go from here.” Sarah shifts in her chair, eyebrows crinkling just the smallest bit. “Though I would very much like to talk to both Ashley and Riley. They are at the source of the latest incidents. I know you’ve said that they’ve been inaccessible inside but have there been any traces of them outside?”

Ghost shakes his head. “Ashley sometimes co-fronts a bit but is quick to fade. Nothing obvious about her being out though. Riley has all but disappeared. I think Sam’s getting worried.”

“How so?”

“They live in one house,” Ghost shrugs, “even if you can’t get in a room, you should be able to tell they’re there.” Ghost flips open the notebook to check. “Yeah. Riley’s room is open but empty and James even walked around the city and didn’t find anything. He’s hiding well.”

Sarah frowns. “Okay, we’ll keep an eye on that. At some point, I would like to work on positive triggers and getting both Ashley and Riley to the front. I think with some proper discussions we can finally get you guys working as a team.”

Ghost nods, a sigh of relief escaping unwittingly. “Am I ever going to get a hold of the switches?”

“There is always a reason for a switch, even if it’s not obvious. Learning your triggers, good or bad, is the best way. Though I do know some systems that have used their gatekeeper as a way to control access to the front.”

Ghost frowns. “And we don’t have one.”

Sarah tilts her head from side to side. “I can’t confirm it in any way, I’ve never met them, but Sam has hinted at an authority figure within the system that he defers to. This can often be a gatekeeper figure. Not always, but given that Sam seems to have the biggest leadership role in your system, it’s unlikely to be purely another protector. It’s worth exploring. I’ve asked Sam a few times but he hasn’t given a straight answer.”

Ghost grimaces. “So there’s another alter.”

“We’re still discovering a lot about your system, Ghost. You can’t expect every alter to be the last.”

Ghost grunts and looks aside, staring outside with longing. What he would give for a proper walk in the woods, or even just a trip around the city. To find a sense of freedom in this tiny world they’ve built for him. “I don’t get why I have so many.”

Sarah shoots him a compassionate smile. “The average system size is said to be 10 but the data on it is incredibly limited. There are systems known with hundreds of alters, and some with just two. There is no default for this. Your mind made as many alters as it needed at the time to protect you. I know you don’t always see the alters as a good thing but they are there to help the body survive, even if some of the maladaptive coping techniques feel scary to you. But that’s what I’m here for.”

Ghost nods and pushes back the urge to argue. Sarah’s right, she’s always right, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

“Look,” Sarah continues, “these things take time. You lived without knowing about these parts of you for years. Decades even. It’s not wrong of you to feel scared about all this. But that doesn’t mean you need to act on your fear. The alters are here to stay and working with them will only increase your sense of security and safety. Working against them won’t get you anywhere.”

“I know,” Ghost says. “It’s just a lot.”

“And that’s something you’re allowed to feel. Most people feel deeply overwhelmed when they find out and your living situation unravelled fast alongside that. Anyone would struggle immensely. You’ve done extraordinarily well given the circumstances.”

“But I’ve never struggled with it before.” Soap’s words ring in his head, over and over. A bitter truth hidden in cruel words. That Ghost did keep it together for more than a decade, unaware of what his mind was doing behind the scenes. For the most part, he was okay. And now look at him.

“Because you dissociated from it,” Sarah reminds. “That’s what DID is. Your brain protected itself by erecting these amnesia barriers so you could live your life without knowing about everything else going on.”

“Then why do I remember the bad parts?” Ghost argues. “Surely if I could get rid of the bad memories, I’d push them all away.”

“Sadly, it’s just not always that way,” Sarah says, compassion etched into her face. “Some people remember nothing, some remember lots. DID is the most complex form of PTSD. But any part can hold any form of that trauma, host or not. You had a level of trauma that you could cope with at the time and you did. You managed to get to a very high-ranking position, which is commendable. I know a lot of the resources can talk about DID like it’s crippling, or that it will end your life, but it’s not. I know it may feel like it now because things were pulled out from under you but DID can be very high-functioning. Plenty of people with DID hold good jobs without anyone knowing about their diagnosis. And others struggle more. You may not be a part of the 141 anymore but that doesn’t mean your life is over. It’s not. There’s still more opportunities out there for you. Any veteran can struggle with leaving the army but there is a whole new life on the other side.”

Ghost breathes in and breaks it off with a shudder. He tries to believe it, he wants to believe it. But he’s not like other veterans. He’s not even like other systems. Ghost is a man without an identity, whose past has backed him into a corner that is now crumbling on top of him.

“I don’t know what I can do,” Ghost admits. “I don’t even have an ID.”

“Captain Price is doing what he can and I genuinely do believe we can get you reinstated in some way. The Captain isn’t the kind of man to lie about something like that.”

It’s true. Price has too many friends in too many places to not come up with something. And is more than willing to break a few laws when that doesn’t work. It may be taking its time but Ghost can get there. Can finally be real, in the legal sense at least.

It’s another grain of hope, desperately needed.

And it’s how things continue. Day after day, grain after grain, until the sand piles up into something feasible. Something to hold onto. Something to fight for.

Just something.

— [redacted] —

Ashley lays on the bed, clutching their phone like a lifeline. She doesn’t like being out the front anymore. Rarely is. But it’s hard not to scroll through some sort of social media without finding something sexual, which seemingly catapults her to the front every time.

She can’t stand it.

She’s scared that if she looks at something even borderline sexual, that she’ll do something stupid again. She won’t. Of course she fucking won’t. Sam has told her that enough times. But it doesn’t mean she trusts it. She doesn’t trust herself anymore.

When she ends up on the home screen, she spots a note on the top of the screen. Watch the videos -Sam.

Ashley doesn’t dare disobey Sam, not anymore, and clicks through a few pages until she finds a list of three videos. Ghost, then Sam, then Alex (and who the hell is Alex). They’re barely ten minutes in total and yet by the end, she feels like she’s ran a marathon. Sweat pours, hands shake, guilt gnaws at her stomach like a flesh-eating parasite. The assurances feel weak. She’s being singled out, again. But she already knows what she did was wrong. She fucking knows. But she doesn’t know what she can possibly do about it. Regardless of what they say, it’s not like they’ll just forgive her. Forgiveness is for the weak and they’re all far from weak. She’s the weak one, like it’s her job to be. The poor little woman trapped inside a man’s body, the effeminate section where weakness thrives. 

Overwhelmed, tired, and more upset than she probably should be, she opens the camera and hits record. The camera can barely catch her face, the small illumination making her nothing more than a shadow. She doesn’t feel real, or maybe she just doesn’t want to be real at all. 

Curled up on her side, she brings the camera closer to the face. And in a room all but pitch black, she whispers, “I’m sorry.”

She shuffles deeper under the covers, burrowing like it will somehow bring her a modicum of protection against herself. “I know you all hate me. I do too. I- I lost us the best thing we all had. I just- I want Johnny back,” she says, so quiet that it’s nothing more than a breath. “I don’t know why I did it. I just- I wanted it to be someone I trusted. For once. Just once. Maybe even loved. And now I’ve ruined it all.”

She sighs and lets the phone drop to the bed, its camera facing the ceiling, nothing more than a fuzzy black, as she continues to speak. “I’m sorry. I really am. It’s just…it’s what I’ve always done. It’s what’s always worked. I just…I thought Johnny wouldn’t mind. I really didn’t. And now Sam says we can’t even talk to him. That he isn’t safe. And I don’t know who to trust anymore, because I trust Johnny more than anyone. But Sam is us. I can’t trust my own head anymore so I’ve got to trust him. So now I can’t trust Johnny anymore which is…”

Ashley sighs. “Sorry for rambling. I’m pretty sure you don’t want to hear anything from me, never mind all this. It’s just…I’ve always liked the idea of some sort of diary. It’s nice like this. I don’t have to think as much. Can’t go back and change things every few sentences. It’s just…me. You don’t have to watch. Don’t think this is for pity or anything. I just like speaking.” She huffs a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Still, I should shut up. I know I talk too much. Sorry again. I’m not going to ask for your forgiveness but…if I’m going to keep coming to the front and dealing with this…body,” she says, distaste thick on her tongue, “then I’d at least still like to be able to work in harmony. Guess that’s my bit. I’ll go now. Sorry.”

— [redacted] —

Ghost watches Ashley’s video passively and heads straight to Sarah’s office. “Ashley made a video.”

“Ah,” Sarah says, “so she’s fronting again?”

“Not for long. It doesn’t feel like I’m losing time really. Things just go fuzzy for a few minutes. But I think it’s her. I mean, the video is definitely her,” Ghost says, taking a seat, phone held with a white-knuckled grip.

“Do you think it would be safe for me to talk to her?”

“I-“ Ghost cuts himself off with a sigh. “I honestly don’t know. She was upset. But she also wanted to say her bit. Might be worth a shot.”

“Only if you’re comfortable with it. Do you want to try some positive triggers?”

Ghost nods and shifts in his chair, leaning back and taking stock of his body. Ashley isn’t too hard to reach but that doesn’t make switching always easy, especially if she’s reluctant to front.

The pressure between the eyes comes first. Hey, Sam.

Are you okay? Ghost can feel Sam right there, hovering behind his shoulder, a steady presence, always warm, confident now that they’re putting the pieces back together.

Sarah wants to talk to Ashley.

Sam hums, a flicker of worry passing by until he seems to settle. She’s still hiding inside but I can knock. See if she’ll come out.

Much appreciated.

I’ll be back, Sam says and flitters away, leaving Ghost to feel like a bit of a fool as he tries to think about shoes and girly shit to try and stir up Ashley’s interest.

It takes a few minutes of uncomfortable shifting, trying to find a position that’s comfortable, before another presence pushes forward, slow and almost indiscernible until it’s right behind Ghost, breathing heavily.

Ashley?

What do you want? She sounds tired. Exhausted, really, but she’s one of the last pieces of this puzzle to get on board. There’s no getting better unless they all start working together to do it. There’ll be fights along the way no doubt but they can at least try . The video says she’s more than willing, they’ve just got to get it to work. 

Sarah wants to talk to you, Ghost says. Can you front?

The silence lingers, Ashley’s presence more like a spider crawling up his back, uncomfortable, flittering. Until, finally, Ashley asks, why?

I think you know why.

I don’t want to talk about it more, Ashley refutes.

And then, saviour of all saviours, Sam comes back, this time a steady presence beside Ghost, a comforting hand on his shoulder.

This could help us all. It’s nothing bad. Sarah just wants to help, he says.

I don’t need someone else to tell me it was a stupid idea, Ashley spits.

Sam sighs. That’s not what’s going to happen. Just talk to her. Please. For us.

Ghost feels his grip on reality fading, Sam’s presence quieter. Ghost can feel himself drifting back. He doesn’t know whether Ashley is giving in or if he’s just fading but he lets go, floating back until there’s just a black nothing with the hope that he might wake up with another grain of sand added to the pile.

— [redacted] —

Ashley comes to with her own hand on her shoulder.

Her gut clenches, her hand squeezing in some desperate attempt to self-soothe. It doesn’t work. It feels like nothing works anymore. Ashley is on a razor edge, metal digging into her skin, slowly sinking down, down, down-

“Ashley?”

“Yeah,” Ashley whispers, “it’s me.” She drops her hand, stretching out her hand to remind herself that she’s the one in control of it, then finally looks up at Sarah. She looks different. More serious than usual.

Ashley knows what’s coming.

“I’m sorry,” she tries, even though she knows it won’t work. When has sorry ever worked? “I know I shouldn’t have.”

“I want to know why you did it, more than anything else,” Sarah explains. “It caused a lot of friction within the system.”

Ashley’s lip trembles, the memory flittering past, but not quite sticking. She can barely remember what happened afterwards, just this desperation for a distraction, for something, to feel. To do something she knows rather than live with a feeling she doesn’t understand.

“I thought it would help.”

“What did you think would help?”

“Sleeping with Johnny. He’s nice to us, you know? Sam said-” Ashley pauses with a shaky breath. “Sam said that if I was going to have sex with someone, it should be with someone I trust. There was no one else.”

“And what about Soap? Did you ever ask if he wanted it?”

Ashley’s eyes shutter, her throat closing up as tears spring to her eyes. “I don’t know why I didn’t ask. I just- I thought that he would- that he would do it for me.”

Sarah sighs. “That’s not how consent works.”

Ashley hiccoughs and covers her mouth with her hand, willing back tears with every last ounce of energy she has. “I’d do it for him, though.”

Sarah leans back, eyebrows drawn in. “Ashley, I need you to listen to me very carefully. This is going to be important.”

“Okay,” she whispers, bringing her hands down to her knees, squeezing them tight. Her shoulders lock up, a strain like nothing she’s felt before, but she can’t let it go, her body thrumming with a feeling she barely understands.

“I don’t know what your past was like but it sounds to me like you might have suffered at the hands of people who didn’t ask about your consent. But they should have. You should always have to give your consent before anything sexual happens. Before anything happens. And the same goes for everyone else. It’s not just about trusting Soap. You cannot do anything without both of your explicit consent. Sex isn’t a transaction, or tit-for-tat. You know what, I actually have a good video for this. I think you’ll enjoy this.”

Sarah leans over to one of her drawers and pulls out her phone, tapping away for a minute before she turns it to face Ashley. “This video is a little funny but I do think it gets the point across well.”

Ashley stares at the screen blankly, tears welling but not spilling. The title is merely ‘Tea and Consent’ which doesn’t seem to make much sense but Ashley is willing to hear Sarah out.

It starts off rather simple: initiating sex is like making someone a cup of tea.

And it spirals from there.

But Ashley finds herself smiling. It’s sweet, really, in a way that burrows deep into her chest and rips previous misconceptions apart. To make it just as simple as a single cup of tea.

When it’s over, Ashley feels lighter somehow, if only because the tears have receded, that itching in her skin now just a dull ache. “You know what,” she says with a cheeky grin, “I’d really like a cup of tea.”

Sarah laughs, a small smile making its way onto her face. “But you understand the metaphor?”

Ashley nods. “Don’t do anything unless someone tells you you can do it. And ask them every time.”

“And the same applies for everyone else,” Sarah replies. Which, well, Ashley understands, even if she doesn’t necessarily believe it. Moros never asked, but she’d always wanted it. It’s not-

It wasn’t-

It-

She sighs. No use thinking about him now.

“Got it.”

“That’s good. Look, I know this isn’t as easy as just clicking your fingers and feeling comfortable with it but it is vital. Despite you and Soap not actually doing anything per se, you pushed a boundary, and that reflects on your whole system. Inside, you’re all separate people but when interacting with others, you are present as a system. What you do reflects on the others too and they have to cope with it as much as you do. This is not a way to blame you. You did what you thought was best at the time but I really want to put some work into learning some healthier coping mechanisms. Would you be okay with that?”

Ashley shifts in her seat, feeling too big for her skin. “I don’t want to be a bad person.”

“ You’re not, ” Sarah says, eyes boring into Ashley’s. “Nobody is inherently good or evil. People do good and bad things. What you did is far from you being a bad person. You made a mistake and you can apologise for that and everyone can move on. I don’t know how much you know about the situation with Soap right now but I do think he’d appreciate an apology from you all regardless.”

“I ruined everything, didn’t I?” Ashley whispers. “Apparently we’re not speaking to Soap at all anymore.”

Sarah sighs. “You didn’t ruin everything. Soap screwed up too. And you have no obligation to forgive him for that, but you don’t have to be best friends again to make an apology. I know all of you care deeply about him and it’s going to take you all as a system to decide where to go from here but personally, I recommend an apology. Maybe you’ll even get one back.”

Ashley nods. “I can do that.”

“Great. I know this is difficult and I’d really like to talk about it more but I think this has been a lot for today so we can put it aside for now.”

Ashley nods rapidly, desperate to get away. She wants to burn off this energy, to keep it from consuming her whole. “I can go?”

“Of course. I never want to make you feel trapped here, Ashley.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I just-” she cuts herself off and stands up. “Sorry. I just. I’m just trying to figure out my own head.”

“If you ever want to talk through it, I’m always here.”

Ashley smiles, brittle but true. “I think I should go. Thank you, though. I- the video was useful.” Then, before Sarah can even get a word in, she flees before she embarrasses herself further.

— [redacted] —

Ashley’s lost. Not physically, the base is familiar by now. Just...lost.

The only thing she can think of is fucking tea.

She makes her mind up in a fit of whimsy, turning on her heel and making her way down unfamiliar corridors. Every now and then she’ll step into an alcove and get the notebook out, marking out a route with Sam’s crudely drawn map. She’s only seen it once, drawn out so any of them could get back to their room without incident.

The rec room is all but abandoned at this time. She can hear the drills happening outside, and Gaz’s voice above it all throwing out the orders. She wonders if Johnny’s out there too. She’s never heard him in his full military capacity. She’d love to hear how he gives orders (maybe she would like to be ordered…)

She shakes her head and ignores the thought. Johnny’s not…for that. Or, well, she has to ask first. People are supposed to ask, seemingly. Like you’d ask them if they want a cup of tea.

She goes to the kettle, fills it up and flicks it on, waiting patiently for it to boil. The anxiety is baseline now, but muted by the calm rumble and the safety of an empty room that doesn’t hold a thousand bad memories. 

Rifling through the cupboards brings up a bizarre mix of tea bags, coffee grounds and instant shit. She reaches right to the back where the extra strong tea resides, gathering dust, and throws it in a plain white mug she finds, a small chip on the handle.

Pour the water. Milk. Sugar (too much sugar). Breathe it in and feel the heat. Clutch the mug in both hands, run your pinky along the crack.

Feel calm.

“Ghost.”

Ashley’s eyes dart up. Johnny’s in the doorway, one foot in, one foot out, frozen like a spooked deer. She doesn’t dare open her mouth, holding the mug in a death grip, her and Johnny locked in an unwinnable battle of wills.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts, accent slipping out.

“Ashley?"

She clutches the tea tighter and holds the mug against the small strip of free skin below the mask so she can feel it. “I- I shouldn’t have done what I did,” she says, the words flying out, flood barriers open, the tsunami rolling in. “I know it was wrong.”

Johnny sighs, eyes screwed shut, and doesn’t say anything for an agonising period of time. Then finally, he breathes in deep, rolls his shoulders back, takes a purposeful step inside and shuts the door behind him. 

“Why’d you do it?”

Ashley can’t say it. She can’t. Can’t even begin to explain the logic because then she’d had to explain the why and the why would be-

It’s not worth thinking about.

“I just- can we not? I’m sorry, okay. It won’t happen again.”

“Right,” Johnny says, eyes narrow. Awkwardly, he edges around her and grabs the instant coffee grounds. “Kettle still hot?”

“Yeah,” she whispers, taking a scalding sip of her tea.

He fiddles around with the kettle for a bit and dishes out exactly three spoonfuls of coffee grounds. Ashley idly watches him stir it, wondering whether she’s supposed to say something else.

“Ghost said he didn’t want to talk to me ever again,” Johnny finally says, putting the kettle back in its place.

“I’m not Ghost,” Ashley refutes. “I- I don’t know what you did,” she admits, “but I’m sure it can’t be worse than…” she trails off, looking back at her tea, watching the small ripples as she swirls it. Better than looking Johnny in the eye.

Johnny huffs a laugh and smiles bitterly into his coffee. “You’d think.” Johnny shakes his head and turns around so he’s leaning against the counter, eyes inscrutable. “Look, I’m not going…I’m not trying to go behind Ghost’s back but can you tell him something?”

Ashley bites her lip and scrapes her pinky along the chip again, lets the sharp bite of porcelain ground her. “Alright.”

“Price has let me back on board. We’re gonna be sent out sooner rather than later. And I just- tell Ghost I do care about him, alright? What I said was stupid. Believe me, Grace has fucking drilled that in well enough. So I’m sorry, alright. Just tell him that?”

Ashley nods. “What did you do?”

“I said some shit I shouldn’t’ve. Amnae gonna repeat it, for your sake. Bad shit. I- fuck. Is he okay?”

Ashley shrugs. “I haven’t…I’ve been back for a while. I don’t know what’s been happening.”

Johnny sighs and takes another long sip of his coffee. “Alright. Just, I don’t wanna be deployed without him knowing I care. About ye all, alright?”

Ashley huffs. “Even me?”

Johnny looks at her then, really looks at her. “You messed up. I messed up. Same boat, right?”

Ashley snorts. “I think mine is worse.”

“Ah, Jesus Christ,” Johnny complains, rolling his eyes. “Look, I’m calling it even. I don’t expect Ghost to forgive me. Any of you, really. But…” Soap sighs. “It would be really nice to talk to him before I go. But if not, just make sure he knows. Please.”

“I will,” Ashley promises. This is the least she can do. The fucking least.

“Alright, I’m off,” Johnny says, chugging back the rest of his coffee with a wince and slamming the mug down on the counter. “Look after yourself, alright?”

Ashley nods. “You too.”

Then Johnny is gone again, leaving an empty room and an empty mug for Ashley to clean up. She sighs and drinks down the last of her own mug and puts them both in the sink, spending the next fifteen minutes scrubbing the same spot wondering what the hell she’s going to tell Ghost.

Chapter Text

Ghost sits on his bed, crosses his legs, puts his hands on his knees, and breathes. He’s done this before, he can do it again. He’s just got to drift somewhere that isn’t a void. He just has to picture the mansion, right? To create an anchor that means he’ll find something that isn’t just a strange morph of personality or nothing altogether.

Frustration creeps in when he goes ten minutes without success. Irritation is the worst thing that could happen right now. It’s just the sort of sharp that’s distracting, his thoughts too wired to focus. So he shakes his body out and refocuses, putting himself back in the mindset that had made him so good as a sniper.

It’s a slow drag but he knows the moment that he can barely feel his body that he’s getting there, that he’s on the edge of switching, though there’s no guarantee of success that he’ll get inside.

Breathe.

In, out. In, out.

Open your eyes.

He’s still sitting on a bed but it’s distinctly not the one in his new room. It’s all white sheets and dark accents, a dark wood headboard for a bed triple the size of the one he’s slept in for the last two decades.

It’s got to be the mansion.

Ghost gets up, stretches his limbs out and goes straight for the door. He knows the corridor, at least, the one on the second floor that leads to most their bedrooms. He’s right next to Sam’s barely touched room, and only a few down from Jake.

And speak of the devil.

“GHOST!” Jake screams, launching himself at him and punching the breath from Ghost. He doesn’t mind, just reaches down and ruffles Jake’s hair with a chuckle.

“Hey, J. Y’alright?”

Jake grins, eyes sparkling, and something releases in Ghost’s chest. He hasn’t seen Jake since that godforsaken party and never got to see if he was okay. But he looks bright-eyed and pleased, which is all Ghost can hope for.

“Good. Matilda and I are playing hide and seek.”

Ghost’s eyebrows climb, thankfully hidden behind the mask. He was starting to think that he would never meet Matilda. James, at least, he has had some brief communication with, though never in person, if that’s what you can call all this. It’s nothing more than a blackout for Ghost when James is out but he writes enough in the notebook to gauge some sort of personality.

Matilda is a wildcard, though. Admittedly, not one Ghost is worried about, but an unknown nonetheless. And Ghost hates unknowns. 

But Jake doesn’t need to hear any of that.

“You are? Who’s hiding?”

“Matilda,” Jake says, rocking onto his heels, hands burrowed in the pockets of the jeans that give Ghost some very strange flashbacks to the 90s. Kid really needs a new wardrobe. “I think she’s hiding in her dad’s room.”

Ghost nods and tries to swallow down this off feeling in his chest. The sort of itchy fear that shouldn’t come from the idea of meeting a little girl. And yet it pervades.

“Want some help?” Ghost says, desperate to move past whatever this is. For Jake’s sake, at least.  

Jake nods and grabs Ghost by the hand, tugging him to the end of the corridor. Ghost sees Matilda almost instantly, ducked under James’ bed with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She’s barely more than a shadow, a flash of brown hair and eyes.

Their eyes lock and Matilda just slowly shakes her head, chuckling quietly, and Ghost goes back to being dragged around by Jake, who yammers on like he’s never had the chance before.

Ghost listens patiently, a small smile tugging at his lips. Jake seems happier inside, less burdened by the symptoms that plague the body outside. Here, he seems more like a kid again.

Jake is just about to get on his stomach and look under the bed when a shadow appears in the doorway.

“We haven’t met yet,” the man says. His voice is deep, almost impossibly so. Or maybe it’s just that he doesn’t have the same gargling gravel quality that Ghost has. It's smooth and warm, even though his face is sharp and more model-like than fatherly. “I’m James.”

Ghost could have guessed.

It’s strange, to stand on opposite sides of the room, two kids laughing between them. Ghost’s opinions of James are flimsy, nothing more than half put together pieces of a puzzle that no one will confirm.

Sam had kept them apart, for reasons that Ghost can only guess at. Though he’s long since suspected that Sam wasn’t the one to spill his guts to Soap, which only leaves one culprit for causing this whole mess.

But he’s also been helpful, working alongside Sam to make this all work. And as much as Ghost wants to rage at him, it’s like there’s just not quite enough justification there. It’s just another thing to fester in the back of Ghost’s mind. 

That doesn’t even begin to cover his feelings on another alter being wrapped up in this mess. The inherent paranoia of an alter that seems so barricaded against Ghost that they’ve never been co-conscious, or even had some sort of memory bleed. And Ghost’s ever-present urge to lash out at the thought of having to deal with any more of this shit.

But no, they’re doing better. Or they’re supposed to be. So he’s going to deal with this like a man. 

“Ghost,” he says uselessly, like the mask doesn’t make that obvious. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you around here,” James says, an easy smile belied by increasingly stiff shoulders and a slightly vacant look in his eyes. Seems he’s about as pleased to be in Ghost’s presence as the other way around. There’s something so inherently false about the whole thing, a mask that Ghost is all too used to putting on (or was it James’ smile all along?)

Ghost grimaces and tries to push the tension to the side. For the kids, if no one else. “Yeah, well, I’m not around often.” 

Ghost doesn’t think he’s particularly successful. More astute than he lets on, Jake sits up, looking between the two of them a divot between his brows. Ghost knows he needs to end this. “Is Sam here?”

“He’s down in his office. Just follow the path down the hill. Why?”

Ghost just shakes his head. “I need to talk to him. Then everyone else.”

James frowns but he doesn’t seem overly worried as he steps into the room and rounds Ghost. “Go find him. I’ll keep the kids company.”

Ghost nods, glad for the excuse to leave, and makes his way to the door. He’s almost at the door frame when Jake leaps to his feet and latches himself onto Ghost’s side. “No! You can’t go. You only just got here.”

“I won’t be gone long,” Ghost says, peeling Jake off.

“You said that last time!” Jake shouts, pout morphing into a scowl. Ghost can feel the tantrum brewing, the slight shift of his expression that puts Ghost in dangerous territory.

“Jake, come on,” Ghost sighs, putting his hands on Jake’s shoulders and crouching so he can look him in the eye. Jake doesn’t even flinch when faced with Ghost’s mask, just looks up at him steadily, pleading.

“You just got here,” Jake repeats, tears welling in his eyes.

“And I’ll be back. Promise. But I’ve really got to talk to Sam, alright?”

Jake frowns, lips twitching like he wants to shout but Matilda finally makes her way up from under the bed and pulls him back with a shake of her head. And Ghost finally gets a good look at her.

She looks familiar, more than familiar. 

“You’re literally Matilda,” he blurts. As in the character Matilda. With the same face from the film Ghost had watched over and over growing up. He hasn’t seen it in years, decades maybe. But it was one of the only films that both he and his mum loved, one of the few things they could agree on.

Ironic, really, that she didn’t understand why Ghost loved it so much.

“Actually, I’m inspired by Matilda,” she says, nose turned up haughtily. Ghost can’t help but smile. “There’s a difference.”

“Of course,” Ghost says, at a loss for words. Because if he continues this, he’s going to have to face the fact that he put the Matilda in his head, for reasons that feel glaringly obvious and yet hurt too much to touch. 

“An introject,” James adds. “It’s different.”

“Right,” Ghost says, now more than desperate to leave. Jake still looks one moment from murder and the pit in Ghost’s stomach is growing, guilt festering. 

“Fifteen minutes,” Ghost promises, “I mean it.” Before Jake can argue further, Ghost rushes out of the house and down the hill. The route is simple, marked by a long gravel path that looks like it came straight out of a kid’s drawing, unnecessarily windy and long.

The office block is…well, it’s pretty much everything Ghost expected it to be. It looks like an army barracks. He’s pretty sure it is one, back from his early days. He can’t for the life of him remember where, which is probably yet another blank spot to look into another time, because god knows he doesn’t have the mental energy to think about it right now.

He enters through the main door, wandering up and down the blank corridor until he sees ‘Sam’ printed on one of the doors in nice, gold-plated metal. Neat in a way that it never is in real life, where they use cheap plastic things that are easily replaceable. 

Ghost doesn’t even bother knocking before he enters. 

Sam looks harried, more so than Ghost expects. Then again, there’s not much need for his usual solidarity when alone. And yet, it’s still strange to see as Sam flickers through pages and pages of notes on god knows what. Ghost isn’t even sure he wants to know.

About five seconds too late, Sam looks up. “Ghost?”

“Hey, Sam. Sitrep?”

Sam sighs and puts aside the paper he’s writing on. “We’re getting there. I’ve been having chats with people. Everyone is getting on board. Slowly.”

“And Riley?”

“Nowhere to be found,” Sam says, looking genuinely worried. “And we’ve looked. Everywhere, it feels like. No one has seen him.”

Ghost frowns. “And what about the one you’ll never tell us about? Seems like the kind of guy who’d know something about it.” 

Sam winces, eyes darting to the wall and back. “Let’s not talk about that.”

“They said something to you then,” Ghost accuses.

“They’re…not being forthcoming.”

Ghost rolls his eyes. “Why the fuck are you hiding them away? It’s the one thing you haven’t explained.”

Sam’s eyes shutter. “Look, it’s one of those things that I just can’t explain yet.”

“And that’s not gonna cut it,” Ghost spits. “You said we had to do this as a team and I fucking agreed. But what sort of team is this if we don’t know half the squad?”

“You have to trust that I have my reasons-”

“Then fucking give me one of them!” Ghost snaps. Sam flinches, just a minute thing, but Ghost wants to tear his own skin off for it. Sam shouldn’t be fucking scared of him. Sam is Ghost’s fucking partner here, this isn’t-

He stops. Breathes. Swallows down the ball in his throat.

“You’re keeping secrets. And we don’t need that shit right now.”

“It’s for your own good,” Sam says, wiping a hand down his face. “Look, if I tell you, all sorts of shit is going to come loose that we don’t need right now.”

“Then maybe it should,” Ghost rages. “How the fuck are we supposed to stabilise if one of the alters who seems to be in control of fucking everything won’t even show themselves?”

“You’ve got to trust me!” Sam pleads. “Come on, you know I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think it was for the best.”

Ghost looks at him flatly, a familiar hole of apathy burrowing into his stomach. But no, he’s supposed to be better than that now. He’s supposed to be able to cope with this shit in a way that isn’t barraging a punching bag until he can’t breathe, or wallowing in self-pity until he’s nigh on dead. 

So he does something different. “Then let’s talk to the others about it. Teamwork, right? Let’s see what they think.”

“That’s not-”

“No more excuses. We’re finally getting to a point where we might know what the fuck is going on and I want this sorted.”

Sam sighs. “You’re a stubborn bastard, you know that, right?” Then he throws his arms up in the air and stands up. “Fine. Let’s go talk to everyone.”

It’s surprisingly quick to get everyone together; Sam holds council with the sort of authority Ghost has always thrived upon. A proper drill sergeant. Soon enough, they’re all sitting around the living room, Matilda sitting at James’ feet as Sam and Ghost take the opposite sofa, Jake pushing himself under Ghost’s arm. Ashley sits alone on an armchair, buried in an oversized hoodie, pulled all the way over her knees. She still looks tired, but improving, a large mug of tea in hand.

“Alright,” Sam says, clapping his hands together. “I’ve been meaning to get everyone together for a while. Everyone we can, anyway. I think it’s time we talked properly about some things.”

“Do the kids really have to be here for this?” James complains. “They’re not involved.”

“But they are,” Ghost interrupts. “Jake especially. Whoever fronts is important.”

“Even the ones who don’t are important too,” Sam adds. “This is about working together as a system. Everyone .”

James rolls his eyes but lays off, nudging Matilda gently and shooting her a small smile.

“Look, I’ve said most of this to you guys before but this really is just a way of getting us all to work together for once. We want more control over who’s in the front, more awareness of why and if you should be out.”

“We can’t keep up this cycle of improving and then falling to rock bottom,” Ghost says, eyes downcast, “it’s fucking everything up.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Ashley whispers.

“Ashley-” Sam starts but Ghost is quick to interrupt.

“This isn’t just about you. You said sorry. We still have to talk to Riley. But this is still about everyone. We’ve all fucked up in some capacity because we don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on half the time. And whatever happens out there is on all of us. System responsibility, right?”

Sam nods. “If you can, start using the notebook properly. Leave videos. Just leave a post-it note. Start keeping a diary of what we’re doing and what’s going on, even if it’s just mundane.”

“Please,” Ghost adds. “I’m sick of feeling like there’s this…gap. I need to know what’s happening.”

“I’ll try,” Ashley promises, followed by a vague chorus from the others. Not particularly enthusiastic but it is agreement, which is about as good as Ghost can hope for.

It doesn’t feel like enough, Ghost isn’t sure it will ever feel like enough. There’s this constant dark voice that tells him that maybe he’s the only one who really wants things to change. Because he’s the one who predominantly has to live with it. And he knows it’s wrong, he fucking knows. But the thought remains, a lingering malignancy. 

“What happens out there is on all of us,” Ghost says. His eyes flicker to James. “Someone fucking up and saying too much started all this.” James’ face doesn’t budge an inch. “And people doing their own thing now is tripping us up. This is a team effort and if we all act like an overly cocky FNG on this, everyone’s gonna suffer for it.” Ghost sighs, letting his shoulders drop. 

“He’s right,” Sam says. “I know it feels like we’re repeating ourselves but I think it needs to be said. “Out there? People see us as one, not multiple. What one person does reflects on us all.”

“Basically? No doing stupid shit.”

Ghost is starting to feel like they’re doing a really bad rendition of good-cop bad-cop but at least the others look like they’re listening. Even Jake and Matilda seem to be taking things on board with ease. Admittedly, kids or not, they’ve still got years of experience. They’re not dumb, and Jake has learnt his lesson on badly-timed switches.

“I wanted to bring something else up, though,” Ghost says, giving Sam a pointed look.

“Ghost-”

“No, this is important,” Ghost says, more than a little snide. But if he’s feeling petty then so be it. Sam is the one being a vague prick. Time and time again, they’ve kept shit from him. Fuck, they kept shit from him for thirty goddamn years of his life. You’d think with all this ‘teamwork’ shit that they’d actually put an end to the constant secrets. 

“I want to know about the other alter,” Ghost demands.

“And as I explained,” Sam says, “I don’t think it’s safe for the system to know yet, and neither do they.”

Ghost rolls his eyes. “Are they the gatekeeper? Surely you can at least say that.”

“Yes,” Sam sighs, “they are.”

“He should know who they are,” James says and Ghost feels an odd pang of validation. “They’re the gatekeeper for god’s sake. You’ve been keeping this under wraps for too long. Fuck, even I barely know them.”

The fact that James feels like he should know seems pedantic but Ghost doesn’t call him out on it. James may come across as a little arrogant but if he’s siding with Ghost, he’ll let it slide. 

“It’s not for me to say,” Sam says.

Ghost rolls his eyes. “Then I’ll go to their fucking office.” 

“And they won’t let you in! Believe me, I’m not doing this to piss you off,” Sam begs. “This is so we stay safe .”

“Okay, fine, so we can’t see them,” Ghost says, “still doesn’t explain why you won’t tell us anything about them.”

“And what they did to Riley,” James adds, eyes serious.

“What?” Sam whispers. 

Ghost feels something settle in his gut, something dangerous. A combination of validation, guilt and goddamn terror. He knew it. He fucking knew it. It’s never good to leave an unknown unchecked. That’s what creates situations like these. It’s always been the motto of the 141 to not leave things to go beyond what they should let. The 141 is a fucking leash on the bastards who usually escape the army’s radar, for good or for bad. And Ghost continues to stick by it.

“Oh, we all know it has to be them, unless there’s some other alter you’re not telling us about. Riley’s gone, we all know he’s gone, and who would have the power to take him except a gatekeeper. Whoever has this control of the system has clearly taken him away.”

“Good,” Ashley says, lips pursed. “He was ruining everything.”

“And he should get locked up for that?” James argues. “That’s not fair and you know it.”

“We don’t know he’s locked up,” Sam says. “And we don’t know that It has any part in it.”

“It?” Ghost says. “What the fuck are they?” Because there are different levels of danger here. If this was just a narcissist with a dark streak, Ghost would know what to do. He’s dealt with them plenty, in and outside the army. But if this thing isn’t even human…

“It’s their name,” James says solemnly. “Or what Sam calls them anyway.”

“James,” Sam hisses, flying out of his seat so he can pace around the room. “Look, we don’t have proof of anything.”

“Then what’s the other option?” James refutes. “We’ve looked everywhere for Riley.”

“If he’s wandering the city-”

“And why would he be doing that?” James’ eyes flash, a violent red flush spreading across his cheeks. That perfect mask of his slips, leaving only rage in its wake. “If any of you had even bothered to speak with him, you’d know that he fucking loved it here. He was a dick about it, sure, but he liked having his own room. He wouldn’t have left that to wander about the city for weeks on end.”

Ghost feels a strange sort of whiplash. He’s angry at It, sure, and James had been on the same page. But for it to be for Riley’s sake is surprising. Riley has done his very best to ingratiate himself to absolutely no one. In fact, he’s actively tried to piss them off at every turn. 

It seems that most of them are equally surprised, looking at each other like they’re all trying to pass on the guilt to the next. Even goddamn Jake looks a little guilty, which seems entirely undeserved.

Sam looks around one final time before sighing, shoulders slumping. Guilt makes its way quickly into determination; you can practically see the cogs turning. “So what do you want to do?”

“I want to talk It and get Riley out.”

“And Alex,” Ghost chimes in, “maybe even Simon. If It is the one in charge of keeping sections of us apart, then he’ll be blocking them off too, right?”

“And what if it’s for a reason?” Sam asks, though it’s clear he’s already lost the fight.

“Then we deal with that. Isn’t that the point of this therapy shit?” Ghost says. “I’m not going through all this just for some fucking part of my brain to lock half of itself away.”

“Our brain,” Sam corrects, lips pursed. “We’re not going to get anywhere if you keep acting like this is you, and we’re all just some parts of you. Just because you’re the host doesn’t make you any more real than the rest of us.”

Ghost looks at Sam and sighs. The shift is so small and yet so monumental all the same. One step to the left and they’re on the same page. “Fine. Us. It can’t lock a part of us away.”

“I agree that it may not seem fair,” Sam reasons, “but they’re doing it so that we can still function. Right now, that is what’s important.”

“Not if it means that we’re under constant anxiety that we’re next,” Ghost explains. “Jesus Christ, Sam. If they’ve taken Riley then it’s not about keeping the bad parts out. I’m not fucking sharing my mind with a guy that can just lock us away on a whim.”

“They wouldn’t. It’s not like that. Riley was a problem and you know it.” But Sam’s face shows only surrender. “But if I’m outnumbered, then so be it. I’ll help. But for the record, I think this is a stupid idea.”

Ghost shrugs. “I don’t need you to think it’s a good idea.”

“I know,” Sam agrees easily, “but it’s important you know I’ll help anyway. No point in saying all this stuff about teamwork and then being a dick about it.”

“You’re all crazy,” Ashley says, curled tightly in her chair. “Riley getting locked up is the best thing that could have happened to us.”

“Ashley,” Sam sighs.

“No! He hurt all of us. He just spreads fucking shit everywhere for no good reason! Good fucking riddance.”

“This isn’t about him,” Ghost says. “This is about locking people up. Riley’s a fucking pain in all our arses, yeah, but that doesn’t mean he should be taken by some fucking evil overlord.”

“Whatever,” Ashley mumbles and gets to her feet. “I’m not having any fucking part of this.” She spins on her heel and marches up the stairs.

“Well, she certainly does drama well,” James says.

Sam just slumps back onto the sofa, eye circles dark and eyes bloodshot. “Alright, let’s just…we’ll make a plan. If someone can put something in the outer world to make Alex aware, maybe even Riley, that would be great. Just. Let’s figure this out later, alright?”

“I’ll draw up a plan,” Ghost says, a too-bright flame trying to climb up his chest. Something that wishes for debriefs and mission planning. For working with Price and Laswell on ops, figuring out the puzzle laid out in front of them.

This is a different kind of puzzle, but one that feels just as needed.

“Okay. And in the meantime, everyone’s got the message, right?” Sam says, drawing up his shoulders so he can put on that mask of confidence that’s always followed him. “We work as a team. What you do on the outside we are all collectively responsible for. And start communicating more, okay? Everyone got it?”

There’s a general chorus of okays before the room disperses. James leads Matilda up to her room, chatting away to her under his breath. He looks softer like that. Warmer. 

Which just leaves Sam and Ghost to air this out, Jake still tucked under Ghost’s arm, stuck somewhere between awake and asleep. Neither of them is quite able to look at each other, but Ghost tries regardless.

“I know you don’t like it,” Ghost says, rubbing his thumb up and down Jake’s shoulder, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what you’re trying to say. No mission is without risks. I’m just willing to take them.”

“You always were a stubborn bastard,” Sam jokes, a small smile playing on his lips. “And the brave one.”

Ghost snorts. “Brave? You’re the protector here. Or something fucking like it. I’m the one having meltdowns.”

Sam shakes his head. “I know you don’t believe me but you are brave. At least, I think of you as the brave one. But just…don’t take stupid risks, alright? I’ll help you with this but be careful. We let Sarah help us. We work as a team. No jumping into things that will get us hurt.”

“Roger that,” Ghost says, letting his head fall back as he finally takes in a deep, resetting breath. “Thank you. For agreeing to help.”

“No problem. You going back out?”

“Think so. Unless there’s something you needed me for?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nothing here. Go. I’ll sort everything out here.”

— [redacted] —

The next few days feel like a work in progress. A sort of neutral that doesn’t feel like backsliding but like a painful plateau of the progress they were supposed to make. Their plan to get Riley is still relatively fragile, given that they don’t even have proof he has been taken yet. But both Ghost and Sam have made videos for Alex, and James has scrawled down a note in the journal just in case Alex doesn’t check their phone.

Other than that, it’s the same method of survival they’ve always taken. The days are blendy, with switches often enough to make their head pound. But they’re not bad. They’re in sync enough that it doesn’t feel like Ghost is losing every single moment, even if there’s that clawing feeling of loss that perpetuates every moment. But the feeling doesn’t feel agonising anymore, the fear dwindling into something familiar and manageable.

The notebook is now filling up rapidly, with everything from a timed account of their activities to little side notes about what happened in their day.

It’s Sam who learns about the major deployment of the 141 and manages to chart out who’s going. Or rather, who’s staying, which seems few and far between. At least three Sergeants are staying behind for reasons that have got Sam one too many ‘it's classified’s, with only four others under their command. However odd it seems, Ghost doesn’t question it. Things like this happen, whether because Colonel Brown thinks they’ll need to send out someone else on a solo deployment, or just because that’s how the numbers play out, then that’s just how it is. Though from the looks of things, they’re all staying on base, rather than being put on leave. It seems suspicious but it’s no longer Ghost’s responsibility to know, however much he wants to.

What does matter is that Soap is being sent out.

Ghost still hasn’t talked to him. Doesn’t really want to talk to him, even if the heat of the anger has died down. It’s still there, a sizzle that lights up his thoughts, but it’s far from persistent, and becomes more malleable by the day. Whatever possibility there was about talking about it, though, is dashed by the time Ghost comes to and finds the base already all but abandoned, nothing but a note in the journal to say that Sam didn’t see them off.

Sitting on his bed, paging through the pages upon pages of mundane notes, it hits home just how little they do in a day. Apart from the bad episodes — panic attacks, flashbacks, nightmares — there’s really little to note at all. Sam still tries to keep up their exercise routine and James is very big about making sure they shower daily, but other than that, it’s mostly sitting around on their phone or trying to get through a book they’ll never finish. Ghost is no better. Apart from a ludicrously high level on chess, he’s really got nothing to show that he’s been living his life at all. He hasn’t spoken to another person that isn’t Sarah or a part of the system in god knows how long. Fuck, he doesn’t know when he last went out.

For the first time in a long time, Ghost feels like he might want to go out. Socialising is far from his favourite activity but this loneliness is a growing hole, with Soap’s presence ever more distant. And he misses shooting the shit with people, the way he can muddle people when they can’t see behind the mask. He misses having a little fun.

Only two of the seven people Sam listed are on the Bravo Team, though Ghost and Sandman have always been on good professional terms. Scarecrow is more of an unknown but far from a man who would be petty about these things. And despite the embarrassment Ghost was at Soap’s birthday party, the Bravo Team has never seemed to hold any contempt towards him. It doesn’t feel dangerous in the way it has been for the last few months, where Chemo’s posse has posed a somewhat major threat.

He checks the clock. It’s only six o’clock but that means at least a few people will probably be around the mess. There’s a moment where he stops to think whether this is a good idea. It feels stupid. Is stupid. But fuck, if he doesn’t just want to feel normal for once.

Before he can persuade himself out of it, he throws on a hoodie and books it to the cafeteria, praying that this isn’t the most stupid decision of his life. He’ll have to put it in the notebook eventually but there’s something about saying that he’ll do it that will convince him otherwise. He just has to go. To try.

To no surprise, all of the remaining 141 are lingering in the cafeteria, even Alex, who is bitching at full volume about his leg, much to Gaz’s amusement and Peasant’s clear worry.

It’s Roach who catches his entrance first, eyebrows rising to his hairline, but he doesn’t say anything as Ghost inches towards the serving area and gets himself something that isn’t a bagged meal or hospital food. The servers looked shocked to see him but still greet him with a smile as they slop some shite onto his plate.

Sandman and Scarecrow sit at their own table, talking quietly as they shovel food down like it’ll be their last. Gaz, Peasant, Roach, Alex and Ozone take up the other table, Alex’s arms flailing about as Roach and Ozone continue with some indecipherable card game that seems to be some butchered mix of snap and poker.

“Ghost,” Gaz says as he comes to sit next to them, slamming his tray down with a little too much force as Alex continues to wail at Peasant. “Nice to see you out and about. How you doing, mate?”

“Fine,” Ghost grunts, and then runs through every single self-flagellation he can, before he finally adds, “Doing better.”

Gaz just nods and continues to listen to Alex’s rant. It’s…calm. Even as Alex’s gestures get louder and louder, accompanied by a small smile to show that he’s mostly just shooting the shit for the fun of it. No one wants to be sidelined but it’s always easier to joke about it than wallow in it.

Ghost knows the feeling.

At least Alex has the opportunity to return. It’s more than Ghost has.

“Oh, come on,” Gaz finally says, smiling bright, when Alex’s bitching goes on just a little too long. “It can’t be that bad. You’re still on active duty, right?”

Ghost can’t help himself.

“You know, it’s pretty twisted to mock an amputee,” he says.

“Huh?”

“Yeah,” Ghost says, lips twitching, “just try putting yourself in their shoe.”

The whole group stare at him for a moment before Peasant groans loudly. Gaz just shakes his head. “That was awful,” he says.

“Yeah, well, you don’t have a leg to stand on. Alex even less.”

“No,” Ozone gasps, but he’s laughing now, just breathy chuckles smothered by his hand. Ghost feels…he feels good. It’s too easy to rattle off another.

“Not my fault I’m a phantom pain in his arse,” Ghost says, smiling fully behind his mask.

There are a few blank stares for a second before Alex gasps, “Oh, you bastard,” and a chorus of agreement goes around the group.

“Yeah, you seemed a little stumped for a moment there.”

“Oh god, stop,” Gaz begs, but his laughs say otherwise. Ghost stops anyway, if only because he’s running out of puns. He smiles wider, dragging up his mask for nothing more than a second to shovel some soggy mashed potatoes in, and then goes back to watching the others. They’ve stopped side-eyeing him now, throwing jokes back and forth like it’s nothing, with Ghost a happy spectator to the mess.

“God, I think I’m going insane,” Gaz says. “Fuck, is this what always happens when I go on deployment? You all go mental without me?”

“Nah, this is just what happens when Soap’s not here to compensate,” Alex says. “Someone else has got to throw around the jokes for him.”

“You saying Soap’s funnier than me?” Gaz accuses lightly, leaning over the table to get in Alex’s face.

“Maybe I am.”

“Guys, come on,” Peasant says, eyes darting to Ghost and back. The meaning is clear.

“So you guys have heard?” Ghost sighs, taking another spoonful, covering up his mouth with his hand.

There’s a chorus of slightly timid nods from around the table, most of them looking guiltily down at the table.

“It’s fine,” Ghost says. “How’d you guys know?”

“I mean, mostly Soap moping around base,” Gaz says. “He’s been kinda wrecked these last few weeks but then he just got…I don’t know. Weird. He finally admitted you guys had fallen out.”

“Right,” Ghost says, fiddling with the food on his plate, hunger forgotten. “Did he say why?”

Gaz shakes his head. “Said he’d fucked up but not how.”

Ghost snorts. “Sounds about right.”

“Look, mate,” Gaz sighs, “I don’t want to pry but you guys seemed close. You alright?”

Ghost shrugs and looks up at Gaz, surprised to find something real there. Not just the compassionate but empty platitudes of a stranger, but a real care. How the fuck does Gaz even do that? Ghost has read about the birthday party, about the fucking life-ring Gaz threw out for them. They barely even know each other beyond a professional setting and yet here Gaz is, holding out a hand again.

“I’m fine,” Ghost says. “Thanks. Better than before, even. Had a wake-up call.”

“Good to hear,” Gaz says with a decisive nod, the topic already laid to rest. It’s comforting, to know that he won’t push, and that the others follow his lead on it, immediately striking up a conversation about the quality of the meals (as if they’ve changed in the last twenty years).

Things smooth out from there. The card game starts back up, with an avid audience to heckle them now. Ghost even manages to get Roach a win by sneaking one of Ozone’s cards into the discard pile without him realising.

Amongst shouting about cheating, Gaz shuffles up the bench and gives Ghost a look he can’t decipher. “You sure you’re alright, mate? We’ve all been worried.” (And there goes everything he said about pushing it).

Ghost baulks at the idea. Worried? Soldiers don’t worry, they get the fucking job done. Feelings aren’t a part of the equation. If they were, they wouldn’t be able to do their jobs. And yet Gaz has shown, time and time again, that he does care.

“I’m fine.”

“If you say so. But we’re all happy to talk. I know it’s not…normal, for guys like us. But this has messed a lot of us up. No shame in talking about it.”

Ghost feels his hackles rise. “Messed you up?” They didn’t have to deal with any of this shit, they got to keep their jobs, their livelihoods, their everything. They still get to go and save the fucking world, whilst Ghost rots away in this shithole of a facility. They-

“Look, we don’t know what happened with you but you were a good Lieutenant. Since you’ve been gone, we’ve been scrambling to find order around here. I know Price has been struggling. And I won’t even go back to talking about Soap. Just- I’m not trying to say what we’ve had is worse than yours, but we’ve all got a little more used to actually…saying things are shit, rather than pretending they’re not, alright? Fuck, I think I’m gonna have to ban the word ‘fine’ around here. Alex could barely fucking walk a few days ago and he still said he was fine. Things are allowed to be shit, you know.”

Ghost looks at him and wants to rage, to say he doesn’t understand a thing, but Gaz looks fucking hopeful, the twat, and Ghost doesn’t have the heart to stop him. “Things have been shit. But I am getting better. It’s-” Ghost grits his teeth. “The shit with Soap isn’t- I’m fine about it. If he’d just fucking apologise, I might even try to talk to him again.”

“He will. Eventually,” Alex suddenly says from across the table. “Took me far too long to apologise to Farah but I did, in the end.”

“What you got to apologise for?” Gaz asks.

“I never really told her I survived. She lived with that guilt for longer than I should have let her.”

“You’d fucking lost your leg, man.”

Alex just shrugs. “Just because I didn’t mean to hurt her, doesn’t mean I didn’t. An apology is still worth something, even if it was an accident.”

Gaz just nods as the conversation moves on but Ghost can’t stop thinking about it. There’s still something about what Soap said that feels unforgivable but-

Fuck, Ghost fucked him up first, didn’t he?

And if Soap apologised, really apologised, then it feels only fair that maybe-

God, the thought of forgiveness burns his stomach but he’d do it. For Soap. Because that magnetism between them never seems to go away. Even now, with his anger still barely a spark away, Ghost worries about him. This job is dangerous, always has been, and there’ll always be a chance that he doesn’t make it back. And to leave it like this, with so much left between them, would be-

Even Ghost can admit that this slow clamber up to normality wouldn’t seem so viable.

The conversation carries on around him, regardless of his pervasive thoughts. He knows he’s distracted. His responses are just a few seconds too late when he’s called upon. But he’s content to sit there and listen, feeling something fill in that gaping hole that Soap left behind. He manages to keep it up until 1900, when his energy flags and that sense of disreality sets back in. He’s not even sure he cares. The milestone of even doing this feels momentous. 

“Gotta go,” he says with a nod. “I’ll see you guys around.”

They all give him friendly smiles and Gaz even chances a pat to the shoulder as Ghost gets up to leave. It feels…good. Normal. Even if Ghost will worry away the rest of the day wondering why the fuck he’d suddenly act like their friend when he never has been before. But for at least an hour, it didn’t feel like he had the press of DID on his shoulders, or the fear that he’ll be ravaged by PTSD symptoms. He didn’t even feel the usual weight of depression.

He was just, for once, okay.

— [redacted] —

Sarah’s typing away at her laptop when Ghost enters. “Right on time,” she says, shutting her laptop and putting it aside. “How have you been?”

“Alright,” Ghost says, which feels shockingly more true than usual.

“Anything you’d like to talk about?”

Ghost shrugs. There’s too much and too little to say all at once. The last day feels…precious, untouchable in a way. The sort of thing that needs time and distance to really talk about. But at the same time, Ghost is proud, and he’s the sort of vain to want Sarah to know. But he’s cautious, and instead dances around the truth.

“Not much has been happening.”

“I know you’ve been struggling with not being on active duty. Is this an extension of that?”

Ghost frowns, eyes drifting to the window. Summer is still in full swing, but the wind is strong enough to bend the trees, a looming dark cloud on the horizon. For now, he makes the most of the sun, feels the heat of it on his mask, as he struggles to put his thoughts in a coherent order.

“I’ve been out for a while now. It’s not…it’s like I haven’t replaced it with anything. There’s nothing to replace it with. This place is designed for soldiers, not the veteran lingering around past his time.”

Sarah nods. “Do you think you’re coming to a point where you’d like to leave?”

Ghost only frowns harder, his heart picking up a notch. “I- this is all I’ve ever known.” Before that, it was- not worth remembering. It was shit. The army has always been his home, whether it be on this base or an identical one across the country. But he’s sick of being here. He’s sick of not having privacy, whether it be check-ins or public fucking showers (when water still fucking terrifies him and he doesn’t even know why. Since the ill-fated incident with Simon, Sam and James have mostly taken over showering).

“It might be good for you to get out of your comfort zone. I know it’s difficult but it may open up a lot of doors for you, especially when you feel stuck here.”

Ghost nods but it feels half-arsed. Like the sort of agreement that comes when you’ve already given up. He does want to get out, but only as much as he wants to stay. Ghost isn’t made for the outside world. Doesn’t even have a name in it, never mind a possibility of a life.

“I can’t leave though, can I,” he eventually says, logic winning over his heart. “Not until my identity is sorted out.”

“I’m sure it can be streamlined if it becomes important to your healing process.”

“Not until Price is back, it can’t.”

Sarah sighs. “Just because change can’t happen now, doesn’t mean it’s impossible in the future. It’s something to think about anyway.”

Ghost doesn’t say anything to that, eyes tracing the tree line. It’s the same view he’s had the last six months, and longer before that. How many times has he sat in this exact spot looking out that exact window? The thought of freedom that always came seems like a distant memory now. The walls are closing in and there’s no way to stop them.

“Breathe with me,” Sarah orders, as Ghost’s chest starts to heave.

“I’m fine,” he says. Liar, liar, liar. But he follows orders, like the dutiful soldier he is. But it doesn’t feel like enough. He wants to hit himself, to make himself stop being a coward. There wasn’t even a fucking trigger this time, he just talked himself into it like a goddamn moron-

“Remember what I’ve taught you,” Sarah says. “Deep breath, positive thoughts. Don’t let the anxiety make you more anxious.”

He wants to follow her advice. Jesus Christ, he wants to. But every time he tries to cling onto some sense of normal, it flitters away again with bile in his stomach and a thud of his heart.

“This is stupid,” Ghost hisses, hands clenching at the armrests. He wants to rip them up and take out the filling, but he’s far from those days. This chair means he can’t anymore. Come on, he’s got better since then. He’s fucking improved. And yet he’s still here, stuck in this goddamn chair-

“I can’t breathe,” he gasps, begs, fighting through every damn grounding technique he’s learnt. Each and every sense. Look at the woods- no, that’s what caused this to begin with. Touch the chair that’s feeling more distant by the minute. Listen to the sound of his own increasing breath. Taste the bile. Panic, panic, panic, panic-

“Ghost.”

The pressure in his mind increases but Ghost doesn’t pay it any mind, just lets this other presence curl around him like a warm blanket. Lets whoever it is hold him close and slip into the front, pushing Ghost back with a protective nudge. There’s a flittering of a thought, a distant echo despite the close touch, and then Ghost is changing and someone else takes over.

— [redacted] —

Alex responds to the panic instinctually. He’s done it with Simon a million times. Protective instincts are drilled into him, fine-tuned with practice. Over and over again, Alex has been there to make sure Simon doesn’t break. To comfort him through the torment. To look after his wounds, their wounds.

He’s in the front before he’s even aware that’s what he’s done. Control blends for a bit, Ghost still clinging onto the last bits of movement, but Alex just gently pries himself off and tucks him somewhere safe, taking the front with a heaving chest and a shaky smile.

“Sorry,” Alex apologises. “Oh, it’s Alex, by the way.”

“Ah, okay,” Sarah says, demeanour shifting. “Are you still feeling anxious?”

Alex shrugs. “I’ll be okay. Nothing a cup of tea won’t fix.” Alex has been enjoying tea, the few times he’s been out and about. It’s not too often that he has control of the body but tea has been a brilliant discovery. There were no hot drinks with Roba, and coffee reminds him of the bitter tang of blood. Tea is more mellow, comparable to nothing in his own experience, but hot enough to make his body loosen completely.

“Do you want one? I have a kettle.” Alex has never noticed it before, but he’s only been here the once. There’s a little tray in the corner with a travel kettle and a small milk jug, some sugar packets scattered about two basic mugs.

“That would be lovely,” Alex says. “Just milk, no sugar please.”

Sarah makes the tea in measured, easy movements. She looks almost serene in the sunlight, such a strange contrast to Alex’s memories. Even the base feels familiar in its starkness. But this is entirely different. Soft floors and warm walls. Plants galore with a large window. Safety.

“I actually got this after a session with Ashley,” Sarah says. “I’m more of a coffee drinker myself but I thought it would help. Or that it’s at least worth a try. Hot drinks can be a very good way to ground yourself.”

Alex nods and takes the mug, curling his hands around it and breathing in the heat. It’s as good as always, his shoulders drooping as his heart returns to a normal rate. The adrenaline still floods his system and he knows that it won’t be such an easy fix, but the panic just feels like jitters now. It’s better than nothing.

“There’s actually a few things I wanted to talk to you about,” Sarah says as she sits down. “I’m not sure how much you’re aware of right now.”

Alex can’t hide his surprise as he takes a sip of tea. “Nothing at all. I haven’t been out for very long.”

“Okay, then it seems I have a few things to pass on. I think there’s been some notes left, and possibly a video too, if you’d like to see them. But I think the most important thing is that right now, we’re working on breaking down some of the amnesia walls, which will hopefully be able to displace you in the inner world so that you can communicate with the others.”

Alex smiles. “That sounds great.”

Sarah’s face remains neutral. “It’s not quite as simple as that. It looks like the system’s gatekeeper- that is, an alter who has some degree of control over either memories, fronting or the inner world, or some combination of all. They are unique to each system and can present differently. We don’t know much about the system’s gatekeeper but it does seem like some of their actions are harmful to the system. Specifically, they seem to have locked Riley away, which could be dangerous for the system in the long run. Apparently there has been a discussion inside and those inside the house have agreed to try and break you and Riley free if they can. I’m going to work through what I can with you on the outside whilst you work with that on the inside but it’s best that you’re aware and can help in whatever way you can.”

It’s a lot. A lot. It’s too many thoughts at once. Thoughts of freedom and escape and danger and-

No, no, that shouldn’t be his focus. This is good. A lot, but good. Alex doesn’t even have the words. There are so many of them that he should say.

Instead, he says, “If the gatekeeper has control, then how are they going to get to me?”

“That’s the tricky part,” Sarah sighs. “It’s unlikely that they can overcome the gatekeeper without something drastic, which I don’t think is safe for you as a system. However, if we work on breaking down the amnesia walls and integration, the more likely it is that you’ll be able to see them inside.”

Alex nods. “I- oh wow. That would be- that would be lovely. I have been wanting to leave for a long time, Simon too. And did you say Riley was taken?”

“We don’t have proof but Ghost seems to be certain.”

Alex frowns, guilt clawing at his chest. “I think he’s right. I haven’t seen anyone but I heard screaming. From a few cells down. Angry screaming. We- I presumed it was just…” Torture, the endless screaming of fellow sufferers. Ever-present. “I didn’t think it was out of the ordinary. But it did sound different.”

Sarah’s eyes twitch, just the barest of movements. “I’ll pass it on. Do you think there’s any way you can get out on your end?”

Alex winces. “We tried. Lots. At the beginning. But- I’ll try again. I don’t want to be there anymore. I want it to be like out here,” Alex says. “It’s nice to be at the front.”

“That’s good. I know a lot of alters struggle with fronting as they feel the body doesn’t fit their identity.”

“I don’t mind,” Alex assures. “It’s always been our body to me. I’m not like this inside. But I don’t mind how I look, really. It’s just who I am. It’s fine.”

Sarah nods sagely. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about whilst you’re here?”

Alex thinks for a moment before shaking his head. “I think I’d like to watch the videos, if you don’t mind? And read the notes. I don’t mean to discount what you’re saying-”

“No, no, no. Go ahead. I’m only paraphrasing, I’m sure they go into some more detail. I think we can finish the session for today. Thank you for speaking to me, Alex.”

“It’s no worry,” he says. “Thank you, Sarah. For all this. Your help really is invaluable.”

Sarah smiles, a small blush on her cheeks. “You’re very welcome, Alex. I’ll see you another time.”

Chapter Text

Alex has a plan, a stupid plan. One with too much setup and too many risks. But it’s the best he can do, at least with the time given. Simon isn’t much help anymore. He’s been…vacant for a long time now. Sometimes he’ll smile, or say a few words, but he’ll spend most of his days staring at the bars of their cell, lost in thought. Alex used to be able to break him out of it; now, it’s like nothing can break the spell at all. He tries. God, he really does. Every day. But no matter what he does, Simon just continues to stare.

The few times he’s not staring, he’s usually entrapped in a vicious nightmare, barely audible screeching coming through gritted teeth. Sometimes, he’ll look like he’s seizing, before he lashes out completely. He used to apologise profusely for making Alex scared, now he doesn’t even blink. But Alex continues to comfort him anyway, holds his hand when he needs to, holds him tight when he can no longer breathe for the crying. That’s his job. 

But that still leaves a lot of time for Alex. Too much time, too little to fill it. Time to think, to plan, to have outlandish ideas about freedom. Having freedom in the body already feels like so much, to have freedom in here would be-

It would be wonderful.

Escape has never been an option. But it’s been a long time since they tried. The guards are more lax than they were before. They only come two times a day to give them their meals and otherwise leave them alone. Nowadays, they seem more intent on riling up the man at the end of the corridor than keeping an eye on them.

Is it Riley, he wonders. Or is there another poor soul suffering behind these walls?

He leans against the wall, legs outstretched, and follows Simon’s lead to stare through the walls of their cell, like he can see something beyond. It helps him to think, to feel like he’s not trapped here, to be able to think under blue skies and green treetops. 

And so he thinks.

There are only a few ways he can do this. Two, if he wants to be realistic about it. Either he can try and tunnel his way out the back, or he can fight his way out the front. But he already knows the course he’s going to take, he just needs the tools to do it. The last bit of the puzzle to figure out.

In the end, it only takes him a few days. A lightbulb moment in between bouts of boredom. After that, things fall into place rather easily.

Over the course of a few days, he collects the small bits of plastic cutlery they get given with their meal (a luxury earned, not given) and forms it into the sharpest thing he can find, using the rusted frame of their bed as sandpaper. Simon doesn’t even react to the godawful squawk it makes, just staring vacantly at the makeshift shiv as Alex tries to get it sharp. All Alex can think is I’m glad he’s even looking. 

By the end of that week, Alex is confident that he can at least get the first guard down and take their gun before storming out. Simon will follow him, he’s sure of it. If he thinks about what will happen if Simon goes into one of his trances, or a fully-fledged episode, then he’ll lose all hope entirely. So Alex just pushes it all aside and believes. 

Too much of this plan relies on hope, but it’s all Alex has.

He decides the day to try on a whim. He’s had everything prepared for days, it’s only the nerve he has to build up. But it’s as good a day as any and he’s going to have to do it eventually. 

“Simon, you there?” Alex whispers, crouching in front of him, one hand on his leg. Simon blinks blearily but doesn’t quite look Alex in the eye. “Simon, come on,” he says, shaking his leg.

“Hm?”

“Are you ready? I think we can leave today.”

“Leave?” Simon still isn’t looking him right in the eye, gaze drifting further and further to the left like he’s tracking some sort of hallucination across the room.

“Yeah, I think we can do this. But I need you to be with me on this.”

“I…” The sentence never ends, Simon’s mouth remains agape, eyes locked on something across the room.

Given his recent track record, Alex can’t expect much better.

He sighs and tucks the knife in his belt, covering up with the rags they call a shirt, and waits. Time slugs on. With no clock to watch, or any other measurement of time in this dank basement, Alex is left to guess when the next guard shift will be.

It comes, as always, when he’s so far into a malaise that he’s barely paying attention. Adrenaline hits him like a bullet, an all too telling flinch when the door clicks open.

“You scared? It’s been a while since you’ve been scared,” the guard says in Spanish. Alex doesn’t know where he learnt Spanish, maybe it was just picked up over a thousand years of torment, but the words are clear. He bolts up immediately, back slamming against the wall with a thud.

“I’m not scared,” Alex says. His spoken Spanish is more stilted but still clear, clear enough to understand anyway. Clear enough to make it clear that he’s not taking this shit and that he’s not letting Simon take this shit.

“Looks like you are, maldita rata,” the man smiles, taking a step forward until they’re almost chest-to-chest, looking down at him with enough condescension to be palpable. Alex doesn’t know who this is. He’s not a part of their usual runs. But the answer comes easily anyway. There’s only one person that would ever speak like this. That Simon would look at like this, more lucid than he’s been in hours. The same horror that he looks at all the worst of them.

“Moros?” Alex guesses, heart stuttering. Simon hasn’t moved a muscle, just locked up in fear with his back pressed up against the wall.

“So you know my name too. Hope you’re not as feisty as my perrito here. I can only handle so much.” The man smiles, bordering on a sneer. Alex can feel the venom dripping from him, all sly falsity and double meaning.

It makes this easier. To reach into his belt loops and feel no guilt. To rip the shiv out and send it right into Moros’ stomach. To watch him freeze, coating his hands in his own blood and go limp with a terrified huff. Quick enough for Alex to revel in the win, before Moros could scare Simon further.

It almost feels too easy.

Like a junkie looking for his next fix, Alex rips Moros’ clothes out of the way until he finds a long pistol, heavy and hopefully loaded, to keep at their side. “No,” Moros gasps, wheezing. 

Alex freezes. The fucker is still alive?

He lifts the gun and puts it to Moros’ forehead, arm shaking. “I could,” he whispers, more to himself than Moros. He can do this. He fucking stabbed him. This is no different. This is a neat and easy death instead of a long and prolonged one. One bullet. One pull of the trigger. 

Alex puts the gun down.

Because at the end of the day, he’s a coward. A protector, not a fighter. That was always Simon’s job. Alex was just there to make sure he was okay at the end of it. 

He turns his back on Moros, who’s now moaning pitifully at the floor, clutching his guts with soaked hands. And turns to Simon, gun hanging loosely in his hand.

“No,” Simon says, suddenly standing and readjusting Alex’s grip. Alex’s experience with guns is lacking but he can only hope that the knowledge is in there somewhere. The body is a soldier, surely that must help him somewhat.

Holding the gun up, he notices the difference immediately. There’s more strength required for the hold but even he can tell that the recoil won’t hit so hard like this and his aim will be steadier.

“Thanks,” he says, flashing Simon a smile. “Come on.” Alex very carefully doesn’t ask why Simon didn’t just take the gun for himself. He thinks he already knows.

The corridor is long but abandoned, insects scavenging in dark corners as rodents squeak in the walls. They tread carefully, Alex leading, Simon close at his back.

Alex hears crying the moment they pass the door. It’s for another nondescript cell just like theirs. The sound is faint but there, from exactly where the screaming usually came. Alex plucks up some courage and knocks on the door.

“Riley? Is that you?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Riley spits. It has to be him, surely. He didn’t refute it anyway, and Alex knows Riley is known for his surly attitude.

“It’s Alex. I’ve been sent to help you.”

Riley scoffs. “Help? Who the fuck sent you to help ?”

“Everyone,” Alex assures. “Look, I’m going to try and open the door but I don’t have a key so stand back, alright?”

Alex isn’t a particularly strong guy. Spindly, by most standards. He can hold his own, sure, but he’s no Simon, whose only difference from the body is his haircut. But as soon as Alex draws back, Simon is in his place. Still silent, eyes a little vacant, but strong and steady as he strides towards the door and throws his leg at it with unrecognisable power. Apparently being locked up for however long it’s been didn’t destroy his strength.

It takes four kicks to get the rusted hinges to give and then the door is clattering onto the floor, a startled yelp on the other side. “Watch where you’re fucking kicking that thing!”

“I told you to stand back,” Alex argues.

“You didn’t tell me you’d send it towards me like a fucking projectile!” Riley screams as he stares down at the bent door.

“Sorry,” Alex says, sick of arguing, and ushers Riley into the corridor. No one has come running, which is hopeful. They’re making enough noise to alert the whole compound. No visitors means light patrols, and probably lazy ones at that.

He doesn’t think about Moros. He doesn’t. 

They make their way down the corridor together, Simon watching his back, and Riley glaring daggers into him.

“So, you are Riley, right?” Alex asks.

Riley growls but manages a surly, “Yes” before they turn out of the cell block and into the guard’s rec room, just a shitty, sloping pool table and a water dispenser that has long since broken. It honestly looks more like the barracks rec room than anything else, except the floors are still a little sandy, and dirty to boot.

“Where the fuck are we supposed to go?” Riley asks, looking at all four exits. One to the cell block, three unknowns.

“We can only try them,” Alex says, taking in a deep breath and approaching the one on the left. Riley trails closely behind, still stomping his feet like a toddler having a tantrum, but Simon doesn’t shift an inch, eyes locked on the far door.

“Simon?”

He doesn’t speak, his eyes don’t even move. He’s still just staring. And then, without any word at all, he turns on his heel and enters the cell block, slamming the door behind him.

“Simon!” Alex screams, rushing to the door, rattling it over and over. But it won’t fucking budge. It’s jammed, or locked, or fucking held shut. But it’s-

“SIMON!”

“Fucking leave him.”

“Don’t you dare tell me to leave him,” Alex snaps, pulse in his throat. “Don’t you dare.”

“Well we can’t fucking get to him, can we!”

“You don’t understand,” Alex says desperately, rattling the door again. “I’m supposed to protect him.”

“And we can stand here forever, trying to get him back. Or we can get the fuck out and get help, you idiot. Now let’s go.”

Riley grabs Alex’s arm and tugs him towards the other door but Alex fights him off like a feral cat. “Get off me! I have to get back!”

“You’re acting like a fucking lunatic,” Riley says, keeping Alex’s arm in a firm grip. Alex may have the height advantage but underneath that hoodie of his, Riley is hiding a surprising amount of bulk. He seems to have no issue dragging him around at all. 

Riley pulls him close and looks him right in the eye. “I’ve got shit to do out there and I’m not getting stuck here because you’re acting like a fucking pussy.”

“You don’t understand,” Alex pleads, trying to pry Riley’s fingers off. “I have to be with Simon.”

“Yeah? Or is that just what It wants? Fuck knows that the thing doesn’t want us getting out of here. You don’t think this isn’t a trap? Some fucked up way for our mind to keep us locked in this hellhole. Well I’m not fucking letting it. I’m getting the fuck out, with or without you.”

“Then let me stay.”

“Not if you’re doing it for idiotic reasons!” Riley shouts, throwing Alex towards the left door.

“Please,” Alex begs, stomach dropping as Riley pushes in front of him, throws open the door and chucks Alex inside. Riley slams it behind them and throws his weight against it, blocking Alex’s one path to redemption.

“You’re not going back there,” Riley warns.

“I don’t get why you’re doing this.”

“Because I’m not letting anyone else rot in that hellhole!” Riley screams, only for his stance to suddenly soften. “And I need your help.”

Alex pushes back the urge to lash out and takes a deep breath. “What sort of help?”

“We need to take It down.”

“What?”

Riley shrugs. “You heard me. I’m making that fucker pay.”

“Riley-”

“No!” He shouts, finally pushing himself off the door and stalking towards Alex. “That fucker ruined everything. You think I don’t know that everyone hates me? Of course I do. But I could have- I was going to make things better. They were getting better. And he made me rot in this fucking hell for it!”

Alex swallows thickly. “If you punish him for punishing you, when does the cycle end?”

“Oh, fuck off with your philosophical bullshit,” Riley says, waving him off. “Look, you have two options here. Either we take down It or I tear this entire fucking system to the ground, you hear me?”

“Riley-”

“Shut the fuck up!” Riley shouts. “It can’t just…lock us away in hell for fucking up. He can’t. And if you don’t get that, fine. But you were in that hellhole too. If anyone fucking understands, it’s you .”

“Simon’s still in there,” Alex whispers, feeling like his heart has been ripped out of his chest. “He’s still in that supposed ‘hell’ and you let him go.”

“There was no way to help him,” Riley says, though he looks troubled. “Look. If we get It, we can get Simon out, right? He put me in there, he must have some control over it all. We can make him free Simon.”

Alex looks down at Riley, toying with the end of his rags. There are two roads here, neither better than the other, and it’s up to Alex to try and do damage control. Like he always has.

“Fine,” he whispers, looking at the door they’re leaving behind. “I’ll help you.”

Riley’s shoulders drop and he throws Alex a grateful smile. “Great. Then let’s see where the fuck this door goes.”

They manage to find some sort of communal showers, with mould spores growing in every crevice, and a dirty pool of brown water still sitting on the floor. There’s blood on the walls.

Alex can’t stop staring.

“Other way,” Riley orders, now taking point. He doesn’t even seem fazed by the blood, as Alex can’t seem to turn his eyes away. Is it Simon’s blood? Any of their blood? Some other poor soul who will never make it out of this place? 

“Alex,” Riley barks.

“I’m coming,” he says, jolting his gaze away and trailing behind Riley. But his head is all over the place now, stress compounding on stress until it feels like every muscle in his body is being torn apart.

The next set of doors is no better. They find what seems to be an office, though it’s been emptied of all papers and tech. Just a lone desk and a rickety chair, with all the drawers flung open and the shelves on the floor.

Alex knows this place.

“We need to go,” he says. “This isn’t the place for us.”

“What is it?” Riley asks, even as he backs towards the door.

“Roba’s office,” Alex says but offers no more. “Come on. You shouldn’t be here.” Alex probably shouldn’t be either. It’s too close to a memory, another horror in their story that Alex wants to forget. He has so few in comparison to Simon, but he’s heard stories. So, so many stories.

The last door is more fruitful. It leads to a large entranceway and eventually out of the complex altogether, into the scorching desert sun. “Where are all the guards?” Riley asks, peering around the corner.

“I don’t know,” Alex says, unsettled in more ways than one. He feels dizzy with it, or like his head is floating forty feet off the ground. It’s all just-

“Alex?”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, blinking rapidly. “I’m fine .”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Let’s go.” If Alex looks back, he’s just going to think of Simon. And if he thinks about him one more time, he’s going to run back in there and never come back out. They can return with backup he reminds himself. They can get Simon out of there. Just not right now.

Riley doesn’t question it, at least, just tucks his hands in his pockets and shrugs as they make their way down the large hill, leaving footprints in the sand. With his hand raised to cover his eyes, Alex stares at the horizon.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” he says. “How are we going to find the others?”

Riley frowns, sweat pooling at his temples. He must feel awful, swathed in black, and his hoodie a heavy cotton to top it all off. He doesn’t even bother covering his eyes, just shutting them as he thinks, highlighting just how awful the liner around his eyes is. Did he do it himself? Surely in their own mind he’d perfect it? Or is this some supposed ‘style’?

“Fuck knows. I’m just shocked we haven’t been caught.”

Alex is too, frankly, but bringing it up feels dangerous. He doesn’t want to jinx it. “We got out. Let’s just go.”

There’s a moment of silence as they make their way down the hill, both of them squinting at the horizon. “There’s gotta be a way,” Riley eventually mutters. “It fucking…did some sort of voodoo magic to get me there. But you -”

“I’ve always been there,” Alex interrupts. “It’s where I was made.”

“You remember that?”

Alex shrugs. “Simon needed someone. I was there to be that someone.”

Riley’s face scrunches up but he doesn’t say anything as they power on. “Guess we’ve just got to keep walking.”

It can’t go on forever, Alex prays. This can’t be the end. Not like this. So he just smiles, pastes it on as wide as he can and nods. “Then we walk.”

— [redacted] —

The PTSD symptoms are…manageable, if you can ever call it that. Ghost still feels more out of control than when he was a teenager. All the army discipline sunk down the drain because of one stupid sentence. But his days aren’t bad. The symptoms usually even stay away during the day, his body pushing through even if his mind lags behind a bit.

It’s the nights that are the worst.

Whilst the medication does lessen the nightmares, it doesn’t do much to lessen anything else. More manageable than they would be otherwise, he’ll give them that, but it still feels like too much.

He’s gone twenty years ignoring all this shit, why is it all piling on him now?

Sarah (as sensible as ever) says that in lowering the amnesia barriers between alters, it’s possible that a lot more of the emotional parts are affecting him. Ghost has always had the memories, but they were a distant, ignorable part of his history. Now it feels like they’re waiting for him, ready to creep up on him the moment he turns his light off.

He spends most nights screaming into a pillow. The sort of desperate crying of a child that half his memories are encapsulated by, the other half the raw terror of a man still too young to see the things he’s seen. Trapped in time, lashing out in fear, and alone. Always alone.

Sometimes they take minutes to escape, sometimes hours, but each time leaves him burnt out and terrified, shaking in his skin and stuck somewhere between sleep and switching, floating through in a confused daze that he probably won’t remember the next morning.

Only after the fact will he be able to pick it apart in Sarah’s office, to find that the strength he had to get a glass of water was Sam’s influence, and the way his screams went high and terrified was Jake. He’ll realise that Ashley was the one that curled up in bed for safety and all of them together kept their eyes open to avoid the horrors of their own mind. And amidst it, a thousand other actions that could be any of them or none of them, a blurred watercolour that can never be deciphered.

But it’s…familiar, at least.

Which makes the comedown easier, though still a horrible mess. But when Ghost comes to on his bed, having suffered a flashback mid-afternoon, entirely unexpected, hands clutching his neck and trying to breathe, he still feels a little like he might have died. He feels like a ghost waking up in the body’s place.

It’s familiar, at least. The feeling of unreality is something he’s discussed to death by now and yet it never seems to fade. Sarah calls it a safety mechanism for his brain, Ghost calls it being stupid. He’s real, he knows he’s real. His body is right fucking there. But it doesn’t feel like it.

With slow, practised movements, he grabs a candle from his bedside table and holds it to his nose. A gift from Sarah. Scented with just a tad of vanilla, strong enough to feel real without setting off his senses in the wrong way. Just enough to make him remember that his father isn’t here, that this is just him living his life, putting each foot forward one at a time.

It doesn’t work well but it’s better than nothing. Like an anchor tied to his heel, even if he’s still flying. He goes through the rest of the routine easily, his notebook open for easy reference, open on the page where Sam has it all jotted down in that awful scraggly writing of his. Honestly, it helps to have to focus on the words, to really think about what they mean, rather than skimming over them, even if Ghost will complain about it at any given opportunity.

It’s all about grounding. Anything and everything that makes him feel real. Candles, music, drink some water, make sure he’s taken his meds (refer to the notebook for that). Do something he enjoys, be somewhere comfortable, remind himself that he’s safe. Always safe. Safety is paramount.

Sarah wants him to get something visible to remind him but it makes Ghost feel like a coward. The small print-out she made still sits in his bedside drawer, untouched.

With his heartbeat still a thumping war drum, Ghost gives up entirely, throwing the candle on his bed and pacing his room. The movement gives him something to focus on. It’s easy then to get on the floor and do enough push-ups to make his arms tremble, followed by a cruel routine of sit-ups. And when he’s left lying on the floor, his whole body aching, his mind still an endless fog, he wonders if this will ever get better.

But each moment is a little easier than the last, and he knows in a few hours that he might not feel bad at all. That sleep can be the reset he needs. New days, new him. Sometimes literally, sometimes not. (And isn’t that the therapy speaking, another way not to spiral, to believe that this isn’t permanent, that there is something on the other side). 

It’s still too early, though, and Ghost refuses to let go of his military routine, scared of yet another thing that can topple him. Which means he has a few hours to waste, trying not to let his mind destroy him.

Ghost is sick of this room, these four fucking walls, and the endless struggles within them already. It was supposed to be better here but he’s already falling into the routine of the last one. He should go to Sarah, he knows. To try and find a sense of safety in the madness.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he gets up and leaves his room behind completely, desperate to break the cycle he’s trapped himself in, sick of himself and sick of all this. A well of anger seems to linger in the back of his mind, a viper ready to snap, nestled comfortably until it finds its moment. Ghost tries to ignore it, even if it is a little desperate, as he haunts his way through the halls.

He ends up slipping into the rec room on a whim, going through motions he doesn’t know are his or someone else’s. His mind still feels indistinct, and he can’t tell whether it’s the presence of an alter or just his own fucked up depersonalisation striking again. He ignores it, as he tends to do. Instead, he makes himself a cup of tea, zones out completely until the kettle is boiled, and then sits on the ratty sofas with a mug clutched in his hands like a lifeline.

It is both completely familiar and bogglingly alien.

He sits there in silence, letting his mind sink down until it’s just him and the heat in his hands, scolding liquid that he’ll drink before it’s had time to cool. A chipped mug with a dent he can run his pinky across. He sits and tries not to think all the dark thoughts that linger on the peripherals. To not think about what happens if someone comes in and sees him, mask rolled up. Or how exposed he feels to sit anywhere but the safety of his own room. Or how he’s lost such a sense of self that he can’t even tell if this is him doing something or someone else entirely.

It’s...

Ghost sighs. Sometimes, all he can do is let the thoughts pass.

The mug has gone lukewarm, with little more than a swig left in the bottom, when Gaz comes in, eyes drooping and body stiff in the way that suggests they’ve been out on the obstacle courses.

“Ghost,” he says in clear surprise. “Didn’t think you’d be here.”

Ghost shrugs and takes a sip of the tea, wincing at the bland taste. There’s nothing more off-putting than slightly cold tea. “Didn’t expect to be here.”

Gaz just nods and gets himself a teabag from the cupboard, flipping on the kettle. “You want another?”

“Why not,” Ghost says. What else has he got to do? Rot away in his room? Maybe, for once, company doesn’t have to be such a bad thing.

Gaz hums quietly under his breath as the kettle boils, each movement looking more difficult than it should be. A wiggle of guilt worms its way under Ghost’s skin before he remembers back to his own days like this, where it felt better to move about and stretch your muscles than let them tighten, even if it was painful.

By the time Ghost has another mug and Gaz has sunk into the opposite sofa, Ghost is lost in memories of training days, where Simon was just Simon, newly shaved head and desperate to please.

“Ghost? You seem lost, mate,” Gaz says, possibly for the last time, though his smile at least says he finds it amusing not irritating. Ghost doesn’t have the energy to try and figure out how to smooth out social faux pas.

“Sorry. Just thinking.”

“About?”

Ghost shrugs. “Just training. Long day today?”

Gaz groans, head falling back onto the sofa. “You’d think without any of the higher-ups here, it would be easier, but I think Sandman has taken it upon himself to try and prove he’s worth a promotion. Took us through the wringer.”

“Good,” Ghost says. “Someone should.”

Gaz snorts. “Yeah, probably. What about you?”

Ghost reaches his mind back but he honestly doesn’t know. It’s like the fucking flashback took up his whole day, he can’t even think what happened before that. Whether it was even him around before then. Apparently, planning your days around your crazy hours (no, flashbacks ) doesn’t work if they don’t fucking follow the schedule.

But confusion is a close friend by now, and lying a twin, so it’s easy to say, “Nothing much. Bit of a workout myself.”

“Keeping yourself in tip-top shape?” Gaz teases.

“Can’t scare as many people if I get skinny, can I? Gotta keep up the aura.”

Gaz chuckles into his tea, taking a long sip. “So you enjoy scaring people, do you?”

“You saying you didn’t enjoy when Driver all but pissed himself in the Himalayas?”

Gaz gapes, the corners of his mouth twitching. “So that was on purpose. You fucking arsehole. Driver couldn’t look you in the eye for years.”

Ghost smiles, feeling more and more himself by the moment. The laughter feels like a miracle balm. Even better when Gaz starts laughing along too.

Small talk can only go on so long, though. After that, the silence drags, Gaz staring contemplatively into the distance as Ghost wonders whether he’s supposed to speak up. What’s he supposed to fill the silence with? Apart from times long past, there’s so little common ground between them now. And Ghost can’t get stuck in the past, he just can’t. It’s a recipe for fucking disaster, and even he has the wherewithal to be aware of that.

In the end, it’s Gaz who breaks the silence. “No one ever talks about how shit it is to be left behind. I mean, no, they do. But it’s all ‘I want to be out there’, ‘I could help’. But no one talks about the fucking worry, you know?”

Ghost sits there, frozen, a thousand words trapped in his throat and none of them useful. This is left field. Too left-field. Soldiers don’t do this. No one has ever done this with Ghost. He’s always been the phantom of these halls, untouchable. Approached only for the important things. They go to people like Soap to spill their feelings out, the ones they think might care. Ghost doesn’t look like the kind of guy who cares.

But he’s also been stuck in therapy for months now and is probably in the first borderline healthy thought cycle of his life (for as limited a time as it may be) so he knows he can’t laugh this off, or even let it lie. Gaz is reaching out, just like Ghost has reached out to him. Gaz had held out a hand. It’s on Ghost to do the same.

“You worry about them a lot?”

Gaz snorts. “You know, I got the best interrogation scores for a reason. I’m good at compartmentalising. But it doesn’t fucking stop the feelings, you know. It just kinda pushes them aside for a bit. But then I try and sleep and I think about attending their fucking funerals and it’s just-” Gaz cuts himself off with a wince. “Sorry, mate. I shouldn’t be saying this shit.”

“No,” Ghost interrupts, deadly serious. “Go on. I can listen.”

Gaz frowns and there’s a prolonged moment where Gaz mulls the offer over. They all know the danger of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person. Army gossip is worse than any gaggle of teenage girls. Ghost has fucking seen it, behind the scenes. The things Alpha Team says about him. The accusations they throw. Most of them fucking right. It hurts. In a way Ghost can’t truly explain.

Finally, Gaz finds the courage to say, “Do you ever think about it? What would happen if one of them dies? It’s not even…I know I’d be sad but you also get over it, right? We’re soldiers. You don’t do this job without getting over it. But I just imagine the practicalities of it and feel…”

“Distant?” Ghost guesses. It’s a projection, of course. He’s had these thoughts, always has. It’s inevitable as a soldier, to dissociate from the feelings of grief. To tuck it all in a box and push through. To never cope, just keep pushing and pushing until one day you’re either dead or old. And then you can just be the rambling old man talking about people no one cares about anymore, still nestling the long-dead in your scarred heart, a pain you just have to bear.

Ghost knows it well.

The 141 isn’t designed to retire soldiers. It’s designed to put the best people through the worst scenarios, the ones that no one else will do. You don’t go into that expecting to come out of it.

They’re all a little mad to do it. But someone has to.

Gaz nods and looks off to the side, fiddling with a ring on his middle finger. He’s had it for as long as Ghost has known him, though he’s never said why. “It’s a strange fucking thought, isn’t it, to think about your friends’ funeral. Like it’s an inevitability. I’ve always thought about it like I’d get out one day but…” Gaz trails off, shaking his head.

Ghost doesn’t know what to say to that. He never thought he’d make it out. He never wanted to.

“You ever speak to Grace?” He says instead.

“Once,” Gaz admits. “It was just uncomfortable.”

Ghost snorts. “Don’t I know it. It’s fucking awful to begin with.”

“And it’s not still awful?”

Ghost shakes his head and frowns. “It’s...well, it’s still fucking awful but it’s useful, I’ll give it that. I don’t know, though. I’m fucked up. You’re…”

“We’re all a little fucked up, aren’t we?”

Ghost barks a laugh, surprised at himself for how loud it is. “People say that but…there’s different levels of fucked up, alright. I don’t know, just don’t- It’s not the same.” Ghost is surprised by his own passion, really. He’s not sure when he started to care . What other people say has always rolled off his back fairly easily and this isn’t even bad, it’s just-

“Sorry,” Gaz says. “I didn’t mean to downplay whatever’s going on with you.”

Ghost shrugs. It’s not like he wants to get into it either. “You ever talk to anyone else about this?” He says eventually.

Gaz huffs. “As if. Who’d you think would wanna hear?”

Ghost knows the feeling. He wants to say something kind but he stops before he can. It already feels stilted in his mouth, an insincere platitude. The sort of you can talk to me that you only get in shitty films about parents having relationship issues with their children.

“You-” he stops. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. “Never mind.”

“Look, I’m not sure if this is the time,” Gaz says out of nowhere, “but I just wanted to say- it’s been nice seeing you around again. You’re a funny guy. You’re free to…join us. Whenever. Even training. You were a great CO, I’m sure there's still some things you could teach us.”

Ghost wants to. Jesus Christ, he wants to more than anything else. But…“I can’t,” he says. “I’m not supposed to do any of that anymore. Sarah, my therapist, says I shouldn’t be living in the past.”

“That’s alright,” Gaz is quick to say. “I didn’t just mean training. It was just an offer. In the mess too. Or just here. It doesn’t matter. It’s already a little empty. Another friendly face is always good.”

Ghost isn’t sure his mask has ever constituted as a ‘friendly face’ but he doesn’t bother to dispute it. “You getting that bored, Garrick?”

Gaz smiles. “Who doesn’t want a masked man cracking jokes? But seriously, too many of these guys are so serious. Have you ever talked to Sandman? Unless he’s fucking ten pints in, man is as dull as a brick. Roach can be funny but he barely even speaks. I’m not saying they’re not nice guys, but it’s nice to not be so serious all the time. Alex is pretty good for that but he…well, he has his good days and his bad days, you know?”

Ghost knows more than he can ever explain. “So you want me to be the comic relief?”

Gaz’s grin turns sharp. “Of course, Lieutenant. Someone’s gotta be the entertainment.”

Ghost finds himself smiling too. Then a thought crosses his mind, just a loose connection between fun and the thing he’s been entertaining himself with these last few weeks. “You play much chess, Garrick?”

Gaz squints. “A bit. Why?”

“Pretty sure there’s a set around here somewhere. You up for a round?”

“Oh god, you’re going to be some secret grand master, aren’t you?” Gaz groans. “Believe me, I’ve already been dragged into this by Price.”

“Price is better than me, I promise you. No idea where the man got the time to learn,” Ghost says, getting up to rummage around the shelves someone has hazardously put together in the corner. On the bottom, tucked beneath a battered game of Cluedo, there’s an ageing chess board. The wood is a little cracked but all the pieces are miraculously there (unlike at least two of the card decks, where at least half a dozen cards are missing).

Ghost sets it down on the table and sets up the pieces, eyeing Gaz’s expression. But his competitive streak is showing, a glint in his eye as he looks right back at Ghost. “You prepared to lose?”

“Never. After all, how hard can it be?”

They end up playing five rounds, of which Ghost wins four. But Gaz gets his win on the final one, a whooping cheer exploding around the room, before he declares quits now that he’s on his winning streak of one. Ghost doesn’t mind. He’s just…well, it’s been nice. Really fucking nice. And tonight probably won’t be. There’ll be something that sets him off, he’s sure of it, but for now, he just relishes in this, and laughs along.

— [redacted] —

“I see something,” Alex gasps, the hazy horizon revealing nothing but a black mark but it’s something. A shelter, at the very least. Because Alex’s throat is dry as a bone and his legs shake so badly that he’s worried he might topple. Riley looks worse, not built to live with suffering, stumbling every few steps as the sand slips away.

“It’s nothing,” Riley sighs, not even looking up, his head ducked to keep the sand from getting in his eyes.

“It’s something. Come on, we can’t stay in this storm forever.”

Riley gives him a look that says they probably will but Alex ignores it, urging them on towards the dark point on the horizon, growing bigger at an incremental pace until…

“This is it,” Riley says, frown growing into a Cheshire-like grin, “this is where It is.”

“Where what is?” Alex asks.

“It. Jesus Christ, that thing needs a better name. Come on.”

Alex’s arm shoots out and grabs Riley by the forearm. “Are you sure? He could send us back.” A few hours ago, Alex wouldn’t have minded. He wants to see Simon, he wants to be there, but he can’t bear to trek through all that again. He craves comfort like its food, desperate to get rid of the thick grit scraping against his skin and to rest each over-taxed muscle.

“Yeah, well he can get a piece of my mind first then,” Riley says, seemingly oblivious to the fact that It didn’t care about ‘words’ the first time. In fact, It seems like an incredibly powerful overlord that they can’t hope to do anything about. The best Alex can hope for is that they can sneak past without Riley blowing his gasket.

Too late to turn back now.

They approach what seems to be the back door, stepping over a crumbling wall that’s barely knee height and into a graveyard. At least it might be. There are only two mounds, marked by sticks that look a few moments from blowing away in the wind.

One is surrounded by blood.

Alex’s stomach plummets, the urge to turn back like a tow-truck, but Riley bounds forwards, eyes not even darting to the mounds whilst Alex feels like he can’t look away. There’s something important about them. About the blood. About the feeling of being swallowed up by the earth, breath short and your life force drifting away-

“Alex.”

He blinks and looks up. “Sorry. It’s just-”

“I don’t fucking care, let’s get out of here. It’s fucking creepy as shit,” Riley says, storming back and dragging Alex through the back door and into a bland-looking office.

Alex doesn’t care. He can feel sand in his throat. Can he breathe? Is he breathing? It feels like the oxygen is being pulled away-

“Alex. For fuck’s sake, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I can’t breathe-“

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Riley shouts, flinging his arms in the air. “Are you all fucking useless? Get. Over. Yourself.”

But Alex can’t even listen. He can’t breathe. Why doesn’t he understand that he can’t breathe? He needs help, medical attention, anything, just to get out of here, get out of this pit. Why is he remembering this now? What’s happening? What’s-

“Oh Jesus Christ, if it’s going to be like this, I’ll do this myself.”

“No, wait,” Alex wheezes. “Don’t leave me.”

Riley pays him no mind, storming down the corridor with Alex stumbling behind him. They wind their way through until finally they make it to It’s office. Riley doesn’t even wait before he slams open the door, mouth open to start screaming, when he snaps it with a quiet click.

“Where the fuck is he?”

Alex is too busy gasping in the doorway to answer, eyes wide, hands on his heart. But Riley seems content to storm on in, looking around the room as Alex tries to catch his breath. Riley casts an evil eye over everything, making the rounds with balled fists and heavy stomps.

Both of them are left heaving for entirely different reasons. “Fuck it, I’m trashing the office.”

“Don’t,” Alex begs, forcefully pushing the panic down. He just can’t right now. He can’t. “We need to leave.”

“We need to fucking do something!” Riley shouts.

“And what’s trashing the office going to do, huh?” Alex snaps, his last fucks gone. Anxious adrenaline has poured into his system and it’s got nowhere to go. He’s got nothing left but this unbridled anger that he’s kept down for so fucking long. “Huh? Jesus fucking Christ, Riley. Get your act together. This isn’t going to help anyone. It’s not going to help us .”

“It hurt me!” Riley rages, making his way into Alex’s space. “It deserves me to fuck them up!”

“And from what you’ve said, you can’t. So let’s go before you embarrass yourself.”

Riley purses his lips and sneers. “It locked me in a room for weeks. You’d understand that feeling. Of rotting in that fucking cage, terrified that each day might be your last. That you might never get out. It did that to me. That is on them. And they need to fucking die!”

“I know, but if you can’t fucking defeat It, then what are you going to do?”

“What I can!”

They’re locked in a battle of wills, chest to chest, too many emotions running high. Before, finally, Alex says, “Then we do this the clever way.”

“You calling me thick?”

Alex rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not. But there’s another way to do this. A better way.”

“What do you suggest?”

“We look for something. Information.”

Riley rolls his eyes. “What sort of information?”

Alex shrugs. “We’ll know when we see it. Knowledge is power and all that.”

Riley sneers. “That’s just because you’re built like a fucking stick.”

“Do you always swear so much?”

Riley shrugs. “Probably.”

Alex rolls his eyes and says, “Brilliant. Look, I’m going to rifle through some things. Keep a lookout, alright?”

“I don’t get you,” Riley complains, stomping to the door. Alex doesn’t have a response. He doesn’t really understand either. He feels afloat, outside of the one place he’s been for all these years, bogged down by exhaustion and pain. He doesn’t feel himself but he doesn’t know how to change that.

It’s just a lot.

Still, he ignores his weak legs and traipses over to the filing cabinet, opening it up with a squawk and starts to rifle through.

What he finds can only be described as harrowing.

“Riley, you need to leave,” Alex says, flicking the page over, heart plummeting into his stomach. “Now.”

“I’m not fucking leaving! Have you found anything yet?”

“No, Riley, this is important. You need to go,” Alex begs. “You can’t stay here.”

“What do you mean I can’t stay?”

“He means that you shouldn’t be here,” It says, appearing in the corner of the room, just a ball of smoke in the vague shape of a man. Tall, pitch black, a force to be contended with. Alex understands what Riley was saying now.

“Riley, go!”

But Riley is planted to the ground, no sight of that previous anger now. Just a terrified kid facing down his nightmare, eyes glassy. Alex has barely a moment to think, a panic decision that feels all too familiar. Running forward, arms outstretched, and pushing Riley out with an almighty push and slamming the door behind him.

So that it’s just Alex and their nightmares.

For the last time, Alex has protected them. It’s time for Alex to be the one to survive the horrors.

— [redacted] —

Things are…quiet. Maybe worryingly so. But Alex only feels a sense of relief settle in his bones. No, not Alex. Maybe Alex? No, no, no. That doesn’t… feel right anymore. What does feel right anymore?

He clutches his head with a wince. It’s not pain, it’s just…

Everything.

So much, so little, so many things he doesn’t and does know, conflated together and then-

Clarity.

Too much clarity. Oh god, it’s-

Oh god.

He understands now. He understands why they wouldn’t- couldn’t- it’s-

Fuck.

He glances at the door. Is Riley still out there? Should he speak to him? No, of course not. Riley hates him. No, Riley hated It. But It’s not here anymore. But they are. It’s just…it’s not the same.

Simon? Should he find Simon?

No, no, he can’t. Simon isn’t…Simon isn’t Simon anymore, is he? He’s just a fragment of that man Alex used to hold close. Another barrier of trapped memories, another capsule of trauma to be tucked away and hidden.

It’s…what does he do from here?

He stands in this lonely fucking office, where shadows seem to crawl up the walls like living creatures, a desk at the centre of it all that holds so, so much. All the things they aren’t supposed to know. That Alex wasn’t supposed to know. And now it’s all here, in his mind, persistent, endless-

They need to know.

It’s all too easy to barge to the front, pushing back a barrier he didn’t even know was there, and gently pulling Ghost from control. He doesn’t bother letting Ghost fade from his own will, this feels urgent. Instead, Alex (no, no, It- no, not either, just…both?) pushes to the front and blinks into reality.

They’re in their room, which comes as little surprise, but he is surprised to find that their phone is tilted on the end of the bed, the record button showing that they’ve been filming for a few minutes already.

“Oh.”

He tilts his head and looks at himself. It feels different now. He feels different. So much has changed. He has to learn himself all over again. To figure this out.

“I didn’t realise you were filming,” he says, “I would have waited.”

He must not have had as much clarity as he thought. It just feels all so present that he doesn’t understand how…

He’s just confused. It’ll come together soon.

“I guess if this is running, I should say something, shouldn’t I? I was merely going to leave a note.” He huffs a laugh. “I even sound like him. No, I am him. Them. Him? God, this feels a little weird. Blegh,” he spits, the feeling of new words in his mouth both strange and familiar simultaneously. All the memories that scream this is right, piled on top of the ones that scream this is wrong.

Everything just feels a little…off.

“Something happened, inside,” he says, looking right into the camera. “I think- I am Alex. But I’m not Alex. I’m also It. I’m just…both. Somehow. I remember both their memories, their feelings, everything they knew. And now I’m…something else entirely. I- I don’t know what to say,” he says, huffing a laugh. “This is quite foreign. I’ve only had a few minutes to figure myself out. I’m afraid that this may unbalance us. But don’t let it. Everything will be fine. I’m glad that Alex didn’t get to meet you in the end, at least not many of you. I think this might make this transition…easier, on all of us. And I know your feelings towards It were far from favourable. I just…I feel like I must explain myself but it’s hard to. Half of me hates myself. Alex didn’t like It one bit, not really, even if he pretended to be the neutral party. And now I am him. And I am It.”

He sighs. “Sorry, this is not what I should be doing. I hoped that writing would give me a little time to get some clarity of thought. But I wanted to make you aware. Alex isn’t coming but It will no longer be a problem. I aspire to be…better than I was. And Riley? I hope you can forgive me. What I did was…horrific. It seems that this merge has caused an enlightenment of emotion within me, made me realise my mistakes. Logic was not the path to healing, I understand that now. Oh god,” he says, “I sound poncy. This will take…some adjustment. I should stop this video now. Just…this is me. The new me. And don’t worry, I’m here to help this system, however I can. I may not know you all that well yet, but I do care about you and I want to see us heal, however that may be. This is…this is Lex. I will take my leave.”

And with that, he presses stop.

Chapter Text

Ghost stares out the window, at overcast skies and a bleak forecast on the horizon. Still, it feels better than paying any attention to the office. Like if he lets himself believe that this is real, that everything he’s saying is also real.

But Sarah waits patiently, as she always does, for Ghost to find words. And he knows he has to find them. Silence won’t do him any favours.

“I don’t know what I feel,” he settles on eventually.

“Do you think that this fusion may change how you’re currently operating?”

Ghost sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Ghost.”

He glares out the window, lips pursed. “Fine. Yes, it will. Obviously. Maybe not for me. But what about Sam? If Lex is some new form of gatekeeper then we might be fucked.”

“His message sounded positive.”

“But we don’t fucking know him, do we!” Ghost explodes, finally turning to look at Sarah. “We don’t know shit about whoever this is. I don’t even understand what the fuck is happening.”

“Fusion is-”

“I know what fucking fusion is!” Ghost shouts and then snaps his mouth shut, a seed of guilt sprouting in his chest. “Fuck. Sorry. I just don’t get it. They weren’t even close parts of the system. It feels…random. How the fuck did Alex even get anywhere near It?”

“What is it about this that’s making you angry?”

“I don’t like not knowing,” Ghost says. “Not knowing is a good way to get yourself killed.”

“This isn’t a mission, though. This isn’t about life or death anymore.”

Ghost tilts his head. “Isn’t it? Lex was right. This could destabilise everything and last time it did… ”

“You have much better protections in place now,” Sarah assures.

“Maybe,” Ghost says, “but it’s not fucking perfect, is it? We both know that. I just- I was finally feeling like we were getting somewhere. Now Riley is back and angrier than ever, we’ve got some new alter with a load of power who none of us know. I’m still just trying to deal with all this and-” Ghost sighs.

“What is it?”

Ghost swallows and looks back out the window, trying to find strength. “I miss him. Soap, I mean. And I hate that I do.”

“He was one of your main supporters, it makes sense that you’d miss him,” Sarah says.

“I know. But I didn’t want to need him. I don’t,” he corrects. “I just…I think it would be easier if he was here.”

Sarah nods and scrutinises him for a few seconds. “Do you think, if the circumstances were right, that you would let Soap back in your life?”

Ghost gives himself a moment to think, looking back out at the low and heavy clouds. It feels almost oppressive in its darkness. “I don’t know,” Ghost eventually sighs. “And before you say it, I’m not avoiding anything. I just really don’t know.”

“That's okay. There are plenty of things that we don’t know. But I would like to know how you feel.”

Ghost looks down and starts to fidget in a way that would have made his old drill sergeant explode. “It’s…I’m not stupid, I know why he said all that shit. Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt, though. And half of me wants to be a petty bastard and tell him to fuck off. But the other just…I want my friend back. But I’m afraid that if I let him in again, I won’t trust him.”

“Trust is a choice. It’s not always easy.”

Ghost shifts in his chair. “I want to trust him. Fuck, I’ve trusted him with my life a hundred times over. But, it’s like what he said just keeps coming back to me. And it makes me- fuck, it makes me so angry. And I used to be able to get rid of that feeling but now I just seem to fester in it and it’s-” Ghost cuts himself off. “I don’t know. It’s hard.”

Ghost frowns as rain starts pattering down, hitting the window with small chipping sounds, a light drizzle before the oncoming storm. “I think I just miss having fun. Of feeling normal. It’s…Gaz has been a fucking life-saver, honestly. But it’s just…me and Soap clicked. Since the beginning. I’d read his fucking record, seen him strutting around base and showing off in training, and I wanted to hate him. His confidence was fucking annoying. But then I saw him on the field and I just…he earned my respect. And once he had, it was like everything else just fell into place. And I realised I liked him. I’d spent so long fucking miserable and with him, shit just felt lighter.”

Sarah gives him a look he can’t decipher, even as it settles a pit of fear in his stomach. “And how would you explain your feelings towards Soap? Back then.”

Ghost’s chest tightens, his heart pattering an unfamiliar rhythm in his chest.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Sarah settles him with a longer look, an obvious question in the quirk of her eyebrow. “This isn’t about what I want to hear. This is about what you feel.”

Ghost grits his teeth and works through the unfamiliar feeling crawling under his skin. “I trusted him.”

“Is that all?”

The silence drags out and Ghost knows what she’s looking for. He can feel the words lodged in his throat, stuck by a force more powerful than he really understands. There are so many things that it unravels. But, “I really fucking liked him,” Ghost says quietly, just a rush of breath.

“Ghost.”

“Fine! Fuck it, I loved him, is that what you want to hear?”

Sarah frowns. “I already said, I don’t want to hear anything. I want you to be truthful.”

“I don’t love him like that,” Ghost tries. “We’re just close.”

“Can I explain something to you? That you probably won’t like,” Sarah says, leaning forward in her chair, expression serious.

Ghost heaves in a breath and nods on the exhale, shutting his eyes like that might somehow protect him from what’s to come.

“This doesn’t have to be about your sexuality,” Sarah says. “You can love someone however you want to love someone. It can be platonic, romantic or sexual or some combination of all of them. You don’t even have to know. But at the end of the day, you’ll feel a lot better if you admit to yourself what you’re feeling.”

“I’m not gay,” Ghost says desperately. “I’m not .”

“And you don’t have to be. It could always just be Soap. You’ve fought with him in situations that could be life-ending for both of you, that is something that few people can say. It makes sense to have such a strong attraction to each other, in whatever form that takes.”

Ghost starts to pick at the skin around his nail, digging in until he can feel the sting. “But it’s not like that.”

“Ghost, this cyclical thinking won’t get you anywhere.”

He shakes his head, panic grabbing at his heart like a hand, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing-

“I can’t breathe.”

Sarah changes tack immediately, sitting up straight, face serious. They’ve done this a million times now, practised how to get through it. But things are already tipping out of control too fast and a spiral of anxiety catches on as he panics about panicking about panicking about panicking-

“You dirty little faggot, you thought this would be okay?” His father spits, so close that Ghost can feel it, the spittle dripping into his ear. “No son of mine will be a fucking queer.”

The slap is expected but it never feels any better, the sting in his cheek and the rising burn that follows. His neck snaps so fast that he feels the ache of it. Ghost wants to cower, to hide, to do anything but he doesn’t. His body has locked itself up and all he can do is stand still and take it as his father screams into his ear.

But he’s a ghost, isn’t he? Ghosts can’t fear anything; they’re already dead. What is there left for his father to do? Maybe his father really did kill him in the end. Maybe that’s his body on the floor and not a hooker in a nightclub bathroom. Maybe it’s him with the vacant eyes and track marks. Has he ever taken heroin? He doesn’t remember. There was that one time that Tommy tried. Did he take it? Why can’t he remember?

The abuse continues, though it’s more distant by the second. Ghost isn’t scared anymore, he isn’t scared of anything. He’s just the Ghost haunting his own dead body, watching a life poorly lived, glad to have moved on.

Maybe he’ll find peace.

God, he wants peace. 

— [redacted] —

Lex blocks everyone from the front with practised ease, keeping them in their places with a few well-placed locks and some coordination with Sam. Inevitably, Sam wants to go out there and help, held back only by a continued fear of arguing with Lex. They’re all still so wary around him. He understands why and he can’t complain but it hurts nonetheless, in a way that feels somewhat foreign. Sam is compliant, at least, which is all Lex needs to keep them all safe.

He slips into the front with ease, just a little flick of his wrist to transport him there. He watches Ghost’s racing thoughts like a movie. Dangerous. But even more dangerous to intervene. So long as he can keep the others away, they’ll all be safe. Ghost can cope with this now, he knows how. He’ll be okay. He has to be.

Ghost fades out quicker than Lex expects, leaving him scrambling to keep up. He makes sure Ghost gets shut away. He won’t be in a good place, and it’s safer to keep him out of the mansion like that. The inner world is fragile, a complex web of tense relationships that feel like they only need a single flame to make an inferno. 

Lex just needs someone to come out and relax the body before Ghost comes back. But with so many people locked in the mansion, it’s only Lex in the front, the world coming in in spouts and bursts. It feels strange now, to come out. Alex loved it, the sense of freedom that came with it, but the part of him that is It rails against the unnaturalness of it, a god bound into human form, limited by the body’s stupid bounds.

Lex isn’t sure what he feels yet, too many memories clouding his mind, and too little experience to overcome them.

Adrenaline burns through him in a rush and Lex focuses on their breathing techniques, carefully written out in the journal by Sam. It only works so well but without the rampaging memories through their mind, it helps. Lex knows enough to know that those things shouldn’t be touched. The things Ghost suffered, that Simon suffered, are-

Well, they’re things that shouldn’t ever have to be explained.

“Ghost? How are you feeling?”

Lex looks up and squints. Sarah seems different now. Is it him or is it her? It’s like his whole perspective has just shifted a little to the left. She’s the same, she has to be, he realises, and yet she seems entirely different.

“It’s not Ghost.”

“Ah, who is it?” She asks, as patient as ever, as Lex tries to find the words.

“I’m Lex. I’m new. I know Ghost has discussed something of the fusion with you.” Lex attempts a smile but it feels unnatural. Lex doesn’t even know if he has a face. Did It ever have a face? It was a representation of what the viewer thought of him. It wasn’t anything. It was above the mortal plane, forced into understanding by those who met him.

But Alex was just…normal.

What does that make Lex?

“The result of the fusion. Yes, Ghost has discussed his thoughts on it. Though, I’d be curious to see your perspective on it.”

Lex frowns and ponders. “It’s something I’m acclimating myself to. But it’s not bad. Just strange. Though I fear for the rest of the system.”

“In what way?”

Lex sighs. “They’re not sure what to do with me, I can tell. I know them but they don’t know me. I’m still figuring myself out too so it’s not like I know what to tell them. I think…I have both their memories, that much is clear, but I don’t know what that makes me. Whether I’m something new or something old. I fear that if I’m this confused, they will be more so, and now is not the time to add any stress onto the system.”

Sarah nods. “Ghost did seem okay, just confused.”

Lex nods. “Confused is better than scared. I know many of them feared me. It, I mean. And they didn’t know me as Alex, with the exception of Riley. In some ways, I hope that will help. But it also makes me an unknown to them. Sam treats me with wariness, though he does listen to what I say. And I understand why. There are many things I did wrong. I let logic dictate my actions and took emotions from the equation. But I know I can’t anymore. I just…don’t know how to tell them that.”

Sarah smiles a little. “How about you just say exactly that?”

Lex huffs a laugh. “You make it sound easy.”

“Maybe it can be. From the sounds of it, Alex and It were both integral parts of the system. We don’t know what that means for your current role but no doubt that you’ll play an important role. But that starts with communication. Talk to them.”

Lex shakes his head. “I can’t. It’s too much of a risk.”

“In what way?”

“I know too much. And the more I interact, the more likely they are to know. And they’re not ready for that. Not yet.”

“You’re worried your presence might reduce amnesia barriers?”

Lex nods. “I know it will. I don’t know how, I just do. And they’re not ready for that.”

Sarah nods. “Then how about we write something for them?”

“I sent a video,” Lex says.

Sarah settles him with a look. “Communication isn’t a one-off. The more information they have, the better.”

Lex has to agree, even if he doesn’t want to. It still feels like he’s doing something dangerous by putting his thoughts down on paper but Sarah guides him through it, until he finishes off with a final flourish.

“I think my handwriting has changed,” he notes, looking down at the veritable essay he’s written.

“Fusion can lead to any number of changes.”

Lex traces the letters, where Alex’s slight scrawl gives into It’s curling calligraphy, slowly morphing into something that’s a bit of a both. A chicken-scratch cursive that reads like a Victorian letter. But it’s decipherable and that’s all Lex needs it to be. He shuts the notebook and tucks it back into their pocket, nodding at Sarah.

“I should go back inside,” he says, a heavy weight settling in his chest. “I’m not really supposed to be out here. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Of course. Do what you need to do.”

Lex nods and shuts his eyes, ready to drift back when a thought strikes. “Oh, I had things I was supposed to tell you. Two things.”

“Hm?”

“I’ve written it too but Soap has apologised. To Ashley. I just think Ghost should know, and it would be helpful for you to talk to him about it. But I think the other thing might be more important right now.”

“And what is?”

“We need freedom. I know you’re worried but we’re stabilising and Ghost is going to spiral if he’s kept locked up anymore. I know we’re allowed around base but even just some trips into town would help. He’s not saying it but it’s hurting him more than he lets on.”

Sarah nods, face grave. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll discuss it with Caldwell but I think given your progress, it won’t be difficult to allow you a lot more room. Your risk has fallen drastically. We’re not trying to imprison you by any means. Though I can say that he’s more than free to go into town.”

Lex smiles, just a small quirk to his lips. “Understood. Thank you for listening to me, you have been good to all of us, even if we don’t always show it.”

Sarah smiles back, a satisfied curl. “Is that everything?”

“I think it is. I can already feel Ghost drifting back anyway, I should let him take the reins.”

— [redacted] —

Riley doesn’t know how long it’s been. Time feels like sludge, or an ephemeral mass slipping through his fingers. Memories don’t seem to hold and half the time he isn’t sure whether he’s even in the front or not because both words just lack this sense of reality that he’s used to. He doesn’t feel grounded.

He feels scared. And then even angrier for being scared, compiling on top of the other shit that’s haunted these last few weeks and there are so many feelings and no outlet and he just wants to-

He hasn’t gone back to the mansion yet. He doesn’t think he wants to. Whatever he had there was ripped away from him. It’s not safe there anymore, but it’s even less safe here, in these four walls where he was ripped away and hidden in that godforsaken cell.

And yet, he can’t leave. Well, he can. He must be physically able to. But his limbs feel like putty, every sap of energy dragged out of him by shit after shit piling on top of him. He’s fucking tired.

And he wants to rage, to scream, to lash out at everything near to him. Maybe he just wants to cry. But it’s like nothing can quite reach him. His motivations don’t reach his limbs, his thoughts don’t grasp his emotions. He’s nothing but a shell, with a swirling soul trapped inside him, unable to get out.

“Riley.”

“Fuck off,” he hisses, not daring to look up. He’s not It, he’s explained that much. But he also fucking is somehow, which means Riley should fucking kill him. Or maybe it's time that he dies, given that he doesn’t seem to mean shit anymore. Fuck, he gets locked away and the system seems to be doing better than fucking ever.

“This isn’t good for you.”

“You don’t get to say shit about what’s good for me,” Riley spits, finally looking up. He doesn’t even recognise the man in front of him. He’s still wearing a suit, but in an entirely different cut. And the creepy aura has given way to something much softer and yet distinctly not Alex. It’s still all sharp angles and deep shadows, human-like and not monstrous. The only sign that he’s anything other than human is the pure white shine of his eyes, like an exact flip of It’s. They’re so bright it’s almost painful to look at.

“I know you don’t trust me and you have reason to but…” Lex sighs, looking away. “Go up there. They’ll help you.”

“They abandoned me.”

“They didn’t,” Lex says, getting down on one knee to look Riley in the eye. “They sent me- Alex after you. They talked about it, made sure it happened. Ghost fought for you. I know you think they all hate you but-” Lex cuts himself off with a hiss. “You’ve done some horrible things to them, you’ve got to forgive their wariness. But that doesn’t mean they hate you. They’re scared of what you might do. So prove them wrong.”

Riley swallows, a little too much truth draining out. “And how do you know I won’t just be everything they think I am?”

“Because you didn’t with me, with Alex I mean. You were being a bit of an arsehole but you weren’t wrong. Attitude doesn’t matter if you’re trying to do the right thing.”

Riley looks at the floor and picks at his nails. “I never seem to do the right thing.”

“Then do what the rest of us do,” Lex says. “Talk to Sarah, get the techniques you can, calm down and listen to the others. It’s done wonders so far.”

Riley rolls his eyes. “Fuck your therapy bullshit.”

Lex just shakes his head and sighs. “Look, even if you don’t believe me, go up there and see for yourself. The others would probably prefer to know where you are.”

Riley sullenly doesn’t answer, ducking his head between his knees and trying to block out the world entirely until Lex finally leaves. He’s sick of having to make these decisions. If it could just be him, he could just live his life like a normal fucking kid. Kick back, play some games and not have to deal with all these people all the time.

Hours must pass like that, curled up in a ball, trying to ignore the world. But eventually, boredom settles in. He’s faced with the understanding that the panic will never go away like this. It’ll fester and fester until he can no longer breathe.

Lex is right, however much Riley doesn’t want to admit it. If he just gets off his arse and does something, then at least something will happen. Sitting here all day is…safe, unchangeable, but it’s not going to make him feel any better. It’ll just compound the shit.

The trek up the hill feels vast, battering his already exhausted body. But he makes it to the front door before the sun sets, half collapsing against the door and smashing his fist against the old-fashioned doorbell. It somehow sounds like his mum’s old ringtone.

James opens the door, his eyes widening as he pulls Riley into a hug. Riley goes easily, eyes wide and arms flailing. “Jesus Christ, kid.”

Riley can’t remember the last time he was hugged.

He sinks into it before instinct can tell him to run, that this is all some dangerous trick. This is their own head. James wouldn’t be like their mum, all warm touch and cruel words. That wouldn’t be fair.

“We looked everywhere for you,” James says, finally pulling away. Riley almost wants to tug him back in but he refuses to embarrass himself like that. So he settles himself for tucking his hands in his pocket and trying not to glare too hard. 

“I’m glad you’re back,” James says.

Riley snorts. “That’s a lie.”

“It’s not.” James frowns, reaching out to pat Riley on the shoulder. “Look, I know you don’t have the best track record here, but you’ve never done anything bad to me. You’re a good kid.”

It’s such a simple sentence. Just four goddamn words. And yet Riley feels like he’s being split apart. The anger drains like a cyst finally popped, all at once and far too messy. He wants to cry like that, like it’s exploding out of him.

But that would be embarrassing. So instead he just shrugs and says, “Sure.”

“Okay, let’s get you inside. You look wrecked.”

Riley glares at him. “Yeah, well, trekking across miles of desert does that to someone.”

James frowns, a genuine look of worry, as he leads the way inside. “We feared you might be out there. We looked in the city. I mean, there was a high chance you were just hiding somewhere there. Ghost thought you weren’t, though.”

Riley buries his hands deeper. “Lex says Ghost was the reason you guys sent Alex to come for me.”

“We all put in our vote,” James says, shrugging, “but yeah, Ghost pushed for the vote in the first place.”

James turns into the kitchen and Riley follows close behind, feeling like a lost duckling. “And what did you vote for?” And maybe he’s looking for a fight, just a little bit, to make him feel less lost, but James breaks that all apart in an instant.

“To get you. We pretty much all did. Ashley raised some inevitable objections and Sam was hesitant because of some shit going on with the fucking thing down there pulling the strings-”

“It doesn’t exist anymore.”

James freezes, one eyebrow rising. “What?”

“Him and Alex sort of, I don’t know, combined,” Riley says. “The bastard no longer exists. Or, I don’t know, not in the same way. Still kind of want to punch Lex but Alex wasn’t too bad, guess some of that carried across.” 

Riley shrugs and leans against the table as James turns his back, staring into the sink for a strangely long time. His chest rises and falls carefully, hands white-knuckling the counter. Before, finally, he speaks.

“Lex will still be It, at least to some extent. That’s how this works.” He finally pushes himself away from the sink and grabs two mugs and starts making tea. He carefully avoids all eye contact.

Riley’s stomach clenches. “This has happened before?”

“Once,” James says, his voice oddly quiet. “But that doesn’t matter. Just…don’t think either of them are lost. They’re not. I know it might be difficult. You liked one part and hated the other. But you’re going to have to figure that out. Lex will have both their memories, both their feelings, both their everything. What that becomes, I don’t know.” James pours water into the two mugs and finally turns around, handing one to Riley. “Here, it’ll help.”

“It’s tea.”

James smiles. “Yeah, and the simple things can help. Come on, let’s go somewhere more comfortable.”

James doesn’t lead them to the large sitting room like Riley expects. Instead, he diverts past it into a room that Riley hasn’t even seen before. It’s warmer, a crackling fire in the hearth, with just a single sofa and an armchair tucked into a too-small room. It’s cosy.

James takes his place in the big armchair, motioning for Riley to take the sofa, and sips his tea. They just sit like that for a while, letting time pass. Riley can feel himself relax, feel the exhaustion in his bones fade into a faint weariness. 

James waits until the mugs are practically empty before speaking up. “What actually happened? What did It do?”

Riley curls up, legs to chest, heart ratcheting. “He made some message appear on my screen. In my room. I- I went down to the office to check it out, then he just…transported me somehow. To a complex on the other side of the desert. Put me in a cell and left me to rot.” Riley barely has the energy to be angry anymore, cursed with a pervasive emptiness that roots out the ability to feel anything at all.

“It was tiny,” Riley says, before he can really think that this might be too much. Men don’t spill their hearts out. They suck it up and deal with it. But with a warm mug in his hands and James looking at him like he fucking matters, it’s all too easy to let it slip. “And dark. They only fed me once a day. I had to piss in there, right on the fucking floor. It just- it was all just-”

Riley can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe. Then someone is prying the mug from his hands and putting it down on the coffee table. There are hands on his knees. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed it. You’re okay, you’re safe now.”

“Nowhere’s safe,” Riley whispers. “What if Lex puts me back?”

“He won’t,” James promises. “I won’t let him.”

“But he’s strong .” Riley shudders and then looks away. “Fuck. No, fuck this. I’m not- I’m not-”

“Not what?”

“I’m not a fucking sissy. I’m fine,” Riley says, putting enough grit into it that he might just believe it.

“You don’t have to be.” Riley looks down at James and feels the weakness destroy him, tears flooding his eyes. “It’s okay to be scared. You have a right to be.”

“I shouldn’t be. I’m stronger than that.”

“Riley,” James repeats, drawing closer and looking Riley straight in the eye. “Something horrible happened to you. You have every right to be scared. It’s what you do with that fear that matters.”

Riley’s mouth trembles and his voice shakes. “But it was inside my own fucking head, wasn’t it? This isn’t real, even if it feels fucking real. But it’s not. It just isn’t .”

“But you said it. It feels real. Like all of this feels real to us. It doesn’t matter that it’s not. You still felt it. You- I can’t say too much. But what you felt, to some extent, was real. For someone here. You had to suffer that. That is not okay. And it would make even the strongest man scared. You’re allowed that.”

Riley breaks. He knew he would, and it only makes the shame compound. Sobs wrack his body as he pushes the heels of his hands desperately into his eyes. James doesn’t move, just keeps his hands on Riley’s knees, every now and then swirling his thumb in a small act of comfort.

Riley’s never had anything like it.

He wants to rail against it. To scream and fight and tell him that he doesn’t fucking need it. But he does. He fucking does. And he hates that he does. And he wants to let that anger fester but with James it just feels-

It’s all just so much.

The crying lasts far longer than Riley is comfortable with. He feels almost no better after it. But when James finally gets off his knees and sits beside him, arm slung over his shoulder, Riley doesn’t mind. For now, it’s peaceful. Like everything he always should have had. Everything his father could have been but wasn’t. The crying sucks but at least this doesn’t.

“I hate this,” Riley mumbles, scraping the tear tracks from his cheeks.

James nods. “Crying’s shit.”

Riley looks up at him. James is fucking tall, almost unfairly so, even sitting down. Dad was taller than him too, but not like this. His dad was taller than him in the way that you felt, the sort of looming that made you feel tiny. James is like a pillar of stability, the sort that Riley wants to lean on instead of hide.

Riley doesn’t let himself, but he wants to.

“Why are you being like this?” Riley asks.

“Like what?”

“Nice.”

James doesn’t say anything for a moment, just sits and gathers his thoughts. Then he squeezes Riley’s shoulder and shoots him a wry smile. “It’s not about being nice. It’s about doing the right thing. They judged you because of what they saw on the surface. No one bothered to be nice in return. But that’s just going to perpetuate the cycle of shit, right?” James shakes his head. “That makes it seem transactional, it’s not, but it’s why I wasn’t an arsehole. Like…look. Sam? He pisses me off. We just don’t see eye to eye, alright. I’m not nice to him, but I also don’t go out of my way to be an absolute dick. You? You’ve done nothing to me. You’re a lost kid, trying to get through this mess. You deserve someone to be nice and I’ve got no reason not to be right now.”

Riley blinks back another round of tears. “Fuck Sam,” he says, because if this gets any more sappy, he might hurl.

“Yeah,” James says, smile growing wide, “fuck Sam.”

— [redacted] —

Ashley is going to kill someone. Are they insane? Are they fucking insane? Riley is a psychopath. A psychopath who made her destroy the last fucking thing they had. And James just lets him in with open arms and a smile?

Fuck that.

Fuck that.

After days of trying to get people to understand and holing up in her room in an attempt not to see the psycho, Ashley finally decides enough is enough. She musters the courage to leave her room, storming out in a fit of fury, barging James out of the way on the stairs, before making her way down the hill. 

Sam’s office is not hard to find.

“You cannot be serious.”

Sam blinks and looks up, confused. “What?”

“Riley! You can’t just let him back in!”

“I-”

Ashley doesn’t even pay attention to what Sam’s doing anymore. “You said the mansion was safe. But it is not fucking safe with him there! He’s insane. You hear me? In-sane.”

“Ashley, calm down. Please.”

“I will not calm down,” Ashley screeches, bristling like a fucking porcupine. She feels like every bit of her is on edge, paranoia layering on top of anxiety in a heady mix of awfulness. And none of these little shits will listen to a word she says. They were supposed to work together. Sam said that. And now they’re all ignoring her like a bad fucking smell.

“Riley is part of this system as much of the rest of us-”

“Do not spout that bullshit,” Ashley says. “You know he shouldn’t be here. He nearly killed us.”

Sam purses his lips and shoots Ashley a dark look. “It wasn’t just him, was it?”

Ashley gapes. Her chest drops and her stomach swoops. Every single thing that she feels like she has built up tumbles down in a moment. One sentence and it feels like everything is over. “What happened to ‘it’s not your fault’?”

“That’s not what I mean-”

“Well it clearly fucking is!” She loses breath, a hitch in her breathing, the breeze before the storm rolls. “I see how it is. You were all just lying to me to get me to be cooperative, weren’t you? It’s what everyone does. And I’m sick of it. This cooperation bullshit is just that! Bullshit.”

Ashley spins on her heel and back up the hill, putting pressure on that thin veil that allows her into the front. She barges her way in easier than she expects, that line between reality and unreality blurring into a muddy mess.

And then she’s there. They’re just sitting in their room, like they always are. Ghost’s dumb fucking chess app is open, halfway through a game. Screaming, she chucks their phone at the wall. It lands with a satisfying thud, clattering to the floor none the worse for wear. She’s tempted to go over and rip the phone case off and try again.

Instead, she finds anything she can and launches it at the wall, a pitiful scream rising with the red rush to her cheeks. It feels good. And it’s like she finally understands why Riley lives like this ball of fucking anger, to let it release in a tidal wave.

But she doesn’t take it out on others.

Because she’s better than him.

Because Riley fucking deserved to be locked up and never come back!

At the end of her tirade, she looks around her shattered room, a seed of guilt already planted. But she doesn’t let it stop her. It’s not like it has stopped anyone else. And fuck all of them anyway.

If they won’t listen to her, she’ll make them listen.

She grabs their phone and plants it on their desk. It’s all too easy to set up a video, hitting record with a punch of her finger. 

“I guess it doesn’t matter what I say,” she starts with. “It’s not like any of you will listen to me anyway. But here goes nothing.”

Ashley rolls her shoulders back, a dangerous thought flittering through her mind. It comes out of her mouth before she has the wherewithal to stop it. And once it’s out, it’s too late to take it back.

“Talked to Soap. It was pretty shit actually. Didn’t want to tell you because, you know, I was trying to help. But he said he doesn’t want to deal with us anymore. Clean split. Not to fucking talk to him. Then he fucked off on his mission. So I wouldn’t expect anything good from him. Au re-fucking-voir.”

She taps record again, sits back in her chair, and seethes. After that, it’s just a matter of boredom pushing her back again and waiting for Ghost to come back and fucking earn his comeuppance.

— [redacted] —

Sam puts the room together before Ghost can even notice. Some things are better off unseen.

— [redacted] —

Ghost is scraping through, as he usually is. His meds finally feel useful and he’s stable, if barely. The days are still pretty good and the nights pretty awful, meaning he’s functional in a way that feels like a lie but gets him through the day regardless. He goes to his meetings with Sarah, he discusses his feelings, he eats, he even showers (though there now has to be an effort made to make sure that Simon doesn’t front and it still seems to drag Ashley out for some godforsaken reason).

They do normal things. And it’s more difficult than it should be. Vastly more difficult than it should be. But they’re managing and coping and living and getting from one day to the next. It’s something.

At Lex’s request, Sarah has reduced their leash. It’s astonishing what even thinking about more freedom can do. Whilst for security reasons, he can’t travel far, he now has pretty much free rein over base and the nearest town. Technically, he can go wherever he wants, but they’ve agreed that he should talk to Sarah before any big decisions are made.

Which means when Gaz asks, “You on for the pub tonight?”

Ghost can finally, finally, say, “Yeah, that sounds good.”

It’s normal.

Ghost is the first to arrive, the only one not left exhausted after training and fighting for the one shower that doesn’t either scold or freeze you. It’s the same pub on the roundabout that he and Soap had gone to what feels like years ago now. The same crooked beams and the baby crying in the corner.

Ghost has a medical-grade face mask over his face and a pair of sunglasses, suspicious but not too suspicious. At least not enough to draw too many looks as he heads over to the bar and flags down a spotty eighteen-year-old who can’t pour a beer properly but also appears to be the only staff on bar at 6pm on a Tuesday.

“Stella,” Ghost grunts and watches as the guy proceeds to not tip the glass and struggle to get rid of the foam. At the very least, it’s a little entertaining.

Do you have to stare him down like that? Sam asks, drifting in and out the front, distant but present.

Ghost just smirks, a flash of smug satisfaction shooting through him. He can practically feel Sam roll his eyes. Do you always have to be like this?

Ghost doesn’t have to answer that.

He pays what is obviously egregiously too much for a shit pint (for any pint, really; it may be the one thing he misses about being up North), and sits down in a curved booth on the far end of the room, whiling some time away on his phone.

He’s now at a level of Chess that he’s too embarrassed to tell anyone. He very carefully does not let anyone (including certain alters) see his screen time. Some things are just better off as secrets.

Gaz and Ozone barge in first, bright-eyed and laughing, pushing each other over as they make their way over.

“Ghost!” Gaz shouts, clearly hyped up on adrenaline as he barges into the seat next to him. Though, somewhat unsurprisingly, makes sure that no point of them touches. (Only Soap ever touched him. Does he miss it? Jesus Christ, now’s not the time). “How you been?”

“Good. How was training?”

Ozone puts on an over-exaggerated groan and collapses into one of the rickety wooden chairs. “I need a drink after today.”

“Sandman still ripping you guys into shape?”

Gaz shakes his head. “Scarecrow took over today. Guy’s a fucking sadist, that’s for sure,” he says, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. He looks good like this, all stretched lines and tense muscles and-

No.

Just…just no.

“You know, I’m starting to realise that you superiors aren’t all bad,” Ozone sighs. “It’s the fucking sergeants to watch out for.”

“Oi!” Gaz shouts, though he still has a lazy smile on his lips. “That’s a superior officer you’re talking about.”

“What’s this about Sergeants?” Alex says, sneaking up behind Ozone and jolting him by the shoulders. The man yelps and whacks him with enough force to bruise.

“Ow, Jesus Christ, man.”

“You’re a bastard,” Ozone complains light-heartedly.

Alex smiles back, all easy confidence, and says, “That I am.” He looks over at Ghost. “Ghost.”

“Alex.”

“Glad to see you out and about.”

“You too,” Ghost says, pulling down his mask and hiding his face behind his pint. “Though I warn you, whatever that kid’s doing behind the bar, it’s nothing good.”

Alex winces. “How much?”

“Six-fifty.”

“Fucking hell,” Gaz says. “Is that even legal?”

“I got a pint for eight-fifty in London once,” Ozone says.

“Yeah but that’s London,” Gaz says, flapping his hand, “we’re in the middle of nowhere here.”

“It’s Hereford, innit, what do you expect? Isn’t it posh as shit?” Ghost says.

“Is it?” Gaz says. “Jesus fuck, I don’t get off base enough.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Alex sighs, swinging his leg around a little awkwardly and taking a seat. “Gaz is on round one.”

Gaz jolts upright. “That was a joke!”

“Uh-uh, no taking it back now.”

Ghost quirks an eyebrow. “What’s this about?”

“Gaz promised to buy us a round if he couldn’t do the course in under 30 seconds.”

“And I did it in thirty,” Gaz shouts.

“Which isn’t under thirty,” Alex says with a wide grin. “Come on, a deal’s a deal.”

Gaz groans and shuffles out of his seat to go get them drinks just as Roach and Peasant show up.

“You guys couldn’t have all taken the same car?” Ghost asks.

“Roach wanted to walk,” Peasant says with a shrug, taking the seat next to Ghost. “Y’alright?”

“Good as I can be. You been put through the wringer too?”

“Oh my, have we. Scarecrow is a fucking Sergeant and a half, I’ll tell you that,” Peasant says. Gaz finally comes back, tray of badly poured lagers in hand, and passes them out. “Oh, yer a godsend,” Peasant says, taking three worryingly large gulps.

Ghost takes his a lot more sedately, putting it beside his unfinished first pint.

The others slowly follow suit, drink after drink, round after round, until Alex is practically face down on the table as Ozone rubs his back. Roach is mouthing something, though his eyes are so unfocused that Ghost isn’t even sure he knows what he’s on about. Poor Peasant has gone so red that he looks like a beetroot.

Ghosts and Gaz end up in their own little corner, a little loopy but a lot better off than the rest of them.

“She’s definitely having an affair,” Gaz announces, staring at a group across the room. “Or she just hates her husband.”

“Maybe that’s her husband,” Ghost says. “The other guy might just be jealous.”

“No, no, no. Look at the guy. That’s not jealousy, that’s anger. And they were bickering early.”

Ghost hums. “And the third guy?”

“Definitely the husband’s friend,” Gaz says. “But honestly? If I was her, I would want him not the other guy too.”

Ghost shoots him a look.

“What! Look at him, he’s gorgeous.”

Ghost raises an eyebrow. “You going gay on me, Garrick?”

Gaz snorts. “That ship has long since sailed.” Ghost’s eyebrows fly up. “What? ” Gaz says, doing a double take. “Oh, come on. Look, I don’t exactly go parading it about. A lot of the guys wouldn’t like it. But I’m out at home.”

“I thought you had a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, and I can like guys,” Gaz says, like he’s said this multiple times before. “But yeah, I like guys. I mean, look at him. He’s fucking gorgeous. The husband? Beyond average.”

Ghost rolls his eyes. “You have high standards.”

“Well, how about you? Girl’s pretty nice looking too.”

The guy’s nicer. The thought flitters across his thoughts, then 180s to slam its way back into Ghost’s skull like a bullet train. Just one second of oh shit before he can bring on a full-on meltdown.

“Ghost?”

His heart is yammering as he fights the urge to just dissociate entirely and not fucking deal with this shit. It’s just- he isn’t- it’s not. 

Maybe one of the alters said it- thought it. Whatever. Fuck. Maybe it was Ashley. Is it straight if Ashley says it? Probably not. But it’s not gay either. And it’s nothing to do with him.

(They’re all parts of you, a memory whispers. At the end of the day, you’re pieces of the puzzle that makes you, Ashley included).

“Hey,” Gaz says, hands outstretched, hovering just above Ghost’s shoulder but never quite landing. “I didn’t mean to bring something up.”

“I’m fine,” Ghost says but his voice sounds distant. How drunk is he? Maybe he’s just plastered. That would make sense. He’s just…dissociating, because he can. Why? He doesn’t-

What’s happening?

A hand wraps around his shoulders, a ghostly presence that isn’t quite real. Sam. Ghost can feel that pressure between his eyes. The kind that only happens when Sam is right there at the front, all but controlling the body. Hovering.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. What happened?

Ghost grunts, out loud, inside, who knows. 

You can’t say everything’s fine and then ask what happened, Ghost complains.

Fine, everything will be  fine. Just tell me.

Ghost can feel Sam’s emotions course through him suddenly like a strange poison, all comfort and worry and strength. Or so he assumes, anyway. Nothing else would make sense.

Ghost keeps his head down and shuts his eyes, trying to focus. On anything. The scratchy upholstery, the sticky table, the cool condensation on his glass. Something real.

Finally, he gets his thoughts together. Gaz just…brought something up.

You okay to keep going?

Ghost rolls his eyes. I’m not supposed to let you just do all the hard shit anymore. I’ll stay.

Alright, Sam says, nodding, I’ll be here.

And Sam does stay, so close that Ghost feels like he might be wrapped in a hug, feeling Sam take stock of the situation.

“Sorry,” Ghost says aloud, lifting his head and opening his eyes. Gaz is looking at him strangely but Ghost expects that. So long as he doesn’t look angry, it feels okay. Ghost is used to being seen as strange, cultivating a reputation for it around base. It’s nothing new.

“No, it’s fine. You just went spacey on me,” Gaz says, his expression clearing. 

Ghost snorts. “Spacey?”

“What! It’s a word!” It’s become more and more clear that Gaz is also pretty hammered, words just a little slurred, movements more grandiose than necessary. “But look, I didn’t mean to bring anything up. Or is she like a secret ex I don’t know about?”

Ghost can hear Sam’s distant laughter as he tries to think of a sensible response to that. “No, it’s not that. I just…”

What is he supposed to say?

Ghost shakes his head. “Just had a strange thought is all.”

Gaz smiles. “Do tell.”

Ghost shakes his head. “Not now. Look, if you find the guy so fit, why don’t you go over there.”

“Only if you wingman,” Gaz teases.

“I’m not a good wingman.” Ghost raises an eyebrow. “Not many people think I’ve got an inviting face.”

Gaz laughs. “Maybe they would if they saw your face. But yeah, I get your point.”

The talk dies down a bit as Ghost focuses on Alex, who seems to be three drinks deep into a love-sick rant about a woman on the other side of the world. A prolonged lamentation on love and separation that no one around him seems quite as impressed by as himself.

It’s sweet, though.

Could Ghost ever have something like that? He doesn’t know. Frankly, he doesn’t know if he even wants that, never mind the practicalities of how he even would. It’s not like he really has anyone…

Except Soap.

Who even Price accused him of loving. The name that gets Sarah to give him that look when he avoids the point. Who time and time again has been all but outright romantic with Ghost.

Fuck, even on the field, Soap was a massive flirt.

Could Ghost ever be like Alex? Ten drinks down and rambling about a Scottish idiot who throws himself into life-threatening situations like it’s a rollercoaster ride? Probably not.

But could he…

Could he just…

Don’t think about him, Sam suddenly cuts in, a vein of anger in his words. We can get better without him.

This isn’t about getting better, though, is it, Ghost sighs. Fuck. I don’t even know what this is.

You miss him. We all do. But that doesn’t defeat the point that he-

I know, Ghost cuts off. I know. But-

Well, there isn’t really a but. And yet, and yet, Ghost wants there to be. It’s like between the anger and self-loathing, there’s just something that desperately needs Soap. It should be embarrassing, the sheer co-dependence of it. But no one has what he and Soap have. No one has seen more of Ghost. And maybe Soap did baulk at it; Ghost showed him too much and he ran like a coward.

But if he could just face up to the fact…

It’s not worth thinking about. Soap hasn’t apologised, Soap fucking left to go on a mission without a word, so fuck Soap, he doesn’t deserve Ghost’s time.

Argh, he doesn’t know what he thinks anymore.

He’s not worth thinking about, Sam says. It’s only going to make you more stressed. Enjoy yourself. Don’t work yourself up for nothing.

But Soap isn’t nothing.

In a desperate effort to avoid his own thoughts, Ghost gets out his phone, pretending to check for non-existent messages (everyone who could possibly message him is either in a black-ops mission or with him right now). He does a bit of mindless scrolling, checking social media sites he’s never used in his life, and then when it seems like the coast is clear, he goes through his usual routines, making sure no one is looking over his shoulder. Gaz is engrossed in some footie conversation with Peasant, though they’re caught up in fucking sixth-tier football for some shitty side they grew up watching games for.

So Ghost quickly opens up notes and scrolls through to see if Sam’s added anything urgent. Nothing major. Some basic updates, mostly things Ghost already knows. Riley is, apparently, back, though he’s shown no signs of coming to the front. Lex has added a short note too, explaining who he is and some drivelling blather about how it’s dangerous to interact with him too much. Ghost ignores it.

Then Ghost opens up videos.

There are two.

Lex’s one is long so Ghost skips over it, though he can tell it's him just by his posture alone. Man sits like he’s got a rod up his arse, even when there isn’t a drill sergeant to scream it into him. And he’s got that placid smile on his face that Alex had, a strange mix of old and new.

The other he isn’t entirely clear on. Just that they’re…angry. God, is that Riley? It would make sense. Without sound, he can just see the toothy grimace and the angry spitting. The room behind him is a disaster zone.

It was filmed today.

Ghost didn’t even know he’d lost time.

He swallows down bile, his heart pounding. He tries to scroll away, to desperately think of something else, but his mind is fixating on it now, anxiety pouring through his veins like acid.

“I- I’ll be back,” he mumbles, scooting out of the booth and rushing outside, where only a few lingering smokers reside.

He doesn’t have earphones so he just holds his phone up to his ear and presses play.

He knows it's Ashley immediately, the American twang unmistakable. And she’s angry. And she’s- fuck.

She’s lying, Sam says, his presence suddenly so much more present than before.

“What?” Wincing a second too late when he realises he said that aloud.

About Soap. She’s lying. I watched Lex’s video. Soap apologised.

Ghost feels that anger rise up again. You told me to forget about him.

There’s a pause and what feels like something squeezing his shoulder but from inside. Not so much a hallucination as an inherent knowledge. We need to get better without him. An apology doesn’t change what he said. What he implied.

Ghost knows what Sam’s doing. As far as they can tell, he serves as the primary protector of their system, he’s just making sure that Ghost will be and will remain okay.

And yet, Ghost doesn’t care.

He needs to talk to Soap.

You can’t. Not now.

I know, I know. Gives me time to think of what to say, Ghost says, and to talk to Ashley.

She needs to talk to Sarah. She came to me…angry. Really angry.

About?

Sam flickers a little before pressing forward again, a gentle pressure between Ghost’s eyes. She’s not happy that Riley’s back.

Then just keep them the fuck away, I’m not dealing with this shit again.

I know.

“Ghost, you alright?”

Ghost looks up and switches off his phone to see Gaz making his way out. In an effort to seem normal, Ghost gets out a smoke and lights it up, breathing in the nicotine with a desperate draw.

“Just fine,” he says. “Just some news I didn’t need.”

“What was it?”

Ghost just shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. You want one?”

Gaz waves him off. “Don’t smoke anymore.”

“You quit?”

“Should never have started.”

Ghost snorts. “Isn’t that the truth.” He takes a greedy drag anyway, relishing in the nicotine hit. It feels like the best thing he’s ever tasted. Takes the edge off his anxiety, even as it slowly destroys his lungs. What a wonderful way to die.

It’s better than thinking about time lost that he doesn’t remember. About the creeping paranoia that he had in the early days. That he thought he was working past. Isn’t that the whole point of Sarah? Grace couldn’t give him the specialist advice on stuff like amnesia. Sarah was supposed to fix all this.

That’s not how this works and you know it.

Oh shut up, Ghost wants to scream. He doesn’t, though it may ring clear anyway. Gaz is still staring at him, leaning against the wall.

“Are you okay? I don’t mean to pry. It’s just…” Gaz trails off, shoving his hands in his pockets, eyebrows creased.

“What?”

“Look, you’ve always been a bit of a mystery to everyone. But you’re a good guy. And it seems like life’s not been going great. I don’t want to put out a hand if you don’t want it but I wasn’t lying when I said I’m here. Honestly.”

Ghost leans back and lets his head thud against the brick, taking another drag and blowing smoke rings into the air. It’s only then that he realises his mask is fully pulled down. He hadn’t even thought of it.

He…

He always thinks of it.

Hurriedly, he snaps it back into place, every bit of forced relaxation broken in a moment. “It’s appreciated,” he says gruffly. “But I’m fine. Honest.”

(Liar, liar, liar.)

“If you’re sure.”

“I need to go,” Ghost says, chest heaving. Everything is just too much right now. And he’s got coping mechanisms. So many coping mechanisms. But he can’t do a single fucking one of them when he’s stuck in this godforsaken pub.

“You want company on the way back?”

“I’m fine,” Ghost says, even though that sounds really fucking good right about now. The idea of being visible almost kills him but if he’s left alone right now…

Let him help you. Keep yourself safe.

Ghost nods. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Ghost stops, skin vibrating. Then, a breath. Boundaries. Wants. He’s allowed to want. “Sure. If you’re sure.”

“I am. Just let me grab my stuff.”

Ghost waits outside, resisting the urge to pace back and forth, until Gaz comes back and they can call a cab back to base. It’s simple. They don’t even talk much. But just having Gaz there, making light small talk about their surroundings is enough to stop thinking for a little bit, which feels better than the alternative. 

And when they finally get back to base and turn different ways in the corridor to their respective rooms, Ghost knows that tonight will be horrible, but he also knows that it will be less horrible than if Gaz hadn’t been there. And that’s worth something. It’s worth more than he can ever really say.

Chapter Text

Ghost sits in Sarah’s office, twitchy and desperate to hide it. It’s been a few days of ups and downs, of sliding consciousness that feels just a little bit out of control. He’s not so much switching as he is morphing, and it’s becoming clearer and clearer how he managed more than a decade not fucking knowing about all this.

Some still feel too distinct to miss. Even co-conscious, Sam seems to be a bright presence, steady at Ghost’s side. And Jake’s childish optimism (and sometimes pure pain) is easily recognisable, even if it still sort of feels like him doing it.

But he’s spent the rest of the last three days in some sort of strange fugue. There doesn’t seem to have been a trigger. Maybe just a year’s worth of built-up stress piling on top of him again, one too many nights of thinking too hard about all that he’s lost.

Ghost is both lost at sea and all to present. Stuck in the body whilst simultaneously being somewhere else entirely. He feels unreal, less so in the ghostly sense, and more so that he doesn’t know who he is at all. He doesn’t fucking recognise himself in the mirror half the time, sometimes literally. Being jump-scared by his own reflection just feels like another reminder that no matter how far he gets, it doesn’t take much to slingshot him right back to the start.

Even right now, Ghost is there. He’s sure he’s there. He has control. But the front feels like a soup right now, too many people crowding and vying for attention. Voices layer so loud that they’re indecipherable, an ear-aching tinnitus that Ghost has no ability to stop.

Sarah’s probably aware of it by now, even though Ghost has been dancing around it their last few sessions. Admitting weakness feels too much like giving in. Something in him thinks if he just tries hard enough that he might be able to will this away, to take back control and steer the ship in a sensible direction.

Something eerily like James drawls some pessimistic drivel, which Ghost hastily puts aside. Fuck knows if it even is James. But Ghost is quickly learning that James is pretty easy to spot if you’re on the lookout for sarcasm, pessimism and a protective streak that might just be stronger than Sam’s.

“I’ve been good,” Ghost finally says. Sarah’s been waiting on a response for up to two minutes now, he thinks. But time feels sluggish and more like an abstract concept than anything rooted in reality.

“Have you?”

Ghost rolls his eyes, a spark of anger flaring brighter than he expects. “What? Are you here to fucking question me now?”

Sarah frowns. “That’s not what I’m doing. I’m just looking for honesty.”

Ghost grits his teeth and withstands the urge to bare them like some sort of feral animal. A few deep breaths and he feels…well, not more like himself, not even more present, but less likely to fly off the handle at any moment. Anger is a familiar friend but the flares like that remind him too much of his father. Ghost would do anything to not become his father.

“Sorry,” Ghost says which…fuck, no this can’t be him. He doesn’t- he doesn’t say that shit. He knows he doesn’t. It’s a thing. He does it for a fucking reason and-

“Are you okay?”

Ghost thinks he might be hyperventilating.

“Ghost, deep breaths.”

He’s trying.

“With me.”

He said he’s fucking trying!

The anger feels easier to grasp than the panic, a diversion into sanity (no, no, it’s not sanity, that’s just what he would say-). He feels like someone’s rolled him in a fucking cement mixer and thrown him at a wall. Nothing makes sense and everything’s just-

“Make it stop.”

Sarah’s face softens. “You’re safe. It’ll pass.”

Ghost- no, not Ghost? Maybe Ghost. Maybe-Ghost bares his teeth, the urge to snarl strong. He doesn’t, if only because he’s got some self-respect left. “Well it’s not fucking passing is it.”

“It will.”

Ghost heaves like he’s a dying animal, hissing and moaning. He wants to cringe away from it, to stop this embarrassment entirely but he can’t. It’s out of his goddamn hands.

(It’s not like he’ll remember it later anyway).

And to think he was doing good. Getting better. Improving. Fucking getting out of this goddamn spiral!

It passes. As it always does. After minutes (hours?) of agony. It passes.

He gasps, taking in lungfuls of air with the air of a man desperate for water. Gulping.

“Ghost?”

“I’m…” Not okay. Not even bad. He’s just… “here.”

“Do you know what just happened?”

Ghost shudders. “I have a fucking panic attack, that’s what.”

Sarah’s eyes soften. “I don’t want to presume but it looks to me like you were having the symptoms of a flashback.”

Ghost snorts and waves her off. “I wasn’t remembering shit.”

“But was someone else?”

The question stumps him, leaving him scrambling for an answer with nothing in sight. He feels frozen. “I- I don’t know.”

Sarah frowns. “Look, I know this is hard and I haven’t brought it up before now because I didn’t want to scare you, but I do think you’re in a stable enough position now to hear this.”

Ghost doesn’t feel stable.

“A lot of how DID works is the ability to erect amnesia barriers, you know this. But that’s not just switching. You can live something and not remember it. Repressed memory is often a symptom of any form of PTSD and it’s only exacerbated when in such a complex form. If your brain wants to dissociate from something, you don’t necessarily have to be gone, you just don’t have to remember.”

Ghost wants to laugh, laugh so hard his stomach hurts with it, to laugh and laugh and laugh and-

“So you’re saying I can have a flashback and not even remember what it was?”

“This probably isn’t the first time,” Sarah says, which is everything Ghost doesn’t want to hear and more. “It’s easy to forget that you had an episode at all and even if you do remember, it may feel a lot more like a panic attack or something similar than an active flashback. But there are differences.”

Ghost rolls his eyes. “I know the difference.” He’s had them both for god’s sake.

“In content, yes. That much is simple. In one you’re trapped in a memory, the other in a specific feeling. But if you don’t remember the memory, then it might take some other detection after the fact.”

Ghost sighs. “Does it matter? It fucks me over either way.”

Sarah frowns. “It’s not about that. Being able to recognise these things is how you learn to deal with them. Something that triggers a flashback is very different to something that triggers a panic attack and may require completely different approaches to feel safe around said trigger or be able to avoid it entirely.”

Ghost wants to rail against the explanation on instinct, to fight some unforeseen enemy that just isn’t there. Anything feels easier than acquiescing to more of this bullshit. Ghost is sick of doing this shit. Sick of it.

“Ghost?” No, no. Not Ghost. Wait? What’s-

What?

He blinks, once, twice, tries to focus but finds himself sort of just stuck.

“I’m sick of this bullshit,” Riley says but Ghost is right there with him. And he can’t fucking leave.

“Sick of what?”

“This therapy bullshit. It hasn’t fixed anything!” Riley shouts.

“I know it seems difficult sometimes but-”

“We’ve got nothing to fucking show for it,” Riley blunders on, swinging his arms around. “It didn’t stop me from getting locked up, did it?”

Sarah’s eyebrows draw inwards. “Riley?”

“Fuck off.” It’s as good an affirmation as any, even if Ghost- Riley?- Ghost?- are so equally in control that they don’t have a single clue who has a handle on the reins.

“What happened internally shouldn’t have happened,” Sarah says. “But therapy is also a major factor in how you got out. I know it all seems very abstract but what we’re doing in this room can have an immense impact on your mind.”

“You’re lying.”

Sarah shakes her head. “Would you like me to explain?”

“Fine. Fucking go for it,” Riley spits, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

“It may not seem like it but what we did in this room means that Alex even made an appearance that we knew of. Which opened up communication between him and the system. That communication was what gave us an opening for Alex to escape, who in turn got you out and back to the mansion. Inner worlds have a fascinating ability to make abstract ideas concrete. Everything has meaning. That’s just what it is. A way for your mind to process the outside world. Getting better, healing, working through it here, that’s what made the brain understand that you don’t need to be so starkly separated. Working towards integration made you physically closer in the internal space.”

Ghost nods. “I get it.”

“Sorta,” Riley adds.

“You understand the logic at least?”

Both Ghost and Riley nod. Or maybe just one of them does and the other agrees. It’s all a little hazy.

“I hate this,” Ghost spits. “Can he fuck off?” Ghost knows he sounds batshit but it feels somewhat more grounding to say it aloud. Fuck trying to act normal. Just fuck it. He gives up. He’s already had a goddamn panic- flashback, it’s not like his dignity is intact.

“Who?”

Ghost grimaces. And possibly simultaneously, they both say, “ him. ”

“Can you explain what you’re feeling right now?”

“He’s right fucking there,” Ghost complains, pressing his hand against his forehead. “God, I sound like a fucking lunatic.”

“No, you don’t,” Sarah assures. “Are you co-conscious?”

“Kinda?” Ghost shakes his head. “It’s like I don’t even know who’s controlling what anymore.”

Sarah nods and leans forward. “That’s perfectly normal. As a system, at least since the discovery of your alters, you have been a system that often presents itself quite starkly. But things change as everything else does, whether that’s making something more obvious or creating something new entirely.”

“I hate it,” Ghost — Riley? — hisses. “I hate all of this.”

“I know it’s difficult. But remember, positive thinking can change so much about how you approach this. You can hate it, of course you can, but that’s not going to get you anywhere if you fester in it. You can even be sad about it but don’t wallow. So much of this is about how you productively use these emotions. You’ve made extraordinary improvement. And I know I’ve said it again and again and again but you really have. Don’t feel demoralised because new things crop up. They will. And whilst I can’t say anything for your own feelings and experiences, I can say that this sort of ‘blendy’ feeling, as some put it, is both common and also something you may have experienced before. The thing about therapy is that you now know about your alters, and you know a lot of them really well. You can recognise them. Whilst before it might have been something easier to explain away. A mood swing or just a bad day or even a really good day. Justifiable. Whilst now that you’ve been working on this, you can tell. And yes, that’s hard, there’s no doubt about that. But it also shows progress.”

“Why do I want progress if it means everything’s worse?” They complain. His whole sense of self feels like a distant memory now. He doesn’t feel like Riley or Ghost. He doesn’t feel fucking real. It’s like everything is on autopilot and his consciousness is just….there, hitching a ride.

“Sometimes it takes making something worse to make it better. DID is all about coping mechanisms, like any form of PTSD. And they’re often brilliant mechanisms when they’re needed, to protect yourself from the trauma. But now they’re not needed. But you can’t just get better when you’ve got this massive defensive structure in the middle of your brain. It’s got to be taken down before we can put something else up.”

Their eyes shutter, feeling more and more vacant by the second. “Okay,” they say half-heartedly. “If that’s what it takes.”

“I promise it will get easier. Maybe not easy, but easier,” Sarah promises. “You have a long journey ahead of you but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. It’s not. If you put the work in, you see the results, even if they don’t come about immediately. Just don’t lose hope.”

They look up, heart sinking and say the most obvious lie of the day. “Okay.”

— [redacted] —

Ghost finishes his session without much memory of it at all. He doesn’t know if someone took over or if he just checked out but he’s pissed off either way. At least he feels more like himself. Not quite there yet, but more like himself. Riley, at least, seems to have fucked off. Ghost may have fought to get him back but that doesn’t mean he has to start liking him.

He sort of just drifts back to his room, across the training field and back into the barracks. He’s only just shut the door to the main building behind him when Gaz just seems to appear, phone in hand and a grave look on his face. The kind usually reserved for missions.

“What is it?” Ghost asks on instinct, a stone sinking in his stomach.

“The mission’s over. There have been…casualties. Fuck, I shouldn’t be telling you this. But just…look, I know you two are on the outs but Soap’s in hospital. Doesn’t look like anything too bad yet but-”

And suddenly, it’s like everything comes rushing back in. Ghost is himself again, if only because the sheer anxiety is enough to ground him, forced to listen to the pounding of his own heart. Adrenaline creates the one link between mind and matter.

“I’ll go,” Ghost says, without thinking it through at all. He pretty much stopped listening after ‘Soap’s injured’, paying the barest attention to at least hear ‘the injury isn’t too bad’. But ‘not too bad’ can mean a lot of things. It could mean he’s not dead, or it could mean a fucking twisted ankle. 

“Where?” Ghost asks.

“Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital.”

Ghost’s head blanks. “What? Why the fuck are they in Norwich ?”

Gaz looks about as confused as Ghost does. “I don’t know. This is all the information I have.”

“No more detail than that?”

Gaz winces. “I shouldn’t even be telling you any of this. But look, none of us really know what’s going on. Price seems to be on a rampage and Echo only called long enough to say they were coming back, with a few exceptions. I only found out about Soap because Rook texted.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ghost mutters. “I need to go talk to Sarah.” Without letting Gaz get another word in, he turns on his heel and storms back out onto the training field.

He barges back into Sarah’s office with dirt still chasing his heels. “I need permission to get off base.”

“Ghost, you know you can-”

“Further this time.”

Sarah frowns. “How far?”

Ghost pauses. “Norwich.”

Sarah looks genuinely baffled for a moment before regaining her composure. “And why do you need to go to Norwich?”

“Soap’s injured.”

The silence drags out for far too long. If Ghost could kill it, he would. Unfortunately, his killing days are behind him. And killing abstract concepts are a little beyond even Ghost’s reach.

“Do you think that is a good idea?”

Ghost shrugs. “Do you?”

Sarah leans forward, hands clasped and in that firm way of hers says, “Look, that depends on you. I’m not scared of you being away. We can still talk, on call or video. And you’re going to be far from alone. What I am worried about is your feelings about Soap.”

Ghost shrugs. “Well I don’t fucking know.”

Sarah shoots him the look. “And that’s exactly it. Going in without safely unpacking those feelings is very likely to lead to more miscommunication between the two of you.” Sarah says and leans back in her chair. “Look, how about this. You book a train for this evening and we spend the next few hours going through a strategy, try and unpack this a little. I’ve got the time if you do.”

Ghost doesn’t hate the idea, but it feels dangerous. Therapy is exhausting, and on top of the problematic amount of adrenaline he’s running on right now, it feels like a bad mix. And yet he sits down anyway. By this point, he trusts Sarah more than himself, even if he doesn’t always like her.

And time goes on. Ghost books a train. Sarah talks. Ghost, even, miraculously talks back. They go through options and backup plans and a whole lot of feelings. The stress has Ghost at least one step removed from it all, not sure whether it’s actually him or another alter getting them through. Sam’s there. Yes, he’s definitely there. (Isn’t he always there?). Ghost can feel him. But whether he’s in control or not is a whole different question, and Ghost is so out of it that he doesn’t even have access to ask.

He just hopes that at least one of them retained the necessary information (though Sarah shoots him a knowing look and passes him over a piece of paper with a neat bullet-point list of most their talking points). Then he’s talking Gaz into a lift to Hereford station and waiting for the next train to fucking Birmingham, where he’ll have to get a goddamn coach to Norwich. All in all, it’ll be at least six hours, landing him at the hospital outside of visiting hours.

None of it feels good. None of it feels planned and Ghost hates it. This isn’t an improvisation mission, this is just his life, spiralling out of control again and again and again, like nothing can ever just go right.

Ghost is only vaguely aware of the journey to Birmingham and the notebook says that Sam was out for a good chunk of it, reading over Sarah’s notes.

Ghost comes to properly towards the end of the journey of the coach journey, head pounding and body aching with something deeper than the physical. He’s got a row to himself, the coach next to empty at this time of night, which at least gives him a little more legroom.

There are at least five rows until the next person, a kid with enormous headphones, head bobbing up and down to the beat. Then at least another three until the old couple napping in their seats.

So Ghost doesn’t feel bad about pulling out his phone and opening up the camera, plugging in his earphones so he can speak directly into the microphone. Being faced with his own face, barely covered by a medical-grade face mask and a cap, is…unpleasant, but bearable these days. He and Sarah haven’t exactly unravelled the whole thing but there’s been enough discussion about compromises with the mask, especially with the other alters, that Ghost has gotten — if not comfortable — used to it.

He presses record. “I just thought I should leave this,” he says quietly, voice barely a hush. “Just in case you come to and you don’t know what’s going on. I’ll leave something in the notebook too but I can’t really write it all out in detail there.” He has time to spare, sure, but frankly, his hand is going to cramp up if he tries to get this down.

Adjusting the mic a bit, he continues. “The guys have finished their mission and are on their way back. There’s been injuries and some casualties, though I don’t know who. Price is alright, though. Soap is injured, apparently not life-threateningly but that’s all I’ve been told. Gaz could only tell me so much. We’re on our way to Norwich, Soap’s in the hospital there.”

He takes in a deep breath and lets his head fall back, even though it means the camera is mostly just getting a good view of his neck. It looks like it hasn’t seen sunlight in years. “Had a session with Sarah, a really long one. About what to do with the whole Soap situation. And it’s…well, she said to talk to you guys. That we had to choose as a team. But look. I- Apparently he did apologise, at least according to Lex. Ashley’s just being a twat and not telling us. Or Lex is fucking lying. So glad to know that the whole cooperation thing’s already fucking crumbled. But just-” Ghost huffs. “Look. I know what he did was shit and he better fucking grovel. But I’m willing to forgive him. He’s…he means a lot to me, and even if you all fucking hate him, I can cope with that. You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to, that’s fine. But I don’t think I can give him up.”

He heaves in a shuddering breath and raises his eyebrows a little self-pityingly. “I’m a fucking idiot, aren’t I. Sarah got me to say it, you know. That love shit. Sappy bullshit, honestly. But she’s not wrong. I don’t know what that means about me, about any of us, but maybe I’m sick of caring all the time. Who’s going to be offended? We don’t have anyone anymore. Some of this shit is going to be…complicated, I know, but I…I just want to be with ‘im. I don’t care about much else. But, yeah, fuck, I’ve probably missed half of what I’m supposed to say but I’ve got the next twelve hours to think on it, don’t I, so…”

He looks back down at the screen, at the way one of his scars comes just below the trim of the hat, at the way his eyes sparkle with something embarrassingly desperate.

“We can talk about this more at some point. Just…that’s my piece. I’m out.”

He clicks record again and tries not to think about it for the rest of the journey.

— [redacted] —

Ghost is predictably turned away at the hospital’s front desk. He leaves without much fuss. It wasn’t like he expected to get in. Luckily, he’s already booked a room in the Premier Inn down the road, the sort that looks like every other Premier Inn in the country, with its placid beige walls and weird purple accents. But the room is nice, and the lock is secure enough for one night, even if he does move the armchair in front of it just in case.

Despite being the early hours of the morning, he doesn’t sleep. He’s too wired for that. There’s just…so much shit going on. And no matter how exhausted he is, sleep just won’t find him. So he watches those fucked up adverts that only play at bizarre hours and learns that he’s been both hoovering wrong and using the wrong product to clean his non-existent sink.

He probably does end up switching because by the time his alarm rings, it feels like an extraordinarily short time has passed. He remembers watching adverts and possibly writing down a thing or two but it feels difficult to cling to.

Blinking back the hazy memory, he opens up the notebook and sees that at least two others were out. Sam, who apparently had the time to write out a long rant about how Soap didn’t need to be forgiven. And then James, whose softer take does make Ghost feel slightly less mental. He knows Soap fucked up, he’s been angrier than all of them about it, but they can move on from it. Maybe it won’t be the same, but it won’t be this. He just wants Soap back in his life and to make sure he’s okay.

He checks the clock again, ever the paranoid, and decides that he probably has enough time to throw himself in the shower before he leaves for the hospital. All in all, he gets through his whole waking routine pretty quickly, with the sort of army efficiency that is no longer necessary but comforting nonetheless.

He leaves the room, hair still wet, backpack slung over his shoulder with the random shit he thought to buy at the train station for Soap: some chocolates and a can of coke gone warm. It’s not much of a gift but it's either that or flowers and for all Ghost has done some soul searching, he hasn’t gone that far.

“Ghost?”

He spins on his heel to see Price leaving his own room, only about two down from him. He doesn’t know what to say. It’s been so long since he’s talked to Price, between the mission and the prep before it, neither of them have ever really managed to clear the air between them.

But no matter what, Price is Ghost’s rock. Tumultuous feelings or not, Ghost trusts him.

“Price. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Price cocks an eyebrow, a level of derision usually saved for special occasions. “Or did you hope not to? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You expected me to stay on base?”

There’s a moment of silence between them before Price snorts and steps forward so they’re not shouting down a corridor. “Course not. You here for your boy?”

“He’s not my boy,” Ghost grouses.

“Of course not. Come on, I’ll tell you what room he’s in.”

Price leads him to the elevator in a comfortable silence. It’s only once they’re in the lift that Price finally gives him a look over. “How you been?”

“Fine. You? Sounds like a tough mission.”

Price shrugs. “They’re all tough. But yeah, we lost people.”

“Who?” Ghost isn’t in a place to be told, in all honesty, but he knows he’ll probably be invited to the funerals. He’ll know eventually.

“Alpha lost Westbrook and Worm. We lost Meat.”

“Jesus fuck.” It should be easier to hear by now. It’s certainly far from the first time he’s been given a list of casualties, and it’s far from the longest. But it still hurts. These aren’t even his men anymore and yet the guilt claws at his stomach.

The small voice that screams what if you were there? Would the outcome have been different?

It’s a pointless thing to think, of course it is. But Ghost hasn’t exactly had a good grasp on rational thought in a while. Or it hasn’t felt like it anyway. He spends most of his time dazed, confused and hoping he hasn’t fucked something up without even being aware of it. He’s been hyper-vigilant about the small things — the notebook shifting an inch to the left, his hoodie being left on the wrong hook — instead of the clearer, bigger picture.

This feels somewhat like a shadow cast over all of it. Ghost’s been feeling shit for months, locked in therapy that sometimes feels like it's made no progress at all, but for as much as he misses what came before, there is also this. There is death, and mourning, and the constant feeling of loss.

And really, for the first time in his life, Ghost is close to safe.

He feels like a bastard. He hears about the dead and can only think about how much he’s alive, but how is a man really supposed to cope with all this? It was always his tactic. They’re dead, I’m not. Keep going. March on. Chin up, knees high. Keep fucking going.

He can see Price do the same. The man is untouchable, but Ghost knows better. Knows that these things sit on his heart, weighing him down every single day. And it’s not even really about the death, that’s a known fact for all of them, it’s the what could I have done better or could I have saved them or making that mistake cost my men their lives. An endless self-flagellation. Questions that can never be answered; thoughts that can’t be disproved. The sort of thing that toys with your psyche, that leads soldiers down dark paths. 

“You alright?” Ghost eventually says, just as the lift reaches the ground floor.

Price just smiles. “You really have been in therapy, haven’t you.”

Ghost snorts. What a way to dodge the question. “And you haven’t had enough.”

“Isn’t that right,” Price says with a somewhat sinister grin. “Come on, we’ll get a taxi over.”

And that’s that.

— [redacted] —

Soap’s on the second floor of a crumbling building that is probably fifty years from its glory days. It’s not a private room because they couldn’t even shell that out for an injured soldier but it’s at least not overly loud. The beds are full but mostly elderly patients, more than half of them asleep.

Price leads him all the way up to the corridor before leaving him. “There’s plenty of things to get done. You just talk to your boy.”

“ Not my boy.”

Price just smiles. “Sure thing.” Then he pats his shoulder and leaves right back where they came from. Then it’s just Ghost, the door and his own bloody demons. But no second-guessing now, he’s come all this way.

Trying to act normal, he makes his way in, pushing his mask just a little higher up his face and looking around the room. Soap is near the door, just two beds along, scowling at his phone.

“Soap.”

He drops the phone.

“Ghost?”

“Funny meeting you here.”

Soap smiles like he’s been faced with the sun after a year in a dank cellar. “Real funny. What are you doing here?”

Ghost rolls his eyes. “What do you think?”

Soap swallows thickly. “After last time, I-”

“Apparently you apologised to Ashley,” Ghost cuts in, taking a seat by Soap’s bed and keeping his voice low. He’d really rather the whole rest of the ward didn’t hear this. “That true?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

Ghost rolls her eyes. “You expected her to? Shit’s not all sunshine and rainbows up here,” Ghost says, knocking the side of his head. “There’s been arguments. But Lex says she did.”

Soap frowns, the sort that feels comically exaggerated but is just so Soap. “Who’s Lex?”

“Oh, right. You missed some stuff. An alter. But look, just-” Ghost sighs and grits his teeth. He has to get this right. “What you said was shit. Really shit. But I’ve had some time to think, and to talk and I just…I’m still fucking pissed but I’m willing to move past it.”

“You are?”

Ghost nods. “I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t.”

“Oh thank god,” Soap says, leaning back in his bed. “I cannae lose you, you know. It sounds fucking pathetic of me but I really can’t.” His eyes well up and Ghost almost calls him out for being an embarrassing cunt before it all rushes back. Soap was a Sergeant on the fucking Alpha Team, Meat was lost on his watch. And as much as he seems physically fine bar a cast on his arm, he’s clearly not going to be fine.

“You speak to Grace yet?”

Soap gives him a wobbly smile. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Ghost just shrugs. Soap already knows. There’s so much they don’t need to say. And so much they do need to say on top of that. But Ghost doesn’t even know where to start. He and Sarah had practised so many scenarios that now he can’t even pick.

It all just seems…anticlimactic, with Soap right there in front of him. No grand arguments or dramatic love confessions. Just them.

Soap beats him to it. “How have you been? Really?”

Ghost smiles. “Good. I-” Ghost snorts a quiet laugh. “You know, I got better to spite you. That was what it started with. I was so fucking angry and I wanted to prove a point. And I’m not great but I’m getting better, I think. Working harder. Been reaching out a bit, hanging out with Gaz.” Ghost looks to the end of the bed, unable to face Soap as he continues. “I don’t need you. I proved that. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss you, even if I’m really shit at showing it. Even to myself. And I should warn you, some — most — of the system isn’t happy about this. But I don’t care. You fucked up, we fucked up. I just want to move on.”

“A’ course,” Soap says. “Me too.”

“Forgiven but not forgotten alright? Not entirely.”

Soap just smiles and says, “I’d shake on it but my hand is out of commission.”

Ghost huffs a laugh. "Broken?”

“Unfortunately. Out of commission the next few months whilst it heals up right. Price doesn’t want me fucking it up. You know how I am.” Ghost was his fucking superior, of course he does. Soap will work himself into the ground to improve himself, even if he doesn’t realise that it’s only making everything worse by pushing too far. Competitive bastard. “Going back to Scotland when I’m out of here.”

“Why are you still here?” Ghost asks. “Not like they need to keep you overnight.”

“Blunt trauma to the head. They want to keep an eye on me but I think I’m alright.”

Ghost shrugs. “No dumber than usual anyway.”

“Ach, fuck off!” Soap gripes, his smile betraying him. “I didn’t miss you one bit, you bastard.”

“Sure you didn’t.”

They sit there for a while, Ghost doing a round of chess on his phone as Soap watches, asking annoying questions and making shit suggestions whilst Ghost suffers it good-naturedly. It’s almost scary how easily they fall back into this. Ghost knows they’ll need to actually talk at some point, and he knows Sarah wants to get them both in to talk to her at some point, but right now he doesn’t want to rage. Even if it’s a little awkward, he wants to remember what it was like to just be together. Because at the end of the day, that’s what feels important. There’s been so many ups and downs and loopty-fucking-loops but this is at the core of what they are together. Just this. The type of people that live together in harmony. Peace.

Soap doesn’t need any of the other shit right now. The man will be grieving, and tired, and probably in pain. The least Ghost can do is play his part and give him some reprieve.

Chapter Text

Sam feels like he doesn’t get a moment at his desk anymore. It’s always been the place where he could organise everything away from James’ incessant snark. But now that most of them have clustered in the house, Sam feels like hiding away out here is more an act of cowardice than smart-thinking.

So he starts sleeping in his bedroom, hanging out in the living room, even cooking in the kitchen, even if his skills leave much to be desired. He builds something more than looking after Ghost. Ghost still needs him a lot, relies on him for most basic things, but Sam can multitask, and it’s much easier to do so if he lands back in the mansion rather than the office suite.

It helps that Lex is unnerving enough that Sam doesn’t want to be down there. Lex’s predecessor always had an air of mystery that Sam resented. But despite the others’ thoughts on It, Sam never minded them. He feared them only for what they could do, not what they were.

Lex is scary for an entirely different reason. A strange mist-mash of unaligned personalities and discordant appearances. An entirely unpredictable entity, who could be anything and everything. 

But there’s more to it than that.

It brings the threat of fusion and change. The threat of destabilising the system they’ve been trying so hard to build. Of alters shifting and changing, of parts of the system collapsing and the rest of them picking up the pieces. 

What happens if Sam were to fuse instead? What would Ghost do? 

Sam saw what happened last time. It was an utter disaster. But their life was also a disaster then. To have it now would be catastrophic.

Facing Lex is like having to face a hard truth about the future.

So Sam remains far from the offices and pretty much entirely moves into the mansion. There’s even a study on the third floor that he repurposes, dragging most of his stuff up the hill, leaving only some of the more confidential files down below for Lex to keep an eye on.

Which seems to make it a lot more easy for people to just barge their way in on a whim.

“Are you going to finally listen to me?” Ashley shouts, slamming the door behind her. She’s a fury cloud of puffed-up blonde hair and ice-blue eyes. Ashley has never really managed to look scary, but Sam knows better. Whilst manageable, the pattern of behaviour over the last week has put her in a dangerous spot. 

Frankly, her outbursts are worse than Riley’s right now. The sullen teen mostly tends to mope around, hiding in his room and only talking to James. Ashley is on a warpath and determined to drag everyone into it, even the kids. She won’t talk about it, deems it too obvious to explain and has decided that the fact that everyone else hasn’t sided with her is some sort of conspiracy against her personally.

She’s falling into dangerous territory without even seeming to realise it.

Sam won’t let her. He just can’t. For the system, sure, but for Ashley too. She’s been hurt, and holds more of that than many of them do. A lot of the rest of the system’s memories are similar, a sort of mismatched picture that becomes clear when put together. Ashley suffered something else entirely, something completely foreign to them. She’s an island, drifting further and further away. And it’s Sam’s job to make sure that she’s safe, that she feels safe.

But it’s all good thinking about it and all. It doesn’t matter if he can’t put it into practice.

Sam sighs. “I have been listening to you,” he says, getting up from behind his desk and sitting on it. Nothing between them.

“No, you haven’t!” Ashley shouts. “Riley’s still fucking here!”

Sam grits his teeth and looks down, hands white-knuckling the desk. “I told you that’s not how this is going to work.”

“He tried to kill me!”

“That’s not true-”

“It is! I don’t get why you won’t listen to me.”

Sam shuts his eyes and prays to a god he doesn’t believe in. “Ashley,” he says, looking up and locking their eyes. “What Riley did to you was horrible, it was. Awful. But if this is going to work, we need to work on it and move past it. That does not mean forgetting it, or even forgiving it. But it does mean cooperating with us. And that means both of you in the mansion. You don’t have to interact with him in any way, you don’t, I’m not asking that of you. But trying to split you up is going to destabilise the entire system.”

Ashley’s lips tremble, wet eyes boring into Sam’s. “You don’t get it. What it’s like to be around him. What I fucking feel when I see him.”

Sam doesn’t know. They escaped their first tormentors a long time ago, and their next tormentors not that much later. But Sam wasn’t scared of them. That’s the point of him. So he doesn’t fucking know and he knows that. But right now, his focus is on making sure that this doesn’t topple down behind him, and Ashley falling into line is a lot better than the alternative right now, painful or not.

Accusations of selfishness will get him nowhere, no matter how near the tip of his tongue they are. Instead, he restrains himself and lets his shoulders drop. 

“I don’t understand,” he admits, “but there just isn’t another option right now.”

“You could get rid of him,” Ashley says, like that’s obvious.

“And what would that accomplish? To make Riley more scared? Angry? So that when he eventually gets back, because he will, he’ll take it all out on you, just so much worse. Riley has issues, we know, but whilst he’s here, we can work towards rehabilitation. James has already made good progress with him.”

Ashley isn’t even listening anymore. “He nearly killed us,” she hisses again, a stray tear escaping. “Why don’t you understand that?”

“I do -”

“Stop saying that!” She screeches. “I’m sick of this. I’m sick of you. I’m sick of everything.”

“Ashley-”

“No!”

And with that, she’s gone, and Sam immediately runs out of his office and down the hill.

— [redacted] —

Lex sits at his desk, pondering. The days are more boring than he expected. Alex had expected so much wonder when escaping his cage, and It had never had the human emotion to suffer boredom. But really, his job here is to protect more than any particularly active role. Sometimes he has to work to make sure things are in their right place, or stay there at least, and he certainly has a lot of busy work with memories. But Ghost has been in the front for a few days now, which makes the act of filing a whole lot simpler for him.

He’s starting to wonder whether he should take a tour of the grounds when Sam barges into his office, panting, hands on his knees like he’s just run a marathon.

“Sam?”

“Lex, oh fuck. I shouldn’t have run that fast.”

Lex smiles. “No, it seems not. Is there something you need?”

Sam nods, heaving in a few breaths before straightening and cracking his back. “Oh god,” he says, with one last deep breath. “Right, urgent. It’s Ashley. She can’t be let near the front.”

“You know my control is limited,” Lex says.

“I know,” Sam says, “but please. She’s going to do something bad, I know it. And we’re finally somewhere good. I mean, I don’t trust this shit with Soap but Ghost is feeling good, at least. And frankly, if Soap fucks us over again and Ashley is still like this-”

“We could be at threat of harming ourselves again?” Lex finishes.

Sam just nods, wiping his hands down his face. “Fuck, I thought we were over this.”

“Explain.”

“Ashley is on a rampage. She can’t handle Riley being back.” 

A faint memory flitters through Lex’s mind that Riley should have never come back. That it would have been healthier for all of them for him to be out of the equation. The more sensible part of him reminds them why that’s a terrible, terrible idea. They’re lucky Riley is being as forgiving as he is, and most of that is down to the fact that It doesn’t exist (well, not in the same sense anyway) and James’ continued influence. That doesn’t mean he’s any less of a wild card, though. A problem that requires careful monitoring just in case he explodes. And they really don’t need Ashley setting him off.

“She doesn’t think anyone is listening to her,” Sam continues. “The way she was speaking…it just reminded me of what could happen. Of what it was like last time.”

“When?”

Sam shoots him a look. “You know when. Ghost didn’t fucking eat for a week.”

Lex leans back in his chair, surprised at his own calm. Is that It? It must be. Alex was never this calm. It’s all getting so jumbled. He guesses it’s supposed to. “We won’t let it get there again.”

“You just said you didn’t have control over it!” Sam explodes. “Fuck, sorry. I’m just…we were so close .”

“And we still are. We are not far from being in a very good place. Ashley can be sorted.”

Sam sighs. “She’s not going to forgive us for this.”

“We’ll work something out. Something always finds a way.”

— [redacted] —

James tucks Matilda in and waves at Jake, who’s taken to sleeping in the same room, tucked in an almost entirely matching bed, down to the bright pink sheets and ratty bear under his arm, its ears singed. He flicks the nightlight on but keeps the door firmly shut on his way out. They’re all prone to noise-making in this house — nightmares, flashbacks, screaming tantrums, full-blown arguments, you name it — but James does his best to keep it away from the kids. To shield Matilda most of all, whose naivety about the whole situation borders on absurd.

But Jake is slowly telling her a thing or two and James doesn’t have the heart to stop him. The kid needs someone to speak to, and he’s not got any friends his age on the outside. James isn’t even sure of the practicalities of that if they ever could, unless they managed to find another system.

Jake’s bogged down in enough of their shit, he deserves to be able to talk about it to someone he likes, a friend. Even if it means that Matilda is learning slowly that things aren’t all sunshine and rainbows.

But nothing can shield her from the way Jake will wake up screaming. James can protect them from the outside, but he can’t protect them from within. He just hopes Matilda can help Jake, rather than fear it.

He can only hope tonight is a good night, though. Jake was in a good mood today and has been dealing well. It doesn’t seem like a night for an episode, but the triggers can fly around the corner without warning sometimes. James feels a little like he’s having the same sleepless nights as he did when Matilda was just a baby.

This time of the evening is really the only reprieve James can find, and given that he gets pushed to the front every time Ghost needs support and Sam is otherwise tied up, this feels like the first time in a while that James has had a moment to himself.

Not that he minds. That’s his purpose. To help. To care. It’s a selfish impulse that leads him to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle and grabbing his favourite tin. It’s an even worse selfishness when he takes it up to his bedroom and locks the door, sitting in his bed and letting himself just take a moment.

He even gets a bit of it.

But all rest is eventually broken, this time by a rapid three strikes on his door. “Who is it?”

“Let me in,” a weak but familiar voice says.

James bolts out of his bed, mostly empty mug put to the side, and goes to unlock the door. “Riley? What is it?”

Riley doesn’t answer, barging into James’ room and pacing the floor. He’s not breathing right, chest heaving in staccato rhythms. He’s all frenetic energy and untapped anger, which isn’t exactly unusual. What is unusual is the way it’s bottled. Riley is the type to lash out, to strike whatever’s coming at him full-force. To blow away the fear with rage, just as their father did.

Now he’s not saying anything.

“Talk to me,” James demands, blocking off Riley’s path and holding him down by the shoulders. “What happened?”

“I can’t be in there,” Riley says, throat closing up. “I just can’t.”

“Where?”

“My room. That fucking room! I just- it feels wrong. I feel like I’m going to be taken and I can’t-” He’s hyperventilating, which takes priority over the fear. Right now, James needs to make him feel safe.

He leads Riley to his bed and perches him on the end, hands still on his shoulders, thumb stroking up and down in regular rhythms. He doesn’t speak. Riley’s never liked speaking. But noise is good, grounding, for all of them. So rather rustily, James begins to hum. No words, not even a particular tune, just a discordant humming as Riley heaves in choked breaths.

Keep up the grounding touch, keep up the tune, make sure Riley’s hands are touching back, that he can feel something in return. “Flashback or panic attack?” James asks as Riley blinks back tears and looks at the ceiling.

“I don’t know,” Riley whispers. 

“It’s alright,” James says, keeping his hands moving. “You’re safe here. No one’s coming to get you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Lex wouldn’t.” James barely knows the guy but that much seems clear. As hidden in his office as he is, his videos tell an enlightening story. And James is happy to believe him, if only because if he doesn’t, he’s going to be buried under the weight of his own worry. “And I’m here.”

Riley snorts. “And what are you going to do?”

“Snatch you out of their cold dead hands if I need to. Come on. You want a drink?”

Riley nods so James helps him off the bed and down the stairs. Over James’ mission to get in Riley’s good graces, he’s learnt two things: he’s not a big fan of tea, and he’s got a sweet tooth bigger than the system’s actual children. But hot chocolate isn’t difficult to make, especially if he’s just using the powdered stuff. It’s just a matter of boiling the milk and dumping the powder in. Riley loves it anyway, and takes the opportunity to put as much whipped cream as will balance on top of it all, with a layer of marshmallows melting underneath.

By the time they both have a mug in their hands — James’ a much more reserved half-mug of the same — Riley is looking much better. Frazzled, sure, but further from an active meltdown.

He knows the deal with this by now. Don’t talk about it, not face-on. Try to find the issue, to dig around without sending him into a tizzy. A delicate balancing act, but one that’s worked so far.

So they drink their hot chocolate and chatter about everything and nothing as James tries to reveal the truth. It doesn’t work. Not this time. But he says to himself that it will next time. Riley’s breaking down, brick by brick. But James is there to make sure he’s not crumbling, just ensure that those protective walls are dismantled. It’s rewarding, in its own strange way. And James genuinely likes Riley, in a way that the others don’t. They gel well. It’s fun.

So James doesn’t mind when Riley asks to sleep in his bed, desperate for a change of scene. James lets him and treks his way downstairs to sleep on the sofa in the tiny living room, the fire roaring with the thought that he’s starting to make a real difference.

— [redacted] —

“Alex?” Simon says. “Alex, where are you?”

— [redacted] —

Mist is just screaming. Always screaming. 

— [redacted] —

Ghost only gets to visit Soap once more before Soap is being shipped off and Ghost has no choice but to go back to base. In a way, he’s glad. His emotions are all over the place and Ghost can’t tell whether it’s because Soap is back in the picture or because something’s going on inside. He knows the symptoms of it by now, the way his emotions don’t seem to match anything else. Just sudden rushes of inexplicable feeling.

Ghost is just glad to be getting away. He feels…unpredictable, like this. The paranoia that crawls at his feet is a constant companion. But at least it’s dulled these days, worn down by repetition and slowly evolving coping mechanisms. But that doesn’t make it nicer when he sees the world around him shift without even realising time has passed, or to feel himself change, to morph into something that isn’t him, could never be him, but he’s there, he can feel it-

He shakes his head and dismisses the thought. Dwelling on it makes it so much worse.

The train is almost at Hereford. After this, it’s just a taxi ride back to base. It feels smoother than the last journey, all that electric anxiety fading into a different kind of nerves. Long-term fears are swallowing up short-term worries. What is he going to do with Soap? What is going to do with a grieving base that he can’t interact with? What is he going to do with the Alpha Team back?

They’re not questions that he can answer, but that’s the worst of it. He can’t plan any of this shit. The best he can do is wait to see what hits him and deal with the consequences.

He hates it.

He doesn’t spot the videos until he’s waiting by the side of the road, his taxi still minutes out. Two have been left, both marked from last night. Ghost can tell the first is from Sam just from the preview, though the second just brings up a vague emotional memory that Ghost can’t truly parse. But the strange discordance of it inexplicably reminds him of Lex. 

He doesn’t want to watch them in public. There’s still something sacred about the whole thing, like opening it up out here is somehow going to reveal the truth to everyone. It’s funny that he doesn’t feel the same protectiveness about filming himself. Maybe that’s just the role he plays. Revealing himself to the world so the others don’t have to. 

Things seem to rush by quickly from there, whether it’s boredom or some still deep-lingering panic, Ghost doesn’t remember much. He knows they sat in the taxi but he doesn’t know if he sat in the taxi, but it’s fine. They’re back and nothing has changed.

Everything is fine.

He lets the day pass him by, sort of mindlessly going through the motions without ever really thinking about it. He says hi to Gaz and nods at Peasant when they pass in the corridor. He thinks he even got food, though he couldn’t tell you what they ate.

He manages to almost entirely dissociate from everyday life right until he walks into Sarah’s office and falls under the burden of trying to explain the confused position he’s in. Is he good? Bad? Neither? Because he doesn’t fucking know either.

He falls down into the chair and looks out the window. It feels less stifling, suddenly; a bit more like how it used to feel. If he really wanted, he could just go out there. No one’s going to stop him and he doesn’t know how he didn’t realise that before. Just…no one had really brought it up.

Well, no, that’s a lie. Sarah brought up going out plenty and Ghost had ignored her, again and again and again. Because he’d tricked himself into believing it, and was too stubborn to let Sarah persuade him otherwise.

But he left, crossed the fucking country, and he’s fine. He thinks anyway. He seems fine.

“How are you feeling?” Sarah asks, the same smile that always puts Ghost at ease. It’s strange, this is still the first time he’s missed a session with Sarah on purpose, and not because he’s either confused, dissociated or switched out. It shouldn’t make a difference, but it feels like it does. 

“Fine,” Ghost says honestly. He thinks it’s true. He doesn’t know what else to call this emotion.

“How was your trip?”

Ghost shrugs and stares out the window. He’s not even sure he’s taking in the sights. “It was fine. Saw Soap. He’s fine too. Broke his arm, he’ll be on leave for a while. But he’s okay.”

Sarah shoots him that look. “And how did your conversation with him go?”

Ghost shrugs, lips twisting. “Good. I think. I didn’t say much, though. I didn’t- he’s got other shit going on, I wasn’t going to add to it. I said my bit and we left it at that.”

Sarah frowns. “So what did you discuss?”

“I said I wanted to be friends again. Forgive but not forget sort of thing. Kinda. Not much more.”

Sarah nods. “So you didn’t go over everything?”

Ghost shrugs. “It wasn’t the time.”

“Was it really not the time or did you just decide not to talk about it?” Sarah asks astutely. Ghost’s stomach swoops, which is probably as much an answer as anything.

“Both. I don’t know. I really don’t. It was bad timing and Soap was upset and I just- it’s a lot. But it was good,” Ghost assures, because that feels just as important. “I liked being around him again, I just… Sometimes I feel great around him but sometimes all I can remember is what he said.”

“Ghost,” Sarah says, settling him with a serious look, “I’m not sure you’re going to like this but I think you need to hear this. Right now, you’ve got a choice. Either you think you can trust Soap and go forward with a clean slate. Or you can’t. There is no right or wrong answer, that’s not how this works. This is about what you are capable of. Because you can care about Soap all you like but if you can’t trust him, any relationship with him will only break down.”

Sarah sighs. She looks genuinely sorry. It only sets Ghost further on edge. “Sometimes, it’s safer to leave now rather than later. This isn’t some way to say you don’t care about him, it’s clear that you do. But sometimes that means it's best for both of you to leave before something makes it worse. Or, and as I said, neither choice is in any way better than the other, you decide you can trust him and move forward as you are. These are morally neutral choices, no right or wrong. You can choose to trust, if you think you can, but you can’t force it. Right now, you need to think through whether you really think you can trust him, not whether you want to.”

Ghost nods, looking anywhere but Sarah. This isn’t anything he hasn’t told himself but it feels like a bullet to the chest anyway. The idea of leaving Soap whilst he still has this one opportunity to have him-

But to trust. To let go of this anger and put his faith in him again. Can he? Really? The shit Soap said…

“I don’t know. I really don’t,” Ghost says, voice weak.

“Then think about it. Because neither you nor Soap deserve to drag this out when you don’t know what you want. And you can talk to him too. This isn’t all on your shoulders. You both need a productive conversation about where you want to go from here. What happened happened because communication broke down. So do better this time, for each other.”

Ghost pastes on a false smile. His head is a muddled mess; he needs time to think. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Of course. Is there anything else on your mind?”

— [redacted] —

Ghost looks at his phone for a long time. There’s only so many excuses that can roll through his mind, only so many alters that can put their opinion down before Ghost wants to try and shut them out altogether. Sam has put his usual unimpressed act on, and James is only about as positive as the guy ever gets with him. Jake seems excited, at least.

But in the end, it’s Ghost’s own conscience that has him dialling Soap’s number, holding his phone up to his ear and leaning back on his bed. It feels easier to speak like this, staring blankly up at the ceiling, secure behind his mask even when Soap can’t see it.

“Ghost?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he says, a small smile already twitching on his lips. He feels like a fool. But no matter how much he wants to deny it, Soap makes him excited. It probably doesn’t help that Jake is practically bounding between the front and the inner world with reckless abandon.

Say hi from me!

“Jake says hi,” Ghost adds. “He’s happy I’m speaking to you.”

“That’s great,” Soap says, though it sounds a little awkward. Ghost understands. It’s not very often that someone tells you the other person in their head says hi. But, well, Soap is used to it. It’s just been a while. At least that’s what Ghost tells himself. 

“And the others?” Soap asks.

“Fine. We’re working on it.”

Soap makes a sound before he cuts himself off. Ghost can hear him breathing. It’s more comforting than it should be, even if the awkwardness needles its way under his skin. “Did you call for anything?”

Everything and nothing. Fuck. What is he supposed to say? “Just wanted to see how you were. You get home alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, arrived at my sister’s place safe and sound. Kids are something to get used to again but it’s been nice.”

“You’re an uncle?” Ghost can’t keep the surprise from his voice. It makes sense, if he really thinks about it. But there’s some combination of Soap’s age and lifestyle that just makes Ghost forget he has a family at all. Not everyone is like Ghost, he has to remind himself. Not everyone has left a trail of the dead behind them.

“Why’d you sound so surprised?

“I don’t know. It’s just…yeah, fuck, I don’t know. Can’t imagine you domestic, can I?”

“I can be right domestic!” Soap argues indignantly. “I’ll have you know that I’m a brilliant cook.”

“Now why does that sound like a lie,” Ghost says with a wry smile. “I bet you burn everything.”

Ghost can practically hear Soap fuming. The man’s got a competitive streak that borders on dangerous. Egg him on and you’re in for a fight. Ghost loves it.

“Just because I explode stuff, doesnae mean that I fucking char food too, you cunt.”

Ghost smiles wider. “You’re gonna have to prove it.”

“Oh, you’re going to get so many photos,” Soap says. “Though my arm is a right pain. But I can work around it.”

“Don’t strain it,” Ghost warns. “Let it heal.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know, I know. I’ve got this spiel a thousand times,” Soap says, which means he’s ignored it a thousand times too. He really is a stubborn bastard.

The conversation dies a sudden death, Ghost’s mouth floundering for words it doesn’t have. He knows what he should say, what Sarah has told him to say a million times already, but each time he’s here, it just seems to go.

“Ghost?”

Ghost, come on, Sam suddenly says, pressing forward. You’ve gotta say this.

Ghost shakes his head, like Sam is just another bad thought to get rid of it. “I can’t,” he whispers, realising his mistake too late.

“Can’t what?”

“Fuck, no, ignore that,” Ghost says desperately.

“Oh, are you talking with one of the others?”

“Sam’s just being a pain,” Ghost says, pinching his nose hard enough to burn.

“Pretty sure Sam is the sensible one. If he’s got something to say, it’s usually important.”

See, Sam says, far too smug for a man who keeps telling Ghost that this thing with Soap is a bad idea. Tell him.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, fine. Look, apparently I’m supposed to talk shit out with you,” Ghost says. “But it doesn’t seem like the right time. You’ve just lost your men and we’re on the fucking phone and-”

“It’s fine,” Soap cuts off. “Grace said we should communicate better, you know.” He huffs a laugh. “I was a fucking idiot for not even really trying before.”

Ghost almost wants to argue that people shouldn’t have to try but he’s learnt the hard way that that just isn’t how life works. Some friendships are easy, but the important relationships in life are the ones you have to work hardest on. 

“Sarah said the same.”

“Of course she did,” Soap says. “Look. What happened…I cannae excuse it, I know I can’t. But I’m sorry. I just got overwhelmed by shit that was nothing to do with you and I lashed out. I didnae mean it, I promise.”

Ghost nods. “Sarah said that if we do this- whatever. I don’t know. If we want to go back to how it was, then I have to trust you.” It’s an avoidant answer and they both know it. It’s not an I forgive you, or I can’t forgive you. It’s just…empty.

Soap, of course, doesn’t stand for empty words. “Can you?”

Ghost breathes in deep and lets out a shaky exhale. It’s the same thing that’s been repeating over and over again. The same dilemma that he comes to every time. “I want to,” he says. “I just…” He doesn’t know. He doesn’t fucking know.

“It’s fine,” Soap says, though he sounds anything but. “If you can’t do this then…”

“No,” Ghost says, voice stronger. “No, fuck that,” he says. “I want this. I do. I will. I can. Fuck, just, it’s not gonna be easy is it?”

“Nothing with us ever is,” Soap says. “But you know, that’s what all that therapy shit is for, right? Doing this right.”

Well, Soap and Ghost are in therapy for vastly different reasons. But the point stands. “Yeah. We can do this right.”

“Look, I’ve got to go. My sister’s made dinner. But call me, okay? I’ll always pick up.”

Ghost smiles. “Roger that. Look after that arm.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Soap says. “I’ll speak soon.” And with that, the call clicks off. It’s a start.

— [redacted] —

“Ghost.”

It’s strange how unusual it feels to have Price around again. They weren’t gone that long. But Ghost had always lived such a transitory life, on short-term deployment after deployment. This is probably the longest Ghost has ever been forced down on base. Longer even than the time he fucked his shoulder.

“Price.”

“My office,” he says, in that brusque, no-nonsense way that reels Ghost right back to the old days. He’s gotten too used to informality. Of storming into Sarah’s office, or shooting the shit with Gaz. He’s forgotten the rigid use of titles and politeness that have been ingrained in him since he was 18.

It feels like another part of him lost.

Ghost follows him like the good little soldier he is and takes a seat in front of Price’s gargantuan desk. Price looks harried, maybe just fucking tired. But who wouldn’t be, after a long deployment and still stuck doing the paperwork? There’s a reason Ghost never signed up for promotion. He’d gotten Lieutenant rank by luck and a period in his life where officer training seemed like the only way to go to escape the fucking hellscape going on otherwise. He’d never wanted to be a leader, not one fucking bit, even if he’d discovered he was good at it. That was just never his priority.

Without a word, Price hands something over. It takes Ghost a good few seconds to realise what it is, his mind scrambling to keep up with the implications. A small plastic ID: Simon Riley, born 1988, Manchester.

“You did it.”

“No links to your old identity except by coincidence. We haven’t revived you. To everyone else’s knowledge, that Simon Riley is dead. You’ve got a fresh start.”

Ghost breaks out into a dangerous sort of laughter, muffled but unstoppable, lungs spasming painfully.

“Ghost?”

“Sorry,” he says, trying to get in a breath. “I just- I didn’t expect this.”

Price raises a single eyebrow. “You didn’t think I could?”

Ghost shrugs. “Didn’t think anyone could. This is- I can go? Leave base, I mean.”

“Yeah, you can go.”

Ghost nods, laughter dying down in a baseline panic. He’s not even sure what he is panicking about but he pushes it down. No, this is good. Definitely good. Fuck the panic. He’s a fucking SAS specialist, he walked in deadly LZs without a flinch. Fuck panicking over nothing, over and over and over again.

Don’t think like that. Just…don’t. This? This is good.

And yet he still feels a little like he can’t breathe.

“I need to go talk to Sarah.”

“Alright,” Price says. “But Ghost? Look after yourself.”

Ghost smiles, though he doubts Price can see it. “You too.” And however much it’s just another platitude, Ghost means it. He does. Maybe because he knows Price doesn’t. So when he’s halfway out the door, he draws on the fucking months of therapy he’s got, sucks it up, and says, “I mean it. Don’t work yourself to death. They need you.”

“I’m fine,” Price says, and even manages to sound like he means it.

Ghost just nods. He doesn’t believe it for a second. “Sure,” he says, grabbing the door handle. “I’ll see you around.” And then he’s out the door.

— [redacted] —

Ghost sits in his usual spot as Sarah patiently waits for him to put his words together. To try and figure out this muddle of emotion inside him.

“I can’t tell,” he eventually says, “whether it’s an alters emotions leaking in or whether I’m anxious about something and I don’t realise it.”

Sarah nods. “That’s normal. It’s even possible it’s an aspect of both. Talk it through with me.”

Ghost nods, awash with exhaustion. He’s sick of thinking, even if he knows he has to. It’s dreary outside but it’s still pleasant to look at, small flecks of drizzle painting the window, the fields nothing more than a green blur. It feels a bit like dissociating. “Price gave me my ID, said everything’s in place.”

Ghost shifts in his seat and starts to pick at his nails. Almost immediately, Sarah holds something out that she hasn’t before. “You need to stop picking at your nails,” she explains. “I should have gotten you this sooner, that’s an oversight on my part.”

Ghost looks at it. It looks like a kid’s toy, though it’s less garishly coloured. A fidget toy, he thinks.

“What am I going to do with this?”

“Whatever you want to,” Sarah says. “Use it how you want to or don’t use it at all. But stop picking at your nails.”

The pain is good, Ghost wants to say. He doesn’t. He’s not an idiot. Instead, he takes the fidget toy from Sarah and continues to think.

“I was fine. Then Price mentioned that I was free to leave and-” Ghost starts to fidget almost immediately. It’s not even a conscious effort, it’s just happening and it helps, in a way he didn’t expect it to. He feels childish, fiddling around with a toy like this. He’s a little worried it might bring Jake out if he focuses on it too much. “It just made me feel anxious.”

“Are you anxious to leave?”

Ghost thinks on it, lets himself really think it through, point by point. “I think so. This is all I’ve ever known.”

Sarah nods. “You do know that this doesn’t mean you have to leave right away. I do think it’s better, in the long run, for you to leave this behind. It would be conducive to a much more healthy lifestyle. But that doesn’t mean it has to happen now. We’re trying to keep your safety net under you. Give yourself time to look at places you might want to move, how you want to implement your life into a new location and context. Don’t rush it. No one is kicking you out anytime soon.”

“How do you know that?” Ghost accuses. “This is Price’s base.”

“And you know he wouldn’t,” Sarah says, giving Ghost a pointed look. “He would fight through hell and high water to make sure you were in a good place.”

Ghost sighs. He does know, and yet that doesn’t make it an easy pill to swallow. Doesn’t make it any easier to believe.

He fidgets. It’s easier than words. Easier than trying to process safety when he’s so used to it being pulled out from beneath him. Impossible to put faith in something that hasn’t failed him so far, because he knows that eventually everything does.

He can feel Jake coming forward. It’s inevitable, and he’s just glad he can catch it. He’s fading out, he knows he is. Tough conversations do that to him, and he’s always been switchiest in therapy, even if they’ve gotten quite good at giving the reins back to Ghost unless someone wants to talk to Sarah about something specific. Sarah has been quite forward about wanting to talk predominantly to Ghost in the stabilisation stage; as host, it’s predominantly on him to make sure that they are living their life comfortably and safely. They all know the next stage is going to be a different beast entirely. The closer they get, the more Ghost can feel the system gearing up for it.

Still, better to gear up than to throw themselves unprepared.

“I-” Ghost says, but the thought trail is lost. His mind is a mess of emotions and memories, both and neither at once. Until, finally, things are clear again.

— [redacted] —

Jake likes this new toy. It’s like the slinky they keep back in their room. Ghost and Sam said that Jake couldn’t take it out of their room but he doesn’t mind. He’s got a load of fun toys inside the headspace now and he doesn’t leave their room much on the outside anymore, except by accident. They’re getting better at him not being out at all. Apparently, it’s not safe for him to come out here. He’s safer inside.

“Ghost?”

“Oh, Sarah,” Jake says, rolling the toy in his hands. “Should I go?”

“Only if you want to.”

Jake shrugs. He wants to keep playing with this toy. Should he go back in? Maybe. But this is fun. “Were you and Ghost talking about something important?” He asks instead. He tucks his legs up to his chest. They don’t really fit on the seat properly and they keep slipping, but he feels safer when he’s smaller. This body is too big. Clunky. Inside, Jake gets to be his real size, small enough to fit under beds and in closets. Safe places.

“Yes. We were talking about the possibility of the system leaving the base.”

Jake’s eyebrow rise and a small smile graces his lips. “That would be nice. I could be out more.”

Sarah nods. “It’s possible, though it’s likely that the system will still want to protect you.”

Jake frowns at that. “Why?”

“You’re young. I know Ghost has taken a somewhat parental role with you.”

Jake nods. She’s not wrong, it’s just…“But I’m supposed to protect them.”

“And why do you think that?”

“It’s just what I’ve always done,” Jake says, pulling his legs closer to his chest. “I protected Simon until he left. But I can still do it! I promise!”

Sarah’s face softens. “But do you want to?”

Jake deflates. “I don’t know. Simon’s gone so I don’t really have anyone to protect anymore. Ghost doesn’t need it. He’s big and strong like dad. I try to protect Matilda but she’s safe. James takes really good care of her and she’s really happy.”

“And Simon wasn’t?”

Jake shakes his head. “Not like Matilda. He could be really funny but he wasn’t happy. Not really.” Jake shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Okay, that’s fine. I think we’ve done our time here today anyway. Are you okay to get back to your room?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “I’m a kid, not dumb. I know where to go.” He stretches out his legs and tries not to look at them. It still feels awkward being big, unnatural. But he waves at Sarah and slips out the door and goes back to their room, keeping himself as hidden as possible. He’s not supposed to talk to the others on base, and it’s a lot busier than it was.

He only gets spotted by Gaz across a field and gets away with a vague wave before he ducks into an alcove and hides for a little bit, fidgeting with his new toy.

Then it’s a smooth journey back to safety, ducking around corners and pacing down corridors until he can shut the door behind him and let out a breath. He feels shaky in a way he doesn’t understand, hands gripping the toy desperately. It doesn’t do enough, though. He’s quick to toss it aside, digging into their bedside table for the one thing that he really cares for.

The slinky is already a little worn from use, its colour fading and slightly greasy to the touch. Jake doesn’t care, it’s his and that’s what matters. And now they like Soap again so he can think about how happy Soap makes him, rather than get sad.

It doesn’t stop the shaky feeling but it’s okay. At least he gets to have his toy. He can feel something bad coming, he always can, but he’s used to it by now. He plays for a little longer, letting the slinky fall off the bed and then clutching it in his hands and using it like an accordion.

But all bad things catch up eventually. First, it’s his heart, then his lungs, and then his mind clouds over like a storm is rolling in.

Jake whines and puts the toy aside. He doesn’t like this. When his body does things he doesn’t want. This doesn’t happen to other people. He doesn’t get why they have to suffer through it.

He rocks back and forth a little but it doesn’t help. It only makes him a little dizzy, a headache suddenly crushing his skull.

“No,” he whispers, shutting his eyes. He wants to go, he doesn’t want to do this.

The pressure on his skull increases and a flood of emotions overwhelms him and then Jake isn’t in control at all. The body is screaming but he isn’t. That’s definitely not him. He doesn’t scream. He’s quiet. Always, always quiet. But the body is screaming and screaming and rocking and clawing. It’s throwing things. And Jake is there, watching.

And then he’s gone.

— [redacted] —

Ghost wakes up feeling achy, his throat so dry that he’s a bit worried he’s developed a sudden snoring problem. He blinks and looks around. The room looks messy, strangely. Did Riley come out? He’s the messiest of them. Though why the fuck half the paper is on the floor, he doesn’t know.

A pit grows in his stomach but he remembers what he’s supposed to tell himself. Reminders of safety and calm and that he knows his alters. It’s not an inexplicable gap. It was another amnesia barrier. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

(Nothing feels fine).

He gets to his feet and tries to ignore the niggling thought in his brain that something’s off. Something’s always off. And he fucking hates it. But there’s nothing he can do other than work past it. Get on with his day. He’s done the wallowing. It didn’t fucking help a thing.

He stares at the room one last time and decides that he doesn’t want to know.

He works through his routine on instinct. Tidy up, clean the room. Then get changed, make his face presentable and go to the cafeteria.

And therein lies the problem.

He curses himself the moment he enters. He’s a fucking idiot. The guys are all back. Has he been eating here before? This isn’t the first day they’ve been here and yet…

And yet…

Another gap for Ghost to deal with. Another fright to put this baseline anxiety into worrying territory. Another thing to pile onto this already shit day.

They’re not staring at him, at least, but he gets more than a few glares. The whole atmosphere is sombre. Gaz, Alex and Roach all sit on one of the back tables, talking quietly as they eat. Nothing like the bright exuberance of before.

Ghost grabs some food and sits with them before he can second-guess himself.

Their surprise is evident, with the possible exception of Roach, who always seems to look blank except for the necessary expressions when he’s signing.

“Didn’t expect to see you around anymore,” Gaz says. “You alright?”

“Been better,” Ghost reveals. “Lot on my mind.”

“Ain’t that right,” Alex sighs. “Mood around here has been pretty low.”

“You’ll come back. We always do,” Ghost says. They have to. There isn’t a choice for them. They either move on and fight or they give up. And the SAS don’t just give up. 

Except you. 

Ghost blinks away the voice, eyes wide. His heart thunders in his chest and it’s like he has tunnel vision, everything narrowing down to one point of panic. 

“You coming to the funeral?” Gaz asks and Ghost’s gaze snaps to him. He still feels wobbly but he refuses to let it show. He can deal with this later. “You know you can,” Gaz assures.

Ghost’s eyebrows rise. He doesn’t know. He probably should. Or maybe he shouldn’t. This isn’t about him anymore. But he’s still here. What does that make him? Veteran or soldier? Or some point in between? But out of respect…

“I will.”

“Good man,” Alex says. “We’re all sorting out transport if you want an in. It’s a bit out the way.”

“Appreciated,” Ghost grunts.

They go back to eating. Roach starts signing some dull story about his cheques getting denied at the bank whilst Gaz hums non-committedly. It’s fucking boring. And does fucking nothing to stop the anxiety from growing, like the silence lets it fester and grow like mould in rotting wood.

“I’m leaving soon,” he blurts, just trying to fill the silence. Anything to distract him.

“Hm?”

“They’ve finally got my stuff sorted out. I’m moving out. Sometime. Soon, I guess.” Better not to think about how soon. They don’t need that shit.

“Huh,” Alex says. “Well, best of luck. Hope it all goes well. You know where you’re going?”

Ghost shakes his head. “Not a clue. I’ve got time to figure it out, though. Not leaving tomorrow or anything.”

“Well, when you move into your new place, make sure to throw a moving-in party, alright? We’ll make it a blast,” Gaz says, finally smiling. “You know, the last time we had a party, Alex-”

“Don’t,” Alex says, though now he’s smiling too.

I want to hear this, Roach signs, leaning forward in his seat.

“You really don’t,” Alex says. “Like really don’t.”

Ghost doesn’t even care what the story is. That’s not what matters. He just likes the guys smiling, having fun. They honour their dead and they move on, that’s how this works. And maybe Ghost is a little selfish, to not want to wallow in the grief. To have so much on his plate already that he can’t cope with it.

But there’s something brilliant about being around people who are happy. The sort of thing that makes Ghost’s lungs loosen and his heartbeat drop back down. This day can be as shit as it likes if he can have this. Those little, dotted moments of peace across his life. For all the trouble and the strife and the pain, there’s this. There’s always something on the other side, something good.

— [redacted] —

Mist watches. Mist shouts. Mist seethes. How dare he. How dare he.

Chapter Text

Ghost is supposed to put on his dress uniform for the funeral. He won’t. He can’t. It’s not like anyone will take him up on it. He’s only had a legal identity for a week, never mind a proper veteran status. That uniform is barely even his.

So they go into town and get the cheapest suit they can find. Ashley presses close to the front, swinging wildly between anger at the system and fawning over the dresses. It crowds the headspace, their head pounding to the beat of their heart. 

Switching takes an inevitable toll on the body. A sweeping dizziness has his head muddled, enough that he misses his session with Sarah entirely, which Sam only notices later when they haven’t written up their usual therapy notes. He’s asleep before the sun even sets. 

He wakes up exhausted but normal. The feeling of loss is becoming a familiar enemy. Each day is another step towards acceptance. The hatred never fades, the burning anger that has him cursing the world for ever making him this way. But he can push through. Get on with things. 

Ghost gets up and goes through the motions; less than five minutes for twenty press-ups, thirty-five sit-ups and ten pull-ups. He sneaks into the showers before reveille, brushes his teeth and legs it back to his room. Then he grabs a protein bar from his hidden stash and forces it down with a bitter grimace. 

He’s left staring in the mirror, hair dripping, faced with dark circles deep enough to look like bruises. He fucking feels the exhaustion. His body sags, like there’s weight on his back. 

He buttons up a freshly-starched shirt with shaking fingers and grabs the one, single tie he owns. He does it up properly, just as his first drill sergeant had taught him, because God knows his father never did. It looks wrong, though. He never could get it right.

Something that isn’t him straightens it up.

His fingers shake worse as he grabs his face mask. Black to match his suit. His balaclava sits on the bedside table, like he’s a fucking child with a safety blanket. He can’t wear it. He just can’t. Who the fuck wears a balaclava to a funeral? 

It’s not like most of them are going to recognise him anyway. This is just something he’s got to do. He swallows and pulls the strings of the mask over his ears. He takes a deep breath. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. 

He adjusts the mask.

And again.

“Can you fucking stop that?” Ghost hisses. 

James snickers and fixes up their hair. 

“I’m fine,” Ghost growls, flinging his arm away. “Fuck off.”

Ghost can feel the sharp edge of a smirk before he’s back in control of his own goddamn body, smoothing down his suit lapels and telling himself that it’s going to be fine. 

One last look in the mirror. He’s presentable, at least. There’s not much more he can do. He already went through the possible triggers with Sarah in their last session and wrote them down in the journal. All he can hope for now is that he won’t switch in the middle of a goddamn funeral. 

But best not think about it. Go in calm, remember his exercises (even if he still thinks they’re bullshit), and keep his phone on hand to call Sarah if need be. 

He checks his pockets and makes his way to the motorpool. Most of the guys are already there, lounging around a couple of Jeeps in their dress uniforms. At least half a dozen are using it as a smoke break. Price leans against the barracks wall, puffing at a cigar.

“You’re not in uniform,” Price notes as Ghost approaches.

“You wot?”

“Insubordination?” Price flattens him with a look.

“Gonna reprimand me, sir?”

Price just smiles. “We all know I can’t do that. But you should be proud to put that on, Si- Ghost.”

Ghost flinches. The save isn’t lost. It never is with a man like Price, who so rarely speaks out of turn. Ghost tries to play it off, getting a pack of smokes out and sticking it in his missing canine, whilst still obscuring as much of his face as possible. He feels like a fool. 

He fumbles for a lighter, compulsively bumping the fag up and down with his tongue. The gap makes for a good rest. Good fucking thing. He’s not going near a dentist any time soon.  

It’s only once it’s lit up and he can finally take a drag, that he even remembers what Price was saying. 

“I can’t put it on. It’s not right.”

“You’ve earned it,” Price says, with a strain of painful sincerity. 

“And I don’t want to. It’s fine, most people will think I’m a civvie. It’s better that way.”

Price doesn’t argue with him, just nods and takes his last puff before heading to the car. “I’m driving. You in our car?”

He’d rather die than be in any other.

“Yeah, with you.”

— [redacted] —

The drive passes slowly, prolonged by a solemn silence. The occasional 80’s hit playing through the radio. It doesn’t help. No one dares to speak. He understands the routine now, he’s done it a thousand times before. Until the funeral, they act solemn. Mourn. Afterwards, people brighten up, tell stories, and have a few too many pints. It won’t take away the loss, but it does dull the edge so they can get up and do their job again tomorrow, hoping it won’t be them next.

Ghost sits there and tries to ignore their looks. He knows what they’re thinking, watching him like he’s going to break. Maybe he is. His head is a muddle of alters, voices overlapping in a quiet cacophony. Ghost breathes through it, staring out the window and watching the motorway pass by. 

Lex seems to think a funeral is dangerous for them. Ghost doesn’t know why. Doesn’t want to know why. He feels like he’s walking through a minefield, one wrong step from everything blowing up around him.

They arrive two hours later in a cemetery not far outside Liverpool. Price pulls up to the car park and lets them all out. Ghost gets out of the car, watching as Price swings around the corner before joining the others. They all fumble to make sure they’re presentable, checking each other’s hats and straightening lapels. Ghost stands to the side, James shoving his way back into the front to rearrange their hair again. 

Then, finally, they make their way in.

The priest stands at the entrance, handing out eulogies. A picture of Worm- no, Rowan Marshall, in full military dress stands stark on the first page. Ghost takes one just to have something to do with his hands. He flips it over. On the back, there’s a picture of Worm when he was just a teenager at a Liverpool game. It humanises him. Ghost stares at the uniform and all he can think is fuck Liverpool, Man United were better anyway. 

The funeral is technically only for him. Of the three KIA, he’s the only English one, with Westbrook and Meat’s empty caskets being sent to the US and Canada respectively. The 141 will mourn them in their own time, and pay their respects when they can. If any of them are lucky, they’ll have enough leave to make their funerals too. 

Ghost feels surprisingly out of place being back up North. He’d not grown up that far from here, less than an hour's drive away. The memories of his childhood are hazy but he’s pretty sure they went on a beach holiday in Liverpool. No, wait, maybe it was Southport. It had been shit, raining constantly; his dad had been in a right mood. But he still remembers Tommy smiling at him. He can’t even remember what they were doing, or why Tommy was smiling. But he just remembers that. A bright fucking grin, all crooked teeth and puppy fat, like nothing was going on behind the scenes. Like everything was fine.

There are too many memories up North.

Gaz knocks him out of it with a light nudge and a knowing smile. He’s getting better at testing the boundaries. To figure out when a light touch is warranted and when it’s just uncomfortable. It’s nice. And the others seem to follow suit easily.

“Come on, we don’t want to be late in.”

They’re not. In fact, they’re one of the first here, apart from some of Worm’s family. It feels strange to see them here. Ghost only feels worse. He didn’t even like Worm. Almost wanted to hate him by the end.

But now he’s gone. Too young. And Ghost has to watch as the family of a man who was nothing but a dick to him mourn over an empty coffin. 

Some of the other privates go and give their condolences. Ghost hangs back with Gaz and Peasant on either side of him, watching the room carefully. They must look put together to the outside world, dressed-up and straight-backed. Proper military men. Ghost feels anything but. No uniform, no routine, nothing tying him down to his old life except the memories he clings to. The memories he can’t even trust.

He feels sick.

They pass the time with mindless chatter. Ghost doesn’t say much. With his head crowded, he’s worried what might come out. Peasant is pretty good at talking for the sake of it, telling them a mundane story from back home, which even he seems to know is as boring as watching paint dry. But Gaz answers at all the right places and Ghost listens intently, if only because he wants to do anything but let his mind wander. Anything, to make sure that this is going to be him that stays here.

Granted, Sam or James could probably handle the situation better. But Ghost isn’t getting much better at letting go unless the situation is dire. This is his life (it’s not, it’s not, it’s their life, and yet it still feels so fucking difficult to think that way). But he wants to be here. He does.

Price makes his way into the church and the scene changes. The three of them remain where they are, Alex limping over to join them, hissing as his prosthetic digs into his stump. It’s a bad day for him but he was determined to be here. Ghost respects him for that. They’re designed to withstand pain, of course they are, but this isn’t a mission, this is just life. And yet Alex is here regardless, even when he didn’t know Worm, or really many of the 141 at all. He’s a good man.

As Alex says hello, Ghost spots someone else coming through the door. Immediately, alters crowd into the headspace, a flurry of indecipherable thoughts running through his mind. He feels blurry.

But no, no, this is him. It is. It has to be. He’s Ghost.

And then there’s Soap.

He looks good. Even Ghost can admit that without spiralling. It’s an objective fact. The military uniform suits him, more than it ever did Ghost. Even with his arm in a sling, he walks with a purpose, authority. 

And the dress cap covers his stupid fucking hair too.

“Give me a minute,” Ghost says, breaking off from the group.

“Ghost,” Soap says, smiling wide. “Good to see you.”

“You too,” Ghost says. “Chest candy and all.”

Soap’s smile only grows. It’s so out of place here. Ghost almost wants to tell him to pack it in. This is a fucking funeral. But he doesn’t. Ghost isn’t sure he could if he tried.

“Well, you had a part in at least one of them. Come on,” Soap says, “let’s get out of the way.” Soap practically drags Ghost out of the main hall and into a side corridor that must lead to the offices at the back. It’s just them now, and Ghost feels a hell of a lot better for it.

“How’ve you been?” Soap asks, pressed up against Ghost’s side. He almost wants to rebel. They shouldn’t be doing this. It’s just…it’s not what men like them do. But ultimately, he’s a fucking weak man. He leans into the pressure, arm to arm, shoulder to shoulder.

“Should we really be doing this?” Ghost asks. Feels like he has to. He won’t stop it, he doesn’t have the fucking power for that, but he can ask.

“Doing what?”

“Sneaking out of a funeral,” Ghost huffs, giving Soap a knowing look.

Soap doesn’t look too bothered. “I’ve mourned plenty. Done a lot of thinking about what we could have done better. But this is the only time I get to see you. Today is for his family to mourn. I think I can give myself this, aye?”

It’s selfish, beyond it really. And yet Ghost doesn’t care. Not one bit. He covets this. a fucking dragon hoarding gold. 

They mourn so many, put so many in the ground. It’ll haunt Soap’s nights, Ghost knows it will. Sometimes the only way to get through that is to paste on a smile and take what you can. No one has forever. The 141 less than most. Ghost understands that.

“Yeah,” Ghost finally says. “Let’s just not get caught. Don’t want to look bad in front of the family.”

Soap just rolls his eyes. 

“I know, I know, I’m not an idiot. And it’s not like we’re doing anything wrong. I just wanted to talk to you. Not a crime, is it?”

It’s not.

It feels like it.

“I know. How’s the arm?” Ghost asks, instead of dwelling on the feeling.

“Healing. Pain in my arse. The usual,” Soap says, his smile returning. “How’s…your stuff?”

Ghost huffs a laugh. “Getting there. Far from fucking okay but…improving. Been doing a lot of self-reflection.”

“That’s good,” Soap says, sounding genuinely excited. It’s almost off-putting. Platitudes are one thing, genuine optimism is another. Soap has always been a bright fucker when he wants to be. Soap is a realist, you have to be in the 141, but he isn’t buried under the burdens of pessimism yet. If he sees good, he sees it, rather than brushing it off as an exception. It’s almost miraculous.

“Some of the alters have missed you,” Ghost says, keeping his voice quiet. No one’s here, he knows that, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Talking about it to Sarah is one thing but so casually discussing it is another. Soap has always known, from the start of his diagnosis, but it still feels strange. And after everything he said…

No. No, they’re moving on from that. He has to.

“Aye?”

“Yeah. Some are pissed. Just a warning. If I…act strange, you know. It’s not me. Well, I am pissed but…” Ghost grits his teeth. “Fuck. I didn’t used to be like this,” he spits, anger welling up too quickly for him to tamper.

“Hey, hey,” Soap says, moving to stand in front of Ghost, hands on his arms. “It’s alright. Proper communication is really fucking shit, right? But pretty sure we’ve been told to make an actual effort.”

“I fucking hate words sometimes,” Ghost growls. He doesn’t. It’s not like that. But he’s used to the military script. Back then, things had an answer. His personal life was small enough to be controllable, and seemingly mostly run by James anyway. Ghost isn’t used to this sort of…emotional talk. It feels like he’s trying to pry his own teeth out.

“Yeah, don’t we both,” Soap says with a bittersweet smile. “But you can talk to me about anything.”

Ghost lets his head rest against the wall. “Fine. I’m pissed at you but I don’t want to be. But I know Sam’s probably just pissed. Jake missed you a lot, and I’m pretty sure Ashley misses you, even though she’s being fucking weird at the moment. Just…” Ghost takes a breath in and brings his head up to look Soap in the eye. “I still don’t like losing control. It feels wrong. But I can’t stop it, can I, so just…trust that if I’m acting different, it’s not me. Or ask. Please.”

“Always,” Soap promises. “We’ll get better at this, right? If we’re going to do a redo, let’s do it right.”

Ghost smiles. “Yeah. Sounds good.” Even if it’s fucking hard, or feels entirely impossible. 

But look at them now. They’re doing it, if a little stiltedly. They’re getting there. One step at a time.

Ghost is suddenly all too aware of Soap’s presence. Their chests are almost brushing, heads barely a few inches apart. If anyone walked in right now, they’d probably make all the wrong assumptions. And yet neither of them are moving, living in this unresolvable tension, no one willing to take the next step. Knowing they shouldn’t. Not here, not now.

“Come to Scotland,” Soap says, as brash as ever. “If you can.”

“I can,” Ghost says before reeling back. “I mean, I’m allowed. But-”

“Please,” Soap says. “We cannae sort this out over the phone. We both know that. And I’d like to show you around.” Soap looks up at him, pleading. It breaks Ghost’s heart. “Look, you deserve an apology. Let me do this?”

Ghost looks at Soap and finds only the truth. This is the choice, isn’t it? The one that he knew he’d have to make. To step forward, to let the past go, or to cling onto the one thing holding him back.

“Fine,” Ghost says. “I’ll need to talk with Sarah but yeah, I’ll come.”

Soap bounces on the balls of his feet, beaming. “Class. Look, we’ll organise it another time. Just…thank you. For everything. For coming back and all that.”

Ghost smiles, a small well of pride in his chest. This may be weird but they’re doing it. They’re saying these things rather than assuming them. And if that isn’t a first step, then he doesn’t know what is.

— [redacted] —

The funeral passes by quietly. They say their condolences and Ghost stays well back from it all. He’s shaky and more than a little blurry as things go on. Ghost is somewhat aware that Riley is not having a good time, but he doesn’t have the bravery to examine that trainwreck yet. He can feel Riley shaking. Or maybe that’s just him. 

Fuck.

It’s not helping that the others want to be out now too. Sam wants to protect Ghost from any memories cropping up. James thinks this is the very situation he exists for. And Jake wants to go and say hi to Soap, even if he knows he can’t.

His head is so goddamn loud.

By the time they’re all getting in their cars to go to the wake, Ghost just wants to go home. He’s tired and sick of dealing with this shit already. He’s tucked himself away in a corner, desperately staring at his phone screen like it might do something distracting. It doesn’t. He’s too muddled for chess and too bored for anything easier, so he just keeps waiting and waiting and thinking and-

“Ghost?”

Soap and Gaz are right there. Were they always there? Ghost- no. Oh god, who is it? He doesn’t…he just…it’s…

“Hey,” Soap says, holding him by the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

Ghost nods. He thinks he nods. Someone nods. The body nods.

They get pulled outside and into a car. Frankly, they aren’t even aware of what the fuck is going on, they just know they’re moving. Soap is talking to them. At them? He’s saying shit. And Gaz is still here, filling in the silences.

The rest is a blur.

Ghost comes to, an unknown amount of time later, as the car pulls up into the car park of some country pub. It looks proper posh.

He blinks. Once, twice. “Soap?”

Soap’s in the front seat. But Ghost doesn’t recognise the driver. Are they in a taxi?

Soap twists around to face him with a worried smile. “You feeling alright?”

“Fine,” Ghost says, trying to calm his racing heart. He hates this bit. But he’s used to it, he has to be, he should be. He’s safe. Soap is here. Soap was looking out for him.

They pile out. It’s just him, Soap and Gaz. The others would have all fit in the Jeeps. Guess Soap would have had to take a taxi here anyway.

“Hey, you alright, mate?” Gaz asks. “You seemed out of it.”

Ghost wants to shout at them both to shut up. He’s fine, everything’s fine. And if they ask one more time, things aren’t going to be fine. He’s going to fucking scream. 

But he doesn’t.

He knows better now.

He takes a deep breath and just nods, exhaustion piling on top of him.

“Was that…” Soap trails off, eyes darting to Gaz, who just frowns. Ghost nods, unwilling to explain. Gaz has done so much for him but he can’t cope with the idea of dealing with someone else’s reaction right now. 

He can’t bear to think he could lose one of the only friends he’s made in the last two decades.

“Let’s just go inside. I’ll be fine.” It sounds like a lie, even to his own ears.

Ghost leads them to the reception, the pair trailing behind him like a protection force. He can pretty much feel them making eyes at him but he’s focusing too much on grounding techniques. His latest discovery (well, Sam’s, he’ll admit) after too long lurking on DID pages online is doing random equations in his head, just hard enough to require concentration without getting in the way.

He feels mostly himself by the time they’re inside, ever glad for whatever cover the mask can provide, even if it’s nowhere near the safety of his balaclava. He can still feel Sam lingering, but he’s not an unwanted presence. He just hovers, making sure he knows what’s happening and remains quiet, even if it’s inevitable to have some of his emotions trickle through.

Finding the others isn’t the difficult part. There’s an obvious split between family and colleagues, with a few daring to cross the invisible boundary between them. A man who must be Worm’s brother is talking to Chemo in the middle of the room. Behind them, Price is gracious enough to talk with the Worm’s parents. Everyone else sticks to their own sides. 

Ghost heads over to the first corner he can find as Gaz splits off to get them drinks. He finds them a small table at the very back, a few stray pints lying uncleaned. Soap plants himself on the seat at Ghost’s side, eyes scanning the room. Then, finally, he turns to Ghost. “You good?”

Ghost nods. He’s sick of the question. He just wants Soap to shut up. His glare must say enough because Soap falls silent, sitting on the end of the booth, blocking most people’s sight lines of Ghost. It’s kind, in the sort of understated way that Soap is partial to waving off. It’s the small things that add up.

Gaz comes back with drinks and starts up a conversation with Soap, which Ghost immediately drowns out. Everything feels too loud. It’s like the whole room is crushing him.

He’s not even sure he’s there anymore when Soap nudges his shoulder. “Ghost?”

“Hm?”

“I asked if you wanted another.”

Ghost doesn’t remember drinking the first. 

“Sure,” he says. What harm could more drinks do?

Bruised arms and a fucked ankle. That one time when he’d had to limp through school and told people he’d fallen off his bike and not that his father had purposefully cracked him.

“Ghost? You feeling okay?”

“Stop asking,” someone says. He says. Probably him. Not this again. Is someone else there? He doesn’t…it used to be fucking clearer than this.

Soap leaves him alone and goes to get more drinks whilst Gaz stares at him. But Ghost is too out of it to figure out whatever that look means.

Soap is just setting the drinks down on the table when Chemo shows up at the edge of their table, red-faced and unbalanced.

“What are you doing here?”

Ghost doesn’t even realise that he’s the one being addressed until he notices everyone staring at him. “You wot?” He blinks a few times, trying to clear his vision. Something is pressing at the back of his head. Forward, forward, forward.

“You shouldn’t be here. You’ve n-nothing to do with this,” Chemo slurs. “Nothing.”

“I-”

“You’ve got no right to say that,” Soap spits, suddenly at Ghost’s flank. “He is here to respect the fallen. And you, Private, are stirring up shit. Remember he’s still a Lieutenant and know your place.”

Chemo winces but doesn’t let up. “Protect him all you like, but his family wouldn’t want him here. He’s the crazy fucker who abandoned his team. If he was gonna leave, he might as well have just fucked off entirely.”

— [redacted] —

Sam blinks into the front suddenly. His chest is heaving, panic crowding all sane thoughts out. There are people around, too many of them. He needs to get them out of here.

He turns around. Soap and Gaz are there, looking worried.

“That was bullshit,” Soap spits. “Utter fucking bullshit.”

“Just ignore him,” Gaz adds. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Sam blinks and tries to wrack his brain. Usually, it isn’t like this. He should remember, if only vaguely. Where the fuck has Ghost gone? This is when shit like the journal doesn’t work.

For fuck’s sake!

“I’m fine,” he says. He’s used to this now. The safe lies. The patching in the gaps based on context alone. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

“Do you want to go?” Gaz asks. “We don’t have to stay.”

Jesus fucking Christ. “No,” Sam says. “You should be here. I’ll go.”

“Where? You gonna get a taxi all the way back to Hereford?” Gaz asks.

Sam flinches. Shit. “I’ll find a hotel,” he lies. He doesn’t fucking know what he’ll do. He doesn’t know what they’ve got with them or what they planned for. They’ve got to have money. Their card is on their phone. Yeah, he can find a hotel. Stay overnight. Get himself back in the morning. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.

“Ghost,” Soap says, looking him right in the eye. Really looking. Like he’s looking for something else. Oh. Right. Soap knows.

Sam gives him just a tiny nod, hoping to high hell that Soap understands. He must. His face clears, setting his shoulders like he’s preparing for a mission. Has the system really become that? They can’t. Not again. That’s what destroyed them last time.

“I really am fine,” Sam says, maybe a little too desperate.

“Sure. But let’s get out of here, alright? We’ve done our bit.”

Sam doesn’t even have any proper arguments. They shouldn’t. But when has that ever stopped them? “We can’t all leave.”

“Then Gaz can stay. Or I can stay. Up to you.”

It’s an out and he knows it. Sam’s glad. Soap’s getting on board. Sam doesn’t have a clue what he feels about Soap right now, doesn’t really trust him one bit, but it’s clear that Soap’s making an effort. That’s gotta be worth something.

“Gaz?” Sam asks.

“I can stay. I’ll talk to Price about what happened.”

Sam nods his thanks and then turns to Soap. “You sure? You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t. But that was out of line and you’ve got every right to leave. And I’m not letting you leave alone.”

“Alright,” Sam agrees. “Let’s…let’s just go.”

— [redacted] —

“So what happened next?” Sarah asks.

“I don’t know,” Ghost sighs. “Sam said Soap got us to a shitty hotel overnight and then we got the train in the morning. Pretty sure Gaz picked us up from the station.”

“And how do you feel about the whole thing?”

“I don’t know.” Ghost leans back as his eyes fall shut. “It’s like things just keep happening. I don’t feel in control.”

“What exactly makes you feel out of control here?”

Ghost winces. “The Alpha Team hate me, but I can’t do anything to make them not hate me and as long as I’m on base, I’m stuck with them. But I can’t leave base yet because I haven’t found a place and I don’t even know what my income will be yet-”

“Ghost,” Sarah cuts off, before he can spiral further. “This isn’t healthy thinking. Sure, right now, things aren’t changing. But you’ve already pointed out the way in which they will. You will leave the base. You could even leave right now if you really wanted to and you know it.”

Ghost opens his eyes and looks out the window. Clouds have rolled over the horizon, casting everything a sickly grey. “Soap wants me to go to Scotland.”

“How do you feel about that?”

Ghost rolls his eyes. It always has to be about the fucking feelings. “I don’t know.” He pauses. “Yes, yes, I know. I do know.” He hasn’t got the patience for this shit today. “Look, it gets me off base. Great. But also what do I do about sessions? And my routine is gonna be all fucked up. It just feels…dangerous.”

“We can always sort those things out, if you do want to go.”

Ghost shrugs. “Soap really wants me to. And it doesn’t really make a difference to me. But, I mean, I could .”

“Then think on it,” Sarah says. “Really think on it. Don’t go into this without knowing what you want. And don’t do it without talking to your system first. You guys are still working on cooperation and this is a really good time to show that you can.”

Ghost doubts it. He can already hear a string of ‘no’s and even more panic. But maybe that means he does want to go, if the very thought irritates him. It’s…fuck, it’s confusing.

“I’ll talk to them,” Ghost says. “Or write them a note.”

“Good. It’s all about taking these steps, alright? Remember that.”

“I know,” Ghost sighs. “I will.”

Chapter Text

“Ghost is going to Scotland,” Sam says, entering Lex’s office. “He’s meeting Soap up there.”

Lex frowns, shuffling a few bits of paper. “Is that a good idea?”

Sam sighs. He’s not sure what his face says but he hopes it conveys that he doesn’t have a fucking clue. “I don’t know. I really don’t. Soap’s been good so far and Ghost seems to be making a decision to trust him. But…I don’t. I can’t. I don’t know. It didn’t even hurt at the time but the more I think about it-”

Lex holds a hand up. “Sam. Panic is not going to help. We have to go through this logically.”

Sam snorts. “Now doesn’t that sound familiar.”

Lex’s brows furrow. “I don’t mean to sound like I used to. I just think we need to sit and properly talk this through. Angry rambling won’t get us anywhere.”

Sam nods and falls into the chair opposite Lex’s. The old, hulking desk is now much smaller, less imposing. Much like Lex himself. 

Sam doesn’t feel any better than he did back then.

“That day, Soap said things he should not have,” Lex says. “He lashed out and ran away. But can he not prove himself better?” The words sound weak. Lex knows just as much as Sam that words can be the precursor to much, much worse.

“He lost our trust. And for good reason.”

“And he’s attempting to get it back.” Lex sighs. “Look, we can’t do much about it now, can we? It’s superfluous to even try. Ghost is going up there. What we can do is protect him from what may occur in the fallout.”

Sam nods, trying to muster up a sense of hope when all he can feel is the world weighing down his shoulders. “So backup plans?”

“Backup plans.”

— [redacted] —

Jake leaves his bedroom, letting Matilda sleep in, and goes out to the garden. He’s not really supposed to be out here unsupervised. James doesn’t like him being alone; he seems to think something bad is going to happen. Jake can’t see how it can really be any worse than anything that’s happened before. Anyway, it’s not like he can truly get injured in the headspace, even if the pain feels real. 

James can do that frowny face at him later. Jake wants to have fun. 

Jake winds his way to the back of the garden, behind the willow tree and to a small patch of untamed grass. An old shed lists to the side, almost entirely overcome by plants. A swing set stands beside it, only barely in better shape. Its legs are rusted but the chains are solid. Jake found it a week back, like it appeared from nowhere. Only one seat at just the right height. 

He launches himself onto it, kicking his legs back and forth, staring at the large hedge that separates this section from the main square. The garden is huge. With a dozen little parts branching out from the main courtyard, creating a thousand nooks and crannies for Jake to hide in. There are a gazillion things to explore out here. He’s pretty sure the others haven’t come out this far, though he doesn’t know why. This is where you find all the cool stuff. 

He’d give anything to have something like this on the outside. Maybe he could have a dog. He loves dogs. He wouldn’t be able to play with Matilda in a real garden but it could still be fun! Maybe he could buy a football, or bring his dolls out for a wild adventure. That would be really nice.

It will never happen, though, will it. 

He kicks himself a little higher, escaping his thoughts with a swoop in his stomach. He likes being high up, it’s safer up there. Things can’t reach you when you’re high up. Not people, or snakes, or sadness. He’s happy up here.

The shed door slams open with a metallic scream and Jake tumbles from the seat. He skids across the grass, leaving a muddy gouge behind him, his knees burning. He freezes, breath stuck in his throat.

It’s just grass, he reminds himself. Not wood. Not tile. Not blood-stained carpet. 

Those are Ashley’s trainers seeped in mud, not his dad’s old work boots. Not those big things he used to wear, worn leather tearing at the seams and heavy enough to press, press, press-

It’s just grass.

The thought doesn’t help.

One breath, two. Gotta keep his head. He stumbles to his feet, eyes locked on the horizon. Ashley’s there, staring at him. She looks angry, hair frazzled and her face flushed red. 

“Jake? What are you doing out here?” Jake shouldn’t be scared. Ashley’s been a hurricane recently. Jake has heard the shouting from his room, usually from the safety of his wardrobe. But she’s never shouted at him. She has no reason to be mad at him. He knows that. And yet he feels petrified, gaze locked on the ground. 

After all, James said he should stay away from her until she feels better.

She doesn’t seem better.

He works on a familiar autopilot. He can’t speak. So, he just doesn’t say anything and waits for what might come. No one’s told him what’s wrong with Ashley. Is she violent? Usually angry people are violent. 

“Okay then,” she says, looking confused. “Uh, I guess I’ll just…go?”

Jake doesn’t move a muscle.

“Right,” Ashley says, face falling. “I see. Uh, just, did you know that we’re gonna see Johnny again? Ghost’s going up to Scotland to see him. You’ll probably have some more time to hang out with him.”

Jake’s heart soars, but it feels like the hope gets trapped somewhere inside him, bounding around with nowhere to go. His body won’t move. He doesn’t want to speak in case he says the wrong thing. Doesn’t want to make Ashley lash out. Doesn’t want to know what might happen if she does.

“Okay. Sure. So you all hate me now, brilliant,” Ashley mutters. “Guess that’s my cue to leave. Have fun, Jake.” And with that, she skulks back inside the shed.

— [redacted] —

James and Riley sit in what is now their living room. At least, Riley hasn’t ever seen anyone else use it. Sometimes Matilda will come in to collect her dad, or Jake will peek in to say hi but that’s about it. For all intents and purposes, it’s theirs.

“Has anyone told you yet?”

Riley frowns. 

“Told me what?”

“Ghost is going to see Soap. We’re going to Scotland.”

Riley swallows. A string of vitriol balances on the edge of his tongue, but he cuts himself off before he can even begin. James doesn’t appreciate his rants.

“That a good idea?” He asks instead.

“I don’t know.” James shrugs. “Sam and Lex are sorting that out, though. I just wanted to know what you think.”

“I think Soap is going to fuck us over again,” Riley says. “But when does anyone care what I think?”

“I care,” James says. “And the others do too. Even if they don’t show it. They’ll listen to you if you’re not ranting, you know. They’ll probably disagree, but they’ll listen.”

“Pfft. If you believe that, you really are naive.”

James raises a single eyebrow. “Am I the sort of person to lie to you?”

“No,” he admits begrudgingly. 

“Then trust me on this. Stop making yourself out to be the villain or the others are just gonna believe you are one. I know you’re capable of more than being a dick. You’re a smart kid, so act like it.”