Daylight through the Fog [GhostSoap, MW2]

Chapter 1

It was late, like it always was. Cold, like it always was. Lonely. Like it always was.

Ghost was lay in his single bed, barely large enough to accommodate his size. His muscles were completely tensed, his breathing shaky as it came out in hot rasps instead of smooth sighs. Thick, scarred fingers grasped at the edge of his balaclava, pulling it snug against his equally war-torn face like a blanket. As the fabric stretched and pulled, his breaths came out shorter, hotter, cutting off his access to fresh, cooler air. His lungs protested, their blackened and tar-filled expanses aching deep beneath ribs held together only by a single thread. Knuckles grew paler and paler, easing into a white grip as he refused to let up, refused to allow himself the simple comfort of a breath, until it became too much. In a single second, he let go, his body going limp against the paper sheets. He gasped for air like a man lost at sea as the blackened edges of his vision started to dissipate, leaving behind the fog in his mind. It stretched down his limbs, filling every vein and every nerve with its misty haze until everything began to tremble. There were no tears. There were never tears.

The memories always flooded back, no matter how hard he tried to starve them like a parasite. He would punish every part of himself and yet they always managed to find something new to leech off of instead, draining him of his lifeforce until he was left like this, limp against his sheets, his body trembling like a small animal. It was late, his room was dark, and the air grew thicker by the second. Without a thought, Simon reached across the bed, feeling for his phone. He brought it to his face, hands trained for killing typing out a single message to the only man he could let his mind wander back to without feeling the cold metal pressed to his forehead.

'You up, Johnny?'

There was only a beat of silence.

'I'm on my way, Lt.'

This had become more and more regular. The missions got longer, the downtime got shorter and Ghost's capacity to bear his own burdens got smaller and smaller. He sat himself up, pulling whatever shirt was beside him on over his head and he waited, as he always did. The time stretched out around him, gnawing at him, crawling beneath his skin, making the walls push inwards. The knock came shortly after, and soft light spilt into the room as the door cracked open.

"How're you holdin' up, Lt?"

Scottish. Sounded like home. Soap walked inside, pressing the door back shut behind him. He moved quietly, muscles rippling beneath his skin as he folded his arms, a small smirk tugging at his lips. He leaned against the wall beside Ghost's bed, gazing down at him with a warmth that always made Simon feel like he should shift away from it.

"It's a fuckin' nightmare, Johnny." He mumbled, looking down at the sheets, wrinkled around where he had been lying like a testament to his struggles. Soap just nodded, straightening out a little at the unexpected admission.

"Anythin' new?"

"Don't."

Ghost's tone was harsh, laced with something bitter. He hummed in response, more than used to the coldness, before moving on. He shuffled his weight around, running bulky hands, carved by years of bloodshed through his hair to keep it flat before beginning the usual routine. Ghost didn't open up to anyone, ever, and it had taken Soap the majority of their time together to start breaking Simon's walls down. Even after being invited into the room like it was normal for them, he knew that he had to tread carefully if he wanted Ghost to talk. He sighed softly, looking anywhere but at Simon as he started to speak. He asked a few questions at once, his tone as soft as a soldier's could come, hoping to draw Ghost away from whatever was eating away at him this time. Simon took a deep breath in, and a deeper breath out.

"How you been? Yer mission alright?"

Ghost nods.

"No injuries?"