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Ghost knows that Rudy didn’t mean it - he knows he’d never have done it on purpose, but it doesn’t change the fact that his mask is clenched in Rudolfo’s fist, and Ghost’s face is bare and he’s curled up in the corner, trying desperately to breathe. The rest of his team are there; not the whole of Task Force 141, but his team, his Captain and his Sergeants Gaz and Soap, and Rudy and Alejandro who he pretends don’t even have ranks because it riles them up. These are his chosen people, the only people he genuinely trusts , with his entire life and heart and soul, the people he trusts with Ghost as much as he trusts with Simon.
This incident won’t change that, not for him at least. Rudy’s standing there, still on the sparring mats, blood trickling down his lip where Ghost had punched him, face ashen white and lip trembling; Ghost will feel bad about his reaction once the panic wears off, will despise himself for the pain he reflexively put the other man through, will gently shoulder-check Rodolfo on a mission or as they’re training to show that all’s forgiven, that Rudy’s still the only person he’d ever go to when he wants to learn more Spanish because he’s so gentle and kind and would reach soft fingers into Ghost’s mouth to manipulate his tongue and teeth into the right positions without a single fear of biting if Ghost would only ask.
But, for now, Ghost would rather kill somebody, kill anybody , even himself, than allow this man to touch him again.
“I didn’t…I didn’t m-mean-”
“Don’t,” Ghost snaps, breath thundering out of his lungs in ragged, raw explosions. His back and neck ache from where Rodolfo had grabbed at him, thrown Ghost over his shoulder to the mat, just how Ghost had shown him - it would’ve been fine , because Rodolfo had done just what he’d said, had performed so well and Ghost would’ve been nothing but proud had Rudy’s fingers not managed to worm beneath his mask as he’d been flipped, had Ghost not been exposed suddenly and violently and in front of everybody else in the gym without a singular ounce of consent. “Just don’t.”
Captain Price and Gaz had cleared the room so quickly Ghost had barely managed to back away into the corner, arms wrapped around himself protectively, Johnny trying his best to follow before Alejandro yanks him back, before the room was clear of anybody who hadn’t already seen his face. It didn’t change anything, because there was a difference between the semi-darkness of that first exposure, when Ghost had first peeled back his mask, and the intense fluorescence of the gym lights. They can see him now, they can see and he hates it, because he feels Alejandro’s gaze on his mouth, on the smattering of old snake bites around his lips, sees the way Gaz flinches and involuntarily drags a hand to his own cheek, mirroring the giant, unyielding, red gash that runs from Ghost’s ear to the hollow of his throat, as if he can protect himself from whoever or whatever had done that to his Lieutenant.
They can see him - he hates it.
There’s something about the feeling of not being able to breathe that Ghost finds so constant and normal that it’s almost comforting - he heaves a breath, coughing and spluttering, feeling the air from his own lungs ghosting over his lips without the cover of his mask. His throat is closing up rapidly; it reminds him of when he was a child, inhaler gripped in his tiny hands because the doctors always confused panic for asthma. Intense weight crushes his chest, wrapping one tight, tight hand around both lungs and Ghost scrabbles at his own body, nails digging into his skin through his tactical gear; wetness beads on his skin and he’s unsure if it’s sweat or blood.
“Ghost.”
An impending sense of dread crashes over Ghost in one sudden, debilitating wave, like he’s stood, scarecrowish, on a pier as a tsunami hits; he chokes a long, low whine, tossing his head back against the wall and giggling when it makes a satisfying cracking noise, snot bubbling up at his uncovered nose. He entertains the idea for a moment that it’s not mucus, but spinal fluid or liquid grey matter straight from his brain or blood or bile or-
“ Ghost ,” someone repeats and there’s a murmur throughout the room, some sort of response to the way Ghost is trembling and choking and laughing . Ghost ignores it, because he doesn’t want to think that there’s anybody here that cares about him, anybody here that can actually see how he’s shaking out of his fucking skin. “Ghost, Si-”
Ghost’s ears stop working after that, the hot rush of cortisol-rich blood that races through the throbbing artery in his neck deafening him. He groans, clawing desperately for a dagger strapped to his thigh that he’s sure isn’t safe for him to have right now, but he doesn’t care, because he’s getting suffocated , there’s fabric taut over his heaving chest and stuck to his sweating flesh and he needs it gone -
“Simon, Simon, be careful, come on, gimme the kni- hey!” Ghost hisses through his teeth, snarling like a cornered animal as he’s approached, a pair of camo-clad legs shuffling closer to him, steel-toed boots clunking on the floor with uncertain purpose. The other man has his hands splayed out in front of him, trembling and unsure.
There’s a tiny scar on his left palm, and even though Ghost doesn’t even know who he is himself, he knows this is Soap; he tells everyone who will listen that the scar’s from shrapnel, from catching a bullet in midair, from saving a child from a burning building and scraping his hands up after he’d jumped with them out of a broken window, but Ghost knows better. Soap had been attacked by a tiny, rabid, stray cat called Carrot (because, of course , Ghost named the little fucker) after trying to stroke her and she’d clawed straight to yellow fat beneath his flesh - every time Soap comes up with a ridiculous story, he’ll look straight at Ghost and grin, all teeth and soft eyes, like they’re the only ones in on the joke, like there’s only the two of them in the world, and Ghost never feels warmer and-
“Fuck you, get the fuck away from me,” Ghost snaps, slashing out with his knife and only barely missing the scar Soap’s already got decorating his calloused palms. He feels a flash of guilt at the way Soap flinches and stumbles back, but he doesn’t care, but he does .
“Hermano, you’re hurting yourself,” somebody else says and Ghost glances at him, kicking back against the floor so he can press further into the corner and away from Alejandro. The officer sighs, tilting his head in gentle consideration and understanding, and Ghost hates him for it, wants Alejandro to hate him back. He grinds his teeth together, breaths coming out in rapid bursts through his nose, and shoves his blade back under the strap of his tactical vest and slicing straight through. Blood wells up at his shoulder, just above his armpit, where he wasn’t careful with the knife, which Alejandro and Soap both curse at in unison. Ghost barks another laugh, shoving his hand beneath his vest and yanking it away from his chest - he’s got a long sleeved black shirt underneath and he tilts his head, regarding Alejandro and Soap with cold calculation.
“You don’t want me to hurt myself?” he asks, twirling the knife between his fingers, allowing it to scrape against his knuckles. Soap sighs in one heavy, fell swoop, and slowly lowers himself to his knees about three feet away from Ghost, as if getting on his level will calm him. Ghost feels his breathing slow and ignores it, forces himself to pant and whine again, because he wants to be panicked, he wants to be hurt.
“Simon, honey, come on,” Soap murmured, low and soft, words just for them and Ghost snarls , teeth bared. He doesn’t want Soap to make him feel good, he doesn’t want to be Simon. “Just give me-” Soap begins and holds his hand out for the knife that Ghost is embarrassed to say he’s losing his grip on; he doesn’t think, doesn’t even breathe, only knows that this knife is all he has and that he doesn’t want Soap to touch him and that he wants to be big and mean and scary like everyone finds him, everyone but Soap and Price and Alejandro and Rudy and Gaz, wants to see them side eye him with fear and concern like they used to, wants to hear them all, from where they’re stationed in the abandoned gym, watching them, fall silent as death when he turns the knife on himself.
“You don’t want me to hurt myself?” he asks again, voice trembling, although he pretends it isn’t. There’s a sharp sting from the blade he has pressed to his throat, cutting edge doing its job as he heaves a frantic breath and his windpipe expands, pressing insistently up against the weapon.
“Now, son, let’s just all take a deep breath,” Price cautions, but he doesn’t move from where he’s stood almost directly behind Soap, shadowing the younger man.
“ Let’s ,” Ghost hisses, because when he takes the deep breaths Price wants him to, the knife digs into his flesh and blood runs hot and dark down his throat. Gaz and Rudy both stumble forward at the same time, cursing in unison as Ghost curls the knife up so he can nick a sharp line just to the left of his carotid.
“Simon,” Price barks and it's clear nobody is going to hold Soap back anymore because there’s no one stopping him as he lunges forward towards Ghost. Ghost yells, loud and terrified as Soap grabs his foot and yanks him away from the wall. He feels like a child all over again, hiding under his bed and sobbing when his dad creeps in with his bruising hands and sharp nails and giant pythons wrapped around his body, venom dripping from their fangs as they seek Simon’s soft flesh out. He feels like he’s back with Roba, with a stranger’s tongue in his mouth and hands holding his beating fists down and pain between his thighs and cleansing tight around his heart. Soap’s touch, as he pulls him in and slips the knife from his grasp, is violating and he knows he’s shut down, knows that Soap knows it too because he’s making low, soothing noises, like Simon is an animal .
If Johnny’s going to treat him like an animal, he’ll be an animal.
It’s clear that the others think he’s calmed down a little, what with Soap taking his knife away and carding gentle hands through his hair, because it takes a moment for them to react when Ghost tears up and out of Soap’s hold, teeth snapping once, twice in the air by his sergeant’s ear as Soap backs up; even if the others can’t tell what Simon’s up to, Soap practically lives in his head - he can read him like a book and all the pages say that Ghost’s about to bite.
“Grab him-!”
“Don’t,” Soap snarls, just as Ghost pushes at him, hard , backs him down against the gym floor with his thighs splayed over the other man’s hips, and his teeth finally in the arch of Soap’s throat. He bites down, canines finding their rightful place in somebody’s flesh, mouth filling with blood.
Soap groans with pain but he doesn’t push him away - there’s a tense, panicked silence as Soap eases Simon closer to him, hand soothing down his heaving flanks as Ghost bites harder, growling just to fill the room. Soap shushes him gently, reaching down to where the knife he’d taken had fallen from his grasp when Ghost had attacked him. Ghost whines around his mouthful, feels flesh and fat and sinew crackle under his fangs as he tries to scrabble for the knife back - Soap catches his wrist in his free hand and uses the other to slide the knife across the gym floor to Alejandro, who bends to pick it up.
“That’s it, Simon,” Johnny says, and he’s not angry. He’s not angry and it makes Ghost bite down harder, but still, there’s nothing violent about the way that Johnny touches him, flips them over in one fluid movement so he’s the one on top. Ghost scrabbles at his back, tears lines of angry red down his spine and still Johnny isn’t angry . “It’s alright,” he murmurs and Simon whines pitifully, teeth going lax and soft. He doesn’t back away from Johnny’s neck for a moment, wants the other man to know he’ll bite again, that his teeth are always bared and he’s rabid and Johnny can’t control him.
“I’ll…I’ll go get a first aid kit,” Gaz says, from where he’s stood, trembling by Rodolfo. It’s the first time he’s spoken since Ghost had his mask ripped off, and his voice shakes . He knows PTSD like the back of his hand, deals with his fair share of it himself, but he doesn’t know Ghost, not really - it strikes him that his Lieutenant chose him, that this feral, manic animal that lashes out with teeth and claws, chose to purr and curl up in their laps, chose to be tamed .
“Don’t worry about it,” Soap says, still kneeling over Simon, who’s allowed his head to fall back against the gym mats. His mouth is a deep red gash across his face, bloody and raw. “We’ll get ourselves to medical soon. Ghosty’s not given me any diseases yet,” he laughs, humor rumbling in his chest. Simon can feel it through his body, from his head to the tips of his toes. He’s cold, all of a sudden, freezing down to his bones, and it brings about a body-wide shaking that he can’t manage to control.
“Hermano, I didn’t mean-” Rodolfo starts and Ghost realises vaguely that he’s standing almost directly above them, right over Alejandor’s shoulder. His whole team are a lot closer now, crowding the two of them in, their body heat radiating in their close quarters; he blinks at them.
“I know,” he says, not recognising his own voice. It’s soft, gentle in ways Ghost isn’t and Simon wasn’t allowed to be. “If you do it again, I’ll punch you,” he follows up with, aiming for Ghost and falling rather short. Rudy grins tentatively and something burns in Simon’s chest that isn’t so unlike fondness. Soap is still kneeling, half on top of Simon and half on the floor below, so he pushes at him gently, tries to work his feet under him as Soap backs away. Hands reach out to hold him and he flinches briefly.
“It’s okay,” Price says, “we won’t touch you, son.” But, Simon wants to be touched, wants this coldness, the guilt, the fear at himself, his own remorse, wants it all stripped away by their warmth, wants Price to pat him on the shoulder and tell him he’s doing well, wants to shuffle between Rudy and Aleja on the sofa because they’re both human heaters, wants Gaz to feel confident enough to ruffle his hair in faux-mockery whenever he tells an awful joke and Soap, Soap, Johnny , he wants him to hold him, wants to be treat like he’s precious china that could break at any moment, because he thinks he could.
Rudy’s hands are already retreating from where he was about to steady Ghost’s shoulders, the other man wobbling dangerously as he tries to muster the strength to stand, but Simon swallows, hard , steels himself and pushes back into it, leaning far enough back that he ends up nuzzling against Rudy’s hand. Rodolfo freezes for a moment, but he’s nothing if not adaptable; just as Johnny had, he smoothes a hand from forehead to the nape of Simon’s neck, scritching like Simon’s an overgrown cat and not a practically world renowned sniper that had just taken a chunk out of his Sergeant’s neck.
“You’ll eat me alive, one of these days, L.T.,” Johnny quips, like he can hear Simon’s thoughts. He takes Simon’s hands in his and hauls him up; Ghost wobbles, legs shaking beneath him like he’s a newborn deer, but there’s Alejandro and Price on either side of him in the time it takes for him to breathe, Price’s strong arm around his shoulders and Alejandro’s wrapped around his waist. His face crumples immediately and he forces himself not to cry, forces himself to focus on the taste of blood in his mouth and the mangled mess that is Soap’s neck, focuses on the fact he’s a monster and as much as he’d like to be treat gently, he doesn’t deserve to be.
“Come on, gorgeous boy, give us a smile,” Alejandro grins, and there’s hands on his face then, Gaz cupping the back of his neck as he slumps, lips trembling with the effort it takes not to cry, Soap’s hands on his cheeks, stroking slowly and steadily as he falls apart. Alejandro sneaks a hand in too, tilts Simon’s chin up, and smiles, all teeth and wild eyes because he knows his ridiculous, awful smile is Ghost’s favourite.
Simon smiles back, hesitant and gingerly, gaze blurring with thick, unshed tears. Rudy coos at him, like it’s a joke and it makes Simon smile a little wider, baring his bloody teeth at the other man - Rudy doesn’t flinch, just uses his thumb to wipe away a sticky, wet patch of blood on Simon’s lower lip. There’s so many hands on him that Simon barely knows who’s is who’s, but he knows they’re his team, knows he won’t be hurt, knows that the sight of his old scars won’t automatically bring new ones. His mask is more than just a face covering, it’s how he hides from the world, how he stays protected and unseen, how he’s sure there’s nobody else able to watch, able to see who he is and who he loves.
“I could’ve killed you,” he snaps at Soap, who grins cheekily, like the front of his shirt isn’t soaked through with his own blood. Somebody strokes a hand through his hair, tugs on his earlobe in retaliation at his sudden outburst, gently traces the scar that runs down his cheek. “I could’ve killed you,” he repeats and feels his eyes burn - his tears are wiped away by questing fingers before they even fall and he shudders a breath in unison with his team, his family, who are so close he can feel their heartbeats through his flesh. He’s still cold, but he’s beginning to warm up. Rudy’s still wiping away at his mouth and he thinks it’s Gaz, behind him, who’s picking dried blood out of his hair where he’d hit his head against the wall.
“You would never,” Soap says, slides his arms around Simon, one just above Aleja’s around his waist and the other loose around Simon’s own throat, pressing gently at the tear in his neck that’s still sluggishly pulsing out blood. “Besides,” he says, lips quirked like he knows a secret that the rest of them do not, “we like you best with blood in your teeth.”
Simon laughs, high and loud. Of course Soap would say that, of course Simon would try to kill him and Johnny would say that’s how he likes him best. They’re both damaged goods, hearts hardened and scarred and how could Simon love anybody else.
“I could’ve killed you,” he says again, supported on every side by his team, hands all over his body and all of them soft. “I could kill you all,” he laughs, and they all laugh too because he won’t - he couldn’t. He’s got the talent to take them all out, but just as he bites like a dog, he’s loyal like one too.
“Sure you could,” Johnny says, leaning their foreheads together, uncaring of his own blood in Simon’s mouth as he makes to kiss him. Simon smiles against his mouth, and lets himself, for the first time, fall - he knows he’ll be caught.