Chapter Text
He was in pain. He was scared, betrayed, confused, lost, he had lost any other option to escape from this situation. Fucking Shepherd was the reason he was going to die. The man who saved him. Out of all the things he survived, all the punishments he endured and all the pain, he was going down because of one selfish bastard that shot him. Yet he felt the ground hug him like a wolf would bite its prey, like a bullet would be hugged by a man's heart, like the veil of death touching your skin, and the scythe tearing his flesh apart from the corrosion of blood and bone. Nothing felt unnatural, but rather new. Odd he might say.
It was burning hot and uncomfortable, a million different things touching his skin making him feel as though he was suffocating. A sharp sensation went through him like an electric shock. Then nothing. Maybe death wasn’t tragic. Maybe death was like falling asleep.
Time kept going on, insufferably, continuously, painfully. What seemed like an eternity became longer. He tried to count to keep himself sane. Every time he got to one million he would keep it in mind and then start from zero again. Then a light came, but not the one for heaven, he couldn't, he was born a broken man. And now the light was invading his body, heating his limbs, making him feel his heart beat again, and then it devoured him.
He woke up suddenly, almost jumping out of bed.
Those sensations were just a nightmare. Nothing more than nightmares. But they felt… different. More real. Riley felt weird. Odd he might say. He was cuddling with someone, loosely, but with someone who was boiling hot to the touch. Did he fall asleep in Tav's bed last night and he forgot about it? He slowly opened his eyes, expecting to find his captain with a touch of beard, his usual tired face, his warhawk and the scar on his eye that looked extremely sexy (even though he would never admit it).
Instead, he found… his captain again? But he looked younger. A lot younger. He seemed to have lost ten, or even twenty years judging from his features, and the signature scar wasn't there. His warhawk was overgrown a bit, looking more like a mohawk, and his beard was more well kept. There was the small addition of a small jagged scar on his chin, though(was that hidden under the stubble or was it never there to begin with?). Riley blinked slowly a couple of times, observing the sunlight dance through the curtain in his captain's face.
Why was he sleeping with Tav, though? Why were they cuddling, usually his captain would just let Riley throw himself on his broad chest and falls asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Now instead they were facing each other, the bed barely big enough for both of them, he could feel one of his legs hanging from the edge of the mattress, but he didn't really care. It felt cozy, just waking up before the alarm would go off and being under the covers.
He focuses a bit longer on the captain's face, since he wanted to be sure he wasn't sleeping with a random bloke that looked like him.
Inspecting his face further, he found that it lacked his captain's sharpness, that his cheeks were fuller, and even his hairline was different. All things that differentiated him from his captain. Then how was he sleeping with someone else? He would have chosen death, rather than throwing himself in an unknown person's arms. He would have never started another relationship unless there was complete trust between them. Because if not, then he would remember Roba.
No, he had to forget that. Tav always told him that rather than focusing on the past, he should have cared about the present. The present was the most important thing at the moment, no more “but this happened” while “this didn't” now it was time to think about what was happening. And what was happening was that he wasn't with Tav, but someone that looked like him. He felt his breath shorten by instinct, getting faster to throw more oxygen in his bloodstream, his muscles tight and ready to spring, his skin becoming hypersensitive to the slightest touch, from the covers being slightly wrinkled around him to the skin to skin contact. But it was different. His muscles felt fuller, or rather strangled by his own skin, his right arm was stiffer than his left, cold air was touching his face.
Where is the mask? He tried to take control of his breath before it grew into a full blown panic attack, and he decided to get up and see for himself. He still had the heart to not wake up the other man, so gently guided his arms between them and then slipped away. When he was on his feet, he noticed how his slippers were dark dark blue rather than black and that he wasn't wearing his usual pajama, but a dark T-shirt and boxers. He noticed the furniture, looking both consumed and modern, a small office table near the window with a lamp, full of mission reports, papers and post-its, topped by various sharpened knives and a cold coffee mug. Buried underneath he saw a laptop and some other knives. On the opposite side stood a door, plain dark grey, with a hook on black tac-vest hung by one shoulder stripe. Close to the door there was also a trash can, where he could see through the black metal thread a few crumpled sheets of paper, an inkless pen and other rubbish. On the floor near the bed there were clothes, probably his and the guy's… No, get it out of your head, Simon Riley. He rubbed his legs together, trying to not focus on the feeling between his thighs where some wetness from the night prior lingered and his thighs ached just enough to be noticeable. He didn’t dare look at his thighs, what was there? Marks of a man he didn't even know? He noticed another door, probably the bathroom since it was… probably his captain's room. He didn't want to think about it too hard. He really had started losing his certainties, so he probably shouldn't have called the guy his captain since he definitely wasn't. He walked into the bathroom, which was in a different position than he would have expected, and when he opened the door, he found an unknown face looking back at him. In the mirror.
Ok, now it was getting bad. Probably even worse if he hadn't closed his eyes immediately. That scared him. He wasn't… himself anymore.
It is just a nightmare.
He could tell himself a thousand lies, but nothing could help him. He remembered what his therapist told him. Find a light switch and try to turn on and off the light. Read a newspaper, look at the dates, are they readable? Is the reflection in the mirror you?
He searched for a light switch by tapping his palm along the wall, failing to find a light switch inside. He turned around and looked out, he found one right outside the bathroom, he switched it on and a light bulb on the ceiling turned on, threatening to not work for the first two seconds or so before settling on an uncomfortable flickering.
Search for something to read, you can't read in your dreams. Usually inside a bathroom there should be something with text on it, right? He looked at the sink, avoiding his reflection once again, where he searched for something that had text on it. He went for the toothpaste and turned it around to read the ingredients.
Fluorine, menthol, whitening agents, salt, weird mineral names with too many syllables… Shitshitshitshit.
And your reflection is blurred, it never shows your actual face. He glanced at his reflection, a few centimeters away from his face now and he held his breath analysing it. It was different. He heard that while having a dream you couldn't invent a new face, but only see someone you already saw in your life.
He had never seen anyone like this. His face was longer, oval-shaped, his nose was longer too, but had a larger sectum, it also looked more crooked than his was. Like it was hit by a brick or something really hard. And a jagged line crossed it horizontally. A long scar, that split the skin and the cartilage leaving a small indent. Where the hell could he have gotten that cut? He gently followed the path of the line with his index finger, trying to keep back his tears and re-aligning his breath to a normal rhythm. Breathe in for 4 seconds. Hold your breath for 3 seconds hold. Breath out for 6 seconds. When he moved his hand, he was in horror
It was even worse on the right side of his face. A long scar traveled from his cheekbone to his chin, splitting his lips too, and his upper lip permanently parted, showing a canine. He carefully touched his upper lip, where it was split in half and some new skin had formed from the age of the scar. It was soft, his lips slightly cracked from dehydration, but also slightly damp due to the saliva that couldn’t be kept inside properly. He carefully raised the upper lip to inspect his teeth, of which not only the canine was damaged. Even its lower lower counterpart was ruined, both chipped and not fixed, having respectively a thin line across it, and the bottom one with the tip basically broken, worse than the upper one.
His lower lip was less damaged, not being split in half, but with a deep scar across it, that extended to the chin. Where was his Glasgow smile? The scars on his forehead? He gently traced with a couple of fingers where he remembered his smiley scars being positioned, how they curved lightly towards his cheekbone and made his face look split in half, forced to heal in a way that forced him to smile and made it impossible to genuinely smile anymore. First the left side, then the right side, that had a shorter scar since it was the first one inflicted by Roba. He looked at himself in the mirror again, moving his face from one side to the other, noticing how he looked much older. Maybe around his late thirties, or even early forties.
Holy shit, he looked ugly. And old.
Instead of his deep pond blue irises, he now had deep dark bloody brown eyes that hid his pupil for how dark they were. Where his eyes once looked at least youthful in appearance, now they were consumed by time and pushed down by stress and work. Dark circles showed under the eyes, impressed on his skin by the lack of sleep and now marked down and indelible. His eyebrows were barely visible for how light they were, and for how pale his skin was. But his lashes were pale and grimed with black face paint. Many little lumps of black fought to remain attached to his long lashes, and he rubbed his eyes to get rid of those. Some black stains stuck to his crow's feet, and some of it was shifted to his nose too. He cleaned his hands on his shirt trying to get rid of the slight uncomfortable feeling of sticky eyeblack and crumbs from his sleep.
Oh God, his hair… It was a dark blond shade, like dead bark, and an overgrown buzz cut that was recently trimmed on the sides and was currently half moved on one side due to his sleeping position. The only good thing about his blond hair was how his beard looked. It was growing uniformly in a thin darker shade, but if it was black, it would have looked like poppy seeds. It wasn't patchy and ruined by chemical burns, he realised after a few moments spent inspecting it. And that was the only good thing about his whole face for now. He inspected his pores closely, touched every part of his face, his ears were pierced both, but he didn't wear any earrings for now.
A grunt from the other room brought him back to reality breaking the spell of silence, making him almost jump up from the sudden sound.
His heart rate started running faster, his breathing technique couldn't work anymore, disrupted by his shaky lips and unsteady hands. Why didn't his body work anymore?He searched for something to fidget with, anything that could move his mind from the dark place it had fallen into.
SomethingtodograbitsqueezeittouchitthisisrealandIhateitanditisnoisywhydoIsuddenlywanttoscream? A sudden noise brought him back to reality, he had knocked down the toothpaste and the liquid soap from the sink, while his hand was searching for something to touch, to grab reality and twist it. He instead tried to grab the sink, feeling his legs didn't want to move, making him almost fall down.
A few light and trained steps were the only thing that warned him of the man behind him, he could see his confused face from the reflection on the mirror.
He was standing at the entrance, a hand half raised almost close enough to touch his back, but it retracted almost as fast as it was raised. He wants to scream, to cry, to run away, to dig himself a new grave, why can't he control himself? He falls to his knees, his eyes wet with tears, his emotions outburst, his panic attack worsens, he closes his eyes to cut off the word, and he becomes extremely aware of everything that is touching him. From the slippery floor tiles under his skin, wetting the hairs on his legs and making it unbearable to the rough full of crinkles texture of his shirt, from the light touch on his shoulder trying to soothe his pain to the way the hair on his forehead is itchy.
He ducks his face in his right arm, trying to hide his tears, to not be weak like his father always claimed he was, to not think about this as reality. His tears fall down from his eyes to his cheeks, and from his cheeks to his arm. A weird sensation made him raise his eyes from the floor, and he saw black and pink skin. Covered by ink and painfully stiff.
Memories of fire and pain filled his head. The flames eating his body, the bullet wounds that tore through his skin and broke his bones, someone he had almost forgotten, but that he couldn't recall. The memories were breaking him. His head was split in half by pain, he could barely keep his head up, his eyes couldn't focus on anything, everything looked too complex to understand, everything was too bright. His ears were ringing, his limbs weren't responding correctly, nothing was where it was supposed to be.
Then a hand was on his back, with the other hand on his chest, he had a deep voice with an odd accent calling him by name, his real name. He squeezed his chest from both sides, not too tight, not too light, as if they had been doing this for long enough to learn. His body was responding to the touch— this body was responding to the touch— in ways that he didn't quite get. His breaths slowly came deeper, his lungs burned with the previous hyperventilation attack but were recovering, his limbs were still frozen in their uncomfortable position but now he felt like reality was tangible again. He was real again.
«Simon, breathe. What happened? Simon. Simon, listen to me, follow my voice. Breathe in and out slowly.» The hand on his chest moved a bit higher, patting him gently «Please, do it for me Simon.» He's trying to choke me was a thought that came to his mind faster than the others, the hand on his chest was riding up his body and slowly towards his throat and his instincts kicked in and he wanted to shake it off, to bite his fingers off like the rabid untamed dog that Roba claimed he was, to save the last few gulps of air he could get before having to fight out of his hold again. But there was no hold. He felt the hand shaking against his sternum, or maybe it was his body, but he thought he managed to whisper a plea and close his eyes.
Then those hands disappeared, like his skin was still touched by fire, like it hurt to touch him, and that sent him more into his own thoughts than it should have. The voice was more desperate, of someone that knew him enough to know what would bring him back.
«Breathe Simon, it's me, Soap. You are safe, there is no danger here.»
Soap? Thatissn'tSoapinanyform,that’sacarboncopyofhiscaptain,hecouldn'triskit,hewaslostandalone.
He tried to push the other guy— Soap— away, in panic and fear, but not trying to hurt him. A sad grunt came from the younger guy, almost like he didn't expect to be rejected.
«Simon?» He almost looked hurt. He then came closer, this time staying a step away from him. «Breathe for me. Please Simon I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help you.»
His head still screamed in pain, his thoughts barely keeping themselves together, his skin burning all over him. Oh shit, that was a Scottish accent. He almost forgot that voice. Not that voice. Memories of an unexciting past filling in the gaps of what he couldn't recall flooded his mind, Price and Soap— his Price and his Soap— screaming in the comms, asking him and… someone else he couldn't recall to stay away from…
He looked up, meeting deep blue eyes that were identical to the captain's. The same expression he had when he was hurt after a battle, the same expression when he had a panic attack, the same expressions when he told him he cared about him and then kissed him on the forehead. The same dawned blue eyes on someone that wasn't his. He hated it and loved it at the same fucking time.
«Go away,» He asked softly, not wanting to bring Soap that was not Soap with him in his broken mind.
«But…» The man exaled, getting a little closer.
Too close for his own liking, he shouldn't be allowed to get this close, he shouldn't be here instead of his captain. There was something deeply wrong with all of this, he shouldn't be here, he could feel it in his bones that there was something wrong.
«Simon, please,» The man whispered, getting even closer, almost touching him, looking at him with his bright blue eyes, pained, almost as much as him, almost reaching out to cup his wheel in his palm. Not quite touching yet.
When his fingers gently brushed closer though, he avoided them. He moved to the side, lowering his gaze and slowly seeing the world turning black.
«Leave. Now.» He almost growled, realizing too late how much deeper his voice was in this body. He was big, ugly and scary, it was easy to be listened to like he desired, but seeing the man's saddened face made something twist in his guts.
Without another word the man left, like a dog with its tail between its legs, not saying anything that seemed to threaten to spill over his lips.