Chapter Text
General discharge for a psychological condition not amenable to treatment. Also known as too damn depressed to be part of the British Military, and untreatable to boot.
Prone to endangerment of himself beyond what is required for duty.
Difficulty controlling emotional state.
Trouble concentrating.
Difficulty sleeping.
Trouble handling stressful assignments.
Feelings of helplessness.
Physical problems without obvious physical causes.
There is no doctor-patient confidentiality in the military. And if you have a superior officer who actually gives a shit about the men working underneath him…
It was probably for the best. He was one bad nightmare, one flashback, one mention of his name away from winding up KIA. He was a danger to himself, to his fellow soldiers. He wasn’t a good commander, and he couldn’t follow orders like he used to be able to.
After everything… After Roach, it didn’t feel right to be the person who gets to choose who lives and dies. Something had clicked when he’d been told Roach had died, all those men, all those people he had killed, they’d been like Roach. They’d had friends, family, people that would sit awake for weeks missing them like they’d lost a part of their own body.
It wasn’t that he was too heartless to realize that earlier. He’d always been aware of what he was doing. It always followed him around everywhere he went. Lives he’d taken had hung over his head like those rain clouds in Winnie the Pooh that followed around that poor, sad donkey. Only, he wasn’t just some hilariously depressed donkey. He was a man who was responsible for keeping thousands of people safe and alive, and for taking the lives of a thousand more.
Killing a man meant taking away someone’s son, father, best friend, lover. He struggled, after Roach, to do what he’d always done, and he found himself trying to avoid it. It got him hurt. It got his men hurt. That’s when Price had asked about it.
He didn’t last much longer in the military after that. Military psychological evaluations were brutal, uncaring, and they didn’t care overmuch for how he actually was feeling, but rather only whether he was able to do the goddamn job he was told to do. He wasn’t. So, he was discharged.
Nowadays, Ghost kept himself busy working at a corner store down the street. It paid next to nothing, but he’d already paid off his home when he’d been in the military so his bills were light. It was mind-numbing monotony day after day. Nothing interesting, just the same little old ladies wandering in and out looking for puzzle books or milk or sugar, kids stopping in after school to buy a soda, teenagers standing outside to have a smoke while the sun set. It was enough to keep his mind off of things, at least during the day.
He didn’t feel any better, being out of the army—the cartoon rain cloud still hung over his head, nightmares still kept him awake more often than not, flashbacks echoed stubbornly through his skull at the most subtle of reminders—but, he didn’t have anyone’s lives hanging over his head. He wasn’t responsible for anybody’s lives at all. All he did was stand at the counter, ringing up whatever people handed to him, making quiet conversation, and trying to ignore all the stares he got when people noticed his scars.
He wore a surgical mask every day, to cover the lower half of his face. It was a habit he’d never gotten out of after the military, when he’d always worn a skull-printed balaclava (which still sat in the bottom of his sock drawer, only current purpose being to make him shrink away in disgust when his hand brushed the fabric), and luckily, people didn’t ask too many questions. But they did stare, and they stared a lot. Scars littered the rest of his face, as well as his arms and hands. They left bright white lines across his skin, even interrupting his tattoos, blank expanses of white in the middle of a grey drawing. Long sleeves helped, but summertime made the store hot, and even with the door propped open, the humidity and heat made fabric stick to his skin. Stares felt easier to manage, most days.
“How are you today, darling?” An old woman, Margaret. She has curly grey hair, and she wears a pair of large-framed, pink glasses. They always seem to match whatever floral pattern her shirt is on any given day. Simon thought she must be quite cheery, always wearing flowers. Though, perhaps that’s just what old women wear.
“Peachy keen.”
“Oh! Listen to you. You sound like John Travolta, dearie.”
Simon offered her a smile and rang up her items. Today, a bottle of milk, a candy bar, and a handful of hard candies. “Six pounds forty-six,” he informed her.
She slid her purse from her shoulder and dug through it until she had a handful of coins, which she held out for Simon. “It’s a nice day out. No rain. Do you have any plans?”
Simon paused counting the coins to glance out the window. The sun wouldn’t be setting for hours after he went home, and there was, indeed, not a drop of rain to be seen. He shrugged. “Same as I usually do.” He popped open the drawer, tossed the coins in, and dug out some change, which he handed to Margaret.
She tossed the coins into the bottom of her purse, followed by the items she’d bought. “Well, dearie, I hope it’s a nice evening. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Of course.” She left with a happy pep in her step. She always seemed happy. Simon wasn’t sure how a person could manage being in such a good mood all the time. Perhaps it was an act, just a show she put on when she was out in public. Most people must do that, right? Surely no one could be in such a good mood at the corner store.
Maybe that’s just Margaret, he told himself. It seemed hard to believe, but, of course, he’d always been a cynic. A long time ago he’d had a voice of reason, an optimistic presence that stuck by his side through anything. They’d balanced each other out well enough, and when they didn’t, somehow they’d always find a way back to each other, a way to meet in the middle and agree that they’d be alright. He longed for that again, for the presence of somebody in his life that could keep his mind occupied by something other than that loud voice at the back of it telling him that he’d only ever done badly, that the world is full of evil, terrible things, and it was best to sit at home in his basement, piecing together the latest model car he’d gotten his hands on.
It seemed foolish, spending so much time on something that was ultimately useless, but it kept his mind occupied, the same way that ringing up item after item at work kept him busy. It was better to think about what would go where, which piece fit into which spot, just how much glue to add, how big, exactly, the newest line of paint should be, rather than anything else that liked to fight its way to the forefront of his mind. Pointless, sure. A waste of time and money, yes. But it kept him sane. It kept his mouth from aching for another drink, it kept unsteady hands from dragging nails across already marred skin, and it even kept him from reaching for another fresh cigarette. Some days, he wasn’t sure why it was a good thing, but it kept him a few steps further from an early grave. 36 is no age to go dying.
He always walked to and from work. It was a rather short walk, and given the weather of the day, it was nice to take a moment to enjoy it. He thought maybe he should bring his model up from his basement, take it out to his empty garage so he could enjoy some fresh air. The glue wouldn’t dry, but he could bring it back in before he went to bed, and by morning, it would be good to go. By the time his hand was on the door handle, he decided that was exactly what he’d do.
He was currently deep into building a 1:25 scale model of a blue, two-door, ‘63 Chevy Corvette. When he finished, it would go on the bookshelf in his living room, next to the darker blue, ‘67 Corvette he’d finished a few months prior. It was coming together nicely, and there wasn’t much he’d really have to do before it came time to paint it. It would look good, sitting on the shelf in his living room.
All the model cars made him seem like more of an enthusiast for cars than he ever truly had been. It wasn’t so much about cars, as it was having something he could be completely in control of. There were no questions, no uncertainty. Pieces fit together one way, like a puzzle, and when it was finished, he could spend hours, even days, painting every single detail of it until it looked perfect. It was small, but it was all his, each and every one of them. They littered every flat surface in his living room, books moved to piles on the floor to make room for little model cars. They stayed on the floor, collecting dust, while the cars sat proud on the shelves, lined up in little rows, displays of the hours of dedication Simon had put into them.
In the past, he’d reserved that level of attention to detail for his guns and knives, and those only. When nightmares dragged him from sleep, he’d sit awake for the rest of the night, taking apart his pistol piece by piece, cleaning it, polishing it, obsessing over every single scratch, every speck of dirt, until it was completely spotless. And then he’d do it again. He recalled a few times Roach had woken up to find the light on, and had spent a part of the night watching as Simon obsessed over his pistol, until sleep dragged him back under. He’d fall asleep sitting up, straddling a desk chair, and Simon would wake him gently to move him back to bed. He’d probably love to watch Simon building models.
No, he definitely would. Simon was certain of it.
He headed to his kitchen when he got home. Over the weekend, he’d made a batch of tomato soup. There was enough left for dinner that night, so he thought he’d finish it. He didn’t work the next morning. Perhaps he could make another batch.
He reheated the soup in a pot on the stove, poured it into a bowl and then sat at the small table in his kitchen to eat. He kept his mind occupied with music playing loudly. He’d found that, lately, he needed to listen to songs he hadn’t heard before he’d met Roach, before he’d been discharged from the military. But instead today he was listening to American country music. Johnny Cash (which, rarely, he had listened to with Roach around). The lyrics of one of the songs felt particularly relevant. It made his soup hard to swallow, like a handful of gravel.
Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I'm still right here
What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know goes away
In the end
He left his soup half-eaten, going cold in the bowl where it had sat on the table. He stopped the music and headed down to his basement. His thoughts raced, his heart beat fast in his chest, and he had to force a few deep breaths into his lungs to keep himself relatively calm. It was easier said than done.
His hands shook while he gathered up what pieces were left to build of his ‘63 Corvette model and piled them onto a tray. He took them upstairs, out the back door, and around the path into his garage. He circled around back inside before he settled down to start building to get himself a drink.
Bourbon. He’d always loved bourbon. It was sweet, strong, but not so acidic. One of the things he could say Americans absolutely nailed, along with their ridiculous scale-model cars he frequently found himself purchasing. He drank half a glass and refilled it. Then, he went around his house, switching off all the lights, before he headed back out to the garage.
He didn’t bother to put on music, this time. Instead, he just propped open the garage door on a paint can, and listened to the sound of birds outside while he pieced together increasingly tiny pieces of plastic.
Before he knew it, the sun had set, and he was listening to the sound of insects chirping away. He thought, briefly, how odd it seemed that they looked for mates by screaming out into the night. To him, it seemed like little more than a way to call out to something that would want you dead. Though, enough crickets seemed to survive despite their incessant screaming, so perhaps Simon was being too cynical, yet again.
People could act the same way. Some were like crickets; loud, obnoxious, screaming out into the night for attention, desperate for someone to come along and let them know they deserved it. Simon found he didn’t care much for those people, but they had a way of seeming to gravitate towards him. What is it, he wondered, about a huge, gruff, cynical, depressed veteran that seems to attract the cheeriest of people?
He thought of Margaret, of other men and women who had thought it appropriate to flirt with him while he stood behind the counter in that damn shop, simply trying to inform them how many quid their eggs would cost them. He wouldn’t act on it. He didn’t have much interest in love. He never had. The only reason he’d ever found himself loving Roach was because the man had snuck his way into Simon’s heart when he wasn’t looking, and made himself a home.
His home was still there. Empty, dark, filled with dust and cobwebs, untouched even by Simon’s hands.
Simon packed everything back up neatly on the tray and carried it through his garden to the back door of his house. Just before he opened it, though, something—call it an old instinct, remnants of his past in the SAS—made his hair stand on end. Goosebumps raised up across his arms and the back of his neck. Something was wrong.
He bent slowly, lowering the tray with his model to the ground and settling it carefully next to the door. The back door opened into his kitchen, and just to the right of it there was a drawer where he kept a combat knife. No guns, but a knife just might do the trick.
He turned the handle slowly and pushed the door in, cursing each ghost of a sound he heard as the hinges twisted against themselves, metal on metal. He needed to take better care of his house.
He pushed the door open just enough that he could squeeze inside, and in the dark, muscle memory guided his hand to the drawer handle. He opened it slowly and felt around until his hand closed around the handle of the knife. He paused in that spot, listening to the rest of his house. He heard nothing.
He lifted the knife up out of the drawer and gripped it tightly in his hand before he stepped into the kitchen. He heard something: a floorboard in the living room creaking. He couldn’t see into the room from the kitchen. He’d have to step into the hallway, into the wide open arched doorway which linked the room to the rest of the house. He stepped carefully and pressed himself against the wall just inside the hallway door.
Creaking. It was plain as day. Someone was walking around in his living room, trying to move quietly and failing. He adjusted his grip on the knife once more as a flashlight beam shone into the kitchen. Creaking sounded closer. They were moving towards him. Towards the kitchen. He held his breath, listening like his life depended on it, and realizing that there was a chance it might.
He only heard one set of footsteps. There were no others upstairs or on the ground floor of the house. He didn’t hear any talking, whispering, or movement. Nothing. Just this one person, who was quietly stepping their way towards his kitchen, flashlight shining in at the blue cabinets. Simon stared at the cabinets where the flashlight illuminated them while he listened. He’d been in this position easily more than a dozen times, and there was never an occasion where he hadn’t come out on top, even when he had just a knife, and the other man had a gun.
The floor creaked loudly just as the man stepped into the kitchen. A fault Simon was well aware of, but that a stranger couldn’t possibly anticipate. He lunged in an instant. His left hand crossed the man’s chest, grabbing a fistfull of his t-shirt, and he slammed him back around the corner, into the wall in the hallway, with his forearm pressed against his chest. His other hand, knife held firmly, pressed the blade against the man’s neck. Their faces were inches apart. The man called out, fear evident in his voice. Simon couldn’t make out his expression with the flashlight aimed at the ground, but it was clear enough he was terrified.
The blade pressed hard against pale skin, and Simon’s breath came heavy. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?”
“Uh…”
“Answer me!” Simon’s voice was loud and harsh. The voice of a soldier.
“I thought you weren’t home!” A Scottish accent shouted back at him, high-pitched either from surprise, or as a reaction to having a knife pressed against his throat. Not as odd a thing as you might expect to hear from a man with a knife to his throat.
“That’s not an answer.”
“What d’ye want me to say?”
“I want you to say what you’re doing in my kitchen.”
“Why are you here in the dark?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
The other man was quiet for a moment, hesitating. “...yes?”
“I should kill you.”
“Please don’t.”
Simon paused for a moment. He needed to take a breath, so he did. He filled his lungs with air, and then sighed. “If you move an inch, I will slit your throat.”
“Okay.”
He stepped back, releasing the other man’s chest and throat, and he reached out to flick on the lightswitch.
Before him stood a short, terrified looking Scotsman with his arms pressed to his sides. He held a flashlight in one hand, but the other was empty. He wasn’t wearing gloves or a mask, and Simon could clearly see a tattoo on his right forearm. Rather ill prepared for a robbery, he thought.
He was significantly shorter than Simon, standing at, if he had to guess, around 5’9 or 5'10. He was pale with blue eyes, stubble grew in dark on his face, and his brown—almost black—hair was cut into a mohawk, which was slicked back away from his forehead. He had a scar across his chin and one over his eye, interrupting his eyebrow, and a serious frown seemed to be cemented to his face. The expression of a man caught mid-break-in, Simon thought.
“All your lights were off. It’s a nice house, I just thought…”
“Are you an idiot?”
“What?”
“You don’t even have gloves on. You’re leaving fingerprints everywhere.”
“I wasn’t, until you started throwin’ me around the place.”
“What did you take?”
“Nothing.” Simon raised a brow, but the man stared back at him, challenging. He didn’t believe him. So, he lifted his right hand to remind the other man of his knife and then reached out with his left, patting down each of his pockets. One contained something. He reached in, and the man protested, “hey! Come on-”
“Shut up. For fuck’s sake.” It was a wallet. Simon raised a brow at the man, and flipped it open.
“You can put that away, if ye’d like.”
“I wouldn’t,” Simon answered. He could see the man’s driver’s license. Holy shit. “You brought your identification with you into the house you decided to rob?” The man shrugged. Simon stared at it. John MacTavish. Scottish.
“I’ve never exactly robbed anybody.”
“What?”
“So far, I was really just having a look around.”
“That’s incredibly stupid.”
"Aye. You’ve got some nice wee miniatures-”
“Shut up.” The man shut his mouth. Simon could see why he might feel intimidated. He seemed strong enough, Simon could see his muscles plainly even as he was backed against the wall, but Simon still towered over him. He’s a big man. “Take this,” he shoved the wallet back into the man's—John’s chest.
John grabbed it and shoved it back into his pocket. “I wasn’t leaving fingerprints around. I was going to take everything I touched, to be fair.”
“Get the hell out of here.”
“Yes, sir.” Simon backed up, opening up room for John to move towards the front door at the other end of the hallway. Simon stayed just a step behind him, and as the man pulled the front door open and stepped out, he left Simon with one final comment, “you really should keep your door locked. There’s dangerous people out and about.”
Simon responded by slamming the door in his face, and loudly twisting the deadbolt shut. “What a bloody idiot,” he muttered to himself. Frankly, he was astonished by how bold the man had been. He’d broken into someone’s house, been caught, and thought it might be best to make casual conversation, and offer advice?
Simon turned back to the kitchen so he could return the knife to its place in the kitchen drawer, and then collected his model from outside. He securely deadbolted the back door, too, and then poured himself a fresh glass of bourbon.
He’d let his guard down, that was plain enough. He shouldn’t have left the door unlocked. It was as if he was begging to get himself killed. Maybe he was. Seemed easy enough, dying. He finished his bourbon and washed the glass.
He carried his model back down to its place in the basement and sat it on the table. Ordinarily, he’d point a fan at it, make sure that the air was circulating enough to help the glue dry overnight, especially in weather as humid as the day had been, but his mind was preoccupied.
Every instance he’d let his guard down played over and over in his head. Unlocked front door, unlocked back door, windows left wide open; it was as if he was begging for someone to try what that idiot Scot had tried that evening.
He made a few rounds around the ground floor of the house, securing every window and door, and then he did the same upstairs. Once everything was locked up tight, he settled onto the couch in the living room.
The possibility of sleep had gone out the window the instant he’d realized someone was in his home. He wouldn’t sleep, and if he did, he’d be kept awake all night by nightmares. Memories of times he’d been caught off guard before, times he’d found himself shot and stabbed, pressed against walls with a knife to his neck, when gunshots had sounded next to his ears, temporarily deafening him.
No, sleep wouldn’t come that evening. He sat awake, watching reruns of old sitcoms until the sun rose. Johnny Scotsman and Gary Sanderson haunted his thoughts, a tug of war between memories of a secure, happy life, and a reality where a criminal could walk into his home with no obstacles, unprepared, and get away with little more than a sore throat.
Why the fuck didn’t you call the police on that idiot, Simon?