Chapter Text
Can one's own name be forgotten? Can one’s own life be made of fragments, placed randomly in a vast sea of nothingness? Is it possible to be someone, when one's identity is erased by uncontrollable forces? Who is that man, in the mirror, who smiles but doesn't feel joy, who cries but doesn’t feel sadness?
It's funny that he remembers his name, yet it feels so unfamiliar. It sounds like something that hasn't once belonged to him, something he stole, or someone stole for his sake.
It is painful, to be no-one, to be discardable and replaceable, to be a pale copy of someone else, someone he once was. The pain is a weak echo that never dies down, and the echo gets louder when silence takes over.
Maybe the mirror is mocking him, sending back an erroneous reflection of him, or maybe his eyes are tricking him, maybe he looks nothing like that, maybe he is nothing, just a shell that breathes, skin almost corpse colored, and the energy that floated in his eyes long gone.
He never meant for that to happen, for him to feel aversion for his own body, the scars that cover him from head to toe, make him look like he went to a war he knows nothing about, risked his life in an allegedly safe environment. He never held a gun but it sure feels like he'd know what to do, like the coldness implemented in his heart would allow him to press the trigger without hesitation. Can someone else's cruelty be contagious?
He doesn't remember what he looked like before, he doesn't remember if his nose has always been crooked, or if he needs to blame the multiple blows he received. Does it really matter? Would his life quality be increased if he had an immediate answer to all those questions?
No. That's the immediate answer. There's nothing that could improve his living conditions, and at this point, even freedom sounds like a far away utopia.
The worst part is that he can't bring himself to blame Ghost for whatever is happening, even though it's all his fault, even though he's the one who drugged and took him. A part of him is thankful for still being alive, because on a scale of importance, life is more important than freedom.
He has no idea what he's doing in the bathroom, why he sneaked in there just to stare at himself and judge his reflection. He also doesn't know why Ghost hasn't barged in to throw him back to the basement, and for a second he wonders if his abusive alcohol excess has gotten the best of him. That thought doesn't comfort him at all, it worries him, but he still hesitates to go check, as if not seeing it could help him pretend nothing happened.
Thankfully, the familiar rumbling of heavy steps makes itself heard after seconds of silence, seconds that might’ve been minutes or hours. The shadow fills the door and even though he expected it, Soap freezes, forgetting how his muscles move, tongue heavy in his mouth. Their eyes meet in the mirror and something explodes, but nothing happens. It explodes inside, somewhere behind Soap’s heart, somewhere he can’t see, but he feels the pain. He doesn’t remember how to act, he doesn’t know which reaction is expected, which facial expression. What are they to each other, now that they share a semblance of intimacy and freedom?
When the shadow sneaks closer, like it’s floating on the tiled floor, Soap turns around, unable to back down further than what the furniture allows, he can’t fuse with the material, can’t vanish in a puff of glitters, or broken bones, he must stay here and face the consequences of his actions.
Again, what are they to each other?
“Why are you here?” Resonates a voice, deeply bored and unimpressed. Not violent, not angry, as if Soap was just a misplaced object, and it’s not a big deal, it just needs to be put back in the correct spot.
Soap doesn’t have an answer to that question, he himself doesn’t know why his steps brought him here, instead of staying in the safe comfort of the cold basement. He doesn’t know why he stands here, blanket at his feet, body exposed with all the scars painted. His mouth dries with the lack of words that cross it, his brain and heart run at high speed, quick, a word, a sound, anything, before the calmness shapes into something else, before the silence takes the form of a fist that falls down on him like thunder.
“I…was just checking something.” He says after too long. He's not sure this answer will be satisfactory, but Ghost just shrugs.
“Well, go back if you’re done.”
Soap nods, fleeing the bathroom like he’s guilty of murder.
“By the way, we’re going out tonight.” Ghost adds before disappearing in a corner, probably going back to the kitchen. Soap sometimes wonders if he dreamed the bedroom door ever being open.
He wants to ask why they’re going out, but he feels like it would be spilling oil on a yet to come fire, and he doesn’t want to risk the peace for something so silly. He’s spent months of his life in utter ignorance, what’s a few more hours?
Before he has time to ponder about his knowledge of the situation, the basement door opens behind him. “Actually, we need to go buy some stuff.”
This time, Soap can’t contain his curiosity. “We?”
“You need new clothes.”
This becomes more confusing the more time passes, and Soap wonders if he landed in the dreamworld, and the real him is still asleep, covered in blood and bruises, dried tears streak on his cheeks.
“Why?”
“Why not.”
It’s not like he can give his opinion, really, so whatever the reason is he should just roll with it. He nods, walking to his mattress and laying on his stomach. “When are we leaving?”
“When I call you.”
Soap hums, closing his eyes as if he hadn’t done anything but sleep the past hours. Actually, he’s not sure he slept.
******
Simon tries to remember how long it has been, since they went out in public. The blurry memory of their first escapade in the outside world crosses his mind like a high speed train, something he can’t and doesn’t want to catch up with. The past stays in the past, or something along those lines. If only he could follow his own advice for the things that really matter.
They don't need to buy clothes per say, or at least Soap doesn't need anything, he can always borrow from Simon's closet. No, the reason they're going out right now is so Simon feels better about himself, about being the monster. He can't be much of a monster if he brings Soap outside to see people, right? He’s not really sure why he planned all that…he’s not even sure he planned anything. He acts on instinct, something he’s done his whole life in order to survive in a world that doesn’t want him.
Those thoughts make him want to drown in alcohol, but alcohol has stopped working for a while now, so it wouldn’t change anything. How great it felt, to be able to forget his own existence for a few hours.
His somewhat peaceful retrospection is interrupted by a presence behind him, one he brought along, one that stopped shining bright for some reason. Maybe it's part of why he brought him out? To save that spark inside him, the spark he was the one to put out? So, who can he blame but himself?
They haven’t spoken a word since they left the house and the silence starts to weigh heavy on Simon’s shoulders, but he doesn’t know how to break it, how to start a conversation, how to pretend that their relationship is normal. So, he pinches his lips and inhales sharply, entering the first clothing store he spots. Soap follows like a shadow, like a zombie attracted to deeper darkness, barely conscious of his surroundings it seems. Simon can only blame himself.
Trying to lift up the mood would be useless at this point. Soap appeared fine when they were home, maybe because he was trapped, and now he’s getting a taste of something he won’t have. It’s cruel but it’s too late to go back. At least that’s an acceptable enough excuse for him. Simon would never admit he failed in a mission he set for himself. Or maybe seeing this whole situation as a simple mission was his first mistake.
“Black would suit you.” Simon says to shut his running thoughts up, grabbing a t-shirt of that color, handing it to an unreactive Soap who barely registers it. It’s not really that black would suit him or that Simon is into any kind of fashion, but black hides every blood stain and his whole closet is already that color anyway, so why change now?
Soap nods like he doesn’t care, like he isn’t allowed to care, and Simon would be lying to himself if he denied the truth of that silent statement. The pain in his knuckles would remind him how bad he is, in reality, when he tries to atone for his sins but all he does is dig a deeper grave for himself. Is he even trying to be forgiven?
Next, black pants, jeans, camo, it doesn’t matter. They’re not here to look good, they're here so Simon can atone for his sins in a one-way manner. A half-hearted attempt at forgiveness. Or maybe a wish to conceal Soap’s identity even more, make him look and act like Simon does, make him a copy rather than a person with a unique identity.
Who needs an identity, when stuck in a cage? Caged birds never learn how to fly.
“Go try that on.” Simon sends him away with the certainty that a broken man wouldn’t come up with ways to escape. He’s had many chances since they entered the mall, never taking any into consideration. It makes him wonder if he remembers that he was once a free man, or if that part of his life is just a blur in a corner of his mind. Sometimes, Simon wonders if he can feel regret, and if wondering that is a form of regret.
He’s left with himself, while Soap is gone, and no bottle of bourbon to keep him company while his thoughts eat at him like hungry beasts. Thoughts he doesn’t understand, feelings he can’t name, emotions that aren’t sorrow or anger when he thinks about the man behind the curtain, the man he gave a sort of privacy that he’s never given him before. The need to stand up and dress him up like he’s a child is strong, but people are around, he can’t act like they do when they’re at home, he can’t be the master to his pet. He can’t believe he told his captain Soap was his dog, and how stupid that was. How lucky he is, that John hasn’t caught up to the lie yet, and hopefully never will.
The first thing Simon notices when the curtain opens is how weird it is, to see Soap in clothes that will belong to only him, like he’s allowed something of his own for the first time. What’s even weirder, is that Simon is the one who allowed it. Again, he’s not sure what he's trying to achieve. Who is he trying to impress? God? He stopped believing in that guy a long time ago, when foreign blood first splattered on his skin, or before that, when he felt the pain of being born at the wrong place.
“It looks fine.” He says, as a compliment or just to fill the silence between them, and Soap nods to that even though Simon is pretty sure he hasn’t checked himself out in the mirror.
“Don’t you want to see how you look?” He asks…why does he ask? Why would he care how Soap feels about how he’s dressed? It’s not like he’d allow him to change into something else. Would he allow that? Those thoughts scare him. How much he’s starting to care is terrifying. Or did he care from the start? Was Soap a tool to become more human? A failed experiment, for Simon is sure he lost even more of his humanity. He lost the skill it takes to see Soap as a human with thoughts and habits of his own. No, that Soap doesn’t exist, that Soap disappeared in the ashes of his old home. He doesn’t know why he starts laughing, there’s nothing to laugh about, and it hurts when it shakes his entire body rhythmically, like he’s rattled around like a child’s toy, and his stomach hurts like he’s about to throw up. Soap is watching him, he can feel it, intense, confused, and his whole form motionless, like time stopped around him. It is a strange scene, worthy of being displayed in a museum, or a circus, the laughter and the suffering, the fake fun and the real pain.
When it stops, after too long, Simon is out of breath, nausea still clinging to his stomach and throat. Soap is still looking at him but his head hangs low; he would never dare appear superior to the man who could send him flying against a wall, once they’re back home.
“We’ll take that, right?” Simon stands up, and Soap nods before hurrying back behind the curtain, getting changed back into the borrowed clothes. Does he look at himself in the mirror this time? Or does he close his eyes tight to be sure to not see the reflection being sent back to him?
It takes a few minutes for the curtain to open again, Soap holding his new clothes over his forearm, a spark shining for a second before disappearing again. Simon wonders if he's happy, or if he suddenly remembered they would have to go back at some point. He hasn't said a word since they left. Is it a sort of revenge? Is he trying to punish Simon as well as his capacity allows?
“Do we need anything else?” Simon asks, maybe genuinely, maybe just to try and get a sound out of Soap's mouth. It's frustrating, a punch in the face kind of frustration. But he can't now, and he can't at home either, he already broke this promise once. Does it even matter? Is something deep inside him telling him to stop being violent? But he's known only that since he was a kid, who is that strange version of him with softer edges?
“No.” It's barely audible, it could've come from the wall itself, or from someone else in the store, someone who has nothing to do with their conversation. Simon doesn't like what he can't understand, he doesn't like the sudden change in Soap's behavior, he doesn't like silence when he doesn't provoke it.
“Did you say something?” He gives Soap another chance to speak louder, but the chance is missed when all Soap does is shake his head. Simon takes a deep breath, clicking his tongue, dissatisfied, but it seems to go over Soap's head, or maybe it hits him right in the stomach, there's no way to know what is going on in his mind. How frustrating.
“Let's pay and get out of here.”
******
Is it because they haven't gone out in public for a while? Because his whole DNA sequence changed? He was terrified, deer in headlights terrified. Not of Ghost but of people, of strangers, of how they perceived him. He wanted the floor to swallow him whole, he wanted to vanish.
Now he's home and he feels like he can breathe again, but he sees in Ghost's eyes that the man isn't pleased at all, and his guess is only confirmed when a hand slams against the wall behind him, next to his head. Bad habits never die.
“Care to explain the silence? Were you giving me the silent treatment?” And the stillness that follows stops where Soap hears his own heartbeat, so loud that it’ll surely burst his eardrums, and the tension grows between them, a rubber band pulled to its limit, one exhale could make it break, so Soap doesn’t breathe at all.
It is better so, if he collapses dead and doesn't need to face the consequences of being confused, of not knowing if sounds were allowed, of not knowing how loud is too loud, how much silence equals pain.
Their eyes meet, they don't let go, Soap doesn't blink and the burn is more and more present. He looks like a helpless prey at the hands of a cruel predator, one that made him believe, for the shortest time, that there was something other than pain and torture awaiting him, but now his world closes around him like a heavily secured cage.
Soap wants to apologize on his knees, but does Ghost want that? Does he want words or silence now? Does he want smiles or tears now? Does he want comfort or violence now?
Is there a path ahead or are they stuck here? Back to square one although it never felt like they moved that much from it? The thoughts running through his head make him want to cry, throw up, jump from a building, and his head will explode and no blood will drip, only false memories, only illusions and delusions.
But the darkness dissipates when Ghost steps back, like he was the one casting a huge shadow over Soap's entire existence.
“We don't have time for that.” He says, as if they were partaking in some free time activity. Soap doesn't say a word, lips pinched, blinking the pain away from his eyes, trying to stop his legs from giving up. He can't show how scared he was, he can't risk Ghost turning back to the monster he was in the beginning.
“You can go back to the basement, I'll tell you when we go out.”
He didn't know they were going out, but he doesn't have much choice to beging with anyway.
******
This setting makes no sense.
Why did they go buy new clothes if Soap was going to wear Ghost’s old suit anyway? Why? And why isn’t Ghost hiding his face? The lights in the bar are too tame to allow a detailed image of his features, but still, if Soap was to lean a little closer, he’d probably see all the outlines he only got to guess through touch.
What are they doing here? Why are they both so well dressed? Why is seeing the blonde reflection in Ghost’s hair making his heart beat so fast? It’s not love, it’s not admiration…is it the realization that Ghost is more than a shadow in a door? He doesn’t smile when he talks to the barman, but his teeth show, somehow more than with the balaclava, or maybe he’s imagining it. They’re not sharp, his teeth, they look normal, they didn’t turn into fangs capable of tearing his arm off. It was easier, when his fears didn’t seem so unfounded, when the line between safety and danger was thick with blood. Now it’s mysterious, like a room plunged in darkness. He’s not fond of darkness.
Are they waiting for someone? Are they just here on Ghost’s own accord? Are they celebrating something? His kidnapping anniversary? Ghost’s birthday? When is it? How old is he? Ho-
“Simon, as darkly dressed as ever, I see.”
Simon? Who is Simon? Ghost moves, turns around to the voice, face expressionless as if it wasn’t a big deal, to have his name revealed in such a casual manner. Soap on the other hand, looks as if he’d just eavesdropped on a forbidden secret, and he doesn’t dare look up until a hand on his shoulder makes his heart skip a beat in the worst way possible.
“Who is your fellow?” The stranger asks, and Soap has to bite the inside of his cheeks to not give in to his instinct to bolt out of the building.
“Johnny.”
The name’s said so easily, like he was never stripped of his right to own it. Soap feels like he’s been thrown in a fire, with no ways to escape, gasping for air when only smoke enters his lungs. Is Ghost allowed to play with his humanity like it’s just a stress ball, shape changing after each squeeze?
But who is Johnny anyway? It’s not him anymore, Johnny doesn’t spend hours in a basement, Johnny isn’t covered in scars and old bruises, Johnny isn’t dependent on bad influences. Johnny died long ago, so who is Ghost referring to?
The stranger laughs and it sounds warm and comforting but Soap doesn’t dare smile.
“I wonder if it was on purpose.”
“How could I guess someone's name before knowing them, Price?” Ghost rolls his eyes, and Soap feels like he's in a fever dream, and if he pinches his skin hard enough he'll wake up in cold sweats. It would make more sense than whatever is unraveling in front of him. Ghost seems so relaxed, a semblance of a smile stretching his lips, and the man he talks to hasn't lost his grin, as if he saw nothing of the cruelty inside Ghost's heart. Who is he?
“Oh, my name is John, Simon should learn to stop calling me by my last name outside of work, don't you think?” A hand is extended and Soap stares at it before hesitantly grabbing it. Here goes a punch in the face for later. The handshake is firm but it doesn't hurt and Soap doesn't worry for his fingers. He worries about the cold stare on his back, though, one that sends chills down his spine.
But work? This man works with Ghost? Simon? He doesn't dare ask about the name, is it a code name? Does it mean anything? He has so many questions but none of them will ever cross the barrier of his sealed lips, sealed by the man behind him, the man whose shadow just extended, and Soap suddenly pulls his hand out of the handshake like he's been burned.
“Let's sit down at a table.” John says, not waiting for any form of agreement before walking to one vacant table. Ghost follows, and Soap too, like a lost puppy. What is happening? How much does John know about him? About them?
Soap sits next to Ghost, a distance that would allow him to observe the unhidden features with precision, but he doesn't dare turn his head or eyes, and prefers focusing on a scratch on the table he can barely see.
“I was pretty sure you were seeing someone, Simon.” John laughs, and Soap freezes, and maybe his heart stops.
“Was I that obvious?” Ghost laughs. He laughs. He plays a role so well even Soap wants to believe it for a second, but it's all a lie, they're not together like that. If he tries to smile now, he might cry. If their eyes meet now, he might scream for help, so he keeps staring down, down at his own hands, down at the scars on it, from cigarettes and bucket swings he tried to stop.
“Well, you were so fast to go home after every meeting and you were barely focused on some missions. You still did your job well, but I was suspicious.” John shrugs, and Ghost's teeth still haven't turned to fangs. Weird.
“I can't hide anything from you.”
Soap doesn't know how to react. Is he supposed to nod along? Does John expect him to show how happy he's supposed to be?
“So, where did you meet?”
Soap’s throat burns, nausea overcomes him when he thinks of how they met.
“Oh, we were neighbors, we met in the street.”
Well, it's not entirely false, they probably crossed paths a few times before.
“And now you live together?” John asks, curiosity peaked, but he hides it well behind his serious manners. The smile has dropped a little.
It's too easy for Ghost to lie, he's a real actor, he's a real monster.
“Well, his house burned down because of a gas issue, or something like that.” Ghost turns to Soap who immediately nods like someone pressed a button to activate the motion.
“I'm glad nobody was hurt, then. And I'm sorry for your house.”
Soap shrugs. “It's fine, it was just a house.” Really, he's fine, even though his whole life was in it, even though the accident was arson, and the culprit smiles like innocence itself. Sickening.
A glass is placed in front of him, one he didn't order, and he looks at Ghost for a second, catching a glimpse of the man's face. He doesn't look like a monster, oh how frustrating it is, no third eye, no fangs, no double rows of teeth, no weird skin pigmentation. He looks human, he is human. How can he be human? And he has a name, he's been given a name. Monsters aren't given names. There's a knot in his throat he can't seem to swallow, and the tears are harder to hold back.
“Drink, I bought it for you.” Ghost says, and John chuckles.
“I would like to see that gentleman side of yours at work.”
“Fuck you, they don't deserve it.”
Soap risks it, the second punch in the face, when he asks how Gh- Simon is at work. The pressure of a simple gaze is crazy. He can feel how bad Ghost wants to just slam his head down on the table. Their promise makes no sense, if it ever had, it has become obsolete when Ghost decided it wasn't of use. The question now is how long he'll continue lying to himself.
But shouldn't Soap be satisfied with the lack of violence? Shouldn't he be happy to share those intimate moments, as short and fake as they are?
He's satisfied, in weird ways that make little sense. But he's known Ghost violent, and he knows that that peaceful act is nothing but an act, an attempt at being normal, but the bucket swung with such precision, and the punches hurt just enough to be bearable. Ghost is made for violence. He's not made for peace.
“Well, he's a little on the cold side, but he does his job so I'm not complaining. Did you stop drinking so much?” He then adds, motioning to the half full glass in front of Ghost.
“No, can't beat such a habit.”
“To be able to and to want are two different things, Simon.”
“Then I don't want to beat it. Helps make it through.”
Soap feels like a heavy conversation has started.
“Therapy would help you too.”
Soap wants to nod, scream that yes, alcohol and domestic violence aren't tools to make it through a hard path in life, but as the main tool of relaxation, he shuts up. He hasn't been puched in a while and he's already probably earned two blows.
“Don't even jump down that cliff.” Ghost warns, and finally, his true colors peek out, the cold in his eyes that shuts John up immediately, and the chill wind stagnates in the middle of their table until John slams the table with his hand and lets out a forced laugh.
“Now I know why they all listen to you without ever talking back, you are scary, Riley.”
Yeah, a fever dream, it wouldn't be realistic for Soap to know about Ghost’s entire name, his entire identity, the human in him. So many questions flood his mind, starting with the most basic to the deepest hypothesis. Questions he'll never be able to ask, for once they're back home he'll go back to not knowing anything. He wonders what is most frustrating between knowing too little and not knowing at all.
Does he regret coming here even though he had no say in the matter? Acting like a real couple, playing along to a comedy he didn't prepare for, in an unfamiliar setting? He counts the consequences on the tip of his fingers, the amount of pain he'll feel. It won't necessarily be physical, if Ghost manages to pretend for a little longer, because Soap doesn't trust their promise anymore anyway. He thinks about his mug, for some reason, and for other reasons he starts searching for cracks in his own skin, because maybe he turned to porcelain. When he looks up John is looking at him, maybe with an ounce of worry in his eyes. Soap smiles to dissipate it, blames his silence on his shyness and it's accepted, because shy people are more prolific than beaten up people.
What looks like a fever dream more than the situation they're in is the memories of their skins pressed together. It must've happened, it felt real, yet Soap doubts his own experience. Why is he even thinking about that? He's not listening to what they're saying, assuming Ghost wouldn't let him talk too much, in case he says something jeopardizing.
They're talking about work, people who died… why would they? Wasn't it meant to be a fun encounter? But then it's Ghost, he's surrounded by darkness, of course death would be his main interest. Ah, another flood of unanswered questions crash against Soap.
“You talked about a dog, didn't you? Some months ago.”
A dog? Soap sees Ghost tensing before the discomfort vanishes and a lie rolls off his tongue like it's been waiting for its moment to shine.
“I had to give it back, we didn't get along.”
They had a dog?
“What was his name again…Ah yes, Soap, a slippery fella.” John laughs at his own joke and Soap stares for long seconds at the man next to him. Weird, still no monstrous features have deformed his face.
He was the pretend dog? He can't help the snort. Another consequence awaits, maybe, when he leans closer, eyes closing out of habit, and whispers a bark in Ghost's ear.
Ghost who freezes for a second, but Soap couldn't say if he's mad or trying not to laugh. Tonight's events are surreal enough as it is.
“Sharing secrets huh?” John interrupts them. What exactly did he interrupt? Soap's not sure. They did look like a real couple for a second, and the thought of it makes his heart beat faster again.
He needs to ask why they bought new clothes.
“I was thanking him for the clothes he bought me.” Soap says, running a hand in his hair. Bad influences are easy to catch on, lying isn't that hard.
“Oh, Simon buying things for others? That's unheard of.”
It's still weird to hear a name instead of Ghost.