Archive of Our Own ^beta

1.
The first thing Simon notices is the absence of pain.

That alone is unsettling. Pain is a constant, a familiar shadow that lingers no matter how much time passes. Roba never dulls it. He wants Simon to feel every bruise, every break, every fresh wound. Pain is a lesson. A reminder. So why doesn’t he feel it now?

The second thing is softness. Something cushions his body, cradles him in a way that feels entirely foreign. It’s wrong. The last time he slept on anything remotely comfortable was... when? He doesn’t remember. His world has been cold floors, rusted metal, rough concrete. Softness doesn’t belong to him.
Slowly, his awareness expands, reaching beyond his own skin. There’s a quiet hum beneath him, a steady beeping somewhere nearby. The air is sharp with the acrid sting of antiseptic, sterile and clean in a way that unsettles him.

A hospital? No. That doesn’t make sense.

Roba would never bring him to one. The man has doctors—if they can even be called that—who come to him, men with steady hands and dead eyes who patch Simon up just enough to keep him breathing. Their touch is impersonal, clinical, rough. Hospitals are for people who are allowed to heal.

His breath quickens. How did he get here?

Simon searches his memory, but it’s like reaching into murky water, the images slipping away before he can grasp them. Darkness. Heat. A smell—something rancid, putrid. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms, trying to drag the memories into focus.
And then it hits him. The weight pressing down on him. The suffocating heat. The taste of dirt in his mouth. He was buried.

A shudder runs through him, ice sliding down his spine. Vernon was underneath him. Silent. Still. Dead. Roba left them there to rot, to be forgotten beneath the earth. But Simon—he clawed his way out. His hands, raw and bleeding, tore through the dirt until he reached the surface.
He escaped. His body moves before his mind can catch up, panic propelling him upright. Fire rips through his ribs, his muscles seizing in protest, but he barely registers the pain. His head snaps around, taking in his surroundings with wide, frantic eyes. The bright fluorescent lights are too sharp, too unnatural. The walls are too white. The beeping of the heart monitor spikes.

This is a hospital. He did get out. Or— His breath stutters. Or Roba dragged him back.

The thought wraps around his throat, tight and unrelenting. Roba’s tricks never end. He finds new ways to break Simon every time he thinks there’s nothing left to shatter. Could this be another game? A carefully constructed illusion designed to make him believe, just for a moment, that he’s free? He can’t risk it.

The beeping grows erratic, an alarm now, screaming alongside his thoughts. Someone will come. He has to move. Now.
Simon rips the IV from his arm, barely registering the sting as blood beads at the puncture site. Wires tangle around him, constricting, suffocating. He tears at them, untangling himself in a frantic rush. He swings his legs over the bed, but the moment his feet touch the cold tile, they buckle beneath him.

His body betrays him. His legs crumple. He collapses, the impact jarring, sending pain lancing up his spine. He barely stifles a pained gasp. The door swings open.
Simon shoves himself against the side of the bed, pressing as close as he can, muscles coiled to move—run, fight, something. Two figures step inside.

One is a woman—probably a nurse. The other is a man, broad-shouldered, built like a soldier. But something is off. No weapons. No cold, assessing stare. If he’s meant to be security, he’s an odd choice.

Simon’s breath is uneven, ragged. His fingers dig into the floor. They move toward him, and he flinches back on instinct, pressing himself harder against the bed frame. “Don’t touch me,” His voice is hoarse, but sharp enough to make them stop.

The nurse hesitates, looking toward the man, waiting for his direction. Simon studies him through the haze of his panic. Cargo pants. A plain t-shirt stretched over a broad frame. Thick mutton chops frame his face—an odd choice, but somehow, it fits. He doesn’t look like Roba’s men.

He crouches, lowering himself to Simon’s level, but keeps his distance. His voice is calm, measured. “Son, we’re not gonna hurt you. We just want to help.”
The words are foreign. Nobody wants to help Simon. People want to use him, break him, control him. Even as a child, kindness was a ghost, something he only caught glimpses of in other people’s lives. His father had beaten him for as little as breathing too loudly. His mother had turned away, silent, still. He never blamed her. He would’ve taken a hundred beatings over watching his father lay a hand on her or Tommy.

Simon swallows hard, fingers curling against the floor. He doesn’t understand this man—this warmth in his tone, the lack of hostility.
The man watches him carefully, then speaks again. “We found you near the American-Mexican border. We’d just taken down a human trafficking ring when we came across you.” He pauses, searching Simon’s face. “Were you trying to get home?”

Home. The word rings hollow. He shakes his head. No, he wasn’t trying to get to America. He wasn’t trying to get anywhere. He just needed to be away. Roba wasn’t into human trafficking—at least, not in the traditional sense. Unless kidnapping, torturing, and breaking soldiers counted.

The man hums, considering. “Can we help you back onto the bed, or do you think you can manage on your own?”
Simon wants to refuse. Wants to insist he doesn’t need help, doesn’t need anyone. But his body is betraying him. His limbs tremble with exhaustion. And there’s something about the man—something steady, something safe. He doesn’t understand it, but it pulls at him.

His throat tightens. His gaze drops to the floor, “…Help.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Please.”

A quiet sigh, almost relieved. “Alright. Up you go.”

The man’s hands are firm but careful as he helps Simon up, no roughness, no unnecessary force. The touch is foreign, but not unpleasant.
Once he’s settled back on the bed, the nurse quickly reattaches the monitors, checks his vitals, then steps out, leaving them alone.
The man leans against the railing, arms crossed. “Name’s John, by the way. John Price.”

Simon hesitates before meeting his gaze. His voice is quieter now, steadier. “…Simon Riley.”

Something shifts in Price’s expression—something unreadable, but not unkind. A slow, genuine smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Well, Simon…” His voice is steady, sure. “Help me help you. Why don’t we start with where you’re from? With that accent of yours I have a feeling it’s not from America.”

2.

Hospitals still feel wrong.

Even after all these years, after everything that’s changed, Simon still wakes up here and fights the urge to bolt. The sharp scent of antiseptic burns his nostrils, the fluorescent lights hum overhead, and the quiet beeping of a heart monitor keeps time with the dull ache in his ribs.

It’s not as bad as before. He knows where he is now. Knows he’s safe. Knows the people here aren’t trying to hurt him. But knowing and feeling are two different things.
His throat is dry when he swallows, his pulse slow but steady under the cold press of the heart monitor’s clips. His body feels heavy, weighted down by exhaustion more than anything else. The last thing he remembers is the mission—gunfire, an explosion, the sharp bite of shrapnel slicing through his side. Then? Nothing.
A sigh pulls him out of his thoughts.

"Was wonderin’ when you'd wake up, mate."
The voice is familiar. Steady. Warm. Simon turns his head slightly, and there, slouched in a plastic chair beside the bed, is John ‘Soap’ MacTavish. His arms are crossed, boots kicked up on the edge of the mattress like he owns the place. His mohawk is a little messy, like he’s been running his hands through it, and dark circles shadow his eyes.
He’s been here a while. Simon exhales through his nose, turning his gaze back to the ceiling. "How bad?"

Johnny tilts his head. "Could be worse. You got caught in the blast, took some shrapnel. Doc said you were lucky. If it were a few inches to the left, you’d be missing a kidney."

He pauses, frowning. “Scared the hell out of us, y’know.”

Simon hums. He’s too tired to argue, too drained to tell Johnny he’s not worth worrying about. It doesn’t matter. Johnny would just ignore him anyway. There’s a brief silence before Simon shifts, testing the soreness in his limbs. The IV in his arm tugs against his skin, an uncomfortable reminder of past hospital stays, of waking up restrained, of being patched up just enough to be torn apart again. He flexes his fingers. His breathing slows. This isn’t the past.

"Don’t," Johnny says, like he knows exactly where Simon’s mind is going. "Don't start rippin' things out and makin' a mess. You're stayin' put."

Simon huffs, but the tension in his shoulders eases slightly. "Didn't say I was leavin’."

"Aye, but you were thinkin’ about it."

Simon doesn’t deny it.

Johnny leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice softens, the teasing edge fading just a little. "You're safe, Ghost."

Simon’s jaw tightens at the name. It’s second nature now—Ghost. A mask, a shield, a name he wears like armor. But lying here, hooked up to machines, barely strong enough to sit up, he doesn’t feel much like Ghost. He just feels like Simon.

And Simon doesn’t belong in hospitals.

Johnny must see something in his expression because his face shifts, brows pulling together in quiet understanding. He exhales through his nose and leans back again, tilting his chair onto two legs like the reckless idiot he is.

"Y’know," Johnny muses, "Price wanted to be here when you woke up, but I told him I had first watch."

Simon quirks a brow. "First watch?"

Johnny grins. "Aye. Like a bloody hawk, mate. Been sittin' here makin' sure you don’t do somethin' daft, like tryin' to walk out with half your stitches still in."

Simon snorts. He wouldn’t put it past himself.

"Besides," Johnny continues, more casual now, "Price worries too much. Figured I’d save ‘im the trouble and deal with your grumpy arse myself."

"Thought you just said you were worried."

Johnny smirks. "Aye, but I worry better.”

Simon shakes his head, but there’s something light in his chest, something easy in the way Johnny’s presence fills the sterile hospital room with warmth. The fear is still there, the old instincts whispering that he needs to be ready to run, but it’s quieter now. Less suffocating.

Johnny watches him carefully, waiting, not pushing. Always giving Simon space when he needs it.
After a moment, Simon exhales and lets himself sink back into the mattress. For now, he'll stay.

3.

Pain is the first thing he registers. A dull, throbbing ache, pulsing beneath layers of something heavy. His limbs feel sluggish, like they’re weighed down by concrete, but it’s not enough to stop the tension that coils in his chest the moment he realizes where he is.

Hospital. His breath stutters. The beeping of machines spikes. His skin is too tight, too hot, his senses sharpening all at once, dragging him into focus. The antiseptic smell is suffocating, the pressure of bandages over his ribs makes his throat close up.

Something is wrong. There’s a memory—gunfire, shouting, an explosion. But it’s not just him this time. Someone else went down. Someone—Johnny.

Simon’s eyes snap open. The light is too harsh, burning into his skull, but he ignores it. His body protests as he tries to sit up, muscles screaming, pain radiating from his side. Tubes pull at his arm. Wires tangle at his chest. But none of it matters.

Johnny was with him. Johnny got hit. Where is he?

His heart monitor is blaring, but Simon doesn’t care. He rips the IV from his arm, shoving the blankets away. His legs are weak when he swings them over the side of the bed, but he forces himself up. He has to move. He has to find Johnny.

A firm hand catches his shoulder, "Ghost—"

Simon reacts before he can think. His instincts scream threat, and he jerks away, his fist already rising, but the voice stops him short.

"Hey! Hey, it’s me!"

Simon blinks, his vision swimming, and for the first time, he actually registers the man in front of him.

Kyle Garrick stands just out of reach, his hands raised in a steadying gesture. His expression is calm but cautious, like he’s dealing with a wounded animal—one that might lash out if pushed too hard.

Simon’s breathing is sharp, uneven. His body still hums with adrenaline, his muscles coiled to fight, but Gaz doesn’t step back.

"Where is he?" Simon rasps. His voice is raw, his throat tight.

Gaz exhales, shoulders relaxing slightly. "Price is with him. Talking to the doctors now."

That’s not good enough, "I need to see him."

"You need to sit down before you fall over."

Simon shakes his head. "I need to see him."

Gaz doesn’t move, doesn’t budge under the weight of Simon’s glare. "Not like this. You’re barely standing, mate. If you tear your stitches open and pass out, Price’ll have both of us skinned."

Simon grits his teeth. His pulse is still racing, his fingers twitching with the urge to push past Gaz and go. He doesn’t care about himself, doesn’t care if he collapses, doesn’t
care about anything except making sure Johnny is—

"He's stable, Ghost," Gaz says softly, cutting through the panic curling around Simon’s ribs. "He’s hurt, but he’s stable. Price is making sure he gets what he needs."

The words knock the breath out of him. Stable. It doesn’t erase the fear, doesn’t stop the way his hands are still clenched into fists, but it’s enough to make him hesitate.
Gaz watches him carefully. "You’re not gonna help him by keeling over in the hallway."

Simon swallows, his throat clicking. His body is still trembling from the aftershocks of panic, but the weight of exhaustion is creeping back in, reminding him just how wrecked he is. He can still feel the explosion in his bones, the impact rattling through his skull. His limbs are sluggish, his balance unsteady.

Gaz is right. He won’t make it two feet without going down. But the thought of lying back in this bed, of waiting, of not knowing—

Gaz must see it, because his voice drops even softer. "Price’ll be back soon. As soon as he knows more, you’ll be the first to hear it."

It’s not enough. But it’s all Simon has. Slowly, he exhales through his nose. His shoulders drop a fraction.

Gaz nods once, like he knows this is the best he's going to get. "C’mon. Lie back before the nurses come in here and really have a go at you."

Simon hesitates, then finally, reluctantly, lets Gaz guide him back onto the bed. He still feels wrong. Still feels like his skin is stretched too thin, his pulse thrumming in his ears. But the panic has ebbed, the urgency dulled to a quiet throb.
Johnny’s alive. For now, that’s all that matters.

4.

The world is thick, heavy, suffocating.

Simon feels like he’s sinking, like his body is being pulled into the earth itself. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses in, cloying, unnatural. The kind that makes his skin crawl.

His head lolls to the side, his limbs weightless, useless. He’s drugged. He can feel it in the sluggish way his blood moves through his veins, in the distant way his fingers refuse to obey him.

That should worry him. It doesn’t. His body isn’t his anymore. He’s been here before—this feeling, this stillness. Roba’s drugs had been worse.

He swallows, but his throat is dry, cracked, unfamiliar. He blinks against the haze in his mind, his vision blurring, slipping in and out of focus. He can make out a ceiling—white, sterile, glowing in the cold fluorescent lights of a hospital.

Hospital. The realization slams into him all at once, and for a moment, it drowns everything else out.

Pain lingers at the edge of his awareness, dull but persistent, buried under the heavy weight of whatever cocktail they’ve pumped into his system. His breath shudders, rattling in his chest, his ribs aching with the simple act of existing.

He doesn’t remember what happened. That should worry him, too. It does. Then, another thought takes shape. His team. Where are they?

His mind stalls, stuttering as it scrambles for something solid, something real. But all he finds are fragments, flashes of memory tearing through his skull like shrapnel.
Gunfire. A mission. The explosion— His chest caves in, his pulse lurching. Johnny—Price—Gaz— They aren’t here. They were with him. And now, they aren’t.
The beeping beside him spikes, frantic, erratic.

No. His breathing is wrong, sharp and broken, his body trembling even as it refuses to move the way he wants it to. They’re gone. He got them killed.
His vision blurs. Not from the drugs, not from exhaustion, but from something worse, something he can’t let himself feel, something he doesn’t deserve to feel.

They’re dead. Because of him. Because he’s weak. Because he’s cursed.

His fingers twitch, his nails digging into the thin hospital sheets. His fault. His fault again. Like his mum. Like Tommy Beth. Like Joseph.

His entire bloody family—slaughtered, left to rot in their own home, because he wasn’t good enough. He hadn’t protected them. Hadn’t saved them. Hadn’t even been there.
And Roba—God, Roba. His breath stutters, his body locking up, cold sweat pooling at the base of his spine.

The blood. The dark, suffocating pits in the desert. The hands, rough and unforgiving, forcing him to dig, forcing him to bury the ones who didn’t make it. The laughter. The sharp, stinging words that tore through his mind, that never really left.

"You think you’re different?" Roba’s voice slithers into his ears, thick with amusement, with certainty. "You think you’re not just like the rest? You're not special, English. You're just another body waiting to be put in the ground."

Simon gasps, his throat closing. The heart monitor screeches, shrill and unrelenting. He's drowning. He deserves it. Because Roba was right, wasn’t he?

He was never strong enough. Never fast enough. Never enough. Not for his family. Not for his team. Not for anyone. He should be dead. Why isn’t he dead?

The panic claws up his throat, raw and desperate, a choked sound escaping his lips as he fights against the invisible hands pinning him down.
He needs to move. He needs to get out. He needs to fix this.

The door slams open. "Ghost—fuck—"

A voice. Familiar. But it’s not right. It’s not Johnny.

His thoughts stutter, tangled and frayed. The voice is close, urgent, real. Someone’s hands press down against his shoulders, firm but careful, trying to keep him from thrashing.

He flinches, recoiling violently.

"Get—don’t touch me—"

His voice is hoarse, cracked, wrong.

The grip loosens. "Ghost, listen to me."

Gaz. Simon’s breath hitches, his head lolling to the side. He can’t see him properly—his vision is still too blurred, too unsteady. But he feels him, his presence, solid and grounding.

"You’re in a hospital," Gaz says slowly, his voice steady but urgent. "You’re safe."

Safe. Simon lets out a sharp, uneven laugh, the sound broken, nearly hysterical.

"Safe," he echoes, bitter. "No one’s safe near me."

"That’s not true," Gaz says firmly. "Price and Johnny are talking to the doctors. We’re all alive."

Alive. The word barely registers. It doesn’t make sense.

"They—" Simon chokes on the words. "I thought—"

Gaz’s hand tightens on his arm, just enough to ground him, "We made it," he says. "You didn’t lose us."

The weight pressing against Simon’s chest doesn’t lift, not completely. But it shifts, just enough for him to gasp in a breath, just enough to stop the walls from closing in.
The door opens again, more footsteps—Johnny’s voice, Price’s steady presence.

"Jesus, Ghost," Johnny mutters, voice strained, rough around the edges. "Scared the hell out of us."
Simon squeezes his eyes shut, something splintering inside him. He doesn’t deserve them. But they’re here. And for now, he clings to that.