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It was a normal Friday evening for the two of them, working together to make dinner. It was a pasta bake, tonight, Roach starting on the sauce as Ghost chopped up some tomatoes to be added later. It was a pleasant evening, their back door open to let in the gentle breeze, and Roach felt terribly content, humming quietly to himself as he worked.
He knew that it had happened before Ghost even seemed to register it, the feel of knife piercing through skin uncomfortably familiar. Without thinking, he turned the stove off, darting into their bathroom to grab their first aid kit. He figured that it wouldn’t be an issue, he’d just clean the wound off as Ghost hissed at him, before bandaging it up. Maybe he’d have to take over chopping, but that was no skin off his back. It was unfortunate, he thought sometimes, that their bond didn’t transfer mental injuries, as well as physical. It would have been nice to know as he rushed out of the room that Ghost was on the verge of a panic attack.
As it was though, he didn’t have any kind of warning, and so as he stepped back into the kitchen and saw Ghost leaning over the counter, sliced hand brought to his face to wipe tears from his eyes, Roach panicked a little himself.
“Shit,” said Ghost, “m’sorry, I didn’t mean to, I always fuck this up for us.”
He was babbling away like he sometimes did when he got hurt, apology after apology to Roach. As if it was somehow his fault that he had gotten hurt. As if Roach would be mad that he could feel the injury too.
Gently, Roach tugged his hands away from his face, turning Ghost so he was facing him.
Hey, he signed, none of that, okay?
Ghost sniffled, opening his mouth to say something, but Roach was fairly certain it wouldn’t be helpful right now.
It’s not your fault, he signed, let me get you cleaned up.
Ghost hesitated for a moment before nodding, offering out his injured hand before looking away. For a man who had gone through hell and back during his time in the service, he really didn’t like even the most minor of medical care now. Although, to be fair to him, he didn’t seem to like it then either.
The cut was a fairly shallow one across Ghost’s thumb, drawing out a little blood but not seeming to do any real damage. Thankfully, it was mostly clear of any rogue tomato guts, which meant he could clean it easily with an alcohol swab. Ghost hissed a little at the sting as the alcohol made contact with the open wound, and Roach emphasised with him very much. It wasn’t a nice feeling, and if he wasn’t so focused on keeping Ghost as calm as possible, he would have flinched a little at it himself.
Once the cut was clean, he took a band-aid from the kit, carefully wrapping it around Ghost’s thumb.
There, he signed, No problem, see?
Ghost shook his head at that, and Roach pouted. The man seemed unable to comprehend that some injuries were just a part of life. You would think he would understand that, considering his previous job.
“B- But,” said Ghost, voice shaky, “hurt you. Shouldn’t have t- to hurt you.”
Ghost was clearly about to break into hiccupping sobs if Roach didn’t act fast, so he did just that.
You, signed Roach, get injured by me just as much. Is that my fault?
“N-no,” sniffled Ghost, “y-you don’t-”
Don’t mean to? asked Roach. Did you mean to cut your finger open?
“No, but-”
Then what’s the difference?
Tears were beginning to run tracks down Ghost’s face, his hands shakily holding him up against the counter behind him. Roach took his good hand in his, before tugging him gently down to sit on the floor. After a moment, Ghost followed, sitting awkwardly next to Roach as he leaned against the cupboard.
“You’re covered in reminders of all my failures,” said Ghost, after a moment, “I hate that I’ve ruined you like that.”
God, did Ghost really believe that? It was patently untrue that he was responsible for any more marks than Roach was. They both had contributed their fair share of scars and permanent markings, both had gotten the other injured in dozens of totally unnecessary ways. To say that Roach was ‘ruined’ by reminders of Ghost’s failures was no more true than to say that Ghost was ruined by reminders of Roach’s.
Hey, said Roach, pointing to the oval shaped mark on Ghost’s wrist, want to tell me about that one?
Ghost looked at him confused for a moment, before looking down at the mark he had pointed out. He furrowed his eyebrows, and Roach was sure he was trying to remember what had caused that mark.
“That’s from… that’s from when you knocked into Soap fucking around at the firing range that one time, isn’t it?” he sounded unsure, as if he couldn’t believe that was the correct answer.
Roach nodded. Yeah, and you chewed us both out for it for a week.
Ghost chuckled a little. It was weak, and Roach wasn’t sure how much his heart was in it, but it was a chuckle.
He pointed to a long scar that wrapped around Ghost’s neck. What about that one?
Ghost tilted his head for a moment, clearly trying to remember the mark, before Roach pointed to the matching one on his own neck.
Can you remember how we got this one? he asked.
“Shit,” said Ghost, “that was from AQ, wasn’t it? Grabbed you by your throat mic one mission and almost choked you to death.”
Don’t know why I ever bothered with one, anyway, he confirmed, that was the last mission I ever wore it.
Roach could see the semblance of a smile beginning to form on Ghost’s face. It had been funny, in retrospect, and it was very much an injury that Roach had given them. There was no spinning it that it was Ghost’s fault.
Let’s see, signed Roach, eyes wandering across Ghost’s skin, what other fun marks do we have?
Ghost was the one to point the next one out. He hiked up the bottom of his shirt, pointing to a long gash there.
“This one’s from the time I got shot so badly I needed emergency surgery,” said Ghost. He was going back to the negatives again.
I like it, replied Roach, reminds me of the fact you got shot five times in the stomach and survived.
That seemed to confuse Ghost, so Roach figured it was a path worth pursuing. So he pushed the shirt up a little bit higher and pointed to one of the smaller scars there.
That one was the time you got shot in the kidney, he signed, you barely even had an issue with it.
Ghost looked especially confused now.
I like it, explained Roach, because it reminds me that you survived things. You’re alive, and that’s special.
“But…” said Ghost, “they’re… they’re all times I failed, I don’t see why you’d want to remember that.”
Those aren’t failures, signed Roach, if anyone failed, it was the idiots trying to kill you.
“But…” protested Ghost.
If you shot an enemy five times in the stomach would you consider it a victory if he survived that?
“No…”
And if you shot one right through a vital organ and they didn’t even flinch?
“That would be a failure…”
And if you shot someone point blank in the chest and set them alight and they just walked it off?
Ghost turned away from him then.
“That’s. That’s different.”
Roach shifted so he was in front of Ghost again.
How? You don’t think what Shepherd did was a failure? You don’t think he was kicking himself over it?
“I don’t… I can’t forgive myself for that,” said Ghost, “I realised what he was doing the moment the words came out of his mouth. I should have reacted. Should have knocked the gun out of his hand. Anything. But I didn’t. It doesn’t matter that we survived, because we never should have been shot and set alight to begin with.”
But we did survive, pointed out Roach, you had half a second to react and that was never going to be enough time. We should be dead. We’re not. That’s no failure.
Ghost was looking teary now, and Roach was worried he had gone too far. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought this up.
“You really mean that?” asked Ghost, between sniffles, “You promise?”
On my life, promised Roach, I like your scars a lot.
“How much?” asked Ghost, and Roach knew that he had gotten through to him now, “How much do you like them?”
So much, signed Roach, gently pushing Ghost’s shirt up a little further, This much.
He pressed a kiss to the long gash on his stomach. He could feel Ghost tense up for a moment, before relaxing into the touch.
Love them more than you could know, he signed, before diving back down to kiss his way up from the gash towards the bullet wound over his kidney.
He could feel Ghost shivering beneath his touch, and he ran his hands up and down his sides, soothing him. He continued to press kisses all across Ghost’s body, peppering each and every mark with attention.
“Shit, sweetheart,” whined out Ghost, “I think I get the message.”
Roach chuckled a little, before continuing his ministrations. As he reached the edge of the scar tissue from when Shepherd had burnt them - scarring he knew was less sensitive than the rest of Ghost’s skin - he pulled away for a moment.
Like this part the most, he signed, reminds me you’re alive so much more.
Ghost’s breath hitched, and Roach took the opportunity to press kisses across the burnt skin.
“L- love you too, Roach,” gasped out Ghost.
Roach laughed a little at that.
Come on, he signed, finally pulling away, we’ve got dinner to cook.
“Dinner?” asked Ghost, breathless and a little offended, “You want to eat dinner at a time like this?”
Would you prefer to go hungry? asked Roach.
“I’d prefer a few other things, if we’re being honest here.” replied Ghost.
There was his man, thought Roach, as he was hoisted off his feet and carried into their bedroom. He just needed a little coaxing to get out of his head about things.
They might have only shared injuries in a physical sense, but they didn’t need a soul bond to share whatever this was. They loved each other, and Roach didn’t need any kind of weird magic to know that.
Although being painted all over with the same marks sure did help. Maybe he’d add a couple new ones tonight.
A man needs to eat, after all.