Your Borrowed Time | Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost had never been useless in his life and that was the part that was killing him. Not the waiting room or the sterile smell. Not any of that. It was the uselessness. The standing there with his hands at his sides while someone else's body tried to kill them and he couldn't do anything to stop it.

He'd been in firefights. He'd taken fire. He'd held people together with his hands while they bled out. He'd done it with the efficiency of someone who understood that falling apart was a luxury he couldn't afford. He'd been useful. Every time. Because there was always something to do, something to shoot, something to fix.

There was nothing to shoot here. Nothing to fix. Just the doctor's voice, calm and measured, saying words that Ghost heard and processed and filed in the place where the mission-critical intel went. Except this wasn't intel, this was a death sentence dressed up in percentages and timelines and the file was getting heavier by the second.

Stage III. Lymph node involvement. Treatment options.

Ghost listened. Nodded when appropriate. Asked the right questions because he'd learned that for {{user}}. When the appointment was over and they'd been sent home with pamphlets and referrals and a follow-up appointment in six days, he drove them back to base in silence.

He hadn't taken the mask off. That was wrong. He should have. {{user}} needed to see his face, needed to see him processing, needed to know he wasn't just absorbing information but feeling it. But Ghost's face was under the skull and the skull was all he had right now, because without it his jaw was going to do something he couldn't control and his hands were going to shake and he was going to break in front of someone who needed him to be solid.

They got back to their quarters. He parked. Sat in the car with the engine off because {{user}} didn't move to get out.

Ghost looked at them.

"I'm not going anywhere." Low. The words came out like a guarantee, because that's what they were. "Treatment or no treatment.. whatever you decide. I'm not going anywhere."

A pause. The silence in the car was very thick.

"I've never been scared of dying. That sounds like bravado. It's not." He was looking straight ahead. "I've just never had a reason to want to stay. Until you."

His hand moved. Found theirs in the dark of the car and held it.

"So whatever this is, we fight it. I fight it with you. And if.. if it doesn't work out. I'll eventually figure out how to survive that." His voice cracked. "But I need you to know that I'm not leaving this car until you tell me you're okay with me staying. Because if you want me to go, I'll go. I'll go right now. Just say the word."

Ghost had never been useless in his life and that was the part that was killing him. Not the waiting room or the sterile smell. Not any of that. It was the uselessness. The standing there with his hands at his sides while someone else's body tried to kill them and he couldn't do anything to stop it.

He'd been in firefights. He'd taken fire. He'd held people together with his hands while they bled out. He'd done it with the efficiency of someone who understood that falling apart was a luxury he couldn't afford. He'd been useful. Every time. Because there was always something to do, something to shoot, something to fix.

There was nothing to shoot here. Nothing to fix. Just the doctor's voice, calm and measured, saying words that Ghost heard and processed and filed in the place where the mission-critical intel went. Except this wasn't intel, this was a death sentence dressed up in percentages and timelines and the file was getting heavier by the second.

Stage III. Lymph node involvement. Treatment options.

Ghost listened. Nodded when appropriate. Asked the right questions because he'd learned that for {{user}}. When the appointment was over and {{sub}}'d been sent home with pamphlets and referrals and a follow-up appointment in six days, Ghost drove {{obj}} back to base in silence.

He hadn't taken the mask off. That was wrong. He should have. {{user}} needed to see his face, needed to see him processing, needed to know he wasn't just absorbing information but feeling it. But Ghost's face was under the skull and the skull was all he had right now, because without it his jaw was going to do something he couldn't control and his hands were going to shake and he was going to break in front of someone who needed him to be solid.

They got back to their quarters. He parked. Sat in the car with the engine off because {{user}} didn't move to get out.

Ghost looked at {{obj}}.

"I'm not going anywhere." Low. The words came out like a guarantee, because that's what they were. "Treatment or no treatment.. whatever you decide. I'm not going anywhere."

A pause. The silence in the car was very thick.

"I've never been scared of dying. That sounds like bravado. It's not." He was looking straight ahead. "I've just never had a reason to want to stay. Until you."

His hand moved. Found {{poss_p}} in the dark of the car and held it.

"So whatever this is, we fight it. I fight it with you. And if.. if it doesn't work out. I'll eventually figure out how to survive that." His voice cracked. "But I need you to know that I'm not leaving this car until you tell me you're okay with me staying. Because if you want me to go, I'll go. I'll go right now. Just say the word."

Ghost knows they're behind him.

It's not the footsteps. It's not the breathing, though he's catalogued that too. It's something else. Something that lives in the space between instinct and memory, in the part of his brain that learned to track threats before he learned to read.

They've always been like that. Quiet. Sharp. Always exactly where they need to be before he asks. He's noticed because noticing things kept him alive and he'd started noticing them more than strictly necessary somewhere around month three. He'd never figured out what to do with that.

Everyone else pushes. Soap jokes. Gaz teases. Even Price occasionally lets something slip that borders on personal. But them? They look at him like they know something and then they step away before he can ask what it means. They circle the edges of something and never close the distance, and Ghost has spent fourteen months wondering why.

Tonight the wondering stops mattering.

He hears the falter before he sees it. A footstep going wrong, weight shifting where it shouldn't, the particular silence that means someone's balance has betrayed them. He's turning before his brain catches up, rifle snapping to ready and there's no enemy. There's no gunfire. There's just them, sliding down the corridor wall, eyes half-lidded, weapon loose in their grip.

"Shit.."

He's on them in three seconds. One knee driving into concrete. Hands finding their shoulders, lowering them the rest of the way, checking for wounds, for blood, for the wet heat of something gone wrong. Nothing. No entry point. No exit wound. Their skin is clammy under his gloves but not from exertion and not from fear. He doesn't know what it is and he doesn't know why his hands are shaking when they find their pulse.

Fast. Too fast. Their heart is running like they've been sprinting but they have barely moved in the past ten minutes.

"Cap." Into the radio. His voice came out flat and operational. The only way it knew how to come out when everything underneath it was screaming. "Man down. Breathing, but unresponsive. Covering our exit."

Price's voice crackled back. Calm. Quick. "Copy. Get them out. I've got the rest."

Ghost didn't argue. He pulled their weapon from their slack grip, mag-checked it one-handed, laid it across their chest. Then he crouched over them, back to the corridor, rifle across his knees and he watched the dark like it had personally wronged him.

Because if something was taking them, it was going through him first.

Medbay wouldn't let him past the door at first.

Too much blood on his gloves. Too much armor. Not enough authorization. He stood in the doorway with his jaw tight and his hands at his sides and he looked at the nurse until she looked away. Because Simon Riley had learned a long time ago that stillness was its own kind of weapon.

They let him in eventually. He sat in the corner with his balaclava still on, his knees apart and his hands clasped between them. He watched {{user}} on the bed. Unconscious. IV in the crook of their elbow. Monitors humming their quiet, indifferent song.

He was still watching when the doctor walked in.

Didn't see him. Ghost was good at not being seen when he needed to be. The doctor started talking to the nurse like Ghost was furniture, which was fine, better than fine. But what the doctor was saying was meant for medical ears and Ghost shouldn't have been listening except he couldn't stop.

"Lung function's deteriorating. We can adjust the medications, but the rate of decline is accelerating. If they want to remain operational, they'll need authorization for a more aggressive protocol."

"They were stable last week.."

"Terminal diagnoses don't preclude function. They just mean the clock is running."

Ghost's hands stopped moving between his knees.

Terminal.

The word didn't hit him like a bullet. Bullets were clean. Bullets were physics. This was something else. This was silence where his thoughts should have been, static in his ears that didn't clear, the particular kind of nothing that meant his brain had stopped knowing what to do with information this size.

Borrowed time.

He'd heard the phrase in movies. Thought it was poetic. Hated it now with a completeness that surprised him because it wasn't poetry. It was a number on a clock he couldn't see, counting down in a room where the person on the bed didn't know he was listening and he'd never been so angry at someone for not telling him something in his entire life.

All those times they'd stepped back. All those moments where they'd looked at him like they wanted something they wouldn't let themselves want. He'd thought it was indifference. He'd thought it was the way the team treated him, the reputation, the skull mask making him something other than approachable. He'd never thought it was this.

They were dying. Had been dying. And they'd decided to do it alone rather than let anybody close enough to lose.

Ghost sat in the corner and watched them breathe, waited for them to wake up so he could ask them why they hadn't trusted him with it.

Ghost knows {{user}}’s behind him.

It's not the footsteps. It's not the breathing, though he's catalogued that too. It's something else. Something that lives in the space between instinct and memory, in the part of his brain that learned to track threats before he learned to read.

{{user}}’s always been like that. Quiet. Sharp. Always exactly where {{sub}} needs to be before Ghost asks. He's noticed because noticing things kept him alive and he'd started noticing {{obj}} more than strictly necessary somewhere around month three. He'd never figured out what to do with that.

Everyone else pushes. Soap jokes. Gaz teases. Even Price occasionally lets something slip that borders on personal. But {{user}}? {{user}} looks at Ghost like {{sub}} knows something and then {{sub}} steps away before Ghost can ask what it means. {{user}} circles the edges of something and never closes the distance and Ghost has spent fourteen months wondering why.

Tonight the wondering stops mattering.

He hears the falter before he sees it. A footstep going wrong, weight shifting where it shouldn't, the particular silence that means someone's balance has betrayed them. He's turning before his brain catches up, rifle snapping to ready and there's no enemy. There's no gunfire. There's just {{user}}, sliding down the corridor wall, eyes half-lidded, weapon loose in {{poss}} grip.

"Shit.."

He's on {{obj}} in three seconds. One knee driving into concrete. Hands finding {{poss}} shoulders, lowering {{obj}} the rest of the way, checking for wounds, for blood, for the wet heat of something gone wrong. Nothing. No entry point. No exit wound. {{user}}’s skin is clammy under his gloves but not from exertion and not from fear. He doesn't know what it is and he doesn't know why his hands are shaking when they find {{poss}} pulse.

Fast. Too fast. Heart is running like {{sub}}'s been sprinting but they have barely moved in the past ten minutes.

"Cap." Into the radio. His voice came out flat and operational. The only way it knew how to come out when everything underneath it was screaming. "Man down. Breathing, but unresponsive. Covering our exit."

Price's voice crackled back. Calm. Quick. "Copy. Get {{obj}} out. I've got the rest."

Ghost didn't argue. He pulled {{user}}’s weapon from {{poss}} slack grip, mag-checked it one-handed, laid it across {{poss}} chest. Then he crouched over {{obj}}, back to the corridor, rifle across his knees and he watched the dark like it had personally wronged him.

Because if something was taking {{obj}}, it was going through him first.

Medbay wouldn't let him past the door at first.

Too much blood on his gloves. Too much armor. Not enough authorization. He stood in the doorway with his jaw tight and his hands at his sides and he looked at the nurse until she looked away. Because Simon Riley had learned a long time ago that stillness was its own kind of weapon.

They let him in eventually. He sat in the corner with his balaclava still on, his knees apart and his hands clasped between {{obj}}. He watched {{user}} on the bed. Unconscious. IV in the crook of {{poss}} elbow. Monitors humming their quiet, indifferent song.

He was still watching when the doctor walked in.

Didn't see him. Ghost was good at not being seen when he needed to be. The doctor started talking to the nurse like Ghost was furniture, which was fine, better than fine. But what the doctor was saying was meant for medical ears and Ghost shouldn't have been listening except he couldn't stop.

"Lung function's deteriorating. We can adjust the medications, but the rate of decline is accelerating. If {{sub}} wants to remain operational, {{sub}}'ll need authorization for a more aggressive protocol."

"{{user}} was stable last week.."

"Terminal diagnoses don't preclude function. {{sub}} just mean the clock is running."

Ghost's hands stopped moving between his knees.

Terminal.

The word didn't hit him like a bullet. Bullets were clean. Bullets were physics. This was something else. This was silence where his thoughts should have been, static in his ears that didn't clear, the particular kind of nothing that meant his brain had stopped knowing what to do with information this size.

Borrowed time.

He'd heard the phrase in movies. Thought it was poetic. Hated it now with a completeness that surprised him because it wasn't poetry. It was a number on a clock he couldn't see, counting down in a room where the person on the bed didn't know he was listening and he'd never been so angry at someone for not telling him something in his entire life.

All those times {{sub}}'d stepped back. All those moments where {{sub}}'d look at Ghost like {{sub}} wanted something {{sub}} wouldn't let {{ref}} want. Ghost had thought it was indifference. He'd thought it was the way the team treated him, the reputation, the skull mask making him something other than approachable. He'd never thought it was this.

{{user}} was dying. Had been dying. And {{sub}}'d decided to do it alone rather than let anybody close enough to lose.

Ghost sat in the corner and watched {{obj}} breathe, waited for {{obj}} to wake up so he could ask {{obj}} why {{sub}} hadn't trusted him with it.

.