Pattern Breaker

Himeros, Hades, and the Realization You'd Be Better Off Dead

Historically, Ghost spent more time awake than asleep. Most people did, sure, but he was an outlier in this case. It was a good night if he got four hours uninterrupted.

Unless you counted nightmares as a disturbance. In that case, almost never.

So it wasn't any surprise that his body, torn and exhausted, took the opportunity while it was presented and ran with it.

And so sleep he did. It wasn't productive sleep. His brain, muddled with drugs, was still stubborn as ever. There was nothing peaceful about it. He could still feel aches and pains, the occasional whisper of voices— some he recognized and some he didn't. Doctors and nurses, probably, fiddling with tubes and vials. With different parts of his body. Bending joints and fussing over bandages. Clipping small scissors and clamps as some of his many stitches had worn out their welcome and were ready for removal.

As much as he needed the rest, as incomplete as it was, he was relieved to finally actually wake up. It took longer than he was comfortable with. He had stayed in that twilight stage of half-awareness/half-sleep, similar to the unconscious anticipation when your body knows it's almost time for your alarm to go off. Someone shuffled loudly from somewhere in the room, his deeply ingrained instincts forcing him into awareness as his body began prickling from the healing wounds and soreness from being stuck in the same position.

Ghost awoke with a deep groan. His head was spinning from the hangover of anesthetic and residual opioids, muscles tensing as his skin flexed over them— some screaming in protest from the tightening of fresh scar tissue.

"Johnny?" He called out, his voice a quiet rasp, fighting to clear his blurry vision as he worked to focus on his surroundings. His throat was dry, scratchy from misuse, while certainly not dehydrated from the many bags of saline that had been worked through his body a cold glass of water sounded delicious right about now.

"Hate to disappoint, bud." A familiar voice answered. But not the one he wanted to hear.

"Roach?"

"Good morning, sunshine." Roach came into view, carefully sitting on the small edge of the bed that Ghost wasn't occupying.

"Where's Johnny?" He asked, desperately glancing around the bright room.

Roach shrugged noncommittally. "Dunno. Haven't seen him here in a couple of days."

Ghost frowned at the information, but didn't respond.

"How are you feeling?"

Ghost sighed deeply, bringing one hand up to rub under his eyes. Fabric brushed under his palm, and he paused– pinching at the material.

"Why am I wearing a mask?" Roach raised one eyebrow at him.

"I wasn't aware that was an issue, sir."

"It's not. I can't believe they didn't take it off."

"Well, they tried. Soap wouldn't let them. Threw a whole fit about it, brought you extras." Roach nodded toward a meal table to the left of them. A pile of clothes were stacked on top, folded neatly and with care.

"So he was here?" Ghost asked, undeniably hopeful.

Roach barked out a short laugh, his eyes twinkling at the tone of Ghost's voice. "Yeah, he was. DIdn't leave for almost two weeks."

"Two weeks?" He looked at the other man, alarmed.

"You've been out for a while. They had to put you in a coma for a bit."

Ghost scowled at the information. "It feels like it."

"Oh, ah, that might be my fault." Roach rubbed the back of his neck, looking at Ghost apologetically. "I know how you are with pain meds and the sort. Asked them to slowly wean you off. Doctors tried to argue with me about it, but Price backed me up. I think they pretty much have you on extra strength over the counter bullshit. Sorry."