Work Text:
VI: Dilapidated
adjective
a person who is in a terrible state of decay, ruin, or neglect
Grim sat facing the infirmary bed, Ghost laying on his back, breathing deep and even, fast asleep. It had been two days since Russia, two days since he’d nearly lost the man he now watched like a sentinel. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, boiled leather, and bleach, the sterile scent sharp against the lingering tang of old blood on his gloves. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, low and steady, filling the silence like a metronome he couldn’t escape. Grim’s eyes drifted over the edges of the table, tracing the instruments laid out with careful precision—the bandages, the water jug, the small vase holding flowers that looked freshly plucked. Flowers. He thought bitterly. A joke. Ghost wasn’t dead, he had a shoulder injury. One that Grim had gotten his knife into. One that had drawn the Lieutenant’s teeth into his hand, biting with a feral, desperate strength while Grim tried to stop him from fading, bleeding into his gloves, his hands, his back as he dragged him to the exfil point. Fucking Russia.
The memory lingered, replaying in shards. The sound of that gunshot echoing off the walls, the sharp crack of the round that should have ended Ghost’s life but hadn’t, the taste of iron in Grim’s mouth as he shoved himself through the chaos, moving faster than he knew he could. He had saved him, yes—but at what cost? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flash of teeth sinking into his hand, the way Ghost had gone limp for the fraction of a second that felt like an eternity, and the screaming whine of the radios calling their exfil. Grim’s fists tightened, shaking slightly, a tremor of adrenaline still trapped in him despite the slow, mechanical rise and fall of Ghost’s chest.
He wasn’t a man meant for silence, but here he was. Still. Watching. Guarding. Immobile. He could feel the ghosts of past missions stirring in the corners of the room: the faces of DAWN, the ones he had left behind or hadn’t been able to save. Marg, silent and precise even in death. Ludak, laughing as explosions flared around him, as reckless as ever, and Ashy, always a knife at the ready, always a grin. Pinny’s presence lingered, even if only in memory, soft and firm like an echoing hand guiding him. Death had whispered to him then, and Death whispered still now, patient, constant, a low hum beneath the surface of his skull: They are gone. This one stays. Make it count.
Grim’s gaze dropped to his hands, still faintly sticky with dried blood that no amount of antiseptic could erase. The lines of his palm felt raw, and the callouses from a life built on weapons were edges now softened only by the persistence of his obsession: keeping Ghost alive. He flexed his fingers, massaging the soreness, and for a fleeting moment he allowed himself to imagine that if he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could reach out—not physically, but with something that Death sometimes allowed him—reach out and touch the faint thread connecting Ghost to the world.
The fluorescent hum shifted slightly as the door clicked. Grim’s eyes flitted toward it, muscles coiling instinctively, only to relax as Gaz appeared, quiet and cautious, clipboard in hand. The man’s brow furrowed slightly at Grim’s posture, the stillness, the tension that radiated in waves from him.
“Vitals stable, just talked to the medic” Gaz said softly, voice low, careful not to disturb the silence between Grim and the bed. “No fever, no complications. You—you had it handled.” He hesitated for a fraction, then added, “He’ll need another day of rest, minimum.”
Grim’s single visible eye tracked him, taking in the slight crease between Gaz’s brows, the way he held himself even when he tried not to. Grim’s jaw tightened, a muscle in his neck flexing. He knew he had been too hard on the team during exfil. Soap, Gaz—they hadn’t deserved his clipped tone, his terse instructions, the way his predatory patience had made them hesitate. Survivor’s guilt was a living thing, gnawing at him quietly now, whispering that his responsibility hadn’t ended when the mission had. He had saved Ghost, yes, but at what cost to the men around him?
He flexed his hands again, callouses pressing into his palms. The weight of his past, the ghosts of DAWN, the decaying heart that continued on beating, it all pressed against him invisibly, painfully. He traced the edges of Marg’s dog tags, smooth and cold against his fingers, an anchor for memories both painful and precious. Grim swallowed the ache, letting it settle into a quiet ember rather than a roaring fire.
Soap’s voice drifted in from the corridor, low and teasing, cutting through the oppressive stillness. “You still breathing over there, or have you turned into one of the chairs?” Grim allowed a short, humorless snort, but didn’t respond otherwise. The familiarity was a balm. Quietly, he allowed himself to remember how both Soap and Gaz had frozen in Russia, how his sharp words had been more reflex than intent, but still got them moving. He had been too predatory, too wild, too wrapped up in the terror of what could have gone wrong. And now, here, he felt the weight of that reflection like a stone pressing against his chest.
He stood, pacing the narrow space beside the bed, silent as a shadow. The fluorescent light painted him in harsh angles, and the metal gleamed at him like a promise and threat both. He remembered every step, every decision, every instant he had chosen to act instead of hesitate. And yet, it was never enough. Survivor’s guilt didn’t care for intent, or for logic. It only cared for the ones who didn’t make it, and the ones who almost didn’t.
Grim’s gaze fell to Ghost again. The man’s chest rose and fell, subtle, steady, a fragile rhythm that felt like a pulse in the world itself. He thought of Russia. The shot, the chaos in his fucking head, the way he had felt that shoulder shot like it hit him instead, that near-miss a brand, a personal failure. Death had been patient, watching, nudging him forward, but here, in this sterile room, it whispered differently: You are allowed to care, even if it terrifies you.
He allowed himself to drift back further, to Marg's the dog tags. They laid against his chest, heavy and cold, familiar like the last echo of laughter that no one else would hear. He ran his fingers over them, tracing the edges, feeling the weight of absent hands. Death’s voice hummed low as he did, patient and insistent. Remember. Learn. You are not yours alone. Grim clenched his jaw, swallowing back the familiar ache that always came when he remembered these ghosts he carried, the memories that formed him just as his weapons and his training had.
A small shift in the bed drew him out of his thoughts. Ghost’s hand twitched, fingers brushing against the blanket. Grim’s single eye softened fractionally, scanning the Lieutenant for signs of discomfort or pain. No. Stable. Even breathing. Still breathing. The room remained quiet save for the low buzz of lights and the faint scrape of boots against tile as he adjusted his stance. His gaze wander around the room, taking in the neatly arranged instruments, the water jug, and the small, ridiculous vase of flowers again. He shook his head slightly, humorless. A damn joke. Yet there was a tenderness there, even if he didn’t allow himself to admit it. A gesture of life amid blood and death. He traced the edge of the bed lightly, careful not to touch Ghost directly, and settled against the wall. Silence stretched, punctuated only by the slow, steady inhale of the man he nearly lost.
Outside the room, muffled voices—Soap, Gaz—exchanged quiet updates. Grim barely registered them, yet their presence grounded him. A small, fleeting connection, a reminder that he was not alone in this, that care could exist even amidst chaos. He thought briefly of Pinny, of DAWN, of the men and women who had been gone too soon, and felt Death brush at the edge of his consciousness. You are allowed this. You are allowed to keep them alive.
Outside, the low murmur of Soap and Gaz continued, a quiet hum of routine and presence. Grim allowed himself to relax fractionally, leaning back into the wall, single eye fixed on Ghost’s even breathing. And so he stayed, a sentinel at the edge of sleep and waking, of memory and reality, of blood and life. Grim sat facing the infirmary bed. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he allowed himself the smallest, most dangerous thing of all: hope.
[6]