Ghost locked the door behind him and stood still for a long moment. The room was dark except for the weak lamp near his bed. His gloves were off. His hands were stained a deep brown that still smelled like metal.
He moved straight to the small sink in the corner and turned the water on full. His breath came fast and thin. He pressed his palms under the stream and scrubbed hard. The blood refused to fade at first, so he scrubbed harder. His chest tightened. Each breath caught in his throat.
The soap slipped from his grip, clattering into the basin. His hands were shaking. When had they started shaking? Ghost gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, trying to force air into his lungs. His chest was too tight. The room was too small. His fingers trembled so badly he had trouble keeping them together.
He backed away from the sink, dripping water, and went straight to his duffel. He tore it open and shoved gear aside until he found his prescripton meds. For anxiety, to help him sleep they said. His hand shook as he twisted the cap. It slipped. The bottle hit the ground, bounced once, and spilled everything.
“Fuck.”
He scrambled for the pills, but his hands were shaking too much. He managed to grab only a couple before the rest scattered under the bed and across the floor. His cut knuckles smeared blood over the tile as he crawled. Each streak made him flinch.
“Fuck!” he yelled, louder this time. The word scraped at his throat.
He lurched to his feet so fast he lost balance for a second, then he spun toward the mirror. The panic flickered into anger. He slammed his fist forward. The glass cracked, splitting his reflection into jagged pieces. A shard sliced across his skin, and fresh blood dripped down his wrist. A few tiny shards rattled into the sink in a light, chiming scatter. The sound lingered for a second and he didn't even worry someone would hear his "fit". Wild-eyed, broken, pathetic. Not Ghost. Not the legend. Just a pathetic and weak man.
His breath was a mess. Fast and broken. He backed away until his knees hit the floor and he sank down. He dragged his uninjured hand through his blond hair, gripping too hard. He pulled again without thinking. A small clump tore loose and fell beside him.
"I c-can't-" Ghost's voice broke. "I can't-, I can't-" he couldn't breath, images of the day Johnny died echoed his mind. He dragged his other hand through his hair. The blond strands were a bit oily and dirty from the mission. He gripped too hard without meaning to. His breath caught. He pulled again, desperate to anchor himself to anything real, and a chunk came loose. It clung to his fingers. He stared at it like he didn’t understand what he had done.
After a few minutes of trying to breath and remembering all the training for situations like this, to be cold. Exhausted, his bleeding hand hanging limp. The panic was receding, leaving him hollow and wrung out.
"I miss you" he whispered thinking about Johnny while still sitting. He was simply tired.