It starts with tiny things.

A misplaced glove. A half-finished task he swears he completed. A confused pause in the hallway like he stepped into a room and the memory didn’t follow him.

Ghost hides it well. He always does. Mask or no mask, he’s built to conceal damage: bury it under discipline and gravel-voiced deflection.

But you notice.

You notice every flicker.

Every stiff beat of hesitation.

Every time his fingers tap against his thigh like he’s trying to recall something that slipped through the cracks in his armor.

Dissociative Amnesia

One morning, he stands in the kitchen staring at a mug like he’s unsure if he filled it or not. The kettle’s still steaming, untouched. His posture is carved from stone, but his eyes are lost somewhere deep inside the quiet.

You step in beside him, brushing his arm lightly.

“You had breakfast,” you say softly.

The tension in his shoulders drops a fraction of an inch. He doesn’t look at you, but the breath he releases sounds like he was holding it for minutes instead of seconds.

Later, in the gear room, you catch him patting down pockets like he’s missing something important. He mutters under his breath, voice low and irritated:

“Bloody hell. Thought I...”

“You took your meds,” you say gently, not pushing, not pitying. Just reminding. Just giving him reality back piece by piece.

His hand stills.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t pretend he remembers. He just nods once, slow, the kind of nod a man uses when he can’t quite trust his own mind but trusts you completely.

It becomes routine after that.

Not patronizing. Not caretaking. Just… anchoring.

Ghost forgets in flashes: moments where his brain short-circuits under the weight of years he never processed. Trauma doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it slips in quietly, stealing small things so he doesn’t notice the big ones creeping in.

You notice.

Every time he drifts, you guide him back.

“You already locked the door.” “You sent that report.” “You drank water.” “You’re safe.”

But the one that matters most happens on a day he looks particularly far away: like a man visiting a memory he didn’t mean to reopen. His mask hides everything except the fracture in his posture.

He’s quiet too long. Breathing too shallow. Head bowed like the past is pulling him backward.

You touch his wrist.

“You’re still here.”

He freezes.

Then he exhales: slow, shaky, fragile in a way Ghost never lets himself be. His fingers curl just slightly toward your hand, a silent thank you he’ll never voice.

He doesn’t say he’s fine. Doesn’t brush it off. Doesn’t hide.

He just lets your words settle into him like a truth he didn’t know he needed.

“You’re still here.”

And for the first time that day, the world stops taking things from him.