Chapter Text
Jimmy slinks from the bedroom as discreetly as possible. He knows what Ghost’s body language should look like, but in practice it’s abysmal. Jimmy’s always been too hyper, too impulsive, too unsettling, and worst of all, too obvious.
His patterns float to the surface, no matter how far down in their mind Ghost tries to bury him. His higher voice and spastic eye movements are dead giveaways. If he just plays it off though, he can sneak out of the house without Toast noticing. Unfortunately, Toast knows Ghost better than anyone else ever could. He might not know about Jimmy, but he would definitely recognize the absence of Ghost.
When Jimmy sees the back of Toast’s head from the couch in the sunroom, he realizes he has no idea how long it’s been since he got away with acting like a regular person, let alone acting like Ghost.
The sunroom is between him and the only door out. Toast is in his way.
Normally he wouldn't care. Most people would much rather not be in the same room as Jimmy, or Ghost for that matter. And most other people won’t keep up a shouting match or a real fight for as long as he will. The only person who’ll shout just as loud and swing just as fast is his mom. But Toast is a whole different story.
Jimmy can't place exactly why he never wants to get in a fight with Toast. It’s something about that man. Toast is bigger than him. Toast is unpredictable. Toast could have a gun on him. Toast knows Ghost better than he does and could easily find out Jimmy exists from just one uncharacteristic move. The crushing flood of dread makes Jimmy think there might be some merit to that last one.
He grips the kitchen counter, trying to keep his trembling to a minimum. There’s a shelf of different teas and coffee bags for him to stare down at and face away from Toast while he comes up with a plan, until he hears the older man shift around to look at him.
“Good morning, Sir!”
“Morning,” he whispers over his shoulder. It’s not perfect, Ghost’s grouchy mumbling is too hard to replicate under this much pressure.
Jimmy idles for a moment, starting to make a pot of coffee. He can’t tell if he’s feeling Toast’s eyes on him or if it’s his imagination. He wishes he’d thought more about what Ghost would be wearing. The worn jeans and belt are fine, he's pretty sure this is the only pair of shoes Ghost has, but maybe Ghost wouldn’t go out in a T-shirt. Does Ghost still throw on his hoodie first thing every morning? He’s such a toolbag.
When he woke up today, Jimmy just thought the old horror movie shirt was cool. Now he feels like he should have covered up more. He's not interested in letting Toast see his scars, even if he probably already knows. Ghost might trust him enough to be seen like this, but Jimmy absolutely does not.
He wants to duck back into their room to find a sweater, or make an excuse to leave before Toast can get a word in, except he’s already bringing two coffee mugs into the sunroom without meaning to. He hears the birds chirping outside before he realizes where he is.
Not good. He must not be as fully in-control today as he thought.
Jimmy steadies himself to keep moving and stay awake. He finishes setting the mugs down on the coffee table with twitchy hands that he hopes isn’t unusual to the other. He hums at Toast as he sinks into the couch next to him, not especially close. What's he doing? Toast is gonna know, but he can't leave now, can he? This is so bad.
Watching Toast in the corner of his eye, he doesn’t seem to pick up on anything. Jimmy has to keep telling himself not to fidget too much, unsure if Ghost is as restless as him. He rubs his temple in an attempt to relax his face and hopes the scars aren't as weird if he just looks like Ghost when he’s crabby. Toast doesn't notice that either. Maybe he's stupid.
Still, Jimmy can't get too comfortable, even though he really likes this room. He likes these sounds, these smells, the breeze, the textures. He wishes Gavin was here instead, but that's exactly why he wants to leave. He can’t space out. He can't let his guard down. Today is his day. This is his body. This is his.
Toast looks up from his crossword and gives a little laugh. “What’s this?”
Jimmy tries not to panic, suddenly much less certain of whether Toast even drinks coffee, or if he made it wrong, or why him making it would be funny somehow.
“I–” He clears his raspy throat. “I dunno.”
Jimmy almost grimaces at his voice, sounding like a kid who got in trouble. But Toast only smiles and takes a sip from his mug.
”Well, thank you anyway, Sir! I suppose we may need it today,” Toast sighs, checking his watch. “We should head to the office soon. Preferably before you put a straw in the coffee pot.”
“You say that like it’s a bad idea.” Jimmy throws his hands up in a shrug, with a subtly deeper voice, joking as if he and Toast are friends. The constant sense of exposure reminds him to put his arms down.
Toast shakes his head, still smiling as he gets back to his crossword. Even though Jimmy’s grossed out by the way they’re technically getting along, at least he isn’t caught yet.
It takes a moment to sit through the unpleasant wave of relief. Jimmy warily side-eyes the coffee he made for himself. He really doesn’t want it, remembering how bad caffeine makes him feel now. Ever since Ghost ruined it for them.
It dawns on him that that’s probably why Toast found it funny.
He’s not sure if he should drink it anyway, if it would mean fewer questions. He’s even less sure of what excuse will get him out of going to their dumb old office. This shouldn’t be so hard. Convincing people that he’s Ghost used to come effortlessly to him. He hasn’t needed to convince anyone lately.
He’s about to grab his coffee when Toast perks up and reaches over him. “Oh, before I forget!”
Jimmy freezes at the sudden breach of his space.
He feels his lungs cave in. This is wrong.
He's going to hurt him. This was a setup. Jimmy fucking knew it. Fight, fight back.
The rattling of a pill box in Toast’s hand interrupts the screaming alarms in his head. He blinks at it for a second too long before realizing they’re face-to-face.
Jimmy has one hand digging fiercely into the muscle of Toast's forearm, his other hand pushing the older man away. Neither of them move, while Jimmy's shoulder tenses so much it hurts.
Toast sees him. He sees the fear in his eyes, his pupils no doubt blown to shit. He sees the look on his face that’s nothing like Ghost.
He sees the bottomless hatred Jimmy has for him.
Toast leans back and averts his eyes. “Sorry, Sir. I was just getting your meds. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Jimmy pulls his hands to himself as Toast returns to his side of the couch, putting the pill box down between them and picking up his crossword again. The pages barely make a sound. Deep red bruises bloom around his forearm that Toast either can't feel or chose to ignore. Jimmy's not sorry. He probably should be, but he's not. He's pretty sure Ghost wouldn't say anything either way.
He can’t make himself act calm now. He's definitely still in danger. He hates Toast for ambushing him and he hates Ghost for letting that be normal for them. And he hates Toast even more for being so quiet about what just happened. It's better that he isn't questioning it, admittedly it's not the first time something like this has happened, but Jimmy doesn't want Toast to be familiar with it. He doesn't want Toast to understand him. He wants to get out of here. He wants to see Gavin. He wants to go back in his head and make Ghost deal with it.
He can feel himself shaking, mostly with how painfully angry he is. Toast knows. He has to. He knows and he’s hiding it. This isn’t safe anymore.
Jimmy has half a mind to run, defend himself before Toast hurts him, because Toast will. But the older man’s face is peaceful and unbothered. He never gives anything away.
He’s not even looking at him, just a glance at the pill box sitting next to him. “Do you want some water with them, Sir?”
Petrified under the gentle gaze, Jimmy nods and Toast gets up. He could run now. He remembers he still has nothing covering his arms. It’ll be fine, it’s too hot for a hoodie anyway. He’ll be with Gavin, who’s absolutely allowed to see him like this. He just has to focus.
He's barely done with that thought when Toast is handing him the water and sitting down again. Jimmy has to do something, but he doesn’t even know what’s in those pills. What’s Ghost taking now? What if it makes him feel worse? Wasn’t that the one thing they were kind of on the same side about?
He realizes he’s been staring at the glass of water in his hands, and Toast isn’t saying anything. Jimmy has to leave. He knows he has to leave. He has to concentrate.
Toast... knows.
Jimmy’s been noticed before. Sometimes outdoor cats pick up that he’s not a familiar person, even when his appearance and scent must be the same. People are a lot easier to get away with pretending around. People are more trusting of what they think they see. Jimmy had to relearn which senses were reliable, how to tell what was really there. Any trust in his sense of reality had been thoroughly beaten out of him.
Of course Toast doesn’t know. He can see the absence of Ghost. He can't see Jimmy.
Fuck. He’s really out of it.
He can’t keep himself above the surface for a full moment. This is going so wrong and he can’t concentrate. How long has this exact feeling been ruining his life? He doesn’t need to be like this anymore. Is this ever going to go away?
This isn’t fair. This was supposed to be his day. His one fucking day.
This is his body. Not Ghost’s. He has no idea what this is like. Ghost treats him like he’s not real. Like he’s not human.
Ghost hurt him so many times. He fucked up so many times.
Every thought Jimmy starts to put together falls apart in his lap. He knows he meant to do something today, it's on the tip of his tongue until it's gone. He stares quietly, motionlessly, at the glass of water blurring out of focus.
There's a steady repetition of birds chirping somewhere, if they're even really there. His head feels heavy and weightless at the same time. He wonders if anyone around him thinks he’s on drugs.
He looks down for so long that his arms start to warp out of shape. It feels like his limbs aren’t his. It feels like his heart isn’t beating. It feels like a dream that he was so sure he’d already woken up from.
Toast slowly takes the glass out of Ghost’s hands so he doesn’t drop it. He sets it down on a coaster next to their coffee mugs.
“Just…” Ghost murmurs. “Just give me a minute.”
The couch dips gently again as Toast shifts to face him. “Of course, Sir. Take your time.”
Ghost rests his elbows on his knees and drags one hand over his under-eyes, staring straight ahead vacantly. He squeezes his eyes shut in a scowl and leans back into the couch with a long, grumbling sigh. “When the hell did we come out here?”
Toast tucks his bruised arm behind the couch and smoothes his thumb over Ghost's hand. “A few minutes ago. Are you alright, Sir?”
“I’m fine. I'm just not all awake, I guess." Ghost slumps forward again, bouncing his leg as he waits for the room to stop spinning. “Johnny, what is the matter with you. How do you wake up this early?”
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