Chapter Text
A quick glance at his wrist tells him it's just past 0100. Every light in the mess hall is lit despite the hour. Sturdy beige walls make an echo chamber of all the excited chatter. Earlier in the evening he picked the quietest corner, put his back to it, and now sits alone watching everyone delight in the news. It’s his own way of joining in after the unexpected debrief from Captain Price.
They’re going home.
“Plans for the holiday, Lt.?”
Ghost doesn’t startle when the familiar voice cuts through the rest. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t sensed the sergeant as he sidled up alongside. When not in the field, Soap’s saunter had about as much subtlety as an elephant with a raging hangover. The startling part, Ghost thinks, is how used to it he’s become.
That when he clocked it, he moved it directly into the not a threat bin and just went on existing. That Soap by his side has become a given since Las Alamas (and, if he’s being really honest with himself, even before then).
Something bumps his shoulder. When Ghost turns his head, Soap holds out a glass of some amber liquid. Ghost takes it.
“Dunno,” he says. He tips a nod in the sergeant’s direction and eases the fabric of his mask up to the bridge of his nose. The liquor slides down his throat like ice. A second later it turns to an ember in his stomach, warming him right to the tips of his toes. "Short notice ‘n’ all. Where’d you get this?”
“Gaz got it somewhere,” Soap says. Explanation enough. Soap tips back his own glass, drains it in one go. The line of the Scot’s throat is a well traveled thing by the time he looks forward again.
“‘Spose you’re goin’ home, then?” Ghost asks. Soap smacks his lips and gives a shrug.
“My mam always puts on a do,” he says. Ghost can picture it. A little cottage tucked into some willowy hillside, all done up with Christmas lights and packed to the rafters with a whole clan of MacTavish’s. The first word that comes to his mind is loud, and he chuffs a laugh. Soap grins as if he’s read the lieutenant's mind. “Yeah, well, it’ll be nice to be there rather than hearin’ about it from a million miles away while some lawless fucker tries ta blow my head off.”
“It’ll be nice,” Ghost relents. There’s silence for a few beats. It’s not uncomfortable. Another moment and Soap takes the seat next to Ghost. Ghost makes room but it’s still a squeeze. He doesn’t think about the warm length of their thighs pressed tight together. Doesn’t think of how he can feel all along his side when Soap’s leg starts bouncing. He’s not thinking about it so hard that he jumps a little when Soap speaks again.
“Listen. I was hopin’...”
Ghost looks out over the sea of excited faces. There’s plenty he recognizes. Alex is taking the money of some poor fool over a game of cards. Several hold glasses just like the one in their hands, and sure enough, Gaz pours from a tall bottle he procured from only God knows where. In the familiar faces, there’s plenty he doesn’t recognize. Privates, mostly. The greenies cast short glances his way but even the specter in the skull mask skulking around the walls isn’t enough to put them off their joy.
In his peripherals he watches Johnny roll the empty glass between his palms. Well, mostly empty; a lone drop swirls at the bottom, futile in its attempt to plummet free to the smooth concrete between his boots.
“Out with it, sergeant,” Ghost prompts.
“Aye, ya impatient–” Soap sighs. Someone’s booming laughter rings out from the crowd. Ghost’s focus is on that lone swirl at the bottom of Soap’s glass. He can’t take his eyes off it. Must be the liquor is stronger than he first imagined; for the life of him, he can’t fathom what the sergeant's going to say.
Finally, Soap says, “Listen, ah know ya don’t have plans. If ya had a whole month to prepare, ya still wouldn’t have any.”
“Cheers,” Ghost huffs, almost offended. He lets himself be jostled by the well muscled shoulder that immediately pummels his bicep. Soap’s leg stops bouncing and Ghost’s skin hums with the memory of the movement.
“Aye, yer a right unlovable numpty, so I figure ya may as well be miserable at mine than miserable alone at yours. Whaddae ya say, Lt.?”
“I’ve passed on a lot nicer ways of bein’ asked home than whatever the fuck that was,” Ghost says. He waits until the colorful noises stop leaving Soap’s mouth at such a rapid rate before he turns to the sergeant. Soap quiets and looks back expectantly.
Deadpan as he can muster, Ghost says, “Soap?”
“Eyuh?”
“Knock knock.”
“Creepin’ Jesus–”
“Knock knock,” Ghost says again. He watches Soap’s shoulders fall, sees more than hears the defeated, “Who’s there?”
“Alpaca.”
“Christ, Ghost, Alpaca who?”
Ghost looks deep into Soap’s face. They've been through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered. His gloved hand lands heavy on the sergeant’s broad shoulder. Soap’s eyes are wide and sorrowful with regret. He gives his head a little shake 'no,' but can't stop what's already in motion.
“Alpaca the trunk," Ghost says, "You pack-a the suitcase.”
Three days later finds them in Inverness Airport, Scotland. The flight was nice if you prefer airlines with all the creature comforts of an actual bog. The look of mild surprise on Soap’s face when the rickety bunch of aluminum passing as an airplane lands in one piece is mirrored on Ghost’s. Only, he has the luxury of hiding his clenched jaw beneath the soft black of his civvie facemask.
Maybe the surprise between them is that he's here at all. Better not to think too hard about it. Soap offered and Ghost accepted. Simple as that.
(It’s not. Ghost hasn’t been off base for reasons outside of field work for a long time, and even then, certainly not for pleasure.
Leisure, his mind tries to object, but then the plane rattles a tune that sounds like they’re going down for sure, and the thought escapes his mind.)
The one actual amenity of this particular airport is it’s so damn quiet this time of year compared to Glasgow or Edinburgh. Two big guys carrying two big duffle bags, eyeing the place like it owes them money, and yet they step off the plane and all but float through security. Ghost gets leveled with a zombie-like grunt from a security guard so old, he fears the effort may turn the man to dust. Then they’re through and popping into a cab. If all missions could be so smooth.
Between calling home to share the good news of their upcoming arrival and scheduling the flight, Mr. MacTavish offered time and time again to pick them up from the airport. Ghost had tried not to eavesdrop but heard Soap rebuff his dad in equal measure through the thin shared wall of their sleeping quarters. First he protested the late hour, and then how his mum would need his dad around to put the finishing touches on the house before her favorite–only–son returns.
(Without coming out and saying it, the lieutenant sensed the sergeant’s worry. Old eyes don’t see the road so well anymore, especially at night. Ghost knows this and wonders if he’ll ever know the sting of being honorably discharged from a proud job he’s done easily all his life. He hopes if the day comes, if somehow he lives to see it, he’ll be treated as firm and gentle as Soap does on those phone calls home).
Ghost stares out the windows while Soap gives the driver directions. There’s a small family getting into the sole other cab at their six but otherwise the streets are empty. He turns and is not disappointed or surprised to see the sergeant just righting himself from having a look around himself. Their eyes meet. Soap gives a little grin.
“Right. This is where the fun begins.”
“Plane was already buckets, dunno if I can stand much more,” Ghost deadpans. Soap grumbles about being taken out by cheap airfare after living through all the other bullshit. They share a laugh and it feels…nice. That the gentle ribbing and teasing sustains past their ranks, beyond the battlefields and barracks.
They relax back into the worn faux leather and settle in for a long ride.
The Scottish countryside is rugged and brutal in a way Ghost immediately admires. They’ve had snow recently, not so recently the cab has any trouble maneuvering through the narrow lanes. Enough to light up the night. They pass countless fields of white broken up by mounds of tall grass bent but not broken by the weight of the downfall. It would be a bitch to march through, Ghost thinks. He hears the squeal of snow under his boots, the whistle of true, bitter cold with each step.
There’s houses great and small, some not much more than shacks, but each have miles and miles between them. Not a single light on in any of them.
The far treelines are dark and cast long shadows over the fields. Any amount of evil could be lurking there. Beyond them, mountains loom in the distance, nearly out of sight, ancient leviathans blind yet all-seeing. Streams of frigid black water cut snakelike through the many hills. A plunge into one would be death.
“Used ta play footie out there,” Soap interrupts his thoughts. Good riddance. Ghost squints at said field obligingly and what he hears is, Close to home, now.
With a sigh, his fingers start play at the hem of his mask where it lies against his throat. MacTavish stills beside him.
“Ya know ya dinnae have ta do tha’,” he says quietly. Ghost shakes his head, takes a breath, and pulls the mask off in one fell swoop. His thick brown hair doesn’t go with the motion and he runs a large hand through it to unflatten it the best he can.
“‘Less yer fam’s a sleeper cell, ‘m not worried,” he says, unaware of the frown that crosses his chin when his hand slides down from his hair to his face. His own calloused fingertips travel over a once-handsome face now littered with pits and smooth, glass-like scars; the biggest of which quarters off the left side of his ragged top lip. He knows if he smiles the skin there pulls tight enough to always let his sharp canine peek through. Worms start to crawl through in the pit of his stomach the longer his fingers linger on his own skin.
It’s only after the silence goes on and on that Ghost clocks it. He sinks reluctantly back into himself and turns his head only to see Soap staring hard at his profile. The sincere grin sent his way when their eyes meet makes his throat go dry. He's suddenly feverish.
“Nothin’ ta be worried ‘bout,” Johnny says, casual as anything. It’s too much, too sincere for what this is. A teammate brought home like a stray mutt shouldn’t be looked at like that.
“Even though I’m a fuckin’ Brit," Ghost mocks in a desperate attempt to find the ground beneath his feet again.
“Aye, as if you ever let me fuckin’ forget it,” Soap allows after another moment, his eyes once more finding the window and fields beyond.
The cab drops them off at the end of a long driveway. A straight bronze sign on the rough hewn stone wall states, “MacTavish.” They pull their duffle bags out of the boot, sling them over their shoulders, and start the hike up with puffs of their warm breath in the chill air leading the way. The packs are heavy, enough in each for the two sprawling weeks ahead of them, but the weight barely registers. They’ve sprinted a lot further stretches with a lot more weight than this; more than once, the weight of each other slung across their shoulders.
Ghost almost eats shit halfway up the driveway when his boot catches some black ice. Entirely would have but he’s caught about the collar by a competent hand before he can hit the ground. Soap catches him by the seams with a bright laugh and a shout of some incomprehensible Scottish nonsense.
It’s two steps later and before he can even demand a translation that Soap himself almost goes down. Ghost, ever the gentleman, only laughs for a few minutes at the look of shock on the sergeant’s face when it happens. After that their hands linger on each other’s shoulders for the rest of the hike in silent agreement that it's better to go down together if it must happen at all.
They round a bend and the cottage breaks into view. Not really a cottage at all but a sturdy, handsome little house. The image Ghost formed in his mind’s eye was right about it being tucked into the hills and the lights done up all the way to the tip top of the sharp roof. Big, old fashioned bulbs of every color spray color into the monochrome night. A tree glitters in the big bay window of the first floor, equally bedazzled. He smells rather than sees the sweet smoke that wafts gently from the stout chimney. As his gaze climbs, he marks the light on in a second floor room.
“Told ‘em not to wait up,” Johnny grumbles without heat. As they step up to the porch, all the lights seem to go on at once. Soap barely gets his hand on the knob when the door swings open wide.