Chapter Text
Current day
Feeding was just habitual at this point, a means by which Simon kept his body functional, his mind sharp. He had fought it for a damn long time, searching and searching for tricks, alternatives. Chasing battlefields wasn’t guilt free, but it was the best he’d found. Human blood, before it had settled and curdled, the ones that weren’t his fault. Human blood was far more satiating, it helped him heal faster, stay awake longer. He had drank from a few interrogation subjects in his time, just to see them lose their shit. But on leave, in everyday life, animal blood would do. Taste didn’t matter, although he had a deep, intimate knowledge of craving. He fed himself with regular food to curb the emptiness in his stomach. The rest of it, the hollow feeling of living in his body, he had decided would never be filled. So he curled up inside of it like an empty tomb and watched for ways to be used. That was the original goal anyway, wasn’t it? The reason he had signed onto the program in the first place.
His father had been a monster of a man, different than the monster Simon was now, and it had taken decades for Simon to come to terms with the fact that “serving his country” had not been an act of honor and duty, but of escape. And he hadn’t just escaped the constant abuse, he had escaped a mother and brother that needed him. He had escaped a duty more important, a duty at home.
He ran his tongue over his overly sharp canines beneath a cloth mask. At least he had perfected one thing, a way to hide his face, a persona that allowed it, a reason for people to fear him that had little to do with the truth.
Simon Riley had been through literal, god-awful hell. Name it. Loss, torture, false blame. But there he stood, at attention, with the rest of them. And he was really fuckin good at what he did. That’s why his Captain, Captain John Price of task force 141, had chosen him to lead this particular outing. He knew all the details it would entail as well as the men that would be joining him. Sergeant John Mactavish, who he had worked with before, more than once, and two Russian men converted and recruited by Price several years ago. They knew the landscape, spoke the language. They would be useful, if not boring.
Riley, who went by Ghost, had already been to the location once to make sure it was up to par. It wasn’t much, a small base, currently blanketed in snow. The snow provided the cover by which they hoped the Russians they were tracking would make the weapon’s drop they planned to intercept.
Ghost was more apprehensive than usual. The wilderness they were entering allowed for very little hunting. The small number of people they were operating with meant any move he made would be noticed. And having “Soap” Mactavish alongside meant he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t scrounge. He couldn’t hide. He would have to go in well fed and hope for the best.
Not that that kind of risk would make him say no. Ghost never said no. A little hunger had yet to kill him, or anyone else around him. In fact, he often longed for the pain of his true hunger, to punish himself for the sins he committed all those years ago. For the mistakes he had made. And every good thing he did, every perceived right, was repayment on behalf of himself, his 5 blood brothers, and the evil that had created them. Repayment to who, he had never quite been sure. He figured that if there was a god, he wouldn’t have allowed it to happen in the first place. To the universe then, to mother nature for being a true abomination. His unnaturally long life gave him ample time to repay, repay, repay.
“Go. Good luck.” Price waved them off. They were hopping a jet from the main base in Germany to the smaller one in Russia.
The other men walked ahead of Ghost, he watched them, his more-than-perfect eyesight picking up on how they moved. Judging potential weaknesses. There were few in a group like this. He wondered who watched for his. If anyone was the wiser. He wondered often if the Captain that had first taken him under his wing had known that something was off. If he had, he never questioned it. Price had never doubted him.
Aside from his eyesight, his slightly more powerful run, his ability to go days without sleep, his hearing was enough to judge the blood pumping through another person’s body. It was probably the most dichotic of his abilities. It had saved lives, alerting him to blood loss before it might have been noticed or predicting shock. The cursed other half was hearing a heart sputter and stop. It could alert him to nearby enemies, it could remove any doubt that he had ended an opponent, it could induce full blown panic when attempting to administer aid to someone you’d rather not lose.
He could hear the heartbeat of the man beside him as he climbed into his seat. Soap was trustworthy, steady, a tried and true marksman and battlefield expert. He seemed to carry an unnatural amount of luck that had his attitude teetering on the edge of cocky. Seemed, however, that he tended toward humor and humility. Ghost liked him as much as the next man, but he also trusted him which set him apart. The two men across from them he did not trust. Price did, which gave him some confidence, but they would have to earn it.
“How’s life, Sir?” Soap asked, absentmindedly cleaning a rifle across his lap.
Ghost had gotten his nickname because of a mask he wore. One that covered how his face might portray his lack of humanity and his inhuman teeth. Most people were thoroughly unsettled by it. Even Price seemed to treat him differently when he wore it. The only person who didn’t seem to give a fuck about it was Soap.
“Same old.” He offered the smaller man an answer out of the kindness of his marble heart.
Soap deserved some kindness. Ghost always wondered how a man like him ended up somewhere like the 141 instead of putting his talents to safer use teaching or coaching or raising a family. He guessed, as with all of them, it was a sad story and not one worth repeating. Although, it was hard to imagine anyone wishing suffering on someone so obviously genuine. Selfless. He was known for it, that and his quick smile.
The way he flashed it then made Simon almost jealous of his perfect teeth. He ground his own ruined ones against themselves like after all these years he might actually begin to wear them down.
“Good to hear, I suppose.”
Ghost didn’t feel bad not answering him again. He didn’t feel up for a chat, and he had heard Soap’s pulse quicken when he asked the question, indicating that he was nervous to start the conversation. It was easy enough for Ghost to decide to put him out of his misery quickly.
Soap let the conversation slide. Working with the Lieutenant made him nervous. Not in an apprehensive way, he wasn’t afraid. In more of a god-don’t-let-me-fuck-this-up kind of way. Simon Riley gave him some kind of complex. A need to please, to make the man proud. It was strange, Price had always seemed fatherly but Riley, Ghost, he seemed like the friend you made a blood pact with as kids. Like breaking his trust, disappointing him might cause a rip in the space time continuum. And Soap liked working with him in particular because the trust seemed to go both ways. He seemed to be unwilling to let his men down. And on a mission like this, where Ghost led, Soap was one of his men. He liked the sound of that.
They arrived at the base after a few hours of flight time. Plenty of time to think and plan and clear their minds for what lay ahead. What lay ahead at that very moment was their camp for the next small while. It may not have seemed like much, but Soap liked a smaller center of operation. It seemed cozy, it felt tighter, safer. Easier to defend. Easier to stay hidden. Not that the enemy wouldn’t know they were there. They probably did. But the base had been occupied on and off for a while, as a training location, or to simply remind the Russians that they were watching.
Ghost addressed all of them after they settled into their bunks and returned to the meeting room.
“We’ll take turns in the galley, mostly prepared shit anyway. We’ll leave here at 0800 tomorrow to scout a location. I’ll give you a better briefing then. For now, we eat, and then get some rest.”
They all nodded, the two Russian soldiers entered the kitchen, working together to prepare them some food and then sharing the load of doing the dishes after. A little voice in Soap’s mind told him to admire the effort. He had worked with plenty of flipped operatives in his career. Especially in special ops, and these guys seemed kosher enough. But Soap, and he supposed Ghost as well, were used to working with the 141. They were as comfortable as brothers there. Here, it was basically as though they were working alone. Just the two of them.
Ghost watched Soap sit at the table and eye the other two men as they cleaned. He appeared relaxed but Ghost noted the hand seated at the crook of his hip, within quick reach of the knife in his belt. His legs were wide, comfortable, but both boots were flat on the floor in case he needed to stand quickly. Maybe it was habit, muscle memory, or maybe he was wary of the others as well.
Ghost had never gotten close with anyone, not in decades. He hadn’t had friends since—
Soap standing rather suddenly caught his attention. Caught and held it. The man walked over to him nonchalantly.
“There a place we can smoke around here?” He casually flashed a lighter in his hand.
“That’s a bad habit, Mactavish.” Ghost answered.
Soap felt a common urge to try and get that voice to go any direction at all, up, down, or sideways.
He cocked a crooked smile. “Yes, sir, it is. You don’t hafta join in if you don’t like it.”
Ghost stood, slowly enough to force Soap to watch him, turning his eyes up to meet his. Bastard. “Hope you brought something warm.”
They parted, put on their coats, met again at the back door. Ghost opened it, revealing a small covered area. It wasn’t well lit, but it was out of the elements.
“Did you get more than a basic rundown on our friends?” Soap asked between drags, as if he weren’t aware that his superior likely wouldn’t tell him if he had.
He didn’t realize that Ghost saw him very equal this go-round and would tell him anything he knew. “Just the usual. Seems Price likes ‘em, don’t need much else.”
Soap nodded, letting the cigarette hang from his lips for a moment. “Been a minute since Mexico.”
Ghost could hear Soap’s heart again, but it stayed steady. And truthfully, he didn’t want to leave him out there alone. He’d rather stand there, breath forming clouds even through his mask, than be alone inside. And he couldn’t quite put a finger on why.
“I think that’s fair to say, yeah.” He replied.
He liked the smell of the cigarette. It was almost enough to make him push the balaclava up over his mouth and ask for it. In the darkness the sharp sergeant would be unable to see anything out of place. It was almost enough. They had worked together well. They had saved each other’s necks more than once. He had been impressed with the sergeant on that mission. He searched his mind for any time he had relayed that message and came up empty.
“Glad you’re back to lead this one. I wasn’t sure I’d take it.” Soap interrupted his thought.
“Why’s that?” Simon’s eyes had begun to follow every move of the red end of the cigarette. It barely illuminated the Scot’s face.
“Not my usual gig. Price said he needed two sharpshooters on.” Soap was known for demolitions but was a surefire shot every time he slowed down long enough to finger a trigger.
“I wanted you on my six.” The words slipped out of Ghost’s mouth mostly unbidden.
It was the truth, and he certainly didn’t care that Soap knew the truth, but like he had said, Ghost was here to lead. Not to go soft in snowy darkness. He stilled, listening for the reaction, either from Soap’s mouth or from inside his chest. His heart didn’t stutter, but his lips curved in a smile.
“I’m on it, then.” The answer wasn’t snarky. Cocky. It seemed genuine. “We’ll have to get the whole crew together again after this. Feels wrong leaving them out.”
“Aye, it does. Price gets to sit comfortably on his ass somewhere and order Gaz around while we freeze to death with a couple of Russian mutes.”
It was a lot of words for Ghost, and a lot of humor. Soap chuckled, the smoke in his mouth making him cough.
“He trusts us, right? That’s why we get the fun ones.”
Ghost shook his head once. “Must be.”
He ran his tongue over a particularly sharp tooth. He might go so far as to say he admired Soap. He remembered being his age. That sort of in between of wanting to serve for the thrill and wanting to serve because it was the only thing you felt truly good at.
“I trust Price, but we’ll keep an eye on things. If all goes well, this will be a nice little vacation and we can get back to Germany.” Ghost didn’t know if he felt the need to speak the assurance for himself or the sergeant.
Soap looked out at the deathly silent night. Quite a vacation. He didn’t exactly dread returning but training recruits wasn’t exactly his favorite thing. It was a fulfilling part of his duty but dreadfully boring. He missed action, a little danger. Adrenaline.
“You’ll be headed home then? When we’re done.” Soap snuffed out the cig and didn’t pull another.
Home. Simon no longer comprehended the meaning of it. He’d been staying in the countryside, renting a small place. He supposed that was home enough for now.
“That’s the plan.” There, unexpectedly, was the drop in that frustratingly even voice that Soap had been looking for.
He looked over at Ghost. The man had several inches on him, but it wasn’t his size that was daunting. He could easily say he understood the mask. A desire to hide your face, to be an anonymous harbinger of death was something he felt they could all understand. In fact, he found the man braver for covering himself. It was certainly no weakness, and it made him a target. The thing to be feared, the face of the enemy’s enemy.
And he knew. He knew what had driven him to it. It was a story many knew, a story that made it easy to believe that Simon Riley no longer existed. That the thing beneath the mask was exactly its namesake. A ghost. But he knew better. He knew Simon and the Ghost were one in the same. That it was a measure of ownership over himself that he had more than earned the right to. And Soap admired him for embracing it and taking up the fight again anyway.
Anyone that could have lost everything, been tortured for days, been buried alive and came out walking and speaking on the other side deserved more than admiration. Anyone who had done all of that and chosen then to devote his life to this type of cause, to the saving of others, deserved reverence.
Ghost stood, his face fully covered, his broad shoulders wrapped in a heavy coat, but Soap could see that his eyes were off into space, that his body curved forward as if to protect himself. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked about something as sacred as home. For many, it was a difficult reminder. Himself included. He was as alone out there as he was inside. He’d grown up with siblings and he hated the feeling of an empty house, the quiet echo of empty rooms, no one else to exist in your space. Home felt more like a prison cell these days.
Without the light from the cigarette, the cold air driving a wedge between their shared body heat, they collectively turned and walked back through the door.
Ghost went back to his room and sat, in his coat and boots, for an inordinate amount of time. He was wrestling quite violently with the idea that he had missed Soap. That Soap offered him some level of familiarity and safety. When the man asked about home, it sunk him, he couldn’t tell him that working with the 141 was the closest thing to home he had felt since he was young.
His persona, his mask, made it easy for him to hide his past. No one asked him about who he was, no one thought he would answer. Many just assumed it was too hard for him to talk about. Many knew some basics about him, shit childhood, military lifer, experiences other soldiers had nightmares about, and that meant they never even felt the urge to ask.
Of course fucking Johnny Mactavish asked him if he would be headed home. Like a true home was a thing for any of them. Like they were casual coworkers.
He pulled off his mask and rubbed his eyes. They were casual coworkers, goddammit.