Chapter Text
Ghost watched the knife bury itself in Soap’s back through the scope of his rifle a half second before the crack of the shot rang out, only air where a man’s head had once been.
He didn’t bother to wait for the body to fall. Instead he watched Soap’s form stagger, the grimace on his face magnified a thousand times, one hand reaching blindly for the handle jutting proudly from he meat of his trapezius. Inches from his carotid. The blade exited as quickly as it had entered, and when Soap lifted his gaze in the direction of the shot which had killed his would-be executor, the hand that displayed the thumbs-up was slick with blood.
Shadow figures advanced fifty yards north of Soap’s position. Not a single one got within visual range. They fell beneath Ghost’s crosshairs as he tracked Soap in his mind, a trail of blood following Soap through the maze of dilapidated structures down below. His heart was a strong, steady drumbeat in his chest, his shots firing clean and true in the time between his even breaths. Ghost was as systematic and sleek as an assassin, only this mission wasn’t about the thrill of the kill; the roaring in Ghost’s ears quieted only as he watched the lone figure skirt around the edge of a squat, crumbling building and dart off into the night under cover of trees. His rifle swept the streets one last time, but all was quiet. Everyone dead or gone, except for Ghost.
The extraction point was approximately three kilometers east, in the direction Soap had disappeared. Eerie silence was his only accompaniment as Ghost made his way through the very streets Soap had just traveled. He had no way of knowing if the blood spatter clinging to the stones belonged to Soap or the piles of bodies that had fallen at his feet. Ghost stepped over them without looking down.
Ducking through the curtain of trees bordering the edge of the town brought an explosion of sound; the chittering of animals, the calling of crickets, dry branches and leaves crunching underneath his boots. Ghost followed the same path Soap must have, eyes sharp on the lookout for a body, but there was none. Soap MacTavish was made of tougher stuff than that. A burst of radio static in his ear confirmed that Ghost was the only member of the 141 unaccounted for. His panting breath was harsh in the night air as he picked up the pace.
At the edge of the wilderness there was a road, and on it, a truck idling under cover of darkness. The back door was open, and hands pulled Ghost through before reaching behind him to slam it shut. His body rocked with the movement of the truck as it rumbled to life. Faces stood out in the darkness, one by one, identified by their familiar features as Ghost’s team.
He looked for only one.
“How’s the shoulder, Johnny?”
“Och, you know me, LT.” Soap’s voice was strained, but he managed to inject humor into it. There was shuffling as Ghost settled next to him, having to climb over Gaz’s legs to get there. “Right as rain with a hot shower and a pint, can swear you that.”
“He refused to let me triage him,” Price said, his rumble right in Ghost’s ear where he sat across from them. “Wanted to make sure you made it first.”
“Stubborn bastard.”
“Aye,” Soap responded, though his cheerful note fell flat with the exhaustion in his tone. “You mind looking at it, Simon? Trust it’s barely a scratch, but my bleedin’ arm’s going a wee bit numb.”
“I’ll need a–”
“Got it, Ghost.”
The weak light thrown by Gaz’s handheld lamp was enough to illuminate the bloody patch that slowly expanded down Soap’s shoulder and beneath his tac vest. The bastard had gotten him just above where the protection of the vest ended. Deft hands unbuckled it so Ghost could see what he was working with, and the fabric came away wet. The scent of copper hung in the air. The same knife Ghost used to slit throats tore through the fabric of Soap’s shirt like paper, allowing it to fall away and reveal the extent of the damage.
“How is it? Think I’m gonna make it, doc?”
Blood trickled lazily from the gape in Soap’s shoulder. His skin was ragged around the wound, a consequence of the rough exit of the knife when Soap pulled it out. There would be a nasty scar when it healed, another notch in the belt. To Soap’s credit, he didn’t wince as Ghost began to pack the wound with coagulating gauze, using his fingers to stuff it in as deep as he could go. His other hand maintained constant pressure on Soap’s shoulder. When he was done, he covered the wound in pressure bandages, and kept his bloody palm over the area for good measure.
“Like you said, Johnny. Just a scratch.”
Taking his permission, Soap sagged forward, the slight trembling of his body from blood loss only evident because Ghost’s hand was splayed over his back. Soap turned his head as far as he could without irritating his shoulder, enough that Ghost could see the way his eyes glinted in the low light.
“Feels good to have you on my six. Nice shooting out there. Could feel your eyes on me the whole time.”
The mask hid the way Ghost’s mouth twisted. Soap was warm under his fingertips, but Ghost was cold, and the stench of copper burned his nose.
“Not quite. If that were true, I’d have pulled the trigger half a second sooner.”
“You took your eyes off him to get me out of a tight spot,” Gaz piped up. “Had those two on my back. I didn’t even see ‘em coming. You saved my arse out there, Lieutenant. And Soap’s. Pretty sure we all owe you our lives a dozen times over.”
Soap was alive in Ghost’s hands. He wasn’t a shadow figure through his scope; he was a real, breathing being, glowing in the lamplight, full of color and animation and unwavering strength. Ghost clung to that instead of the alternative, the one that sometimes came to him in his dreams in which Soap’s heart ceased beating before he ever hit the ground. A half a second was just long enough for Ghost to lose everything that mattered to him.
“Someone has to keep you lot alive,” Ghost finally said, and the tension in the air shifted to the palpable relief of successfully completing a long, difficult mission.
Soap’s hot shower didn’t come until days after exfil, the pint a far-off wish of soldiers in the field. A few nights of sleeping rough, bouncing from safehouse to safehouse, sapped the group’s remaining energy. The adrenaline of the mission had faded, leaving in its place a bone-deep weariness and an itch to return to familiar comforts.
With Soap looking paler by the day from the discomfort of his shoulder, Gaz hiding his limp from a bum ankle, and Price on the radio every hour with the Watcher, Ghost took on the brunt of keeping watch. Those long stretches of night with his back against the wall, eye out the window, were all the breather Ghost needed to recover from the physical and mental taxation of the mission.
One night, Soap joined him, leaned up against Ghost’s shoulder while Gaz and Price were asleep. When Soap drifted off that way, head on Ghost’s chest, Ghost transferred him without waking to the pallet Soap had abandoned just a few feet away. Ghost arranged him on his uninjured side, having noticed his tendency to sleep that way to avoid the strain in shoulder when he awoke. Soap was in higher spirits than usual when he rose with the morning sun, as were all of them, since they were within range to return to base camp that day.
It held nothing of the comforts of home, but it promised that their return would be soon, and that was enough to make the sight of base camp a relief. At the very least, it offered the opportunity for Soap to get his shoulder stitched up and for the rest of them to get a full night’s sleep.
Base camp was a hastily-constructed fortress of temporary structures, bland, neutral colors as far as the eye could see, blending in with the surrounding landscape. Humvees and foot traffic kicked up dust so that no matter how often a man cleaned himself, he was guaranteed to be covered in a layer of grime sticking to sweat from the overhead sun as soon as he stepped out of his tent. Not that the structures were much protection against the elements, as the soldiers packed in like sardines battled heat and cold alike, sleeping under blankets that kicked up a cloud when shaken.
Even having just returned from the showers, Soap was already sweating, the oppressive heat of the day starting to make its retreat as the sun set. Reclining on his cot, Ghost watched Soap dress in a tent full of men with a gaze that lingered far too long to be strictly appropriate. Not that anyone would have noticed; none of them dared to offer more than a passing glance at the Ghost.
Soap’s back was to Ghost, and he could see that the newest addition to Soap’s collection of field trophies was now nothing more than a thick pink line stretching from where his shoulder met neck down to his scapula. A neat row of stitches held the jagged edges together. Ghost’s fingers had been in there, staunching the blood flow from severed veins, feeling the pulse of Soap’s heart with every rush of blood that escaped. Now it was just a fading memory.
Feeling the gaze on his back, Soap turned, his cheeky smile only for Ghost. In his hand was a fresh bandage. Sweat and water from his rumpled mohawk alike dripped down his neck in lines that followed the curvature of his broad shoulders. Soap didn’t miss the way Ghost’s eyes followed the lazy path.
“Mind helping me out, LT?”
The metal groaned as Ghost heaved his bulk off the cot, coming to stand so close to Soap that he had to tilt his head up to meet Ghost’s eyes. One eyebrow cocked, Ghost made a circling motion with his finger, and Soap obeyed. Ghost took his time placing the sterile bandage, smoothing every edge, just so his touch could linger on Soap’s warm skin.
“Least I’ll get an interesting story out of it. Something to tell the lads back home,” Soap said, ever the optimist. Ghost grunted, not quite a disagreement, almost a reprimand.
“Interesting missions are the ones that get you killed. Boring keeps you alive. It only takes one good shot, Sergeant, or someone who’s actually clever with a knife. Then I’m the one who has to scrape your body off the street and file the paperwork.”
“You say the nicest things to me.”
Soap’s lighthearted joking wasn’t returned. Ghost’s silence was heavy as he let his hands drop, and Soap moved to slip on the shirt he had laid out on his cot. When he turned around, Ghost hadn’t moved, was still watching him with the same pinched expression he had worn since they had made it to base.
“Simon.” Soap’s voice dropped low. It looked like he wanted to say more, but he held his tongue. “Let’s take a walk.”
The winding stroll around the edges of the camp was almost pleasant at this time in the evening. There was ulterior motive for picking this hour; almost everyone was at dinner, and the shadows of the setting sun provided adequate cover so that no one noticed two figures ducking behind the storage tent into a little space blocked from sight by the nearby motorpool. Here they could sit side by side looking out over the backdrop of desert and evening sky, and no one was around to comment when they settled a little too close.
A brush against Ghost’s shoulder caught his attention, and he turned his face. He held still as Soap hooked his fingers in his plain black neck gaiter and pulled it down, past the bump of Ghost’s often-broken nose, his chapped lips, his scarred, stubbled cheeks. All of it bared to Soap’s eyes. Soap’s reverent touch coaxed Ghost to settle his cheek in Soap’s palm, and he did, his eyes fluttering shut in one big exhale.
“Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud to wear a scar than this one.”
Ghost’s hand shot up to grasp Soap’s wrist. His eyes were open, his expression scrunched, like he wanted to reprimand Soap again. Soap just shook his head and brought their faces even closer, enough that Ghost could feel the caress of Soap’s breath over his lips.
“It means I survived. Because you had my back. Wasn’t a stroke of luck that the bastard missed all the important bits. I knew you had ‘em, knew you would take care of me. You always do, don’t you, Simon?”
Ghost’s thumb stroked over Soap’s pulse point, feeling the tap of his heartbeat against his skin. Soap was looking at him with eyes that peered into his very soul, picked him apart and extracted all the vulnerable, human bits, the parts that Ghost had thought he had erased long ago. There was no Ghost here, only Simon Riley, the man Soap had found after carefully peeling back each layer and cherishing what was underneath. Ghost could never hope to convey the depth of what Soap meant to him with words, inadequate offerings for the blessing Soap was, so instead he just said:
“You shouldn’t put your faith in a man like me, Johnny.”
Soap’s smile crinkled the corner of his eyes in the way Ghost loved, the way that made Ghost want to kiss every wrinkle and freckle that dotted Soap’s perfect skin. The sky was darkening by the minute, rays of pink and orange and yellow falling over Soap’s rugged features. The face of his lover and his confidant.
“You’re the only man I want to put my faith in.”
Soap’s lips were too soft for Ghost’s rough, dry kisses, but he accepted them with enthusiasm anyway. His hand never moved from Ghost’s cheek, and Ghost’s hand clung to his wrist, an extra point of contact that burned hotter than where their lips met. They moved together like they had all the time in the world, like they hadn’t had to carve this space out for themselves while a dozen other demands fought for their attention. That was the path they had both taken, only now they chose to walk it together.
It was Ghost that broke away first, Soap chasing his lips with chaste pecks until they both slowed, and Soap contented himself with laying his head on Ghost’s shoulder. It was dark enough to see the stars now. Back home in Britain, Ghost never noticed them, but out here stars were all he saw.
“D’you think a farmhouse would suit us?”
The corner of Ghost’s lips twitched upwards. It was an old conversation, Soap’s way of passing the time, wondering aloud at what their lives could be like after retirement. Nevermind that Ghost had always known he would never live that long, and maybe Soap too, but Ghost felt content knowing that even if Soap went, he would go first.
“What the hell do you know about raising animals?”
“I don’t, really,” Soap admitted. The prickly hair on the top of his head tickled Ghost’s neck as he shifted, and Ghost slung an arm around his shoulders, careful of the wounded one. “Just think it would be nice. Quiet out there, peaceful. Peace, heh. What an idea.”
“There’s no peace for men like us.”
“Maybe not.”
The scant leave the men were afforded for rest and relaxation was the only time they had to reconcile individual peace. The moments Ghost and Soap stole for themselves curled up behind the storage shed were precious, but Soap had been looking forward to their mutual leave for some time.
Talk of visiting his flat in Glasgow, attending football matches, and enjoying pints at familiar clubs filled Soap’s chatter on the plane ride back to base just a week later. The way he spoke, as though it was assumed Ghost would be joining him, didn’t so much as raise eyebrows with Gaz and Price anymore. Price had acknowledged the ‘Ghost and Soap’ phenomenon exactly once when he had asked, after the third request for the same leave dates, whether he could expect all of their leave chits to be joint from here on out. After that, they had become a package deal; an inevitability, like Ghost covering his face, or Soap visiting the Scottish National Football Stadium while he was in Glasgow.
It wasn’t unusual for the 141 to travel via cargo transport aircraft, luggage more than they were soldiers. As soon as the airbus touched down, Ghost was on his feet, his bag slung over his shoulder. Soap kept up with every stride down the long, sloping ramp, a smile gracing his lips at the first familiar inhale of damp British air. Ghost’s breath made the inside of his half-mask face covering moist almost immediately. It was familiar indeed.
Even though they were home, there was still work to be done before the word ‘leave’ could enter anyone’s mind. As though to prove a point, a harried-looking Sergeant hustled up to the group not more than a minute after their boots had hit the ground.
“Captain Price, sir?”
“Go on, Sergeant.”
“Urgent message for you, sir; been waiting on a response a few weeks now. If you’d like, I can set up a call—”
“That’ll do. I’ll take it in my office.” A dismissive wave of Price’s hand saw the Sergeant scampering away, and Price’s attention turned back to the group. “Garrick, MacTavish. Dump your trash and see the supply officer to turn in your hardware. Lieutenant, I expect the first draft of that initial report in my inbox by eighteen hundred. I’m online with the General bright and early. Right now, gentlemen, before your boots start growing bloody weeds. There’s still work to be done.”
The tension in Price’s shoulders stiffened his walk as he disappeared down the tarmac. Gaz had already started towards the supply building, weariness making his steps drag, but with the motivation that came from recognizing that the faster they finished their work, the faster they would be on leave. Soap hung back, long enough to grab Ghost’s arm and look him in the eye.
“See you later for dinner?”
It was the kind served on plastic trays, gray meat and soggy vegetables, but the dinner that came with fine silver and candlelight and brushing hands over the tabletop would have to wait until leave. Soap couldn’t see how the side of Ghost’s scarred mouth lifted under his covering, but the way his eyes twinkled in response betrayed that he knew Ghost’s tells all too intimately.
“Save you a seat, Sergeant.”
Soap beamed, and a flush of fondness spread out from Ghost’s core to warm him from his cheeks to the pit of his stomach.
The topic of leave was fresh in all their minds through the monotony of work, so much so that even hours later, it was the only thing Soap could talk about. Ghost entertained him like he always did, a passive ear for Soap’s enthusiasm, because one thing he had learned in time spent with others was that most of them just wanted someone to listen. Soap most of all, having been told to shut his mouth enough that Ghost had started noticing the click of his jaw as it slammed closed.
Never around Ghost. He watched one of Soap’s hands flail in animation to the story he was telling, nearly flinging a bowl of mashed potatoes across the table, but the other steadied his tray without missing a beat. It reminded Ghost of the way Johnny could bury a knife in a man’s throat while keeping up casual banter over the comms with Ghost, always jovial even with the blood of a dozen men staining his hands. Ghost had gotten so used to watching Soap through his scope, his voice in his ear, that it was a treat to have him so close. To observe every change in his expression, the lines of his lips, his overgrown hair falling onto his forehead. The kinds of things Ghost couldn’t see through a scope, much less touch.
The muscle of Soap’s thigh jumped when Ghost’s palm settled there. His mouth hung open, mid-sentence, before he stammered out a decent attempt at recovery. Smooth circles of Ghost’s thumb were more effective at distracting Soap than explosions or gunfire. The touch lingered only a minute, but Ghost’s hand remembered the heat of Soap’s body much longer.
“Oi, Simon. You realize this is the third leave we’re spending together in Glasgow? Might want to pull back or a man could start to get the wrong impression.”
“Think you’ve got the right one, if that’s the case,” Ghost said.
Soap barreled on through the mash of food he was shoveling into his mouth, which had long gone cold through his prattling. “Have you even been back to your flat in Manchester recently?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Och, you’re not my mother. That place has been collecting dust longer than that cold heart of yours.”
Soap was right. Ghost hadn’t been back to his place since he and Soap had started taking leave together, always acquiescing to Soap who wanted to visit his mother and see Scotland play and say hello to the neighbors who only saw him a handful of times a year. There was nothing in Manchester for Ghost other than the flat that sat perpetually empty, and no reason to return now that he had a better one to stay away.
“What’re you saying, Johnny? Suppose I should hire someone to clean?”
“No, Si.” Soap set his fork down, and Ghost stopped chewing to look at him. “Was just thinking about all that rent that’s going to waste. If you’re going to use it as a glorified storage closet, I don’t see why you couldn’t keep your things at my place.”
For all Soap’s penchant for jokes, there was no hint of humor in his offer. Ghost’s prolonged silence would have made anyone else uncomfortable. Not Soap.
“Sure that’s what you want?”
“Thought you knew me better than that, if you think it hasn’t been on my mind since that first night you stayed,” Soap said, and Ghost felt his heart squeeze.
“It’s not much. A few old boxes. The bin’s probably too good for that furniture.”
“I’ll help you clean it out.”
“Lease isn’t up for a few months.”
“Then you’ve got time to change your mind.”
Ghost’s amused huff broke Soap’s resolve, and Soap’s face cracked into a grin. That smile, as blinding as the desert sun, was a better view than a thousand brilliant sunsets.
“I won’t.”
Under the table, Ghost felt a hand on his knee, squeezing three times in quick succession. Three words. Neither could say them out loud, but they had always been better at showing each other how they felt.
“Good.”
Ghost didn’t take a breath until Soap had returned to his meal, launching into some continuation of their earlier conversation about leave. He didn’t make it a habit of ignoring Soap when he talked, but Ghost couldn’t hear a word that was said over the blood rushing in his ears. In his mind’s eye, he pictured those old boxes stacked up in Soap’s living room, bits of him melding with Soap’s life until the two were indistinguishable.
Ghost’s books mixed with Johnny’s on the shelf. Uniforms hanging side by side in the closet. A second nightstand on the other side of Johnny’s bed, what would be his, now that he could call it his own. He could leave his shoes by the door, and unpack his kit. It hit Ghost that he didn’t remember the last time he had fully unloaded his gear, perpetually ready for him to step out the door at a moment’s notice, and how badly he wanted the kind of life with Soap where he could empty his kit and forget about it until the next mission.
Ghost’s own name caught his attention through the fog of his musings. He turned his head in time to catch the tail end of Soap’s eager expression, a question poised on the tip of Soap’s tongue. Like snapping his fingers, Soap’s face changed, his eyes drifting over Ghost’s shoulder. Ghost’s body stiffened.
A figure was wading through the mess hall crowd with purpose, soldiers parting for his natural authority, easily identifiable meters away by his head sticking out over all others. Price was locked in on Ghost, his face set in stone, a far cry from his earlier fatigue and frustration. He stopped just shy of the table and jerked his head, indicating that he should be followed.
“Need you in my office, Lieutenant.”
“Is it about the mission, sir?” Soap asked, making to stand. Price’s look halted him in his tracks.
“Just Simon.”
The echo of their footsteps down the cramped hallway that led to Price’s office, deep in the bowels of the administrative building, magnified the silence growing more tense by the minute between them. The lack of windows made the space feel even more stuffy when Price shut them inside, filing cabinets and a bulky metal desk creating little breathing room. Ghost could feel sweat gathering on the back of his neck as he sat in the single chair across from Price, his back almost touching the door.
“Sir.”
“I received a message today,” Price said, the chair underneath him creaking as his weight settled in. His signature bucket hat was missing from his head, and the lines on his face seemed to have grown deeper since Ghost had last seen him on the tarmac. “It was from the Greater Manchester Police. They’ve been looking to contact you for weeks. Seems when they couldn’t find any current information besides your military record, they tried me. I gave them a call.”
“I don’t suppose they’re concerned I left my bins out on the curb for six months.”
“No.” Price folded his hands in front of him. Ghost had never seen him struggle for words, as confident and sure as Price was, but whatever he was about to say next required him to collect his thoughts. “It’s about your family’s case. It’s been reopened.”
“Reopened? On what evidence? They’re dead. All of them,” Ghost said, and the expression on Price’s face said that he knew Ghost wasn’t just talking about the men he had killed.
“There’s no easy way to say this, son.”
Price paused, both his face and his voice carefully blank.
“Your nephew, Joseph, is alive.”