Chapter Text
Small, frail, dependent, I
Should have to watch you walk from the shoreline, grey
You smiled something about life and something about time
Something about the winding length of mine
How I'd be ready when it came to that day
But I am not
- Black Tongue, Parting Soliloquy
“Ghost, how copy?” Price’s voice scratched in his ear.
“Solid copy.” Ghost shuddered, wiping the snow off the top of his balaclava. He hated the cold, and even though his face was covered almost entirely, the icy wind stung, and the front of his mask had become frozen stiff from the condensation of his breath. He gave his captain a sitrep, telling him they’d reached the compound where intel suggested Soap was being held.
He swallowed, hoping that Price wouldn’t detect just how worried he really was about MacTavish. The sergeant had been taken almost three weeks ago, and Ghost knew that by now they’d be lucky to find him in one piece.
He’d have to go in alone – he was not even supposed to be on the terrain of the Russian Federation, so the mission to infiltrate the black site prison had never been cleared by officials. Kate Laswell was in on it – it was about Soap, after all. She called in a few favours, contacted an old friend in Norway with ties to the Norwegian Special Forces, gathered all the intel she could, and organised transport for the 141 operatives. She stayed back in the US, but Price accompanied Ghost to northern Norway, where he would coordinate the mission and make sure that the team would be extracted as soon as they’d accomplished their mission and got back across the border.
Ghost turned to his companions, two Norwegian FSK soldiers – a sniper who had introduced himself as Anders, and a combat medic and spotter named Sigurd – who were officially on leave, their involvement as unofficial as the 141’s. It was risky; if the Russians became aware of their presence, the incursion might well cause an international incident. Ghost didn’t really worry about that, he’d risk anything to save MacTavish, but he knew the Norwegians would need to stay back and out of the facility in case things went to shit.
“All right?” Anders asked as Ghost put down his backpack in the snow. He nodded, adrenaline coursing through him, chasing away some of the cold that had settled in his bones. It had started to snow again; Ghost hated it, but at least it would cover their tracks.
“We’ll dig in here, got eyes on the site,” Anders continued, readying his sniper rifle, while Sigurd lay down next to him in the snow, setting up a spotting scope. They had already reconned the site and taken out the guards patrolling the area – Russian PMCs that were entirely too careless, clearly not expecting any company. Ghost couldn’t blame them, not really, though he was certainly grateful.
“Don’t get caught,” he replied gruffly, checking his equipment one last time before he shook their hands and turned to leave.
“Give them hell,” the marksman muttered, giving Ghost a skewed smile. Surely if anyone could infiltrate a secret Russian prison and make it out alive, it had to be this mysterious giant with the scary mask, the Ghost he had heard stories about long before he’d met the man in person. He almost felt sorry for the guys that would find themselves in the Brit’s way. Still, he didn’t like the fact that Ghost was going in alone – they could cover him until he made it to the building and take care of anyone they could get in their crosshairs, but once he was inside, he’d be on his own.
Ghost was almost invisible in his white camo, even as he moved, crawling past the PMCs by the gate whose blood was discolouring the snow. He wished they had known what was coming for them; he didn’t know what they’d done to Soap, but he swore to God that he’d make them pay for it. And while he was confident that the Scot was still alive, if only because the alternative was unthinkable, he couldn’t suppress the dread at the thought of Johnny being at the mercy of these people.
“Going in,” Ghost announced quietly as he arrived at the door that gave him access to the building. He hated going in blind, with nobody covering his six, but Price had agreed that this would be the best option, all things considered. He should go in, get to Soap as quickly as possible, and exfil, avoiding any unnecessary confrontation with the PMCs.
It was quiet in the building, the hallway that stretched out before him empty. Carefully, he closed the door behind him, silenced pistol at the ready. He had no clue where Soap was being held, so he’d have to… ask around.
The first person he came across was a soldier wearing a regular Russian army uniform, sitting by himself in the cafeteria, looking too young and innocent to be serving in a black site prison. He didn’t notice the Ghost until it was too late, and now the Brit’s arms were around his neck, tight enough to choke him, knife gently pressing against his jugular.
“Gdye on?” Ghost asked, increasing the pressure of his hold. “Gdye shotlandets?” he clarified.
The soldier blurted out a reply Ghost couldn’t understand with his limited Russian language skills, so he tried again, encouragingly nicking the man’s skin. “Gdye?”
“Podval, podval,” the man squeezed out, frantically pointing downwards. So they were holding Soap in the basement. That would make things more difficult, but at least now Ghost knew where to look for him.
“On odin?” he asked, but the man in his hold just whimpered, claiming he didn’t know if Soap was alone or not. Ghost was inclined to believe him.
“Skolko v zdanie?” he asked instead, hoping the Russian could at least tell him how many PMCs there were in the building.
“Nye znayu,” the soldier whispered, trembling against Ghost’s blade. “Chelovek dvadtsat?”
If the Russian was telling the truth, there were about twenty mercs in the building. Ghost figured he could take them on, but that would take time, and he wasn’t sure how much of that he had. He clenched his jaw, hoping they weren’t all in the cellar at least.
“Ty ChVK?” he finally asked the soldier, wanting to know whether he was a member of the PMC or if there was regular army on site, too.
The man shook his head. “Nyet, armiya. Pozhaluista,” he began pleading when he realised that his assailant was done with the questions, “nye nado. Nye nado.”
Ghost considered slitting the man’s throat anyway, but then he just kept the pressure on his neck until the soldier passed out, becoming heavy in his hold. Quietly, he gave Price and the Norwegians a sitrep before going quiet again. Even if it was a relief to hear their friendly voices on comms, it wasn’t nearly as comforting as bantering with MacTavish. Pushing that thought away, Ghost forced himself to focus on the task at hand instead.
He made it through the hallway to the stairs unchallenged and briefly considered going upstairs to clear out the rooms on the upper floor, but then a sound from downstairs caught his attention. Ghost almost froze at the muffled scream, both hoping and dreading that it was his sergeant. He quickly went down the stairs, following the noise until he got to the door where the screams were loudest. He used a telescoping camera to assess the situation in the room, and what he saw nearly made him recoil in horror.
Johnny.
Johnny was here.
He was lying on a desk, four men holding him down, while a fifth was punching his fists into the soles of Johnny’s bare feet, cheered on by his mates. Ghost withdrew the camera and put it away, then knocked on the door, insistently enough to be heard over Soap’s screams.
The fifth man opened, and the moment he saw Ghost’s mask, his expression turned from annoyed to shocked, though he wasn’t quick enough to react. The Brit knocked him out before he could bring up his gun and killed the other four with quick headshots. He couldn’t afford raising any alarms, but he might get valuable intel on the PMCs if he left one of them alive, for the moment anyway.
He looked over at Soap, who had become disconcertingly still.
“Johnny,” he called quietly, stepping over the body of one of the dead mercs. Leaning over Soap, he took off a glove and put a hand on his throat to check his pulse. It was there, faint and irregular, but the soft beating of blood underneath his fingers made Ghost exhale a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.
“Johnny, it’s me, Ghost,” he said quietly, but the sergeant didn’t react.
Running his hand over Soap’s skull, Ghost took the time to assess the man’s injuries. He had been stripped and was wearing nothing but a bloodied and torn shirt, and Ghost winced at the countless bruises, burn marks and cuts. He didn’t want to look too closely, not now, not when this reminded him too much of what Roba had done to him, and when he needed a clear head to get the two of them off this site. Carefully, he turned Soap onto his back, which got him a pained whimper from the man.
Ghost gasped in horror when he saw the extent of the injuries, what they’d done to Johnny. He wanted to hold him, tell him that everything would be all right, but there was barely a spot on Soap’s body he dared touch without fear of hurting him.
“Johnny, can you hear me?” he said instead, cautiously brushing his finger along the man’s cheek, the side that wasn’t so bruised and swollen.
Finally, MacTavish cracked open an eye.
“Ghost?” His voice was hoarse and barely audible, but Ghost couldn’t help smiling when he heard it.
“Aye, Johnny, it’s me,” he confirmed, wiping away the blood that had gathered in the corner of Soap’s cracked lips. He had to be thirsty, Ghost realised, reaching for the canteen on his belt.
“Drink,” he ordered, holding Soap’s head up a little. He could tell that the sergeant was barely conscious. “I got some painkillers for you… brought you the good stuff.” He tried to sound light, swallowing around the knot in his throat.
Soap still seemed to struggle to focus on his lieutenant, blinking up at him in confusion.
“Ghost, I don’t want to be dead,” he whispered, and Ghost saw that he was crying.
“You’re not dead, Johnny,” he murmured, gently running a hand through the sergeant’s mohawk. “You’ll be fine, I’m getting you out of here, I promise.”
Soap weakly tried to reach for Ghost, as if he needed to make sure that his lieutenant was really there. Ghost obliged him, gently grabbing his wrist.
“I’m here, Johnny, I’ve got you.” He could tell that something was very wrong with Soap’s hands, considering the thick bandages soaked with old blood, but his injuries would have to wait. Exfil was priority. He huffed a sigh, then he radioed in, informing Price that he’d found Soap, alive.
The captain’s relief was almost palpable, even through comms, and he urged Ghost to get the hell out of there.
He knew Price was right. He needed to focus on Soap. “Let’s get some clothes on you,” he told the sergeant, looking around. Soap must have been undressed elsewhere, as none of his stuff was in the room. They’d have to make do.
Turning to the one unconscious merc on the floor, Ghost bent down. He would have liked to take his time with the man, make him suffer, but instead he just grabbed a knife from his vest and sliced through the man’s neck, making his death quick and painless. Impatiently, he went through the merc’s pockets, taking his phone and papers, then he unbuckled his belt and pulled down his trousers. He hated that Soap would be wearing his tormentor’s clothes, but it was better than having him freeze.
“Ghost…” Soap whimpered as Ghost started to dress him, “I don’t wanna die.”
Ghost winced. “You’re not gonna die, Johnny,” he said, and bit his lip. He hadn’t been there when MacTavish had needed him most, and he wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive himself for that. He brushed through the Scot’s hair once more, then he took off his own jacket and put it on Soap.
“Ready?” he asked, and he waited until the sergeant gave a faint nod before he picked him up.
Soap groaned in pain, but he still wrapped his arms around Ghost’s neck and held on tight. The lieutenant was so warm, and Soap pressed his face against his shoulder, inhaling deeply.
“You are here, aren’t you?” he asked, still struggling to believe that this wasn’t some twisted dream his brain had conjured up to deal with the reality of the situation he was in.
“Affirmative,” Ghost murmured in reply, the sound of his voice vibrating in his chest. “Let’s go, yeh? Try to stay awake, Johnny, watch our six.” Soap hummed, but Ghost wasn’t entirely sure whether the sergeant had really understood him. “Just hang in there…”
Ghost would have preferred if Soap was armed, too, but he could tell that the sergeant was in no shape to fight, so he just hoped that there’d be no mercs in their way.
To his surprise and relief, the hallway he’d come through a few moments earlier was still empty. He could hear voices from the floor above, but they were quiet and distant. Hopefully Soap would manage to stay quiet, Ghost thought as he carried the man towards the exist. The sergeant whimpered at the jolt of every step, but he muffled the sounds against Ghost’s neck, dimly aware any noise would give them away and get the Russians’ attention.
“You’re doing good, Johnny,” Ghost whispered. “Tell me when the pain gets too much, all right?”
Soap’s reply was unintelligible, but at least he was still conscious.
It worried Ghost – the Scot was tough, but he was in a bad state, and the trip back to the base would be long and strenuous. At least they wouldn’t have to make it alone, he thought, and as much as he preferred working alone, Ghost couldn’t deny he was more than grateful for the Norwegians’ help. Despite the short time they had spent together, Ghost trusted the two men. Truth be told, he still didn’t know how Laswell had managed to pull off the feat of involving FSK in this highly irregular operation of theirs. Then again, there was nothing official about it, and if he had understood correctly, the two soldiers had volunteered to accompany him on “leave time” – something to do with him being the Ghost, Kate had joked.
They gave him the all clear, and Ghost opened the door, stepping out into the cold. A sigh of relief left him as soon as he quietly closed the door behind themselves, even if the mission didn’t feel like a success – yes, Soap was safe, relatively speaking anyway, but the site was still crawling with PMCs, none of who should have been left alive in Ghost’s opinion.
“Where are we?” MacTavish slurred, disoriented by the sudden bright light and the cold.
“Russian Federation,” Ghost said, focused on getting them back up the slope without stumbling, relying entirely on the two Norwegians to cover them. He felt Soap stiffen at his words, and hastily added, “Don’t worry, we’re close to the Norwegian border, and we’re not alone.”
Soap muttered something into his neck that he couldn’t make out.
“Just hang in there a little longer, Johnny, it’s gonna be all right.” He tried to sound reassuring, feeling Soap going more and more limp in his arms, and when they finally RVed with the Norwegians a few minutes later, the sergeant was barely holding on to consciousness.
“Lieutenant, glad you made it.” Sigurd sat up from where he’d been lying in the snow. “Let me have a quick look at the sergeant, then we can get him ready for transport.”
Soap stared at the man, confused. He didn’t know him, he wasn’t part of their team, was he? He held on to Ghost a little tighter, even when he knew it was wrong, clinging to his lieutenant as if he was the only thing keeping him in this world.
Ghost seemed to notice his discomfort.
“They’re with us,” he explained quietly. “They’re Norwegian special forces. Sigurd,” he pointed at the medic standing next to him, “and Anders.”
He wasn’t sure if Soap really heard him, but he did seem to relax a little.
The medic gave him a small nod, then he readied medical sled so Ghost could put the injured man down.
Ghost didn’t like letting go of MacTavish – a stupid thought, as he was almost painfully aware of – but Soap needed medical attention and the Norwegian was a trained medic, so he carefully lowered the sergeant onto sled.
Soap whined at the sudden loss of warmth, and Ghost winced, the small sound hurting like a knife to his guts.
“I’m right here,” he muttered, putting a hand on Soap’s shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
The Scot seemed to think hard for a moment, giving Ghost a confused frown before a soft smile lit up his face.
“You came for me, LT,” he finally said, and his expression was so startlingly open that the man in question felt himself blush under his mask. He knew it was just the analgesic speaking, but the fond wonder he saw in Soap’s face warmed him more than he would ever admit. He didn’t reply, just nodded, hoping MacTavish would understand that he’d always come for him.
Finally tearing his gaze away from the sergeant’s face, Ghost watched as Sigurd took off the jacket he’d wrapped around Soap earlier.
“Here, put that on, it’s too cold to be standing around like that,” the medic said, handing out the jacket.
“He’ll be cold,” Ghost muttered almost despite himself. “Soap’s cold.”
Sigurd ignored him in favour of checking Soap’s injuries, and Ghost almost growled at him, when Anders tapped him on the shoulder.
“Sigge knows what he’s doing, Lieutenant,” he said, his expression carefully guarded. He could tell that the Brit wanted to argue with him, but then Ghost just nodded and turned away from Soap, as if the sight caused him physical pain.
Ghost was on edge, and he felt himself grow more and more nervous as he waited for the medic to finish. He thought it was because they were out in the open, too close to the site still crawling with mercs, in a country they weren’t supposed to be in, on a mission that hadn’t been sanctioned by officials. Then again, this was what he was trained for, he wasn’t supposed to let this get to him the way it did.
“Good to go,” Sigurd interrupted his thoughts. He finished wrapping Soap up, making sure he wouldn’t be cold, and gave him a drink.
“He will be fine, won’t he?” Ghost hated how fragile his voice sounded, and he cleared his throat.
If the medic noticed, he didn’t let it show.
“Yes,” he simply said. They both knew he was only talking about Soap’s physical injuries. “So, here’s the plan, Lieutenant,” he continued once Soap was safely tucked in and strapped to the sled. “We need to make it back to the border before we can rest. I’ll take care of him,” he motioned his head towards the sergeant, “when we get there. They should be able to pick us up in a day or two.”
Ghost nodded absentmindedly. As much as he wanted to stay with Soap and get him back to the base and to medical, he figured he’d be of more use if he took care of the mercs and joined up with the team later. “I should stay and—”
“Forget it,” Anders interrupted him, “there’s too many of them. Going back there would be suicide.”
He wanted to protest, but the Norwegian shook his head.
“You’re coming back with us, sir. Can’t have you start World War Three over this. Besides,” he shrugged, “your sergeant needs you. So put on your skis and come on.” He looked Ghost straight in the eyes, clearly not in the least intimidated by the skull mask, and patiently waited for the lieutenant to give in.
“Fine,” Ghost mumbled after a short moment, sounding petulant even to himself, “lead the way.” That damned Norwegian sniper reminded him of Price. He was right, of course – about the suicide mission, that is, because Ghost was fairly certain that Soap absolutely did not need him.