Chapter Text
Ghost wasn't religious. Never had been, never fucking would be. He’d seen enough of the world that he had proof enough that no God worth praying to would allow the depths of human depravity and suffering that he had seen. So Ghost didn’t really believe in heaven or hell. But, if all that bollocks was real, he knew where his soul would end up, and it sure as shit wasn’t up in the clouds.
But Soap, on the other hand? Ghost always thought if any of the 141’s souls would make it to heaven, Soap’s would. Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish. That cheerful Scottish prick with his stupid twattish hair and his wanky smile. It was disgusting how damn perfect the man was. When Soap died that fateful day during a mission gone wrong, therefore, Ghost knew the man would end up in heaven.
Death wasn’t ordinarily something that Ghost was afraid of; he’d earned his callsign for a reason. After all, Simon Riley had died a long time ago. Some days, he wondered if he had died several times over and his soul just refused to give up. There were a myriad of instances of him escaping a stray bullet, choosing the right path, ducking behind the right cover. But more examples still of injuries that should have claimed his life. Choices that should have led to his destruction. Experiences that should have left him broken. His body was littered with the evidence of it. But the Ghost kept on going.
Or perhaps he wasn’t dead, exactly, but Ghost wasn’t living either. If the emptiness in his chest and the absence of normal human intimacy was anything to go by, Simon hadn’t been alive in a long time.
That had all changed when Ghost met Soap. The man defied all expectations, challenged everything Ghost thought he knew about himself and about everybody else. Case and point, that cocky little shit had the fucking audacity to touch Ghost as soon as they met, like it was nothing.
Touch was not nothing to Ghost. People did not simply touch Ghost. Except for Soap. Apparently, Soap touched Ghost. He brushed their arms together, patted him on the shoulder, fist-bumped his arm, rested his thigh against Ghost’s. Soap even casually tugged on Ghost's vest, fingers brushing his chest, and smiled like it was totally fucking normal.
What was even more bizarre, was that Ghost just… allowed it. He hadn’t even realised that Soap touching him suddenly was normal. It was Las Almas when he had realised. That fucking place had made Ghost realise a lot of things.
When that bastard Graves double crossed them, Ghost hadn’t been particularly surprised. Not that he’d suspected Graves, but he hadn’t trusted the dickhead either. When Alejandro was taken, Ghost hadn’t been particularly worried. Not that he didn’t like the guy; he liked both Alejandro and Rudolfo a lot. But he’d known the lad could take care of himself. But when Soap was shot, his cry of pain cutting through Ghost’s focussed rage like one of his own knives… Ghost had not only been worried. He’d been fucking terrified.
It was all he could manage to bark at Johnny to make a run for it, and pick his own sorry arse up off the ground and get to cover. The whole way he was thinking about Soap. Had the bullet hit Johnny somewhere serious? Would he manage to get to some decent cover or was he already dead in the bottom of a ditch? Could Soap find himself a weapon and defend himself until he could get to safety?
When Ghost finally heard Johnny’s voice over the comms, he’d had to take a moment just to cover his mic and let out a shaky sigh of relief. It was short lived- Johnny was unmistakably hurt, his breathing coming in gasping pants, little noises of discomfort carrying over the comms that felt like shards of ice being driven into Ghost’s chest. Johnny was all he could think about, and when or why Soap had became Johnny in his head, Ghost didn’t care to examine.
Not that he thought any God was watching, but never in his entire sorry life had Ghost prayed so often then he had in those long couple of hours that he was guiding Johnny through the streets of Las Almas. In every prolonged silence between the shitty dad jokes, he could barely concentrate on getting to that church. Every grunt of pain, muttered curse, and whispered triumph from Johnny had Ghost’s heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest.
Ghost didn't care anymore about Graves and missiles. The only thing he wanted was the simple chance to feel Johnny's touch again. And that thought was more fucking dangerous than every one of those Shadows in that shithole town. Johnny’s touch that he had been starting to take for granted. The touch that Ghost abruptly realised had become normal.
When Johnny was finally right there in front of him, Ghost had to forcibly restrain himself from reaching out to him. His fingers practically itched to reach over and check the man’s wound, feel his pulse, and reassure himself that Johnny was alive.
Later, much later, after they’d made exfil, Johnny pressed his thigh against Ghost’s. Ghost pressed back.
And from there it had become a slippery slope of Johnny touching Ghost, and Ghost touching back. And then Ghost found himself thinking more and more about the man. Wondering what he was doing when he wasn’t with him. Finding new shitty jokes to tell him for next time he saw him. Planning ways into his day to run into him more frequently. And then there was the way Johnny started saying his name.
Simon. It rolled off Johnny’s tongue in that ridiculous Scottish accent of his and turned Ghost’s limbs to fucking treacle. He was used to L.T., Sir, Ghost… but Simon? No-one but Price called him Simon, and he didn’t have even close to this sort of reaction when the Captain said it, which only happened occasionally. They way Johnny said Simon, it was like the man had access to something about Ghost that no-one else did.
In the end, Ghost's feelings for Johnny were insidious. Like a slow spreading disease. Until it hit critical mass and Ghost suddenly had to admit that something was there. Something alien and foreign, something that most definitely had not been there before. Something that had grown so stealthily, it was already a part of Ghost’s own circulation.
His attachment to Johnny had grown to such an extent, that the process of extricating him from Ghost would be nigh impossible without causing irreparable damage, pain, and deformity. Unfortunately for Ghost, he discovered that fact the hard way, during the aforementioned event when Johnny died.
The day started out like any other, which, of course it had. No-one wakes up knowing they’re going to lose the closest person to them, not in ordinary circumstances anyway. They had to make transport at 0800 hours, and Ghost was up and about by 0630, passing Price on the way.
“Alright Ghost?” Price greeted, as he stifled a yawn.
“Captain,” he greeted politely in return, just as he usually did.
Price slowed, Ghost doing the same. “Bit of good news for ya. No rain forecast. Let’s hope it’s a dry one.”
Ghost huffed in the closest thing to demonstrable amusement that most people could get out of him. Since a few missions ago together in the middle of a fucking monsoon, during which Ghost made it quite clear he hated the pissing rain, Price had been giving him weather updates for all their missions. Whether the Captain was doing it to be funny or out of thoughtfulness, Ghost wasn't entirely sure.
Grinning, Price waved a hand and continued on. Ghost headed into the canteen for a cuppa and some food; likely the last he’d have for a good many hours, so he was glad when he was able to load up with the slightly soggy but serviceable fry up. Johnny was already there, and it brought a little flutter of joy when the guy pushed across a mug of tea when Ghost sat down next to him.
“Here’s your dishwater, L.T.” Johnny yawned, before taking a sip of his coffee.
The tea was made perfectly to Ghost’s liking, as always. “The shit you make me gives dishwater a bad name.”
Johnny snorted, watching Ghost closely while he rolled up the bottom of his balaclava to his nose. He was still watching while Ghost took a sip and made an involuntary noise of contentment. “Aye? Sure seems like you don't mind the way I make it.”
“Fuck off Johnny,” Ghost growled, digging into breakfast.
“Don't worry sir. I know you dinnae mean it.” Johnny leaned into his body, nudging Ghost’s arm for attention. “I know the real reason you keep me around.”
Ghost narrowed his eyes, resisting the urge to tug his balaclava back down to cover his mouth. He didn’t mind Johnny seeing his face, or his scars. What made him uncomfortable was the man seeing his emotions. He imagined they would be written plain as day across his face. Johnny already had the unusual knack of knowing what Ghost was thinking without the cues of facial expression. It would be an utterly inescapable vulnerability to give the man access to his entire face.
“That so?” Ghost replied neutrally.
“Of course Simon,” Johnny murmured, leaning closer still, so close in fact, that Ghost could see the ring of darker blue around his brighter blue irises. It took a large amount of effort not to shiver at the way his own name sounded in Johnny’s mouth. Or to stare at said mouth. Johnny’s plump lips, the way his tongue darted out to wet them…
“It’s my hilarious wit of course!”
Ghost huffed and elbowed Johnny away, the other man dissolving into a fit of giggles. It was, quite frankly, fucking adorable, and it made Ghost want to peel his own skin off.
It had been months since Las Almas. Months of watching Johnny, joking with him, spending almost every waking moment with him, and it was slowly killing him. When Johnny looked at him with those fucking beautiful eyes and smiled that brilliant damn smile, it felt to Ghost like the worst kind of torture. And Ghost knew torture. He wanted so much more from Johnny- he wanted everything. He wanted anything Johnny would give him. But in order to have a hope of something more than friendship, Ghost had come to terms with the fact he would have to suck it up and actually say something to Johnny. And that also made Ghost feel like peeling his own skin off.
Fraternization with your subordinates was hardly acceptable practice. But the outcome Ghost was most worried about was that he ruined what they already had. He didn’t know what he’d do without Johnny’s inane chatter all hours of the day keeping his own shitty thoughts at bay. He wasn't sure he could go back to never being touched by anybody outside of a combat situation. Honestly, Johnny was now so deeply ingrained into Ghost, he didn't think he would survive losing the man.
“L.T? You ok?”
Ghost zoned back in on Johnny, the man’s face marred by a concerned frown. It was frightening just how well the man could read him.
“Solid.”
Johnny didn’t look particularly convinced by the answer, but Ghost was saved from having to elaborate by Gaz joining them, beginning a conversation about bees or some shit. The kid was a walking encyclopaedia, and it allowed Ghost to drift off into his thoughts since Johnny could be relied upon to be the one to keep up a normal social conversation.
It wasn't that Ghost didn’t like Gaz, nor that he didn't find the man interesting. It was just that, apart from Johnny, Ghost just wasn’t that comfortable talking to anyone outside of when it was necessary for a mission.
Attempting to sidle away without being noticed, which would have been an impressive feat for someone of his size and presence, Ghost made it as far as the corridor before Johnny predictably caught up with him.
Linking their arms together, Johnny leaned into him. “Seriously, Simon, what is…”
And that was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. Before Johnny could complete the question, Ghost had grabbed him by the arm on impulse, and physically yanked him into the nearest room, which was thankfully empty. Pushing him against the wall, it took a concerted effort not to press his body against the man, slip a hand around that smooth tanned skin of his neck where that damn throat mic sat like a collar just waiting to be yanked on and…
Ghost took a deep breath, willing his heart to cease palpitating right out of his fucking chest. He hadn't thought this through. Telling him right here and now was a bad idea. A really really terribly bad idea.
“Johnny, you’re killing me. You’re always there, touching me, talking to me, making me laugh… and now I can’t get you out of my fucking head. I need to know why, because I… I want something more. And if you don’t, it’s fine mate, we’ll just take a step back for a bit and it’ll pass,” he mumbled out in a rush.
Johnny stared at him for a moment before letting out a nervous chuckle. “Aye? Nice one L.T. You really had me going there for a second.”
“I wasn’t… It’s not a joke,” Ghost replied stupidly.
He knew he’d fucked up when Johnny’s face blanched. As in all the blood drained straight out of his damn face, an expression akin to horror flashing across his features.
The fact that Ghost managed to not throw up his scrambled eggs was a miracle, although he didn’t quite manage to escape as gracefully as he’d hoped.
“Simon, I…”
“No, I get it. It’s fine, totally fine, all good,” Ghost interrupted, doing his best not to react to the giant sucking chest wound that he could’ve sworn he must have sustained in the last ten seconds. “We’re solid, Soap. See you on the transport.”
Ghost all but ran out of the door, desperate to be somewhere without Johnny in it. It occurred to him that he’d better return to thinking of the man as just Soap. It was clear he had monumentally ruined things by telling him he wanted something more. Like some sort of lovesick bell-end. So he decided he would make a start in putting some professional distance back between them.
Thank the Gods that Ghost didn’t believe in, but he didn’t get much chance to dwell on his unforgivable faux pas. He genuinely had a metric shit-tonne of crap to sort out before wheels up, and he enthusiastically threw himself into it.
When he next had to see Johnny… Soap, it was when Ghost was finally satisfied everything was in order, and he strode up the ramp of the helo. Soap had saved him a seat. Something that had happened every single mission since they met. Ghost went and sat next to Gaz instead.
A couple of hours later with nothing but his own confused and self-hating thoughts for company, and Ghost was about ready to gauge his own eyes out.
“Alright listen up,” Price barked, and Ghost switched on his comms to hear the Captain better over the rotor blades. “Soap will lead Bravo team to infiltrate from the South side. I’ll take Alpha straight to building one. Ghost is on overwatch. Stay frosty, and let’s get this done!”
There were various murmurs of assent before the helo was landing and it was game time.
Ghost focussed on the task at hand, getting to a good position at the top of an empty building so that he could get a view of the terrain ahead; high enough so that he could provide useful information to Bravo.
It felt a bit like Las Almas all over again, the familiar twist of anxiety in his gut from guiding Soap through the treacherous streets and not physically being there to protect him. Soap’s voice in his ear pulled Ghost abruptly back to the present.
“Hey, Lieutenant. What do you call a fish wearing a bowtie?”
Ghost’s heart lurched and he bit into his lip hard. “Soap…”
“Sofishticated.”
He desperately hoped the hitch in his breathing didn’t carry through his mic. The joke was so terrible, so shit, that he wanted to laugh. He wanted to give an equally piss-poor joke in return, just so he’d hear the smile in Johnny’s - Soap’s - voice as he berated Ghost for how crap it was. He wanted to cry in frustration and take back everything he’d said to Soap earlier.
“Cut the chatter, Sergeant,” is what he said instead, voice gruffer than he’d intended.
From then on, it was all strictly professional exchanges, and Ghost fucking hated it. He called out the hostiles when he spotted them, took them out if he could. It was an effort to force himself to not simply track Soap’s progress and ignore the rest of his team, but he managed it, even when he nearly let Fletch get shot in the face because he was too busy watching Soap take out a hostile close quarters with one of Ghost's own knives that the little prick had stolen.
“This is Alpha zero-six, copy?”
“Overwatch, solid copy,” Ghost murmured in reply to Price.
“Bravo seven-one, got you loud and clear boss,” Soap’s irritating Scottish twang drawled.
“Building one secure. Bravo proceed to building two,” Price ordered.
“Rog. All Bravo to building two,” Soap trilled cheerfully, as if he wasn’t currently pinned down by an enemy sniper.
Ghost patiently waited for the sniper to pop up again, watching with satisfaction as the man crumpled, the wall behind him painted red.
“Nice shot L.T,” Soap practically purred, making Ghost’s neck break out in goosebumps as if the bloody man were whispering right into his ear with no-one else listening in. “Bravo moving up to building two.”
Ghost watched through his scope as Soap moved with his team to the second building, gathering around the door ready to breach.
“Overwatch, we clear?” Soap checked.
Sweeping his sight between the windows, Ghost grunted. “Clear to breach.”
Soap was about to enter through the door when building two disappeared in an explosion of fire and debris. Ghost felt like he was having an out of body experience, like he was watching a film that couldn’t possibly be real. He watched as Soap’s body was thrown backwards through the air, tossed like a ragdoll, hitting the ground hard and rolling before coming to a stop.
“Soap! How copy!” Ghost yelled desperately. “Johnny!”
“Overwatch, provide cover, Alpha team moving to Bravo,” Price barked, his tone warning Ghost to stay put.
Like hell Ghost was sitting pretty up here while Johnny was bleeding out on the fucking ground. “Price…”
“Ghost, cover our fucking arses and I’ll get Soap back alive. Copy?” Price snapped, his command rooting Ghost to the floor.
Swallowing hard, trying to calm his ragged breathing, Ghost fired off another shot into an enemy's head to soothe his nerves. “Copy.”
He poured every ounce of his attention into clearing Price and Gaz’s path to Johnny, trying to ignore the fact the Scot was still not moving. It seemed to take hours before Price was at Soap's side and Gaz was checking for other survivors.
“Cap, is he…” Ghost rasped.
“Got a pulse. Overwatch, radio for medevac,” Price interrupted, ripping something from his vest that looked to Ghost like a med kit.
Fumbling at his radio, Ghost cursed himself for not having already done it sooner.
“Overwatch to Watcher-one, how copy?”
“Watcher-one good copy, send traffic?” Laswell replied quickly.
“Watcher-one, we need medevac asap,” Ghost adjusted his position to take out the prick trying to creep up on Price.
“Confirmed Overwatch, sending medevac, five minutes out.” There was a short pause. “Ghost, who is it?”
“Soap.” The word sounded like it had been wrenched from his chest; a harsh guttural sound that laid bare all of his insecurities.
“Shit. Alright. Hold tight. Five minutes out.”
Those five minutes were the longest of Ghost’s life. He didn’t waver from his task of protecting the survivors on the ground, but it didn’t stop the way his lungs were on fire from holding back panicked breaths, nor the shake in his fingers in between shots that no amount of flexing and shaking his hands could control.
When Price finally gave the order for Ghost to join them, he had thought it would make him feel better. But the closer he got to Soap, the worse the panic became. Sinking to his knees beside where Price had covered Soap in a space blanket, Ghost clenched his jaw hard enough to crack a tooth.
“He’s stable enough to move, Ghost, get the… Ghost!” Price barked to get his attention.
Yanking his gaze away from Soap's much too pale face, Ghost nodded once.
“Get the stretcher from the helo, Ghost,” Price growled. Ghost was grateful for something to do. He staggered to his feet and focussed on the next task: stretcher. Get it back to Soap, help Price transfer the man to the stretcher. Cover their escape.
But then he was stuck inside a helicopter watching the medic work on Soap with nothing to do, and fucking hell, that was so much worse. Because now, Ghost could see the extent of Soap's injuries. The shrapnel, the bruising, the torn skin and exposed tissue. The blood. So much blood that should be inside Soap's body, keeping him alive.
He’d been wrong before. Those five minutes watching Price’s back weren’t that bad. The time spent in that helicopter was worse. By the time they landed on the roof of the nearest hospital, Ghost was about ready to pull his own teeth. It would have been less painful.
Johnny getting moved from the helicopter to surgery was a blur. Ghost didn't know how he made it to the waiting room, what he’d said aloud and what he’d simply been thinking about in his own head.
“Ghost?” Price murmured. “Simon. You should go and…”
“Can’t,” Ghost croaked, shaking his head desperately. “Please, Price, I need to stay.”
Price gave him a calculated look before tugging off his bucket hat and running a hand through his greying hair. “Fuck’s sake, Riley. We need to talk about this at some point… but right now, I’m signing you off on leave. I’ll check in after debrief in a couple hours.”
“Thank-you,” Ghost managed, accepting a squeeze of his shoulder from Price.
“He’s a hard bastard. Trust me, he’ll make it.”
Ghost nodded and watched Price leave. With nothing else to do but wait, Ghost finally sat down, mostly because he didn’t think his legs would keep up his weight any longer. His hands were fucking shaking, and why didn’t he know what to do with his hands?
So he pulled out his phone, not that he was expecting anyone to have contacted him, or that he had anyone to contact in return. Who the fuck would Ghost call? His best mate was in surgery and the rest of the 141 were in debrief. He switched it on anyway, and the phone went through its welcome screen, before pinging him with a few notifications. One in particular caught his eye.
[Missed call from: Soap. Today at 07:31]
[One new voicemail]
Soap tried to call him this morning. After the conversation. Before the mission. Ghost didn’t even bother trying to still his trembling hands as he dialled voicemail to hear the message.
“Simon, uh, obviously you’re busy right now. Um. I just wanted to clear something up, and… I realise you probably won't get this ‘till later, but when you do… Uh. Look, what you said just now, about wanting more… I thought it was a joke because I dinnae possibly think in a million years you would… that you would want me, Si. You’re my best mate, but… fuck.”
There was a bit of a pause as Soap audibly took a couple of deep breaths. Ghost had forgotten to breathe at all.
“I can’t stop thinking about you either, and I want you. So fucking much and… steaming Jesus, Simon. When you get this, stop fucking around and come find me, yeah? Or call me back. Or text. Or something. Si? Please just tell me I haven’t ruined this. Call me back.”
The message ended, and as soon as the automated voice suggested he press '1' to listen to the message again, Ghost was fumbling to do so, desperate to hear Johnny’s voice saying those things in his ear a second time.
It was at some point between the third and fourth time of listening to the voicemail that Ghost realised he was crying. It was just after the fifth time of listening that Ghost’s phone rang. Blinking wetly down at the caller ID on the screen, Ghost’s heart nearly stopped.
Soap.
It was impossible, but Ghost nearly stared at the phone screen for so long he was in danger of losing the chance to find out.
“Hello?” He croaked, a little horrified at how wrecked his voice sounded.
It just sounded like static on the other end. White noise. Like when you got stuck between two radio frequencies and you got flickers of each but nothing you could make sense of.
“Hello?” He whispered again, before swallowing hard. “Soap?”
More of the same, except the white noise was starting to sound like whispers now.
“Johnny?” It sounded less like a name and more like Ghost was pleading, begging , to hear the man reply.
Except what if he did reply? Johnny was currently unconscious in surgery. So what the fuck would that mean if he spoke to Ghost right now through the phone connection from hell?
Or perhaps it was exactly the opposite. Cold dread ran down Ghost’s spine as something occurred to him. What if Johnny… what if he was already… his gaze flicked towards the door labelled 'STAFF ONLY' leading to the surgical theatres. What if they hadn’t been able to save him? Ghost had always known that out of the 141, Johnny’s soul would be the most likely to end up in heaven.
If heaven had a phone line, would Simon be the first one Johnny would dial? Simon Riley, the long-dead person that Ghost used to be?
“Si," something whispered through the phone, and Ghost nearly dropped the fucking thing.
Remembering the words Johnny had said on the voicemail, Ghost forced his voice into action. “Johnny. You haven't ruined this. Please come back to me. Please Johnny, give me another chance.”
The line went dead.