Chapter Text
The last thing Ghost remembered was the first thing he came back to.
Gas. Not the kind that burned, melted or caused a variety of unfortunate reactions in the human body, but the kind that subdued, killed silently; dulled every sense in a person’s system and made them a useless bag of meat, unable to move even a finger while vaguely floating around in the realm of consciousness. It was deceptive by nature, smelling sweet, like a trap made to coax them into a false sense of security.
“Ghost.”
A whisper came to him from…
He couldn’t tell from where exactly, but it was close, and insistent. Ghost, Ghost, Ghost!
Whispered and hissed and bitten through the low intonation like they — he? — was afraid of being caught. The details of what he was doing before everything went to shite came to him slowly, like a disjoint puzzle he was being forced to piece together when he couldn’t tell his fingers and toes apart. Ghost. A warning. Ghost. A last-ditch effort. Ghost. A plea. Ghost. Ghost. Ghost —
“Simon.”
His vision cleared.
Ghost couldn’t see much at first, eyes murky with dust irritating and obscuring his sight. He could make out the shape of a man in front of him. Someone was holding him, his face — his sense of touch slowly registered to him — and his body, crowded in by desperation that was almost palpable in the air. His body twitched involuntarily, and faded memories of a mission briefing invaded his mind; he remembered the location, a village in Russia hiding an ultranationalist stronghold, he remembered the severity of the stakes, the concerned expressions from the unearthed intel of what the group was up to. The mission promised multiple casualties, from both sides, and potential civilian casualties with the additional information of people from the nearby villages disappearing being dropped on them at the last second, working in tandem with the tight-lipped secrecy of the Kremlin.
The task force was used to handling high-stakes situations in nearly every mission, and Ghost was under no impression that the operation was going to be easy. But what he hadn’t been equipped to deal with was zombies. Hordes of the undead headed straight towards them, their exits cut off like it was planned from the start. They’d been equipped to kill, far more than the average soldier, but it was different from eliminating hostiles who were living, breathing men capable of feeling pain; capable of being hindered by a bullet to the stomach, arm, thighs. His team was still human. He was still human.
The sight of a still-living corpse, crawling over on one, barely attached arm, mouth gaping and hungry despite having no stomach or a proper torso to eat was etched behind Ghost’s eyelids as he shook himself out of his dazed splendour.
“Target the head!” His first actionable order, spat out through gritted teeth.
It was too late, though.
The size of his team didn’t account for the bloody zombie apocalypse. Ghost was proud of his aim, and more than a few medals he’d been awarded were because of his accuracy, but he was quickly realising it wasn’t enough. He was with Soap and a handful of marines against a mindless, bloodthirsty horde. Soap stood his own ground as a marksman, SAS training shining through alongside his record, and yet, both of them combined couldn’t keep covering for the rest of his team’s arses.
The explosives they had in hand somewhat helped, and while Soap was wild, eager and aggressive during the onslaught of grenades and gunfire, they were running out.
It wasn’t long before they were back to back, covering each other’s blindspots as they poured bullets into skulls, until they ran out of ammo. Ghost gave Soap one of his combat knives, longer and sharper than the standard equipment; it had more reach, and helped stay out of the biting range as long as it was used well. He’d made sure Soap knew how to use it, one of their many training sessions included close combat while armed.
Partially an excuse to spend more time with him, get his hands on him without breaking the rules, and it paid off. His Sergeant took the knife without another word. The gentle press of another body against his grounded him enough to not let the gore, groans and pungent smell of blood and rot get to him.
Their comms had stopped working right before the horde was unleashed. Not all was lost. Price would notice the lack of radio, and he had some hope he wasn’t going to be left to his own devices like in Las Almas. The old man had done his part in cultivating his trust. They had to survive until backup arrived. It was fine — he was used to dealing with shitty situations by himself.
You’re not alone, though, a small voice whispered, and he tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade, sticking the edge deep enough to cut straight through the flesh to the skull of an undead lunging for his neck. He wasn’t going to let the day be their last. If not for himself, he was going to make sure to do it for Soap.
They’d nearly succeeded. His brain tuned out the chatter like it was accustomed to doing, bodies turning into an endless count of eliminated threats, and he kept his instincts sharp enough to keep Soap in his peripherals. He made sure nothing went too close to him. The quickly whispered ‘thanks, l.t’ were his lifetime, a small check to remind him that he was alright.
He’s alive.
When an undead staggered Soap, Ghost ripped its neck out and repeated it like a mantra. He’s solid. When Soap ducked an obvious, dangerous clawed grapple to dive his knife through the jaw to its brain, that voice returned. He’ll be fine.
He focused on his lot. Ripped through flesh and bones until the numbers dwindled to none. Ignored the little voice, both proud and full of an ache he refused to name, chanting in his ears.
He can handle it by himself.
They’d done the impossible. Faced the apocalypse, killed everything crossing their path. The piles of bodies were their declaration of victory. Nothing was alive around them, not the zombies nor their team annihilated by the said horde. The OP had gone to absolute shite. But they’d survived by the barest perimeter, as messy as it was.
“Steamin’ fucking Jesus,” Soap murmured, turning towards Ghost with half of his kit dripping with blood of the deceased. “They’re tryin’ to start World War Z.”
Trust Soap to finally hit him with a zombie reference after they were nearly annihilated by them. Usually it’d be Ghost breaking the ice, but he wasn’t exactly in the right mind for it. Soap noticed, a quick glance making those oceanic blue eyes melt around the edges, taking Ghost’s non-committal grunt for what it was. Not now, Johnny.
Not when he could’ve lost him.
Ghost got his hand on his radio, switched through the channels, and got nothing. Soap copied the motion, and shook his head. They were fucked, potentially. Good for them, both had experience with guerilla warfare; one clearly more than the other, but Soap learned quickly and followed orders well. He wasn’t the lost cause Ghost once deemed him to be.
“Comms are still out. We need to improvise,” Ghost stated, assessing their environment.
More than just improvise, they needed to get out of there alive when the variables were against them by a long shot. The only edge they had was that the undead wasn’t an intelligent lot.
“Doesn’t look like these bastards have any vehicle for exfil.” Soap’s observation left out the key detail of there being no bastard in sight. There was a helipad, with no helicopters, and the stronghold looked to be more of a facility than something hiding soldiers and terrorists. The ‘roads’ if the rocky, mountainous slope could even be called that, were unusable. They could trek down, but the winds were getting strong. “We need to get a signal out.”
Another, sharper observation. They’d been flown in, it’d be better to be flown out than deal with Russian weather.
“The building’s our best bet,” Ghost said, tilting his head towards the towering, concrete structure, a grimace hidden underneath his mask because the gaping shutter of an opening had spat out zombies like it was a bloody factory. “Unfortunately.”
“Roger that,” Soap said, following Ghost’s line of sight. “Just like the good ol’ times, eh?”
He nudged Ghost’s shoulder, a lopsided grin on his face, like he sensed his apprehension despite the mask and wanted to reassure him without directly addressing it. Cheeky fucker. Ghost couldn’t help but let some of the tension melt from his shoulders, intent on making sure it wasn’t going to be the last time Soap did.
“More than I like.”
They salvaged whatever they could from the mess they were left with, a couple of ammos from their fallen comrades, a grenade or two and some throwing knives. Soap lingered around some of the corpses, closing their eyes and muttering something under his breath. Ghost caught the words, a prayer of sorts.
— O God, by whose mercy the faithful departed find rest, send your holy Angel to watch over this grave. Through Christ our Lord.
Soap didn’t strike him as the overtly pious type, though he still wore a cross around his neck and kept his swearing to a variety of Jesus and Christ’s. He knew he was a Roman Catholic, or at least, came from a family of Catholics. These were the fragments of Soap’s past that Ghost carefully stored away, for what he wasn’t sure, but he was always compelled to know more about him. To etch everything that was Soap MacTavish and remember the words like it was his personal bible.
Ghost didn’t believe in God, the age-old question of a benevolent deity existing in a clearly cruel and indifferent world always got him to reconsider the potential of a creator, and he refused to contend with an all-seeing, all-knowing entity that did nothing to ease the suffering of those living in ‘his’ world. His family wasn’t religious, either. They might’ve celebrated the holidays, but that was as far as their devotion went. Either way, God wasn’t going to pull them out of the mess. It had always been his own bleeding, scarred hands doing the work of crawling out of the shitty situations life kept throwing at him. This was one of them, and he doubted it was going to be any different.
“On me, Soap.”
They reloaded their guns before setting off towards the looming building that was their last hope. He knew something was wrong the moment they cleared the first room. There was nothing out of the ordinary, not even the gore-y trail of the undead. It looked like a standard facility, with most of the ‘evidence’ of what occurred within wiped from sight — almost as if they had anticipated 141’s arrival.
“Ghost.” Soap was ahead of him, gun pointed at the ceiling. There was a vent in the corner, large enough for either of them to fit; which was unusual by itself, but the air it was expelling was different too.
It smelt familiar.
“Soap.”
His words got drowned out by the sound of the gate they’d entered from shutting with a loud, metallic thud. Soap whipped his head towards the source, but he knew it was too late. He saw the symptoms of the gas the vent emitted in slow motion; Soap’s eyes going from sharp to glassy, his tight, taut form slackening until he was swaying. His gun dropped, the noise ringing in Ghost’s ears as his suspicions got confirmed in the worst way possible.
Ghost rushed to grab Soap before he dropped, yanking on his vest to tuck his head against his chest instinctively, like the urge to protect him, keep him safe, was the only thing that mattered. And it was, in ways he hadn’t got the chance to properly confess. Soap’s entire hundred and eighty-something pounds of weight collapsed onto him, but he couldn’t care about anything other than pulling him closer, shielding his face, skull and body away. The sound of something — footsteps, life, or worse, was approaching them. He’d stopped breathing the moment he realised.
But —
How long was he going to last? His lungs were burning, eyes watering despite the many attempts to blink the tears away. The gas was filling up the room, and even with Soap’s weapons, he wouldn’t be able to defend him long enough to be safe. He needed to do it. They — Soap — needed to get out.
The last thing he remembered was the gas that he had to breathe to buy them more time.
He didn’t care about what happened to him. As long as Soap got out. As long as Soap was safe.
Soap’s face swam into view.
Johnny.
He wished he could’ve told him how much he loved him.
I’m sorry.
-
Soap was shaking Ghost’s shoulders, jostling his struggling, barely conscious body as the soothing, rushed murmur of that accent he’d grown fond of sounded increasingly distressed.
“Simon, we need to go.”
Ghost blinked slowly, coming to terms with his surroundings. His muscles were heavy and sluggish, the effects of whatever gas they fed them prominent in his system, and the sight of his troubled Sergeant, hunched over him with his rough, half-gloved hands cradling his face, narrowed his focus. Soap’s fingers were warm, digging into his skin, and he mutely noted how his mask wasn’t a barrier between them any more. He leaned into the touch, eyes slipped shut again as he relished the small amount of contact.
Feels nice.
He wasn’t sure why he was so adamant on denying himself of Soap before. Whatever reason he could come up with seems redundant, irrelevant; in the face of certain death, there was one truth he had bothered courting, and he was a fool for thinking otherwise.
“Ghost!”
Soap was starting to shout, insistent in how he demanded his attention, like Ghost wasn’t fully in his mercy. Complete head-over-bloody-heels for him. Annoyed, he opened his eyes, coming face to face with Soap in a —
It wasn’t his room, or Soap’s, or anywhere in the base. Why weren’t they?
“Fuckin’ hell, finally,” Soap exhaled, grabbing a hold of Ghost’s shoulders and pulled him up. The shove made his body shag forward, before he slumped back, entirely useless despite his gradual attempts to move. “Ghost, we need to go now. They’re comin’ back, but we have one shot at exfil.”
Ghost tried to move again, but his muscles didn’t comply. He didn’t have the ability to do much other than move his face, his hand and talk a little. Small mercies in the grand scheme of things. Soap’s attempts to get him on his feet resulted in more frustration, and it slowly dawned on him that it was useless. There wasn’t an out.
He wasn’t going to get out.
“Fuck, fuck.” Soap released him, realising what their situation was with wide, dismayed eyes. There was more noise now, a siren sounding suspiciously close to a raid alarm. Soap’s head snapped up, towards the door of the small cell they were in, and he looked back at Ghost with an urgency he hadn’t seen before. That must’ve been their clue. “Fuck it, I’m carryin’ you out of here.”
No.
Soap reached for his legs and shoulders, and Ghost used his remaining strength to grab his hand and hold him there. There was a pause, a small frown on Soap’s lips, before he focused his attention on Ghost’s face and slowly realised what his action meant. Beyond the exhaustion, beyond the confusion about the situation as a whole, it was a choice Ghost preferred. One of them needed to live long enough to tell the tale.
“I’m not leavin’ you here,” Soap growled, glaring down at him. Ghost’s grip tightened, and for a fleeting moment, he saw genuine, helpless panic in the eyes he’d grown to love. “No, no, you’re not doin’ this to me, Ghost. You’re not.”
“Go, Johnny,” he managed, heart constricting, but also relieved that he could speak properly. No waver in it, no sign of distress. Nothing to make Soap pity him more. His voice was scratchy, rough and painful in his throat, but if it was the only way to get him somewhere safe — “You need to get out.”
The hand on his shoulder was trembling. Ghost released him, knowing that Soap knew. As he was, it’d be too risky to carry out a hostage rescue. Soap wasn’t armed with anything other than a knife, and his entire body and kit as a deadweight on him was going to paint a bright target on his back. He wasn’t going to be the reason Johnny died.
Simon Riley wasn’t going to let it happen, regardless of what was in store for him.
“Ghost.” Soap’s voice was softer, lower, almost begging him to say otherwise. To allow him the permission to fight until his last breath, by his side. Because Johnny was nothing if not loyal. An antithesis to the men he’d the displeasure of knowing through his time in the military. Ghost wasn’t going to relent. He knew he’d die with him there if he told him too, he wouldn’t even blame him for it if he just ordered — begged — for him to stay.
If Ghost had any less of a pride, he would’ve. The world’s shittiest love confession, delivered with the added inclusion of guilt-tripping the love of your life to stay with you until you or he died.
Over my dead fucking body.
“You need to, Johnny.” Ghost wasn’t going to let him. He refused to let Soap waste his years away because he was intent on saving him, and out of everyone who deserved to live to see the sun, it sure as hell wasn’t Ghost.
He wasn’t going to miss the pain, the struggle, the adversaries and the opposition of the life he made for himself; he wasn’t going to miss the heat of the sun on his skin, nor the grief weighing down his legs before he got used to the additional heaviness.
The one person he was going to miss…
The noises were louder. Sirens, footsteps, gunshots, and explosions, an active war zone created right outside the cells. Moments away from claiming the little, suffocating space he found himself in.
“Not without you,” Soap said firmly, trying to hide the confession behind his declaration. His eyes were misty, blurry, and if Ghost had a better focus, he’d be able to confirm whether he was crying or not. He didn’t want to speculate, and he couldn't risk shaking his resolve after slowly building Soap’s.
Johnny had a talent for getting too close to people, it was both his strength and weakness, and while it leaned towards the former on most days, Ghost knew he adapted easily. He’d get over it.
“Don’t make me do this without you, Simon.”
He’d get over Ghost.
A large bang of metallic doors and shouting in the area outside made Soap jump, the grip on his knife tighter. It was now or never.
“I’ll be waiting for you, Johnny,” Ghost murmured, pushing him away. Even as a corpse. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his face, knowing his eyes would give him away. “Get to exfil, Sergeant. Consider this your final order.”
“It won’t be,” Soap said resolutely, denying the reality of their situation. Ghost didn’t get a second to get a word out before his chin was pulled up by a deft hand, and he was forced to catch the fleeting glimpse of Soap’s face as he leaned close and kissed Ghost. Time stopped for a brief moment. The sensation of his lips, warm, soft and undeniably real melted the resolute confines of his hearts, breaking as Soap reached straight through his ribs to his soul.
And oh, oh.
God, it was perfect.
He was perfect. The tension of the situation bled out of him, the uncertainty of his future blurred until there was nothing that mattered aside from Johnny. The taste of him, the lingering scent of him, the warmth and eagerness and the hint of love at the tip of his despair. His hand was a perfect fit on Ghost’s face, cradling him like he was meant to spend an eternity holding him, like he wouldn’t have chosen to be anywhere else.
He didn’t want it to be the last time he saw him.
As much as he was trying to keep it together, to make sure Johnny didn’t waver; he couldn’t help but squeeze his eyes shut before he caught a glimpse of his tears. He smothered the heaviness in his chest when Soap moved away, time and space and fate itself prying him away from Ghost.
“Promise me it won’t be, Simon,” Soap murmured, gently tugging Ghost’s mask down to cover his face. He wasn’t moving away like he was supposed to, lingering in the space Ghost was left in with a reluctance that was too palatable to ignore. He’ll be fine, Ghost had to remind himself. This’ll be a bitter memory, but he’ll remember you with fondness, when he is old, greying and loved. Completely, utterly loved.
In all the ways Ghost will not get the chance to.
“I promise.”
So he lied through his teeth. Relished in the bitter taste of satisfaction when he saw that Soap believed him, the fight returned to his blue eyes, the very ones Ghost often daydreamed of waking up to every day for the rest of his life. It was with a murmur of another promise, of returning, finding and securing him, and the softest press of his lips on his forehead that Soap disappeared.
Ghost had many regrets throughout the course of his life.
Prioritising Soap’s safety was not going to be one of them.
-
Death didn’t greet him immediately.
The state he was left in, unresponsive and slumped in his original position, must’ve deterred suspicion enough to leave him alone. He was getting more sensation in his limbs, able to move more of his muscles than before, and while he hadn’t been sincere in his promise with the knowledge of the odds being against him, he wasn’t going to lay down and die. If there was a chance that he could get out of there —
If there was a chance, he’d be able to see Soap —
His entire life was worth throwing into the ring of possibilities, to allow him to gamble for a future where he would be able to kiss the love of his life again.
In the face of nothingness, it was easy to confess truths he worked tirelessly to hide. Suppressing his feelings to maintain the comfortable status quo of what they had, like the fool he’d been. Knowing, knowing, that in their line of work, anything could happen; to him, to his team, to his Sergeant. The years he spent in that comfort stillness was unrealistic. Bloody hell, he couldn’t even remember why he was so… afraid. So reluctant to take the final step.
Maybe it was the uncertainty, the fragility of intimacy. Or maybe Ghost hadn’t truly recovered from the initial betrayal of his trust, and he still expected the same out of the Captain, and his Sergeants, and any team he found himself in was subjected to his someday. Perhaps, deep down, he didn’t think he was worth the trouble and the effort. He was expendable, a good, reliable soldier, but just a name to eventually cross off a list. Simon “Ghost” Riley, MIA or KIA, with no notable, living family, connection or friend outside the military to miss or mourn him, not a trace in the world he left aside from the violence his hands wrought.
Yet, he couldn’t deny himself the four-letter word underlying every interaction he had with Johnny the last year and three. He kept it deep. Hidden. Out of sight. He thought it wasn’t obvious in the slightest.
Johnny went above and beyond his expectations.
He knew. He loved.
And if Ghost knew him as well as he thought he did, he was certain Soap was going to come back and get him.
He tried to stand up, head swimming with a different sort of haze that was threatening to take his consciousness away. Someone, a group of someones, were approaching him, slowly but not bothering to hide the noise they were making, and he noticed the familiar scent. The fog of the gas they used on him clouded the dingy little cell until he couldn’t see in front of himself.
He fell unconscious easily, the amount of gas in the room more in quantity than it had been in his initial exposure.
The last thing he remembered was the sting of the chemicals in his lungs; his heart constricting in a slow, painful rhythm as he repeated the name Johnny before his thoughts ceased to be.