Baby You're a Haunted House

by omegaghost

Summary:

When the one you're destined to be with is hurt, a golden mark blesses your own skin, a map to your one and only soulmate. Through trauma and tribulation, Soap chases these scars through the military to the one with all the hurt- the one he swears to protect.

Notes:

This is my first full-form fic, and I have spent so long on it, but it is going to be very clunky and weird since I am still developing my writing style. This will have a lot of potentially triggering content, so please make sure to check the tags with every new update. This fic is entirely a big ol' vent fic for me to work out my struggles with my own trauma and self-harm addiction.

I struggle to feel confident in my writing, so comments and social media interactions help me a lot! Feel free to post the link on social media. My username on twt is 0megaghost and the same as on here for Bluesky if you want to chat, I would love it!!

*Edit 07/27/2025 I went back and changed Soap's mom's name along with editing some minor things for grammar/readability but there have been no major changes.

Chapter 1

The Scottish sunshine was beating down on young John MacTavish as his imagination guided the curious boy around his family garden. His mother's flower beds transformed into an unmanageable jungle, the crumbling fence an unclimbable tower, and his very own baby sister was a horrifying monster to be avoided as she hissed and spat (plus she always smelled kinda funny). No matter how far his imagination wandered, his mother's caring eyes never strayed. She shouted at him when he ventured too far and scolded him for breaking her flower stems. Still, when he finally gave her a moment's rest, she practically shone, the sunlight catching faded patches of shimmering paleness left in the wake of his father's passing.

By all accounts, it was a quiet afternoon in the garden while the elder MacTavish girls were away visiting family. Yet in the MacTavish clan, quiet afternoons rarely bled into quiet evenings, some form of chaos (usually John) punching holes in their hard-found peace. This occasion was marred by a new kind of chaos as the young boy lurched forward, breath punched out in a cry as his small hands flew to his chest in an attempt to soothe the sudden pain, the unusual reaction from her son prompting Wilhelmina MacTavish's maternal instincts.

“John, what's going on?” Her voice called out as she pushed herself to her feet, crossing the garden's distance with a quickness only panic could prompt. Her usually brave boy was quickly reduced to tears, trembling fingers clutching the fabric of his wrinkled shirt prompting his mother to pull at the edges

“Shh lad, let me take a look at what's botherin you, did you get scratched by someth-” Her voice abruptly cut off with a half-muffled gasp at the revelation of what was causing her boy so much pain. A perfectly circular golden soul mark marred his suntanned skin, placed achingly high on his fragile collarbone. His second ever soulmark, the first one he wasn't born with, graced his body in a decidedly cruel way as another perfectly circular mark formed on his skin inches from the other.

In this lifetime Wilhelmina MacTavish's passions have drawn her professional interests to the world of Children and Family Services, and in this line of work, she has seen horrors beyond comprehension, abuse so violent, senseless, and cruel that it makes her stomach turn thinking about it She has seen abuse in young children before and prays that she is wrong in her suspicions of her child's soulmate's treatment. Still, unfortunately, in her line of work, she has learned the hard way that a situation is rarely better than your original assumptions; in fact, it is often far worse.

So she does what she will always do for any of her children and holds him close, stroking his wind-swept hair and talking him through it, until his cries blessedly begin to quiet before the hard-won moment of near calm is shattered with another hissing, gasping cry falling from her sons trembling lips as another burn appears on his clavicle.

At this, Wilma MacTavish joins her son in his tears, the only difference in their grief being the level of understanding. She has seen enough in her line of work to recognize cigarette burns on children, the rounded edges of a self-cauterized wound. She is praying quietly for both her son and the one he will one day love, steeling herself for what she knows will be a long battle, a long road. His mother waits with bated breath praying that it's over, and once the pair have both caught their breath she helps her son wipe his face and does the same with her own before adjusting her hold on him. She moves to make eye contact with her young son for the first time since the start of his pain and takes a deep breath, praying for strength as she begins with the only explanation she has right now, as he is far too young to know the scope of what has happened today, of what must be happening to his destined other half.

“John, sweetheart, I am going to need you to listen to me carefully right now. Do you know how you are my golden boy? How were you born with that beautiful shimmering gold on your hand there, darling? Well, it's time Mommy told you what it means to be golden.” She wipes away his tears that are still falling slowly, wishing she could do something about the way her boy is trembling like a leaf.

“Being golden like you are is a big responsibility and you're so terribly young, just a wee thing still I wish I had more time, I just wish I had more time…” A sigh falls from her lip,s wishing not for the first time that her husband was here to help her explain.

“I have always told you that the mark on your hand is a gift from God but now it's time you learned what that means. God has given you a great gift John. He has given you a soulmate. This is someone who is the other half of you, he has connected you two on a deeper level than most. He has connected you both body and soul and part of that is in Soulmarks. Those golden shimmers that appear on you are…” she pauses, swallowing thickly, taking a moment to think. John is still far too young to understand abuse, his home full of nothing but light and love, but she doesn't want to hide this from him and needs to prepare him without scaring him. She doesn't have any proof yet only a sinking feeling in her stomach, she prays that this is a one-off incident, that someone will step in, that this is as far as it gets but she knows the statistics.

“Those marks are something you share that will help you find each other. When one of you gets hurt it appears just like this on the other's body” She holds his trembling hand and traces the gold adorning his palm, the mark taking up most of his left palm, unblemished skin curling up at the edges. When her boy was still so young, when his father was still alive they used to wonder out loud together what could be the cause of his birth-graced soulmark. A grim game looking back at it, knowing what she knows now. That someone has treated her child's other half with cruelty instead of kindness and love. That someone has that much hatred in their heart for someone who could only be a child, a sweet and innocent child she could do nothing to protect. The fact apparent now that that golden mark adorning her boy's hand could be from cruelty rather than a childhood accident, all she could do was prepare for the day she got a chance to show them the love they deserved.
“Mommy has her own soul marks that she shared with your da if you can remember him, I know you were pretty young when he passed dear. A soul mark forms when one half of a pair gets a wound that leaves a scar, like maybe from a surgery or an accident or…” She trails off another thick swallow as she takes a deep breath “or maybe when someone bad hurts them.”

John who had up until this point been trembling, eyes wide as he took in every detail of what his mother was telling him seemed to change as a wave of calm rushed over him. A thought passes his mother's mind that this is the longest she has heard her son silent since the day he was born. Even before he learned how to talk John MacTavish was never a quiet child, and suddenly she ached to hear her child's voice unburdened by pain. One deep breath is all it takes before determination settles on his features as his tiny frame ceases its trembling. He has seen enough Saturday morning cartoons and met enough kids on the playground to know that sometimes people do bad things to others and that good people never let that slide.

“I will protect him, Mommy. From accidents and sickness and bad people.” His conviction is obvious, so strong for someone so young. She shouldn't be surprised, of course, she raised her boy right, but the strength of his character and the sudden change in his demeanor still shocked her. She pulls her son impossibly closer in a crushing hug “Of course you will darling, of course, you will"

Chapter 2

Notes:

Sorry pookies, I didn't mean to leave you hanging for so long tbh I found out I had a secret sister so my life has been busy.
I have lost a lot of motivation for this story but I adore the concept so I am pushing through! I am also working on at least 2 other fics right now so there will be weird and sprattic updates but I have chapter three almost entirely written so hopefully it wont be that long before next update! Pretty please tell me how you are feeling about the story so far and comments keep me going! None of my friends are really into COD and its special to my heart so talking about it with you guys means a lot to me mwah good luck

Nearly five years had passed since the life-changing afternoon in the MacTavish garden following the appearance of John's soul marks. Since that fateful afternoon, John MacTavish had developed a need for information, a need to devour anything he could get his hands on, to be fully educated. His free evenings were quickly eaten up reading every book he could find on soul mates and soul marks from their local library, checking out every documentary and video on his favorite subject.
The divine connection to his soulmate.

An obsession that grew like wildfire, the gathering of information was one of the only things that seemed to soothe the young boy going through such a troubling time in his life. You see, the past five years had not been kind to John MacTavish's soulmate. More glimmering soul marks were interwoven with the old, new patches of shimmering gold in large splashes hardly visible against the tan of his skin, juxtaposed by the familiar circular marks, more added through the years, with three adorning the back of his hand, lazily trailing up his forearm. Another cradled in the curve of his jaw, hidden by his wild hair in the rare moments of stillness. Always perfect small circles around the diameter of a number two pencil. His mother's face had betrayed that she knew more than she let on about what these marks were from, yet no matter how many times he asked she had only promised to tell him when he was a little older, wanting to save the scraps of his innocence and wonder he had left regarding his soulmarks.

His mother and sisters cherish him absolutely, not treating him like glass but giving him the support he deserves. They all know that Johnny is in for the fight of his life, for the rest of his life, that he is in it for the long haul, and that things will only get harder for his soulmate before they get better.
It was on a night like any other in their family home, all four children curled up on the couch, their mother firmly planted in the middle between John and his oldest sister, Maisie, with their mother's large quilt spread over the five, when the soulmarks changed. At first, it was the same familiar sensation causing John to let only a small whimper; his tense frame gave away the feeling of familiar cold and numbness spreading over him. His mother, of course, noticed the tensing of her child next to her. She began to stroke his hair softly and pulled him a little closer to her side in an unfortunate, familiar ritual. They both breathed together, words not needed as the pair worked their way through what they thought would be the worst of it. A smattering of new circular soulmarks dot his skin, a tragedy in itself but nothing new to the family before the young mans grip tightens on the arm wrapped around him, his breath coming in stuttering gasps as he hunches in on himself, frame so small to be wracked with so much obvious pain.

“John, John honey, I need you to tell me what's going on. Does it feel different than normal? I know it's so hard, but I need you to talk to me,” His mother coos, clutching his wracking body to her own trembling frame as his sisters file in around him, surrounding him from all sides in a hug, pressing him between them. “It burns ma, it burns so bad its so hot” The numbness, heat, cold, and pain all competing for his attention “My mouth burns please please make it stop” he sobbed, his mothers breath hitching to a stop briefly before she pulls him away from her chest to look at his mouth, noticing the two new golden dots adorning her boys upper lip, on the right side equidistant apart. Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked at them. They were so small, hardly noticeable; how could they be making her son feel this bad? He hadn't cried this hard since his first soul mark, had been so strong since then, hardly even cried, just silently soldiered on through the shared pain. “I'm so sorry, sweetie. I wish I could do something for you. It will be over soon. “ She soothed. “Maisie, will you be a dear and go get your brother some water with ice in it, please?” She whispered in the direction of her eldest daughter, who quickly nodded and peeled herself away from the family cuddle pile around her only brother. She couldn't hide that she was scared for him; they all were. He was so young, so little, and he already had so many soulmarks. More than the rest of their siblings combined. She sent a quick prayer as always for her brother and his soulmate, whom they knew so little about but cared for obviously more than the boy's family.

Long ago, on the fateful day of John's first soulmark, after the oldest two had gotten home from visiting their cousins, they found their mother, her tear-streaked face twisted up, fighting the coming of more, at the kitchen table and did their best to sooth her in a way that had become unfortunately familiar since the passing of their father the year before. The minutes after they found her felt as though they dragged for years, the silence so uncommon in their household it felt like a physical weight. A weight which was shattered with her words, words that brought a new oppressive weight with them. With a trembling voice she carefully explained the formation of their brothers soulmark along with the circumstances his soulmate must be in. The cruelty and abuse he must be facing. The battle they must prepare themselves to fight both with their dearest John, and his own dearest soulmate. That day Maisie made herselves a promise that when (when not if) they found his soulmate she would take it upon herself to show him what its like to have a family who loves you.

Maisy is pulled out of her memories at the whimpering of her brother from the next room, quickening her steps until finally reaching their cramped kitchen, moonlight streaming in through the window above the sink. A tall glass cup is quickly found and filled with ice from the freezer and cold water from the tap. The chilling sensation, the quickly setting numbness from the cold, drew forth another memory, this one more fresh than the last.

John, despite being the second youngest, was the only MacTavish child born with soul marks, the only one with any beyond the occasional childhood injury that faded away with age. This left his siblings with a burning sense of curiosity. One that could only be quenched with the same thing that soothed John, knowledge. This led the girls on a night just as this to ask the question burning them up. What does it feel like to gain a soulmark? Obviously, it hurts in some way, but as their mother always says “Knowledge is the most powerful tool you can arm yourself with” It took the boy a mere few moments of searching his memories for a comparison before a faded memory of one of his first winters in Scotland floated to the front. “Feels like coming in from the cold after you forgot your gloves inside.” He whispered, “The pain, the tingles, how everything feels stiff and hard to control, how the heat burns even if you know that means your body is doing its job.”

“Maisie hurry along now dear” Her mother called from the other room, not unkindly simply with urgency. It urged her steps forward until she could settle back against her mothers warm side on the couch.

“Thank you, dear. Now John, let's look at ma again, yeah? I need you to hold this for me and focus on how it feels, I know you can do that for me, dearest, you're so good at it. Don’t think about anything else right now there's time for that later” A shiver runs through his small frame as she slides an ice cube into his now open hands, out of instinct his fist closes around the freezing object a gasp falling from his lips as his attention zeroed in on the quickly melting object. All of the sensations competing for his attention faded as the cold and wet in his hand grounded him from the pain. The physical symptoms of gaining a soulmark were fading slowly, leaving behind a full-body tremor and nausea in its wake. Familiar in ways but unsettlingly different than how things usually went. A bone-deep sadness settled over the young boy as he thought of whoever gained the scars that matched his soulmarks. He felt so much for someone he knew almost nothing about. Small glimpses here and there in dreams, knowledge that seemed natural, was all he had to connect them. He was scared for whoever would obviously be his best friend and so much more. He wanted to help; he didn't want him to get hurt anymore, wanted him to be safe and loved just like how he was feeling surrounded by his mother and sisters. Without them, days like these would be so much harder. Impossible even.

As John settled as much as he could with the waves of nausea rolling over him, his mother coaxed the glass of ice water to his lips. A few greedy sips settled a little bit of the nausea and cleared the fogginess in his head. His attention was drawn back to the familiar movie playing Indiana Jones Well of Souls as he melted into his mother's side. A quick shutter passed over him as snakes filled the screen and a smile spread across his face at the character's familiar line of protest about the writhing creatures. Here he was soft, warm, and safe. All things he wishes he could share with his other half. Sleep pulled heavy at his eyelids as the familiar noises of the movie faded away, replaced by the twin sounds of his and his mother's heartbeats, the gentle breathing of his siblings, and the heavy wind blowing outside. Tonight he would sleep through nausea and pain, and tomorrow, he would make a plan.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Notes:

Hello! Chapter three is here, and I wanted to provide a reminder to heed the tags! This chapter will focus on self-harm non-graphically (soap receiving his soulmarks for it, NOT ghost self-harming is described!) As someone who has struggled with self-harm issues in the past, writing about situations like this can be a healthier way to get out some of those feelings! We have like a couple more chapters that focus on Soap being on the receiving end of the soulmarks before the pair really gets a chance to meet! I love comments and they help me have motivation to write but please, if you wanna yap about this or anything else, please feel free to reach out on x or bluesky at 0megaghost on x and omegaghost.bsky.social

p.s there is a high chance there will be no sex/graphic sex described in this book the bottom ghost and top soap tags are because I am a bottom ghost truther, but I put them in there just in case I go in that direction!

A pain jolts the young boy awake in the middle of the night, days before his 9th birthday, the same familiar cold feeling, numbness crawling up his right wrist, causing him to wake up with a gasp, hands flying to his bedside lamp in search of light. Of answers. After the briefest of moments to wake and adjust to the light, the almost 9-year-old steeled himself with determination and began inching up his sleeves in an attempt to reveal the source of his other half's most recent discomfort. Would it be more large shimmering patches, far less concentrated and hardly visible against the tan of his skin, or maybe those aching circular wounds that made his mother look so so sad?

Confusion flooded his features as the pain crawled up further along his small arms, and his search revealed a handful of golden straight lines decorating the inside of his tanned wrist, visible still among the softer, faded patches of shimmering soulmarks. Suddenly, John MacTavish did not feel almost nine years old, feeling every bit his eight years, even younger if he admitted it. He wanted his mom. This was a problem far too large for his small mind to comprehend fully. Panic gripped his small body, paralyzing him as slowly the lines grew in number until finally, finally halting at 11. Moments of tense silence passed, spent alone in the dark of the night, hoping and praying that it was over for real. Once he was sure that for now whatever was happening to his soulmate was done, it was like a floodgate was released, tears streaming down his young face as a cry loud enough to startle his mother awake in the next room fell from his trembling lips. He fell near silent once again, the knowledge that his mother was on her way comforting him in some way as his harsh breathing filled the space. A horrible question at the forefront of his mind, did his other half have anyone to do this for him? To hold him and stroke his hair like his mother always did? To get him ice and water like Maisie always did?

"Oh, sweet boy, I'm here for you golden one, tell Ma what's going on?” She hushed, sliding into bed and arranging his growing body to fit in her arms as she stroked his grown-out hair. Her boy, unable to find words, thrust his wrist out into the light showing neat but hurried lines, obviously purposeful, too neat to be accidental. A sharp gasp falls from his mother's lips, making him aware she had come to the same conclusion he had. What his young mind couldn't comprehend that his mother was unfortunately intimately aware of in her line of work with social work is that not only are these wounds purposeful but more than likely self-inflicted. All she can do is hold her boy impossibly closer to her, attempting to hide her tears wishing more than anything she could make the pain stop for both of them. Hoping that one day her work would take her to the right home, the right family and she would find the boy whose pain matched her son's. John was so young, not even a decade old yet he had endured so much already. Her heart ached for her son's other half praying for him as she always does, every night, throughout the day, at church, at mass, she speaks to God about her family and that will always include her son's soulmate. Both sat in near silence for a few dragging moments, both faces damp with tears as his mother thought of what to say and hushed sweet affirmations into his hair both English and Gaelic.

“I have a birthday present I got you but I wanna give it to you a couple of days early John, I think it will help a little.” His mother finally settled on in response, unable to explain to an eight-year-old what self-harm is without a little more time to prepare. When she attempted to peel herself away from her son to go get his gift he only clung on harder with a soft cry of fear prompting his mother to scoop him up and bring him with her downstairs, stopping at her bedroom on the way to grab a perfectly wrapped gift box. Once they reached the downstairs she went through their familiar routine, getting John a glass of ice water and grabbing an easy snack just in case getting worked up has made the boy hungry. Once she has grabbed their supplies, she deposits the pair on the couch before covering them with a soft quilt she had made for moments just like these. It was specially made in mind for John and his soulmate, an object John could have to make himself feel closer to the one who he was cosmically connected to.

“Drink some water for me lad and then you can have your gift.” She whispered, pressing a kiss to his wild hair once she noticed his small hands fidgeting with the corner of the wrapping paper. His tears mostly dried up with the comfort of being close to his mother, her warmth, her familiar smell all soothing the fear deep inside of him. It was easy to follow her gentle prompting, suddenly realizing just how thirsty and worn out he was due to the rapidly drying tears.

It never got easier for the young boy to know his other half was suffering; he simply got better at calming his storming emotions each time he fell into the familiar dance with his family, his support system. Once his glass was more than half drained, the cold water cleared his sleep-addled and fear-addled brain.

“Can I open it now?” His hoarse voice broke through the bubble of silence, small fingers once again taking up tracing the edges of the neat wrapping job. A nod from his mother was the final permission he needed to scratch at the edges of the tape holding the gift wrapping together. John hadn't forgotten the reason for being awake, the reason for his distress but the young boy indulged in his mother's clear bid for more time. Each edge was carefully folded away with a care he usually did not possess, but even his young mind could comprehend in some way that what his mother was giving him was special. Colorful wrapping paper finally peeled away to reveal a smooth, dark, leather-covered journal paired with a narrow black box. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion at the gift inside of a gift, but he pushed his confusion aside to give the leather journal the care and attention it deserved. Small fingers smoothing over the soft leather of the cover, along with the thick leather cord tying the book closed. Before his mind could get too entranced in the feeling of the smooth leather stretched under his fingertips, his mother was nudging the narrow black box further into his reach, encouraging. Carefully peeling away the lid of the box revealed a gleaming golden pen engraved with their family name engraved in looping cursive. John took a deep breath, grounding himself once more against a new surge of emotion before exploring the shimmering writing utensil gifted to him. The body of the pen was a shining gold with a wicked sharp nib, a fountain pen. After a moment spent with the object, getting used to its heavy weight in his small hands, capping and uncapping it to hear the soft click the pieces made when they slotted together perfectly, made to fit one another he set it gently in its home.

Next he took gentle care in unwrapping the cord of his newest journal and pulling open the cover to reveal a series of thickly made blank pages, the thick paper grounding him in an unexplainable way as he ran his fingers over it, flipping through the pages before a dark series of ink caught his eye, tucked away on the paper of the cover page. His mother's looping handwriting unmistakable.

“Every Man Dies But Not Every Man Really Lives.” - William Wallace

Live your story my Golden Boy

“I was in the shops the other day and saw this lovely journal tucked away on a shelf, and I thought of your boy.” His mother hummed, voice gentle in the dead of night, “Use it for whatever you like, my golden boy, but I thought maybe you could use it to write to your boy when you're gettin your marks? “ She offered, mind recalling the countless times she had found her own son, a melancholy look clear on his face, wishing he could speak to his other half. He was so young to be so tied up in this already.

“I know you wish you could be with him and talk with him and understand more of what's going on so I thought maybe you could write to him instead. Could give you a place for all your big feelings and questions you might wanna ask him one day?” If Wilhelmina MacTavish noticed a few more tears crawling down her son's face in response to her gift that was between her and God. She held his small body impossibly closer to her own, allowing herself a moment to grieve for both herself and her son before she continued on “You have asked me before about your other marks and I know you are scared and confused about your new ones and you know I wish I had more time but I can’t leave you in the dark any longer. Knowledge is the most powerful tool you can arm yourself with.” His mother soothed, the familiar phrase falling from her lips before continuing, “You know what I do for work John, I help kids who are in bad situations, kids who don’t have good adults in their lives, kids who get hurt and aren't being taken care of.”

The boy nodded to make sure his mother was aware he was paying attention, as always, when the topic of soulmates, of his soulmate, came up he was hanging on her every word. There was a sinking feeling deep in his stomach, his skin felt too tight and his eyes itched as his racing mind rushed to predict where this conversation would take them. What did his mother's work have to do with his soulmate?

(Now, contrary to what you may be thinking at the moment, young John MacTavish was not stupid, nor incapable of putting the pieces together. He had put the pieces together many times over the years, yet denial was a powerful force. If he prayed and willed something to be untrue for long enough, then maybe, just maybe fact would change. Hope would win.)

“Darling, I have seen marks like yours in my line of work before… I think your soulmate is being abused.” She choked out, voice thick with emotion as she finally said out loud those damming words. Suddenly, the itchy feeling in the young boy's eyes made sense as tears once again made themselves known, that too-tight skin feeling only increased along with an aching rawness in his throat as sobs instantly ripped through him as the words settled over him.

Abuse, noun: cruel and violent treatment of a person or animal.

Images of the school yard bullies torturing small animals they found outside flashed through his panicking mind, the same fear he felt then making him sick. He was able to stop those bullies but wasn't in time to save the animal and suddenly it was all he could think of while sobbing to his mother about that poor dead frog. He was too late then what was stopping him from being too late to save him now? Suddenly, his world felt too small, a weight too heavy for him to comprehend on his chest as his breathing quickened in panic.

“Come on, golden boy, breathe for your ma yeah?” She encouraged, small hands rubbing soothing circles on his back as she gently rocked in an attempt to sooth the sobbing boy “I know thats scary, I know you want to protect him mo laochain and I want that more than anything but God doesn't give us more than we can handle, God gave you to each other and I have to trust that he knew what he was doing when he made you for each other.”

The thought of the hands rubbing soothing circles on his back turning against him as his soulmate's parents so surly had only made him sob harder. Panic and fear made his small world spin as his brain rushed to comprehend this information, rushed to find a solution where there was none. Holding her sobbing son, faced with problems far larger than she knew how to handle, Wilhelmina MacTavish wished for her own mother to hold her. Thinking of her own mother brought back a long-buried memory of being held the same way, listening to her mother hum a near-forgotten family song. While the edges of the memory were fuzzy with age, she could remember the song, the way it soothed her and began humming the same lullaby for her boy now. Her own mind was racing, trying to decide a course of action. While the last thing in the world she wanted to do was hurt her boy more, to upset him once again when his sobs were hardly beginning to die down, she knew she would be a hypocrite if she continued to withhold information from him. Knowledge is the most powerful tool you can arm yourself with her own motto haunting her thoughts.

“John, sweetheart, there is more… Do you want me to keep talking or do you think you have had enough for the night?” She offered once she had finished working her way through the song. Her son's sobs sounded less painful, less like they were being ripped from his small body, but still painful to hear nonetheless. No matter the occasion, it would always tear at her tender heart to see any of her children suffer, but John had been through more than most, and the last thing she wanted to do was add to his pain. Time dragged on in the late hours of the night as the sobbing blessedly trailed off into a series of wet sniffles before an almost inaudible whisper fell from the boys lips “Tell me please….”

Wilhelmina MacTavish encouraged her son to take a few more sips, both binding for time and trying to prepare his fragile emotional state as much as she could before the next supremely difficult conversation. “Sometimes when someone has been treated badly, especially for a long time or by people that are supposed to take care of them, it can make all those icky emotions everyone gets bubble up inside. Sometimes, when all those emotions and feelings build up inside a person and there are too many emotions to handle that person needs some sort of way out for everything inside and for some people that way out is….:” Her voice, which had been strong and clear until the end, began to waver. It was only a small crack in her armor, not the sign of another session of tears, yet she took a deep breath to reregulate herself before beginning with a slight crack in her voice, “Sometimes that way out is for that person to hurt themselves on purpose. To gain a sense of control in a way,” She finished, voice quiet.

John had hardly had time to process the new information presented to him before she turned, forcing eye contact as she gripped his small frame. “Now, John, I need you to promise me that if you ever feel like you want to hurt yourself that you will always always talk to me instead. I dont care where you are or how late it is I want you to find me or call me, or if I can't be found then write to me but promise me you will put that pen to a page before you put a weapon to the body I worked so hard to grow.” Her face and voice were both as serious as John had ever seen them as he pushed aside his swirling emotions to hug his mother tight to him, nodding profusely. His little finger finds hers to lock together in a pinky promise.

A silence rests heavily between the pair as John sits with the new information, a cruel but beneficial gift of knowledge. Despite the deepening of an ache that had lived inside of him as long as he could remember, John MacTavish was more determined than ever to find the other half of his soul in human form and show them the happiness and care he had been showered with his entire short life. A quest from which he would not rest until the boy he caught glimpses of in his dreams was safe and loved.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Notes:

hi hi! new chapter that is going to spring us into a new era for this fic! I am so excited about what comes next! I reference some real-life military things in here, but to be so utterly honest I did a bit of research on it, but not tons so if I am wrong on something, let me know or ignore it! I am American (unfortunately), so I am not deeply knowledgeable about Scottish/British history. For some translations, the two phrases I use in this chapter/other chapters are
mo laochain - my little hero
and
m'eudail - my darling, my dear
Again, if I am using either of them wrong I apologize and please let me know!
The next chapter will be mostly happy I promise! Another note is that I went back to chapters 1 and 3 and updated Soap's mom's name since it was far too plain with the rest of the family!
as always I am on x and bluesky under 0megaghost and omegaghost.bsky.social please yap to me about this!

A dinner tainted by pain might be a common occurrence in the Riley house, yet a very uncommon sight in the MacTavish home, which is why shock is spiked with fear on the eve of John's 16th birthday celebration, a quiet dinner at home with family, when pain tears through the guest of honor. A horrible, strained noise tearing from his throat, interrupting a story of childhood mischief as the blood seemed to drain from his face, leaving him a sickly pale. Shaking hands clutched at his chest, tearing at the fabric there as he took a hissing breath, tears instantly beginning to fall as a layer of sweat broke out across his quickly flushing skin. A hush fell over the table as emotions rushed through the family, who could only watch as their brother, their son, twisted in agony. Wilhelmina MacTavish rose from her chair at the table to cross the short distance to her boy before wrapping her strong arms around his writhing form. Despite the lack of words spoken, each and every soul at the table had a deep understanding of what they were bearing witness to. 

John's soulmate was in danger. His life on the line.

Memories of the night long ago that left John with two glimmering soulmarks gracing his mouth rushed past the family, yet the display in front of them was so much harder to witness. A choked “Burns like fire” pushed past John's lips as his mother tightened her hold on him to keep his writhing body from causing harm. While Wilhelmina MacTavish was a strong woman, her body built by years of chasing wild children, her restraint was no match for the pain wracking John's body, causing intense spasms. In one of these spasms of pain, a stray limb lashed out, causing the dinner plates and cutlery to crash to the floor. 

The resounding noise inspired a flurry of motion in the siblings previously rooted in their seats as Maisie hurried up and toward the kitchen to fulfill her familiar job of fetching a tall glass of ice-cold water. At the same time, Isla and Elspeth crouched carefully to avoid the shards of glass on either side of their thrashing brother to put a loving, yet trembling, hand on him anywhere they could reach. While they had all prayed this day would never come, their mother had made sure that they would be prepared if it did. 

What John was suffering through right now was his other half's near-death. Soulmate magic did not have the power to kill, but it was a near thing. A near-death or fatal injury provided a different, sensational experience than a non-lethal injury did. While a non-lethal injury was cold, numbing, tingling, a lethal or near-lethal injury was hellfire peeling away your skin, a flash fever, near delirium. The pain and fever are known to cause hallucinations or a loss of consciousness. 

John’s breath was coming in choked, wet gasps as the tears and mucus clogged his throat as he fought through the waves of pain radiating from his chest and stomach. The pain blossomed first in his stomach, a pain like a hot iron running him clean through, before a second fire blossomed, lodged firmly in his right set of ribs. The combined pain of the two was so intense it dulled his functioning, world shrinking to a third spot on his torso. The agony John MacTavish was facing against all odds only increased with this new spot of pain, the fire of a thousand suns burning brightly in his chest as the final mark branded itself in his skin, half an inch to the left of where his heart beat violently against his rib cage. This was easily the most terrifying mark of them all, the fear so much stronger than the day he had woken up to the lines. 

Groans of pain and wet gasps filled the room as Maisie returned with the familiar glass of cold ice water. She stood frozen in the doorway for a moment, rooted in shock and terror at the sight of her newly 16-year-old brother's state before a call of her name drew her forward again, rushing to her family's side. As quickly as the thrashing had started, it stopped. John’s body no longer tense and thrashing, instead returning to the sickly paleness from earlier as it slumped forward limply with another wet groan. The 16-year-old was hardly conscious, eyelids fluttering as his mother leaned down to dab away the sweat that had broken out across his face. His torso was still wracked with pain, but a dull ache in comparison to the branding iron burning through him previously, and sleep pulled at the edges of his consciousness. For the first time in the short minutes since the episode had started, a voice broke through the fog 

“John, mo laochain, can you hear me?” His mother asked, her voice shaking as she ran her fingers through his sweat-damp hair. A small nod was all the exhausted teenager could manage in his weakened state, but it was enough to prompt her to keep speaking. “We are going to get you cleaned up and laid down, son, and once you have rested, we can deal with whatever has happened.” She ordered, tone soft but firm, leaving no room for protest. John struggled internally with these orders, his emotions attempting to creep in, the need for information rearing its head once again, but he had nothing left to give, no energy to protest as his mother used the sleeve of her nice shirt to wipe away the snot and tears without a care. 

The world and his consciousness blurred once again as his family moved his near-limp body to the couch, Maisie bringing the water and grabbing John’s quilt on the way. Once they had settled his aching body onto the couch a cold, wet washcloth was gathered and tenderly placed on his forehead with a kiss. The familiar softness of his quilt was tucked around his lower half as his family found their places on the floor, kneeling next to the couch. Their cold hands were a welcome relief to his burning skin as they all found a place on his aching body to hold. Despite the heat still ripping through him, his frame was wracked with shivers as a flash fever wreaked havoc on his protesting body. The cool cloth was dragged from his forehead, wiping away the path of sweat down his face and neck, before traveling to his sore limbs. 

A blur of noise and voices began to break through the fog once again, movement a blur every time his eyes cracked open. The lines of reality blurred as his soulbond thrummed with pain until it was impossible to piece together what was real. Was the wet, slick sensation of hot blood coating his torso his own? A shared feeling with his other half? A twisted hallucination? What about the distant footsteps or the sniffling cries of his family? The hands on his torso maneuvering his limp and heavy body into a semi-seated position were too solid to be a sensation other than his own as his mother and sisters gently coaxed water past his dry and bitten lips. 

“Water, sweetheart,” His mother explained as the liquid quenched his dry throat. She began to hum a familiar tune as his sisters, surrounding him, whispered encouragement.  He managed as much water as his aching throat could take before a misplaced inhale led to violent coughs wracking his body. His mother was quick with a firm hand on his back, helping expel the water and helping him regain his breathing 

“I know it feels like you're dying right now M’eudail but you're still glowing gold just like the day you were born. Just keep breathing, you can get through this together. He needs you to keep breathing,” She soothed, for the first time bringing the aching boy's mind fully back to the present.  

“They’re still gold?” A small voice, weak with pain and recent choking, asked for reassurance, quickly met with a chorus of affirmation 

“Oh, golden boy, of course they do. I should have made sure you knew right away, I am so sorry,” His mother assured, a wave of guilt passing her by. “I remember the first time I saw my marks flicker. It was one of the scariest moments of my life…” Her voice grew small at the end, overtaken by memory and guilt. 

“Will you tell us about it, Mom? I wanna hear about Dad…” Elspeth’s voice broke through the haze of memories. She was so young, even younger than John and had never had a chance to meet their father, as his unfortunate passing was only a few short months before her birth. Their mother spared a glance at the feverish boy before her, noting the intrigue in his eyes at the prospect of a new story about soulmarks. The possibility of more information he so desperately needed. 

“Only if John wants to hear too.” She conceded, leaning into her son's space once again to wipe at his skin with a damp cloth and rearrange his aching limbs to get him lying down again. A small nod and the clear interest in his tired eyes were enough to start the story. 

“Back in another life, I was a member of the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps. We were called the QA’s and I was a nurse in the Army. This was a time with mandatory service for the boys, and I felt that if it was mandatory for the boys, it was for me too.” She explained, readjusting herself into a more comfortable position on the floor while the girls followed suit. An acknowledging hum came from John's prone form on the couch to show he was listening along even without his usual energy. 

“Your father was 19 at the time, but I didn't know that yet. Had no idea God had a plan for us yet. I had a few small soulmarks the same as some of you,” She shared in reference to her two oldest daughters before continuing “One of the soulmarks I did have at the time was only a couple of centameters long on the back of my hand but that meant it was a glowing golden light to guide my way to your father, a light I could see every day to know he was still with me.” Her voice took on a watery quality to it as she brought her left hand to her chest, the fingers on her right carressing the now pale white mark. It took a moment of composure to will back the tears and bring herself back to the present before she continued. 

“I was working in a field hospital at the time. I never saw any true front-line action, but the field hospital was more than enough for me. We were patching men up in any way we could with anything we could and it was in the middle of patching up a poor soul who I knew would be meeting God soon that I felt it. That I felt him. For me, it wasn't as hard as on our John, I don't know if it has to do with proximity or… severity.” She trailed off for the briefest of moments, cringing slightly as she realized the implications of her words. 

“I was moments away from becoming a patient myself with the pain when they carried your father in the door of our tent. It took me a few seconds to notice the pain was lessening as my thoughts were in agony. I was terrified of never getting a chance to meet him when God had a plan all along and had dropped him right in my lap. God lead me to the army to lead me to him and every day I am thankful for it. He had been shot on his right side, the bullet shattered his clavicle and was making a general mess of things inside him but the smile on his face the moment we found each other was like it had never happened. I left the tent that day with a new mark to proudly display and a soulbond for the rest of my days. Meeting your father felt like coming home. He was medically discharged as the break affected his functioning and his mandatory service was almost up anyway and they let me go home with him on account of our bond. We came home and got married, I went back to school to get my degree and he went to work. A few years down the line we were blessed with our Maisie.” She turned, her marked hand finding Maisie's cheek with a gentle caress before giving her other children the same loving touch. “Two years after Maisie came Isla, four after Isla came John and and three years later God gifted us with you, Elspeth.” She finished before turning to once again address her son

“My sweet Golden Boy, I promise you that one day he will be yours. I promise that one day you will be together and all of the tears and pain will be worth it. That is God’s promise. I know what it feels like I know how scary this is but you know that your boy is strong, that he is a fighter. One day you two won't have to fight anymore but until then he needs you to stay strong and you need to trust that he will do the same. “ As she spoke, she buised herself with checking on her son, wiping away the new round of sweat beading on his skin while readjusting the soulmate's quilt she had made for him for moments just as this. After adjusting his blankets and coaxing more water past his lips, it was only as her hands reached for John's shirt wanting to see the new marks, to arm herself with more information, when his horse voice broke through her thoughts

“I know where he is.” He slurred, tongue clumsy with pain and exhaustion. This revelation prompted shocked gasps and instant questions from his sisters, who had far less firsthand knowledge about soulmates. They were quickly hushed by his mother, giving her son a moment to gather his thoughts before prompting him to share “Seen little bits in my dreams…Didn’t put it together until Mom's story.” He trailed off once more, shaking hand finding its way to his chest, resting half an inch to the left of his heart, feeling its strong beating the same as his soulmates before continuing, “He's like Dad. He’s in the Army.” 

Instant noise filled their home, questions from his three sisters, one on top of each other, practically tripping over themselves to ask more before a sharp look from their mother silenced them once again, A nod of her head in the direction of their rooms was a clear enough message to give the pair some space. A stream of I love you’s and forehead kisses punctuated their exit as they headed to their rooms with a few final glances and whispers among themselves. 

“You need rest my son, we can talk in the morning about what you know and we can make a plan. We will help your boy if it's the last thing I do.” His mother whispered, resting her head on the cushions next to her son. The floor was uncomfortable on her old bones but the fulfillment she found in comforting her son was worth the ache that would come with morning. The last of John's energy had been sapped with his dramatic reveal and he was quickly fading as sleep pulled at his eyes once again. She would let him rest here for the night, keep vigil over him in case his other half took a turn for the worse. She would write her own letters to her son's other half and if she started on a new quilt that night just for her son’s soulmate, that was for God to know. And if that quilt was the same blue of her sons stormy eyes that was for her to know.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Notes:

heeeey pookies! this is a weirdo chapter and shorter than the rest but we are just under 10,000 words which I am so proud of! as always you can find me on twt or bluesky! I am giving the boys the briefest second of happiness before tearing them down even more mwah

John MacTavish was gifted his favorite soulmark in boot camp. A day that is not marked by such a monumental occasion would blur in the recesses of his mind. A day like any other, his enlistment spurred on by the formation of his most recent soulmark, his chest still aching every time the memories work their way to the forefront of his mind.

 It is toward the end of a brutal run for physical training that the formation begins. It starts the same as always, with a cold tingling sensation creeping along his torso, his breath quickening at the memories of the last time his pain was centered there. While he wanted nothing more than to turn back, to beg his CO to be excused, he knew at the same time that making a deal of such a familiar pain would only mark him as a target for the same judgment about his soulmarks he had faced in school. The same vicious teasing and assumptions about his soulmate's strength and character. Memories of his days in middle and high school flood by filled with fights in defense of his soulmates' honor, along with unlikely friendships in all corners. The lunchlady with pale soulmarks and an obvious soft spot for marked kids always willing to pile his tray high, the students in science class amazed at his daring experiments and mind for chemicals, the art class a home away from home. All through his life, there had been bullies, people who didn't understand the strength that came with facing abuse, and there always would be, but just like there would always be bullies, there would also always be friends in unlikely corners. 

The run more than three-fourths of the way done, the young recruit made the calculated choice to employ the techniques his mother had ingrained in him his whole life rather than asking for the out he so desperately desired. Deep breathing in sets of three, the tightening and loosening of his muscles, the repetitive hard tapping against his skin to ground him back to his physical form. While any new marks were terrifying as the grounding techniques worked their magic and the panic faded the slightest leaving his mind clearer, John was able to push the current thoughts out of his mind. The voice of Mama MacTavish was clear in his mind, urging him not to worry about things until he had the information to know if there was cause for concern. With the voice of his mother in his head and a prayer to God on his lips, John MacTavish was able to push his aching body through the last quarter of the run. He was able to stumble out a half-baked excuse for why he couldn’t join the others for lunch, a lie about a call home, or an extra duty he forgot that has faded from his memory to this day. He was able to push his aching body the extra quarter mile to the unfortunately familiar medical wing, a new home away from home. He was greeted with a tense smile and nod of acknowledgement as he dragged his body to the private bathrooms, pulling the door shut with more force than intended as his anxiety spiked once again. His shaking hands found the lock, engaging it, but not finding the light switch.

 
“I just need a second.” He mumbled to himself as the familiar tremors wracked his body once again. His lungs ached as he continued forcing air into them in stuttering, deep breaths. The sweat dripping down his once hot body had cooled to an uncomfortable temperature, leaving a slick film on his skin. His mother's voice rang out in his head once again, quieting the fears even if only for a moment, giving him a much-needed second to catch his breath. 
The memory of her soothing words and the kind treatment of his sisters always pushed him forward in painful moments like these. The memory of his eldest sister, Maisie, and her designated job of providing water was enough to push his aching body to rise from the cold floor he had fallen to in his panicked rush and find his way to the sink, forcing his mouth under the spigot and twisting the handle to provide a stream of ice-cold water instantly. A brief memory of his mother explaining something about vagus nerves and the swallowing reflex in defense of why the water worked so well flashed by in a haze before his frazzled mind could dare to focus on the matter at hand. 

Not daring to look into the mirror yet even in the dark of the room John’s still shaking hands found the paper towel dispenser and pulled a few crinkled papers out (the shitty kind from primary school, the kind that made him cringe to think about, the kind that never worked and began to shred if it picked up too much water). He took the handful he had gathered and wiped down his free limbs in clumsy strokes to rid himself of the chilled sweat before he could begin to gather his courage. Another cycle of deep breathing before he felt comfortable enough to turn on the lights. Three more cycles before he could look in the mirror. Another two before he could lift his shirt, having thoroughly prepared himself for the worst, only for a broken laugh of relief to fall from his bitten lips along with a wide smile.

Two new half-moon-shaped soulmarks glimmered in a proud gold curving along the underside of his pecs, the first soulmark he could feel truly positive about, the exact opposite of what he had expected! His face hurt from the wide smile that had broken out as he reached up to trace the mark curving along the left side. He could feel a few tears of relief slide down his face as he admired them, but couldn't find it in himself to care. This was a moment for them, a moment of joy, a mark that was solely for the best of them. A small weight freed itself from John’s chest that day, just the same as his soulmate. A spike of sadness tainted the happy moment at the thought that his soulmate might be alone just like he is right now, with no one to be there with him when he wakes up from a life-changing surgery. He sends a prayer up to God for his soulmate's speedy recovery and another that he has someone to aid him in it. 

After a few more mouthfuls directly from the tap and another paper towel wipe down, John MacTavish left the private bathrooms in the medical wing of his first-ever military base with a smile on his face that God himself would need a crowbar to pry off. He made his way down the winding halls to the mess hall and piled his tray high with anything he could get his hands on and found his way to a group of something close to friends with a fire in his chest and a hope in his soul. For the first time since their soulmarks began forming this time things would be different. Things were looking up for them, and John felt closer than ever to his destined other half, his gift from God since he had made the difficult choice to enlist. He just needed to Keep. Up. Hope.