Chapter Text
Thud.
Crack.
“Johnny!” Ghost’s heart races as he scans the surrounding area for threats. Clear. For now. Apart from the huge fucking bomb but he can’t help with that, doesn’t know what he’s doing, has to trust that Price and Gaz do.
“Red wire. On three.”
Ghost pays it no mind. He turns away, crouches over Soap’s lifeless body, his heart a solid lump in his throat as he reaches down and feels for a pulse. There might be something, a throb under his fingertips, but it might be his own heartbeat. Might be vibrations from the fucking train tracks. He’s not a fucking medic.
Headshot like that, there’s no fucking hope.
He turns Soap onto his back anyway, stares hopelessly down at him. Bright blue eyes gaze back at him but they’re blank. Unseeing. Lights are on but no one’s home. Ghost’s eyes flick over the entry wound, the pool of blood below his head, the small - too small - exit wound.
Not big enough. No brain matter. Only blood.
He looks up.
Price clicks a button on his radio. “All stations, this is Bravo in the blind. Threat neutralised. Bomb is safe. One KIA.”
Ghost swallows hard, starts to say something, stops and looks down at Soap again and there -
There.
A tiny flicker of his eyelashes.
Could be imagining it.
It happens again.
“He’s alive.”
Gaz moves in closer, crouches down beside Soap too. “But -”
“That’s a fuckin’ through an’ through,” Price interrupts. “He can’t survive that.”
Ghost swipes his thumb over the blood on the right side of Soap’s head. “Not an exit wound. Too small. Cracked his head on the fucking concrete when he went down.”
“He’s still been shot in the fuckin’ head.”
“He can survive it.”
“Might be better off if he doesn’t.”
Gaz scoffs and stands up, hands clenched into fists, face a picture of fury. “That’s not our choice to make.”
Price dips his head, raises his hands. “Ok. Plan?”
“We get him out of here. Call for exfil. Get him to a fuckin’ hospital.”
“No,” Ghost says. “Makarov’s still out there. Better if Soap’s dead.”
Gaz turns on him. “What?! You’re saying we should let him fucking die?!”
“Yes. Officially.”
“Fake it?” Price says gruffly.
Ghost nods and rips the dog tags from Soap’s neck. “Get his gear off. Make him look like a civilian.”
Gaz gives him a look, like he’s about to question it, and that would be fair, Ghost hasn’t thought this through, not fully. But he gets to work and Ghost gets on the radio.
“Bravo 7 to Watcher, how copy?”
The radio crackles slightly. “Solid copy. Go ahead, Ghost.”
“This channel secure, Kate?”
“Affirm, go ahead.”
“He’s alive. Soap’s alive.”
“But why -”
“No time,” Ghost cuts over her. “Get us an exfil to the nearest hospital. Three of us plus one wounded civilian. Gunshot wounds. Head and shoulder. File a KIA report for Sergeant MacTavish.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Affirm. Send Price the exfil coordinates. 7 out.” Ghost clicks off his radio and turns back to Soap.
Gaz has taken off Soap’s tac vest, has his hands pressed to his shoulder. “He’s fucking bleeding out. Must’ve hit an artery.”
“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost mutters. “Med kits. All of ‘em.”
He takes out his own, takes Gaz’s and Price’s, and even Soap’s, and gets to work. He’s no medic but he’s done enough battlefield first aid to know how to put a dressing on.
Price kneels beside him and rolls up his sleeve. “Gaz, eyes on, watch for threats. Ghost, needles and tubing.”
“Wh-”
Price leans across him and grabs them from the kit. “He doesn’t stand a fuckin’ chance without it,” he says. He puts one needle into his arm, the other into Soap’s, connects them with the tubing, watches the blood flow from him and into Soap. “It’ll buy him time.”
“Done this before, sir?” Gaz says, watching the tunnel with his head on a swivel. It’s still quiet. Just trains racing past.
“Once. Didn’t work. Had to try.” Price checks the flow and stands up, carefully so as not to disturb the tubing. His shoulder twinges, reminds him there’s a bullet hole in it, but he still has enough adrenaline in his system to carry him through. “We good?”
Ghost checks Soap’s pulse. “Stronger. We’re good. Exfil?”
“Fuckin’ miles away.”
“How many fucking miles?”
“7 klicks, give or take.”
“Fuckin’ hell. Twat had to get shot in the fuckin’ head while we’re under the fucking sea, didn’t he?”
“Always likes to be a pain in your arse, Ghost,” Gaz says.
“Hope he fuckin’ will be again,” Ghost says hoarsely. “Garrick, cover us. Any movement, ya fucking shoot it and ask questions later.”
“Understood.”
“I give the fuckin’ orders here, Lieutenant.”
“Not while you’re a fuckin’ blood donor ya don’t.” Ghost knots the last dressing in place and hesitates. A stim shot will increase Soap’s heart rate, make him bleed out quicker, but it has TXA which will help his blood clot and slow the bleeding down. I’m not a fucking medic how the fuck am I meant to know what’s fucking best? What if I fucking kill him with the wrong fucking decision? He tells himself that not making a decision is going to kill Soap anyway. They have to move. Can’t waste any more time. He presses the autoinjector to Soap’s thigh and injects it, tosses the empty to one side. He passes the others to Price, except for one. “Take those. Hit me with one every fucking time I slow down.”
“You’re no fuckin’ good to him if you drop dead of a fuckin’ heart attack.”
“I’ll take my fuckin’ chances.”
Their radios crackle into life. “Watcher to Bravo team, how copy?”
“Solid copy, Kate,” Price says, “go ahead.”
“Help’s on the way, John. Your exfil coordinates remain unchanged but a team will work their way down the tunnel to you and there are medics on the helo.”
“Rog’, appreciated. Bravo out.” Price nods at Ghost, then at Gaz. Both nod in return.
Ghost slams the autoinjector into his thigh, takes a breath. His heart pounds, his vision clears, time slows down. He hoists Soap up into his arms and over his shoulders; staggers under the additional weight. Price’s hand is on his back, steadying him.
He runs.
It’s an awkward, lurching run but it’s faster than walking. He stays on Gaz’s heels.
Haven’t got long before the stim wears off. Make the most of it. Another hit. Go again.
But Price stops first. He leans against the wall, gasping for breath, pale and shaking.
Gaz races back, stops in front of him, assessing. Quick as a flash, he turns the tiny dial on the IV tubing, stopping the flow. “Cap, breathe,” he says, disconnecting the tubing from Soap’s arm. “Ghost, go.”
“Both of ya, go,” Price wheezes out.
“Negative. You’ve lost too much blood.”
Price leans his head back against the wall. “Ghost, go.”
Ghost nods, adjusts his grip on Soap, pulls his gun free. He hopes to fuck he doesn’t need to use it. If they come under effective fire, there’s no fucking hope for either of them. “Stim.”
Gaz shoves an autoinjector into his upper arm and puts the remaining pens in Ghost’s back pocket. “Don’t wait for us. Get Soap to a hospital.”
“Rog’.” Ghost sets off again. He doesn’t look back.
Step after step after bloody fucking step, he runs. Soap might be dead on his back. He runs anyway. When he stops for a stim shot, he adjusts his grip on Soap, plants his fingers over the pulse point on Soap’s wrist. Strong. Steady. He’s ok. He’s alive. Thank fuck. Got a chance. Got to get him out of here. Run.
He sets off again. Every muscle in his body is screaming. His head is pounding, vision flickering in time with his racing heart. Christ, the old man was right about dropping dead of a fucking heart attack. Can’t stop. Can’t let him down. Already let him down. Should have been there faster. Be faster now.
Voices ahead. The help Laswell said was coming? Or Makarov’s crew waiting for them to exfil?
Ghost stops, flicks his radio. “Bravo 7 to Watcher, how copy?”
“Solid copy, go ahead.”
“Need location of your operatives.”
“Right on top of you, Ghost. How’s your civilian doing?”
“He’s alive.”
“Rog’. Take care of him. Watcher out.”
Ghost hits himself with another stim - the last one - and sets off again.
A minute later and he’s surrounded by voices. American. They grate on his nerves.
“Put him down, sir, we’ve got him from here.”
“Negative,” Ghost bites out through gritted teeth. “Out of my way. Get Price and Garrick. Further down the tunnel.”
They move and Ghost runs again, as hard as he can, as far as he can, but the stim is wearing off and he slows to a walk. Head low. One step after another after another. He’s staggering now, close to collapse when he reaches the service tunnel exit. Medics are waiting with a stretcher. They help him lower Soap down onto it and immediately get to work.
“Military?” Ghost barks out.
“Affirm. 101st-”
“I don’t fuckin’ care! This civilian is a critical fuckin’ witness and I need him to fuckin’ survive. Do your fucking jobs and forget ya ever saw his fuckin’ face while you’re at it! Chop fuckin’ chop!”
“Easy, Ghost.” A laughing voice behind him.
Ghost whirls around. “Nik.”
“Da. Nikolai to the rescue as always. Heard Soap died. Doesn’t look so dead to me.”
“He’s dead. Soap is dead. That man is a civilian. Critical witness. Understood?”
“Da. Understood. Get on the fucking chopper.”
“Need to wait for Price and Gaz.”
“I come back for them.”
Ghost hesitates, then nods. Soap’s need is more urgent and Price told him to go. So much for no man left behind. Johnny was right about that. He allows Nik to usher him to the chopper, watches the medics secure Soap onto the stretcher and into the helicopter. He’s hooked up to wires and machines now; the dressings Ghost put on are being removed and replaced, his clothing is being cut away.
“Do you know his blood group, sir?”
“O pos. Forget ya heard that.”
“Understood, sir.” The medic makes a note in their file and hangs a bag of blood alongside a bag of clear fluid.
Ghost puts on a pair of headphones, pulls the microphone to his mouth. “Nik. How long?”
“She is fast helicopter. Less than one hour.”
“Fuck. Nowhere closer?”
“Kate said trauma centre. We go to trauma centre.”
“Rog’.” Ghost fixes his eyes on Soap and waits.
Soap has more colour in his cheeks now. His eyes are still open, blue and blank and devoid of all life; everything that made him Soap.
Maybe Soap is gone now. Maybe this is just a shell. Maybe I did the wrong thing. Had to try though. Had to fucking try.
Ghost runs a shaking, bloodied hand over his mask, over his face. His heart is still racing, pounding against his ribcage with such a force that it’s painful. He’s covered in sweat but he’s cold and shivering. His head aches like the worst hangover he’s ever had in his fucking life and every fibre in his body is singing in agony, each tremble a reminder that he’s torn muscles he didn’t even remember existed.
Worth it. He has a chance. Worth it.
He doesn’t look away from Soap, watches everything the medics are doing, checking for - well, he doesn’t know what. Signs of life, probably. But there’s nothing. Just Soap, staring blankly in front of him. Who knows what he’s seeing, if he’s seeing anything at all. And the medics, hovering over him, checking numbers and IVs and shining pen lights into his eyes.
One of the medics turns away and gives him a thumbs up. Ghost has no idea what that means, other than Soap’s still alive, but he can tell that from the machines he’s attached to, the numbers that flick up and down but remain fairly constant.
Then a voice in his ear. The other medic has put on a headset. “Stable, sir. Breathing on his own, pupils respond to light.”
“Good signs?” Ghost barks.
“Not out of the woods but we’ve seen worse.”
“Any of ‘em survive?”
“One.”
Ghost nods and leans his head back against the side of the chopper. One. Soap will be the second. He will be. He can’t die. Not Soap. Not Johnny. Not him. He can’t.