Archive of Our Own

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. 

Chapter Text

At the hospital, a team is waiting for them. Laswell must have called ahead because they know the situation already and no one bats an eyelid when Ghost insists on staying right by Soap’s side as he’s wheeled through the hospital to the Majors section of A&E.

Ghost listens to everything the doctors and nurses say. He doesn’t understand most of it. Mostly he stares at Soap, eyes flicking between Soap’s face and the machines that beep reassuringly. He catches a few words. Stable. Lucky. CT. Surgery. 

A whirlwind of activity as Soap is moved to CT, back to Majors to have his shoulder stitched up, then up to surgery. They don’t let Ghost go with him. He’s directed to a waiting area where he sits down with the worried relatives of other patients. They all glance nervously at him. Which, Ghost thinks, is probably fair. He’s covered in blood, carrying more weapons than most people can even recognise, and he’s still wearing his mask. He takes it off in an attempt to appear more human. He’s not sure it works. He scrubs his sleeve over the Union Jack on his tac vest, over the letters SAS and paces around the waiting room. All of this is making him far more visible than he really wants to be, far more recognisable, but these people are probably having one of the worst days of their lives and they don’t deserve to be traumatised by a ghost. At least if they know he’s military, they won’t worry that he’s about to open fire on them. He’s just waiting. Like everyone fucking else.

Once the stares stop, he fades back into the corner and speaks quietly into his radio. “Bravo 7 to Watcher, how copy?”

“Solid copy, Ghost, what news?”

“Civilian witness is stable and in surgery. I’m out of range of Bravo team. Are they out yet?”

“Affirm, they’re en route to you now. ETA approximately one hour.”

“6 doing ok?”

“Says he is but you know what he’s like.”

“Yeah,” Ghost sighs the word out. “Thanks for getting us the help, Kate.”

“Anytime, Ghost. I’ll RV with you later. Watcher out.”

Ghost leans his head against the wall and settles down to wait. Except it isn't that easy. He's still on edge, still alert to every sound, every movement, every time a doctor walks through that door with a clipboard and calls out a name. He's deep in the throes of an adrenaline crash. Dog tired and wrung out. Feel like five miles of fuckin’ potholes. Doesn't matter. Nothin’ matters. Not until I know he's ok. 

A higher voice. Cruel. You know he'll never be ok again. He can't be. Whoever Soap was is gone. You were too slow. You couldn't save him. You can't save anyone. Fucking waste of space. It sounds like his father. 

His vision swims. The room spins. Nausea rises in his throat, burning hot and wet and coppery. He swallows against it, digs his fingers into the hard chair to keep himself upright. Fuckin’ stay awake. Don't puke. Head up. Mouth closed. Keep swallowing. Can't let him down. Not again. Got to stay here for him. 

A door opening. Footsteps. Two familiar faces. Has it been that long already? Fuck. 

He sits up straighter, tries to ignore the way his vision blurs. It'll wear off. “Garrick. Price. Good to see ya.”

“Likewise,” Price says, collapsing into the chair beside Ghost. His shirt is hanging off him in tatters, his shoulder is bandaged and he has an IV in each arm, one connected to a bag of blood, one to a bag of saline. Gaz is holding both bags as high as he can. “Medics patched me up. Ya look like shit.”

“Feel it.”

“You both look like shit,” Gaz says. He's the only man still standing. “How's So-” he cuts off when Ghost shoots him a warning look. “How's our witness?”

“In surgery. They said it'd be a while. Couldn't say how long.”

“How was he before they took him in?”

“Stable. That's all they told me.”

Gaz nods. “Stable is good though, right?”

“Better than unstable, Sergeant,” Price says. “Any chance ya can rustle up some cups of tea?”

“And some chocolate biscuits?” Gaz hands the two IV bags to Price. “Already on it.”

Price nods his thanks and slumps down in his seat. He puts the bags on Ghost’s shoulder, figuring that will keep them high enough to maintain the flow. “Fuckin' hell.”

“Yeah. Fuckin’ bloody hell.”

Price sighs with a puff of his cheeks. “You've got ya face out.”

“Mask was scarin’ everyone.”

“Everythin’ about ya scares everyone.”

“Point.”

“How does he look? Really?”

Ghost sighs. “No fuckin’ idea. Eyes are open, no one's home. They said he's breathin’ for himself and his eyes react to light which are good signs.”

“Yeah,” Price says thickly. “Yeah, those are good signs. Not brain dead.”

“I'll fuckin’ kill Makarov for this.”

“The queue starts behind me, Simon. Shepherd isn't getting away with it either. Fuckin’ weaselly bastard.”

“Fuckin’ double crossin’ cunt. Death's too good for both of ‘em.”

Price nods. “Best we've got for ‘em though, innit?”

“If you get to Makarov before I do, make it fuckin’ hurt.”

“Oh, I plan to.” Price smiles the sort of dark and dangerous smile that's been known to send armed combatants fleeing in his path. “I'll even bring you a little souvenir.”

Ghost’s smile matches Price’s. “Appreciate it. I'll do the same. One for Soap too. Maybe an eye.”

“He can keep it in a jar by his bed.”

“He'll stick a knife in it first.”

Price laughs, then winces. His shoulder has been stitched up but there's still a big fuck off hole in it. “He will. An’ he'll be ok. Hard as nails, that lad.”

Ghost nods and falls silent again. He has to be ok. He has to be. If he dies - He doesn’t let that thought finish itself. It’s too big, too much, and if he lets himself think about it too hard, well, he’s going to fall into a spiral and then he’s no good to Soap, no good to anyone.

When Gaz comes back, he has his hands full, very literally. He’s carrying a takeout tray with disposable cups of tea which he should be able to manage in one hand but it’s a shitty cardboard tray and it’s starting to collapse so he’s having to carry it in both hands. He has a packet of chocolate hobnobs under one elbow, a packet of custard creams under the other, and his teeth clamped around a packet of jammie dodgers which he has no intention of sharing. Except maybe with Soap when he wakes up. Nah, he thinks, I’ll buy another packet when he wakes up. He waits while Price and Ghost take their cups, then takes his own, and now that his hands are free, he can rescue the jammie dodgers from his mouth and start unloading everything else from around his person. 

“Which tea is which?” Price says.

“All the same. Milk, six sugars.”

“Six fuckin’ sugars?”

“Yes six fucking sugars. You’ve lost a shit load of blood, he looks like he’s two steps away from dropping dead, can’t say I feel much better, and somehow we have to get through the next few hours. So yeah, six fucking sugars.”

Price runs his hand over his face. “Yeah. Thanks, Kyle.”

Gaz shoves the hobnobs at Price, the custard creams at Ghost, then digs through his pockets and shoves packets of crisps at them both, and bottles of chocolate milkshake. “Sugar, salt, carbs, protein.”

“Where’s the fuckin’ protein?”

“Milkshake.”

“They didn’t have any proper fuckin’ food then,” Ghost complains and immediately regrets it when Gaz glares at him. “Sorry, Sergeant,” he says and shuts himself up by stuffing two custard creams in his mouth at once. “Bit on edge,” he mumbles around the crumbs.

“We all are,” Gaz says and decides not to take offence at the complaints and lack of appreciation. This, here, now, it isn’t about any of them. It’s only about Soap. No point bickering about a few thoughtless words, though he reserves the right to bicker about them later, once they know Soap is ok. 

They all fall into silence, then, each lost in their own thoughts. Price is working on an action plan while he dunks biscuits into his tea. Shepherd first. Cut the risk. Then Makarov. Then any other fucker who’s involved. Ghost is systematically working his way through the food and drink that he doesn’t really want while he forms his own action plan. Fake a funeral. Scatter his ashes. Scotland. Take it in turns to stay with him until he’s ok again. Gaz is holding a jammie dodger between his teeth as he texts everyone in his family. He doesn’t tell them what’s happened. They don’t know Soap anyway, they don’t even really know what Gaz does, only that he’s in the army. Telling them any more than that would just worry them and he doesn’t want to do that. But he can check in. He can make sure they know he’s ok, and he can make sure that they’re ok, keep up with what’s going on in their lives even though he rarely makes it home these days. 

None of them rest. Price closes his eyes for a whole 30 seconds but that’s it. As soon as a doctor approaches them, Gaz is on his feet, closely followed by Ghost who staggers slightly, then Price who grimaces.

“Dr. Greene,” she introduces herself. “Neurosurgeon. Let’s go through here,” she says, gesturing to a small private room.

Ghost’s heart races, his mouth turns to cotton. A private room doesn’t sound like good news. “Is he alive?”

“Sorry. Yes, he is. I was under the impression this is a highly confidential matter and privacy would be best.”

Price rests his hand on Ghost’s shoulder, steadies him. “Thanks, Doc. Lead the way.”

Dr. Greene takes them into the room and closes the door. “I’m afraid I can only give you limited information as you aren’t his next of kin, but I can tell you that he came through surgery well and we currently have him in an induced coma while the swelling in his brain goes down. He won’t be able to answer any of your questions for quite some time and possibly not at all. If you’d like to leave some contact details, I’ll have someone call you when he’s awake.”

“No,” Ghost snaps. “He needs a fuc- an armed guard at all times and we need more information than that.”

Gaz steps forwards with a reassuring smile. “I think what my colleague is trying to say - badly - is that when we track down his next of kin, we’d like to be able to give them more information than that, and that we believe his life to be in danger from external influences so we need to be certain that he’s in a secure environment.”

Dr. Greene looks from one to the other to the next, clocks the badges on their vests, and sighs to herself. Not my circus, not my monkeys. “Very well. He’ll be in the ICU and you can have one armed guard with him at all times. One. Understood?”

Price nods. “We can work with that. His condition?”

“He’s a very lucky man with a very thick skull, thick enough that it deflected the bullet. Had it gone straight through, it would have killed him. As it is, he has radial skull fractures on each side. The entry wound, and another impact blow -”

“He hit concrete,” Ghost says.

“That would do it. He likely has a concussion from that alone. Now the path the bullet took was reasonably kind to him, it’s grazed his temporal lobe, what we call a unilateral temporal lobe lesion. I was able to remove the bullet and repair the damaged blood vessels, and we maintained oxygen supply to his brain. There’s a lot of swelling, hence the induced coma. We’ll keep him under for at least a week, with a ventilator breathing for him.”

“He was breathing on his own when he came in.”

“Yes, he was, but the drugs we use to maintain a coma mean that he’s currently unable to do that. I don’t expect that to last, I’m certain he’ll be breathing for himself as soon as we wean him off the sedatives.”

“Long term damage?” Price barks out.

“We won’t know until he wakes up. With this sort of injury, I would expect him to have anterograde and retrograde amnesia, that means difficulty with short and long term memory, and I would expect him to have issues with reading and listening comprehension, as well as speaking and writing. Confusion, disorientation, emotional lability - mood swings, in layman’s terms - there may be a personality shift, and sensory issues. We think he’s lost hearing in his left ear and vision in his right eye. Unfortunately we won’t be able to confirm anything until he’s awake, this is my best guess based on my experience.”

“Improvement over time? Or not?”

“Most people do improve over time and many go on to lead reasonably normal lives.”

Ghost lifts his head. “He won’t be a vegetable?”

“That isn’t our preferred term, Mr -”

“My name isn’t important.”

Dr. Greene sighs to herself. “Head injuries are very complex and recovery looks different for everyone but yes, I would anticipate an improvement over time. A significant amount of time. His recovery will likely take years, not weeks.”

Ghost swears under his breath. Price nods. Gaz steps forwards again. “Thank you, Dr. Greene, you’ve been very helpful.”

She smiles at him. “You’re very welcome. Now if one of you would like to come with me, I’ll show you up to the ICU and make sure the staff there know you’re sitting with him.”

“That would be me,” Gaz says.

“No,” Ghost says. “Me.”

“Neither of you,” Price says.

Dr. Greene sighs again. “One of you, make your decision and make it fast.”

“Me,” Ghost says, turning to the others. “Ya lost fuc- god knows how much blood, you’re no good on guard duty.”

“Me, then,” Gaz says. “I’m the only one who didn’t get hurt.”

“I’m still fuc- bloody wired, I won’t be able to rest anyway. Need ya to get him somewhere he can get some proper rest, take over from me at -” Ghost checks his watch. It's a little after 1am. “6am. 7 if it takes you a while to find somewhere to bunk down for the night. Get at least four hours.”

“Right,” Dr. Green says briskly. “If we’re all organised?”

Price and Gaz say their thanks, and both give Ghost a clap on the back before they walk away and Ghost follows Dr. Greene up to the ICU and into a small empty room.

“He’ll be brought up in a few minutes. There’s a bathroom through that door. Might I suggest you make use of it?”

Ghost glances down at himself and nods. “Roger that, Doc.”

She gives him a nod and strides out, pausing to talk to the team at the desk before she leaves and Ghost is left alone.

He goes into the bathroom; there isn’t much he can do to clean himself up without a change of clothes, but he does the best he can and at least his hands are clean now. Literally, anyway. Not figuratively. His hands will never be clean again but they’re no longer stained with Soap’s blood. He gulps down some water from the tap and sits down to wait.

Bloody fuckin’ hell. He’s alive but jesus fuckin’ christ it doesn’t sound good. Should’ve got there faster. Should’ve stopped it. Should’ve killed Makarov. Price should’ve let Soap kill Makarov on that fuckin’ chopper. First time I met him. Thought he was another jumped up little twat with anger issues. ‘til he proved he wasn't. Now fuckin’ look at him. Half fuckin’ dead thanks to that cunt. He’s alive. Focus on that. He’s alive. Thick skulled fuckin’ bastard. He’s alive. He’s tough. He’ll get through this. Might hate me for the rest of his fuckin’ life but at least he fuckin’ has one.

He runs his hand over his face and wishes he was still wearing his mask. Maybe he could get away with it again now but he doesn’t want to spook the people taking care of Soap. They can’t do their jobs if they’re being watched by a fucking ghost. Pick up some medical masks tomorrow. Compromise. Need clothes too. Can’t walk around covered in his blood. Fuckin’ hell. His blood. 

He runs his hand over his face again and jumps up when a bed is wheeled into the room by two nurses. They greet him and let him know that they’ll be checking on John Doe every 15 minutes, and if he has any concerns in between checks, he should press the red buzzer; and that there’s a coffee machine down the hall. Ghost won’t use it. He doesn’t need any caffeine and he won’t leave Soap even for a few minutes. He thanks them anyway, even manages a smile, then sits down again when they leave.

Soap looks small and frail under the white hospital sheets, not his usual larger than life self. He’s attached to tubes and leads. The ventilator hisses as it breathes for him. His head is bandaged, black bruises spreading down over his face which is swollen beyond recognition, and his eyes are taped closed. He looks dead.

Ghost takes his hand, clasps it in his own, and prays to gods he doesn't believe in that he'll be ok.

He doesn’t move for hours. He sits there, holding Soap’s hand, through all the nursing checks. At each check, they reassure him that everything’s fine, treat him like he’s a worried relative, not like the armed guard he’s supposed to be. He’s grateful for that. A little concerned that their cover story is slipping, but not enough for him to be willing to let go of Soap’s hand.

He doesn't let go until Gaz strides in the next morning. 

Gaz looks tired but better than yesterday, and he's dressed in clean clothes, his weapons concealed so he blends in. “Morning, sir,” he says, passing Ghost a brown paper bag. “Brought you a Maccy's breakfast.”

“Cheers, Gaz. Ya get some sleep?”

“Some. Laswell’s at the hotel. Room 305 at the Travelodge, half a klick north east. Says she has a plan. She also picked up our go bags so you have clothes and shit.”

Ghost nods and stands up so Gaz can sit down. “The old man doing ok?”

“Haven't seen him this morning. How's our witness?”

“Stable. Nurses have gone down to 30 minute checks. He looks -”

“Yeah. I can see how he looks. There's a packet of fags and a lighter in the Maccy's bag, thought you might need one by now.”

“Ya thought right. Thanks, Gaz, appreciate it. See ya in four hours.”

“Eight. Laswell's relieving me in four. Cap agreed to take the day off but only if she covers him.”

“Rog’, eight hours. Look out for him.”

Gaz shoots him a look to say I didn't need reminding. Ghost dips his head and leaves.

He makes it out of the main entrance, finds a quiet corner. Cover on two sides. Open view. Safe. He sinks down onto the cold, damp ground and runs a shaking hand over his face. Stop being so fuckin’ stupid. Garrick's with him. He'll be fine. He has protection, he's not wakin’ up until the docs reduce his meds, need to go and rest. Yet he can't shake the feeling that he's abandoning Soap. His sergeant. His responsibility. His friend. He sits there, ignores the damp seeping through his jeans, and lights a cigarette. Inhale. Exhale. Puff of smoke. Warm breath. Grounding. He's still shaking but his thoughts are clearer. He smokes it right down to the butt before he grinds it out under his heel and lights another. 

After the second, he feels more like himself. His stomach is in knots but he forces himself to eat the breakfast anyway. McDonald's isn't his favourite but it's better than army rations which are better than nothing, and he's hungry enough to enjoy it; grateful that Gaz thought of bringing him something to eat. 

He hauls himself off the ground, tosses his rubbish in the bin, and walks to the hotel.

Kate answers the door as soon as he knocks. “Hey, Ghost. How are you doing?”

“Fine. Gaz said ya have a plan.”

“And your go bag, yes. Come in.”

Ghost waits until the door is closed. “No change in Soap,” he says, and barely stops himself from adding if you even care. He knows that would be an unfair comment. “Assume Gaz and Price already updated ya on his condition.”

“They did.” Kate hands him his bag. They all pack them before a mission, store them, and only Kate knows the location of each one. “I picked up Soap's too. The ID is useless now but he might like the clothes back.”

“I'll grab it when he's awake,” Ghost says, then adds as an afterthought, “thank you.”

Kate nods an acknowledgement. “Did you eat something?”

“Yes. What's the plan?”

“I need to discuss it with John first. Chain of command.”

“Fuck the chain of fuckin' command. What's the plan, Kate?”

Kate sighs. She knows when she's fighting a losing battle. “A soldier was killed in a range accident yesterday. Shot in the head. Staff Sergeant John MacIntyre, of the Black Watch regiment, born 1995. No family to worry about. His CO is keen to avoid a scandal, given how the accident happened, and has agreed to fudge some paperwork transferring his soldier to the SAS, under John's command. And yours. We give Soap his identity, we list the three of you as next of kin in lieu of family, he maintains access to military hospitals, rehab centres, pension, all of it.”

Ghost nods. “Sometimes you scare me, Laswell.”

Kate smiles. “Good, Lieutenant, I should scare you. What do you know about Soap’s family? There's none listed. Anyone I should contact regarding his death?” 

“No. No family. We're all he's got.”

“That makes things simpler. I'll get things rolling and talk to John later before I confirm it all. I'll also start making calls to get him transferred to the Defence Rehab Centre as soon as he's well enough. And you are going to go and get cleaned up, sleep, eat something before you come and relieve me in -” Kate checks her watch “- 7 and a half hours. Ok?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Ghost says. “Thanks for all your help.”

“Anytime, Ghost. See you later.” Kate gives him a key to the room next door and Ghost leaves.

He gets cleaned up first, takes off his clothes, still covered in Soap's blood, and takes a shower. The clothes go in a plastic bag; he'll find a launderette tomorrow, do everyone's laundry. Gaz seems to have taken point on providing food for them all. Ghost can handle some laundry. He pulls on a clean pair of boxers and falls into the bed, convinced he's still too wired to sleep.

But he's conditioned to sleeping anywhere, any time, and as soon as his head hits the pillow, he's out like a light.

That doesn't keep the dreams away though.

Chapter Text

In the end, Price takes care of the laundry for all of them, given that it's the only thing he can manage with one working arm. He tasks Ghost with handling the weapons. Anything they can't conceal, Ghost packs up and takes down to Lydd Ranges, the nearest armoury to their current location. Gaz keeps providing food, though they take it in turns to pay. Kate keeps working miracles.

She can't stay too much longer, has to be back stateside to deal with everything over there, but she takes a couple of shifts, sitting with Soap to watch over him. They all do, rotating every four hours. Gaz chats to him, convinced that Soap will hear him through his drug induced coma. Price reads him football scores because he doesn't know what else to do. Ghost sits and holds his hand, just like he had on that first night. Kate makes calls and sends emails. Soap doesn't need her company, he needs her skills so she uses what she's good at.

Soap's “death” is covered up. Quick and quiet. There's no fancy funeral with full military honours. Not for him and not for John MacIntyre who really deserves better. Instead, there's a cremation that no one attends and the ashes of a soldier he never knew are delivered to Ghost, just six days after Soap was shot.

Kate stays with Soap, assisted by two CIA agents who, she assures them, can be trusted. Soap still isn't recognisable anyway. His face is bruised to fuck and swollen, barely human, let alone the man he'd once been. No one's going to know who he is, even if the agents are working for Makarov.

Ghost and Gaz switch out on the drive to Scotland, each taking a couple of hours at a time. Price insists he can drive, despite not having full movement in his shoulder, and proves his point by criticising every single move they make. Brake! Fuckin’ brake, Sergeant! Who the fuck taught ya to drive, Riley?! Stop fuckin’ tailgatin’! 

Tempers are frayed by the time they park up on the side of the road, close to the shores of Loch Awe. Soap isn't from there, he grew up in Glasgow, but John MacIntyre came from near there and they want to do right by the soldier who's given his name to Soap. It only seems fitting. 

They say a few words for Soap, though. He might be alive but they still don't know what state he'll be in when he wakes up. Maybe Soap as they know him will be gone forever.

“He was the best of us,” Price says.

Gaz nods. “The toughest.”

“He'd’ve fought the world barehanded,” Ghost says. He hopes that Soap still will. One day. He takes the urn out of his backpack; they each hold it, hands coming together for a soldier they didn't know.

“Who dares wins,” Price says. “Sleep easy, soldier.”

Gaz swallows hard. Suddenly it feels all too real. This could have been Soap's funeral. So fucking easily. “See you down range, brother. We'll take it from here.”

Ghost blinks furiously, glad the mask covers his face, hides the emotions that twist his features. “Rest in peace, Johnny,” he says, then scatters his ashes into the wind where they flow out over the hills, over the water. He tries not to think that it could have been Soap in there, tries not to think about everyone else he's lost along the way.

They walk back to the car in silence. Price doesn't complain about their driving once.

Ghost takes the first shift with Soap when they get back. He has to reassure himself that Soap is alive; that Soap wasn't in that urn. He sits and holds his hand and watches the monitors that tell him Soap is still here.

He's still here.

Chapter Text

Ghost insists on being there when Soap is brought out of his coma, too. In fact, he and Price almost come to blows over it, with Price insisting that he’s their commanding officer and Soap’s mentor, that Soap is his responsibility and Soap got shot in the process of saving his fucking life. Ghost doesn’t actually have much of an answer to that. But he digs his heels in anyway, says that Soap is his 2IC, his responsibility, and that it was his fault that both of them were in that situation so he should be the one to be there when Soap wakes up. In the end, Gaz pries them apart, calms things down, says that Soap would want it to be Ghost. Neither Price nor Ghost ask why Soap would want that, or how Gaz knows.

So Ghost is the one to sit there. He listens to the explanations from the doctor about what’s going to happen, and when one of the nurses brings him a cup of tea, he says ta, love and manages a smile even though he’s never felt less like smiling.

Now we find out how much of him is left an’ how much of him died in that fuckin’ tunnel. Fuckin’ Makarov. Got a fuckin’ vendetta against Soap since the fuckin’ chopper. I’ll kill him myfuckin’self if the old man doesn’t. 

His thoughts aren’t productive but they distract him from the scene in front of him. Soap is less bruised now. The facial swelling is going down. His last CT confirmed that the brain swelling has subsided but it took ten days, not the week that Dr. Greene had anticipated. He looks more like Soap, but he’s pale where he isn’t bruised and he still has tubes and leads and wires attached to him. As Ghost watches, they gradually turn down Soap’s sedation and, when it’s clear that he’s breathing for himself, they take the tape off his eyes and remove the ventilator tube from his throat. Soap coughs as it’s taken out but it’s a reflexive action. He isn’t awake yet.

Soap is swimming in icy blackness. He’s lost. Feels like he’s been swimming forever, searching for someone, searching for someone important.  They must be here somewhere but he can’t find them in the dark. He’s tired, so tired. Something is dragging him down, keeping him under the water, holding him there, stopping him from getting to that someone. He fights with every stroke, swims faster, pushes harder, until eventually there’s a light. Dim at first but growing brighter and brighter until it’s so bright that it makes him want to hiss and draw away back into the comforting darkness. But he has no choice. The light is dragging him now, pulling him on and on until he finally - finally - breaks the surface. 

The light is brighter here. Painfully bright. He opens his eyes only to close them again. Voices. Muffled. He listens closely but he can’t understand what they’re saying. Sounds like another language but not one he’s ever heard before, not one he can even recognise. Doesn’t follow any of the patterns he knows. 

Another voice. Clearer. Louder. Still not saying anything he can decipher but there’s something familiar in it anyway. Deep. Gravelly. Like a skull might sound if it had a voice. He turns his face towards it, screwing his face up against the bolt of pain that shoots through his head. The voice keeps talking and Soap opens his eyes but it’s still too bright and he closes them again. He wants to sink back into the soothing dark but there’s something holding him here. In the light. With the strange language and voices he doesn’t know. Something has a hold of his hand, clinging to him, keeping him afloat when all he wants to do is drift.

Ghost won’t let go. Can’t let go. He holds Soap’s hand and doesn’t look away, not for a single second. He watches the way Soap opens his eyes, winces, closes them again and then, only then, does he look away. “Turn off the lights.”

“But we -” the nurse, Anya, he thinks her name is, says, glancing nervously at Dr. Greene.

Ghost lifts his chin. “Turn. Off. The. Fuckin’. Lights.” Despite the harshness of his words, his tone is surprisingly gentle. For once, he’s actively trying not to be a cunt.

Dr. Greene nods and Anya scuttles off to turn out the lights.

“Johnny,” Ghost urges. He doesn’t care about blowing their cover. Not anymore. They’ve had it figured out since day one anyway, that’s why everyone has been so accommodating. “Johnny. Come on. Try again. Open ya fuckin’ eyes.”

Soap knows that voice. He can’t understand a fucking word it’s saying but he knows it, knows he can trust it, knows he has to listen to it. Maybe he can work out what it’s saying if he can see. He opens his eyes. Better now. Not as bright. He blinks, zeroing in on the face that belongs to the voice. He doesn’t know it. In fact, it isn’t a face at all. It’s just a blank. Unrecognisable words and blank faces. It feels like a horror story but he doesn’t feel like there’s something wrong with the world, he feels like there’s something wrong with him. Something very, very fucking wrong. 

The face changes as he watches it, like it would be smiling if it had a mouth. Then more words he can’t make sense of.

“That’s it, good man. Doc’s goin’ to check ya out. I’ve got ya.”

More words he can’t understand, other voices he doesn’t know. Pins of light in his eyes. He tries to jerk his head away but it’s too painful. Clicking fingers. Something sharp on the soles of his feet. A tap on each knee. More words. More people. Too close. He tries to raise his hand to push them away but it’s still clasped tightly by the skull voice so he tries the other one but that just fucking hurts so he closes his eyes and tries to escape back into himself.

Ghost squeezes Soap’s hand and looks up at Dr. Greene. “Well? Verdict?”

“About as I expected. All reflexes fully intact, that’s a good sign. But he isn’t responding to commands, as you saw. Now I’m not surprised about that, I told you I expected his language centres to be affected so the most likely explanation is that he simply doesn’t understand what the commands mean. We’ll get him a repeat CT and an MRI over the next few days to see how things are looking but I’m not concerned at this point.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Press the button if you’re worried. And please don’t speak to any of our staff members like that again.”

“Apologies. Duly noted.” Ghost nods at her, and at Anya.

Dr. Greene leaves but Anya hovers by the doorway. “How did you know?” she says. “About turning the lights off?”

Ghost manages a thin smile. “That’s classified, love. Let’s just say, similar experience.”

Anya nods. “I’ll bring you some more tea in a bit,” she promises, then leaves, closing the door behind her so the room stays dark.

When the door clicks closed, Soap knows he’s alone with the skull voice. The safe voice. He opens his eyes again. His vision is off. Dark on one side. He blinks to try to clear it but that doesn’t work so he tries to shake his head but that just sends a bolt of pain through both temples. There’s an annoying beeping noise coming from somewhere. He can’t pinpoint it. Doesn’t matter anyway. If the skull voice is here, he’s safe.

More words he doesn’t understand from that deep, gravelly voice. He zeros in on it, tries to focus on the face, the blurred features that refuse to sharpen into anything coherent. But it isn’t just a faceless voice. It’s attached to a body too. Big. Tall, even though it’s sitting down. Black hoodie. He knows this person. He knows he knows this person, tries to logic it out. Deep voice, big man, black hoodie, skull. 

Not a skull. 

A ghost. 

It’s Ghost. LT. Simon.

Soap laughs. It hurts his throat and sends another lightning bolt of pain through his head. His mouth is dry, his throat is scratchy and sore, but he has to try to speak anyway. “Ghost,” he says, his voice hoarse and weak.

But what comes out isn’t Ghost. It isn’t a word at all, just an indeterminate sound that doesn’t sound anything like the word he tried to say.

Ghost furrows his brows, grips Soap’s hand tighter. “Didn’t catch that, mate. Come on, give it another go.”

Soap’s heart rate ticks up. The monitor beeps more quickly. Cannae understand him. Cannae understand maself. The fuck’s wrong wi’ me? He tries to remember what happened before the icy blackness, but all he can find is white noise and flashes of images; soldiers and blood and dark and more people who are important to him. People who aren’t here. He swallows again, grimaces at the scratchy feeling in his throat, like something is lodged in it. “Ghost,” he tries again. “The others?”

Ghost’s heart falls through the floor. He should have been prepared for this. The doc warned them that this is how it would likely go. But to see it and hear it for himself; the clear lack of understanding and the nonsense words when Soap tries to speak, the ones that sound like baby talk, haunting in Soap’s deep voice, that’s when it really hits him. Soap is gone. If there’s anything left of him at all, he’s going to have the battle of his life to find it again. Maybe he never will. 

And it’s all Ghost’s fucking fault.

He falls into silence, until Soap’s fingers twitch in his hand, demanding his attention, then he looks up. Soap looks back at him. His eyes are bright, clear, full of life. Full of fear. Ghost swallows hard against the swell of emotions. Fuck I’m selfish, hadn’t even fuckin’ considered how he feels. He’s still fuckin’ there. Haven’t lost him. He’s here an’ he’s fuckin’ scared. Got to do better. He smiles as reassuringly as he knows how to; hopes it doesn’t give Soap the impression he’s about to be murdered. Sometimes Ghost smiles like that. He wears the mask so often that he forgets what he’s supposed to do with his face and smiles don’t come naturally to him, but he tries. For Soap. 

“You’ll be ok, mate. Just need some time. You’ll get there. Know ya will. You’re a hard headed bastard. You’ll get through this. Rest now. I’ve got ya.” He keeps his tone calm. Matter of fact. Same as he had in Las Almas when he was talking Soap through the town. Soap might not understand the words yet but Ghost hopes they have enough shared history that he recognises the voice, knows the tone, knows he’s safe or at least that he will be soon. 

It seems to work. Some of the tension eases from Soap’s face and he closes his eyes. Ghost keeps talking. Mostly he’s talking about random shit. It doesn’t come easily to him but he tells Soap what he had for breakfast (a stale croissant and a dried up apple), and a documentary he watched when he couldn’t sleep the night before (about a footballer Soap probably knows of). And when Soap’s features soften into sleep, Ghost takes out his phone and puts on some music, something he thinks Soap would like, something to muffle the beeping machines.

Anya brings him the cuppa she promised him, and lets him know that Soap’s CT and MRI have been scheduled for the following day. Ghost thanks her and settles down to wait for Gaz to relieve him in a couple of hours.

Except it isn’t a couple of hours, it’s less than one, and it isn’t just Gaz, it’s both of them.

“Wanted to see him,” Price says by way of explanation. “How is he?”

“Asleep,” Ghost says quietly.

“They didn’t wake him?” Gaz says, matching Ghost’s quiet tone.

“They did. He’s asleep, not drugged.”

Gaz chuckles. “Thought he’d have had enough of that by now.”

“They’ve got him on the good pain meds,” Price says, lowering his voice. “How was he? When he was awake, how was he?”

“As the doc told us. Can’t follow commands. Think he tried to speak but he wasn’t making any fuckin’ sense. Not even words.”

“Fuckin’ hell.”

“Yeah. He’s in there, though. Looked scared. Think he knew me.”

“He’ll know all of us. He has to,” Gaz says, trying to sound confident even though he isn’t. The thought of losing his best mate like this is almost worse than the thought of losing him to death. He moves closer to the bed. “Don’t be scared, mate, we’re all here, we’ve got your back. Always.”

Soap stirs. He isn’t lost in the dark anymore, now he feels like he’s floating, drifting aimlessly but securely tethered by the hand holding his. Another voice. One he knows. More words he can’t make sense of. He slowly opens his eyes. It isn’t too bright this time but he still can’t see properly. Three people. Ghost. Still holding him to reality. The new voice. Softer. Not as deep. No face. Standing. Tall. Leaner than Ghost. Bro. No. Gym bro. Gaz. 

Thank fuck fir that. He’s ok. Tried askin’ Ghost earlier bu’ he couldnae understand me. 

Soap blinks, swallows, tries to speak. “Gaz, yer ok.”

Once again, what comes out of his mouth makes no sense - not to him and not to the others.

“Alright, alright,” Gaz says, relief clear in his voice. At least Soap is awake and trying to speak. The rest will come soon. “It’s ok, mate, don’t stress yourself. Found you a vid on youtube, world’s best ever explosions. I’ll show you later if you feel up to it.”

“Explosions, Kyle?” Price says, rolling his eyes. “Is that really the best thing?”

Soap angles his head, winces as the tiny movement sends white hot pain through his skull, zeros in on the third voice. No face. Why can ah no’ see their fuckin’ faces? This one doesn’t take him so long to work out. This time he has context. Deep voice like Ghost’s. Not as tall as Ghost, taller than Gaz. Hat. With Ghost and Gaz. Price. They’re safe. They’re all safe. They’re all here. With him. For him. Now he’s safe too. He doesn’t try to speak again, it’s pointless, but he tries to smile instead. It hurts and it feels weird, like he’s doing it wrong, but he tries. 

Price notices and smiles back. “Ya broken, Sergeant?” he says, not expecting an answer. Even if Soap could answer, he would say no which is blatantly untrue. “Good to see those baby blues again. Try not to get shot in the fuckin’ head again next time, sunshine.”

None of them think there will ever be a next time and Soap doesn’t understand the words anyway, but it lightens the mood until one of the nurses comes in and reminds them that it’s supposed to be one visitor at a time, not three. 

“Sorry,” Price says, sounding anything but. “Right. You two. Off ya fuck. Got somethin’ I need to talk to him about.”

Gaz grumbles something about explosions but he and Ghost leave and Price sits down by Soap’s bed. It doesn’t matter whether Soap can understand or not. Price always thinks better aloud and this plan has to be foolproof.

He’s going to kill Shepherd.

Chapter Text

Price disappears soon after that. He doesn't announce where he's going; Gaz and Ghost know anyway. He has to do it alone. Something like this is too much of a risk, too much comeback if he gets caught. He'll take the risk himself but won't allow his lads to take it for themselves. 

Gaz and Ghost take turns sitting with Soap. Eight hours on, eight off. Gaz, having noticed Ghost’s tendency to eat crap when left unsupervised, takes point on making sure they both get at least once decent meal a day. Ghost argues that a ration pack counts as a decent meal. Gaz argues that it doesn't. Ghost keeps on top of their laundry but most of his focus is on Soap; liaising with the medical team about his progress and what they can do to help. Kate is still paying for their hotel and putting it through the 141 books so at least they don’t have to worry about that and they can focus on Soap.

Soap is still spending a lot of time asleep. Partly because of all the nice floaty pain medication they’re giving him but mostly because his brain still has a lot of healing to do and sleep is the best way to do that. When he’s awake, they raise the head of the bed so he’s sitting up. He hates it. Within seconds of being upright, blood is pounding in his head, hot and painful, and a burning red poker drills its way through his temple and deep into his brain. He tolerates it for as long as he can and when he can’t take it anymore, he slams his hand on the bedrail until someone lies him down again. 

He can do that now. He can move his limbs. Someone comes in twice a day and says words he doesn’t understand before they start moving his arms and his legs, helping him to stretch. The movement feels pretty fucking good. Except his left arm, that hurts his shoulder, but none of it hurts his head so he considers it a win. It only takes a couple of days before he’s moving with support, and only a couple more before he can move alone. They keep saying words to him. Keep touching him here and pressing him there like they want him to do something, but he can’t figure out what they want. Sometimes he tries moving anyway. It’s never right. They pat his leg and leave. Other times he can’t be arsed with any of it so he slams the bedrail until they go away.

Mostly, though, he spends his time in a haze. His head, when it doesn’t hurt, feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool. Thinking feels like crawling on his belly through thick mud that threatens to suck him down into it; wet and slow and torturous. Ma heid’s mince, he thinks regularly.

He’s worked out a few things, slowly made deductions around the fog that clouds his ability to think. Hospital. Ghost and Gaz. Price hasnae been here fir a while. Dinnae know how long. The strangers who come into his room and touch him and say words he can’t understand are medical staff. Dinnae know their names. Might no’ be the same people. Cannae tell when ah cannae see their fuckin’ faces. He can’t see out of one eye which is why his vision is so fucking off. He can’t hear out of one ear. Ma shoulder’s still sore as fuck. Heid still really fuckin’ hurts. Somethin’ really fuckin’ wrong wi’ me. 

Hospital. Shoulder. Head. Pain. Shot.

He bursts out laughing. Goat shot in the fuckin’ heid. What a fuckin’ numpty. Nae fuckin’ wonder ma heid’s mince. 

Gaz looks up, caught somewhere between alarmed and amused. It’s the first time Soap has laughed since he woke up. It’s a good sound but he isn’t sure if it’s a good sign or not. “Something funny, mate?” he asks.

But Soap doesn’t understand and wouldn’t be able to answer even if he did. He just lies there and laughs until tears are rolling down his cheeks and white hot pain drills through his head.

Gaz looks around for something funny. Something, anything, that might have made Soap laugh like that. There’s nothing. The documentary (World’s Best Demolitions) they’re watching on Gaz’s tablet isn’t funny. Unless Soap has spotted a technical error. But Gaz would have noticed it too and he hasn’t. No one’s outside the room pulling stupid faces. There’s nothing funny going on at all. Nothing to make Soap laugh. He takes out his phone and turns on the selfie camera in case he has literal egg on his face after breakfast but that isn’t it either. His clothes aren’t inside out. Soap is just…laughing. Apparently at his own thoughts. Better than crying, he tells himself, and makes a mental note to tell Ghost later so he can talk to the medical staff about it. 

But Dr. Greene doesn’t have any insights, just says something about emotional lability and that it’s to be expected. Inappropriate or unfiltered emotional responses are normal. She does say that Ghost can try getting Soap to drink some water, though. He has a feeding tube so he doesn’t need to drink, but it’s a good first step on the way to getting the feeding tube out so he can eat and drink normally. 

Ghost thinks he’d have more luck getting Soap to drink a glass of whisky than a glass of water. He doesn’t say that, though. He’d only get a lecture on the interactions between alcohol and all the medication Soap is on, so he just takes a jug of water and a plastic cup and goes back into Soap’s room. He puts them down on the locker beside the bed and goes through his usual routine.

“Ghost,” he says, pointing at himself, then taps Soap on the chest. “Johnny.” 

Soap bashes his hand away. Hard. Aye, ah fuckin’ know ye’re Ghost an’ I’m Johnny. Ah fuckin’ know tha’. He’s been sitting up for a few minutes now and his head hurts and he doesn’t need this shite.

Ghost smiles. “Pissin’ ya off, yeah? Here -” he fills the cup with water and holds it out to Soap. “Water. Drink.”

Soap reaches for it instinctively, tries to take the cup, but he can’t fucking see straight and he misses by a mile. 

Ghost takes his hand and guides it to the cup. “Drink.”

Two seconds later, he’s soaking wet. With surprising accuracy (or perhaps just because Ghost was standing close enough), Soap has managed to throw the entire cup in his face and now he’s sitting there with that fucking smirk. 

Ghost’s heart aches as he runs his hand over his face to wipe the water away. Missed that fuckin’ smirk. Nice to see it again. He refills the cup and holds it out to Soap, not helping him to take it this time. He knows what’s going to happen a heartbeat before it does.

Soap takes the cup and throws it over Ghost again.

Predictable, Ghost thinks.

Funny as fuck, Soap thinks. He’s still smirking.

Ghost wipes the drips off his face again. “Fuckin’ hell, Johnny. Enough,” he growls, but there’s a hint of laughter to his tone. He refills the cup once more but this time he holds it up to Soap’s lips, trying to make the point that it’s for drinking, not throwing. 

Soap drinks this time. He gags on the first sip; the tube that goes from his nose and down his throat makes swallowing difficult. The second is smoother, the third is normal, and he’s soon finished the whole cup. He bashes Ghost’s hand away and winces. His head is fucking killing. He’s been sitting up for too long, pain is spiking deep into his brain, the room is starting to spin and he thinks he might boak. He slams his hand against the bed rail, over and over.

“Rog’,” Ghost says. He knows that look. Knows that slam. Pain. He presses the switch on the bed and says “down”.

Soap closes his eyes and lets himself drift. The pain is less when he’s lying down and the meds he’s on get it under control quickly. He’s soon back in the floaty haze and asleep a few moments later.

Ghost sits down by the bed and watches Soap sleep. Least he can fuckin’ drink now. An’ he’s throwin’ stuff at me. Good signs. That’s Soap. Can’t talk. Not even sure he fuckin’ understands a word I’m sayin’, but that’s Soap. Clear as fuckin’ day. Fuckin’ good to see. 

He gets Soap to drink some more when he wakes up again.

More water is thrown.

Ghost is still soaked when Gaz arrives.

“Why are you wet?” Gaz asks, peering at Ghost’s dripping hair and the damp patch on his hoodie.

“Communication issues,” Ghost says. “Piece of advice. Don’t put a cup of water near him unless you’re wearing a fuckin’ waterproof.”

“Uh, noted,” Gaz says, still looking slightly confused. “He can drink again?”

“Yeah. Don’t fuckin’ trust him though. Fucker thinks it’s fuckin’ funny.”

“Not a bad thing. Still got his sense of humour.”

Ghost nods and walks out.

Gaz sits down. He doesn’t take the advice. 

He ends up soaked too.

When Ghost finds out, he agrees with Soap. It is fucking funny.

Chapter Text

Price comes back two days later. Straight off the plane, still in his uniform though he isn't sure he has a right to wear it anymore. He's pleasantly surprised to find Soap sitting up in bed, a familiar smirk on his face. He's less pleasantly surprised to find his Lieutenant with water dripping from his eyebrows, looking ready to commit murder.

Ghost has just put another cup of water on the table in front of Soap and ill advisedly turns towards his Captain, only to end up soaked yet again, except on the side of his head this time. He closes his eyes and lets out a long suffering sigh.

“What in the bloody fuckin’ hell is goin’ on here?” Price snaps.

“Workin’ on communication skills,” Ghost bites out. “Not going very fuckin’ well.”

“Is that right?” Price moves in closer. “Good to see ya, Johnny. Lookin’ better.”

Soap angles his head, focuses on the new voice. He still can’t see faces properly. They’re less blurry now, less horror story-like, but they still refuse to cohere to anything resembling a recognisable human; a jumble of features like a bad photofit. Uniform. Hat. Deep voice. Price. 

Ghost points himself and says his name, then at Soap and says his too, then at Price and says his. He repeats it and Soap glares back at him, no longer smirking.

Ah fuckin’ know that’s Price. Ah cannae understand anythin’ fuckin’ else ye’re sayin’ but ah fuckin’ know who that is. I’m no’ fuckin’ stupid. 

“Progress report?” Price says.

“Looks at me when I say his name now. Think he understands that but not much else.”

“An’ the water?”

Ghost side eyes Soap. “Fucker thinks it’s fuckin’ funny. Does it to Gaz too. Not the staff though.”

“Tellin’ us he’s still in there.”

“‘S’why I tolerate it.”

Price nods and refills the cup of water. He puts it down on the table and waits. Sure enough, Soap swipes for it but Price catches his wrist before he gets close. “Enough, Sergeant,” he growls, inches away from Soap’s face. “Pack it in.”

Soap blinks. He doesn’t understand the words but he knows that tone. The don’t fuck with me tone. He recognises the voice of authority; the only one, perhaps, that he’s ever recognised as having authority over him. 

Price watches him closely, watches for that acceptance, then lets go of Soap’s wrist. He digs around in his pockets until he finds a pair of tac gloves; he folds them into a ball and throws them at Ghost. They hit him smack in the shoulder.

“Bloody hell,” Ghost says, tossing them back to Price. “Both of ya?”

Soap is smirking again so Price puts the gloves on the table, next to the full cup of water. “Make wise choices, Johnny,” he says. “Anythin’ else I need to know?”

“Slams the bed rail when somethin’s pissin’ him off. A person. Too much light. Too much noise. Sittin’ up too long causes him pain. Can see it in his face. If it gets too much, he’ll hit the bed rail until he’s lyin’ down again.”

“Rog’, noted. Bed rail means there’s a problem that needs fixin’.”

Ghost nods. “Shepherd?”

“Done. No souvenir, I had to exfil PD fuckin’ Q.”

Soap looks up. One clear word. The rest sounds like a garbled radio message but there’s that one word. Exfil. His heartrate ticks up and he twitches like he’s getting ready to move.

Ghost clocks it. “He understood ya. Somethin’, anyway. Say it again.”

Price looks doubtful but repeats it anyway. 

“Exfil,” Ghost says. “Is that right, Johnny? Exfil?”

Aye, fuckin’ exfil. Get me the fuck outtae here. Exfil. Exfil. Exfil. Soap slams his hand against the bedrail, over and over.

Ghost hits the button and lowers the bed, but he doesn’t think it’s right. Soap doesn’t have that look. He tries anyway.

But Soap doesn’t stop. He hits the rail again and again, until his hand hurts and his head is spinning and tears are running down his face. Exfil exfil exfil exfil. 

He makes so much commotion that one of the nurses rushes in and injects something into his IV and then he’s floating again, with that one word echoing around his head. 

“Jesus,” Ghost mutters. “Haven’t seen him that bad before.”

“Meaning’s clear though, innit? Exfil. He wants out.”

Ghost nods and sits down by the bed, leans over and brushes the tears from Soap’s cheeks with his thumb, then takes his hand. “Makarov?”

“Still workin’ on it.”

“I want to be there.”

“Ya will be.”

Ghost nods. Price squeezes his shoulder and fades out of the room. He has work to do.

Chapter Text

Soap is taken off for tests the next day. They keep him under sedation for all of them and Ghost is allowed to supervise - at least from outside the room. 

When the test results are back, Dr. Greene calls Ghost out of the room to discuss them. Soap is asleep, or at least still heavily medicated enough to be resting, so Ghost follows her out into the corridor.

“Right, short version, everything looks good and we’ll discharge him to the general ward in the next day or so,” she says briskly.

“He’s not ready. He still can’t sit up for more than 20 minutes, still full of fuc- tubes, can’t walk.”

“He is. He doesn’t need 24 hour nursing care anymore. All the care he needs can be handled in a general ward. You’ve seen how feisty he is, he’s making very quick progress. Much quicker than we would normally see. The injuries themselves are healing well, he’s showing no signs of seizure activity, as confirmed by the EEG. We’re even seeing evidence of brain remapping on the MRI. Does he speak a second language by any chance?”

“Several.”

“That would explain it. His language centre was already more advanced than most. I’ll get the paperwork filed for his discharge. We can move him to a hospital closer to home if that would be better for him. He’ll need continuing nursing care, tests, monitoring, so he’ll need to be somewhere all of that can be done.”

“Defence Rehab Centre said they can take him as soon as he’s ok to travel.”

“Give me his details and I’ll make the call.”

Ghost hesitates. Kate’s assured him that the identity is watertight. No one will ever know that Soap isn’t SSgt John MacIntyre. He nods and takes Dr. Greene’s clipboard, and writes down his name, date of birth, army number. “Should be all ya need.”

Dr. Greene checks and nods. “I’ll arrange the transport and let you know when it’s happening.”

“We’ll arrange our own.”

Dr. Greene lets out a long suffering sigh. “You’ll need medics, preferably a neurologist too, and he’ll need to be sedated.”

“Not a problem.” Ghost thanks her and goes back to Soap. He sits down next to the bed and tells Soap he’ll be moving somewhere else soon. It seems pointless while Soap is asleep but he does it anyway, and sends texts to Price, Gaz and Kate, just saying witness exfil soon. They’ll all know what it means.

He still isn’t sure Soap is ready for this yet, he still seems too unwell to not have round the clock care, but Dr. Greene was right about one thing. Soap really is feisty. Ghost is mostly relieved that Gaz bought him some soft stress balls to throw around so at least they’re getting soaked in water less often now. Even if it has been replaced by spending most of his time hunting down stress balls that could end up anywhere. Soap’s aim with the water had only been good because they were standing close enough to him that he couldn’t miss. The balls, on the other hand, either hit their mark with terrifying accuracy or fly wild. Ghost isn’t sure which he prefers. Picking them up is annoying but so is being hit in the face five times in a row. 

Soap smirks about it either way, apparently happy just to be causing trouble, whatever form that takes.

*

They run his transfer like a military operation. Dressed in black and armed to the teeth, Gaz and Price run decoys. Mannequins wrapped in bandages are moved; one with Gaz in an ambulance driven by soldiers from a nearby base; one with Price in an RAF chopper. Neither draws any unwanted attention so the mission is a go.

Ghost, in plain clothes with only concealed weapons, escorts Soap with Nikolai in a private helicopter that’s registered to an Italian businessman. No one asks Nik too many questions, like where did you get this. There are some things they don’t need answers to. 

Soap knows there’s something up. Ghost’s tone has been clipped since he arrived and his tone is gruffer than usual, and when Soap throws a ball at him to get his attention, Ghost puts it in his pocket instead of giving it back to him. Aye, he’s stressed tae fuck. Doesnae take his eyes offae the fuckin’ door. Waitin’ for somethin’. More docs? Somethin’ wrong wi’ me? Why will he no’ fuckin’ tell me? He slams the bed rail to try to get Ghost to talk to him but Ghost barely looks round. He has his finger pressed to his ear. Radio. Ah still cannae fuckin’ understand him. 

“Rog’,” Ghost says quietly. “Medics? Rog’. On the move. ETA five minutes.”

He beckons the nurse into the room and nods at her. She injects something into Soap’s IV and everything starts to go hazy, a cloud of muted colours and slowed down thinking.

Ghost leans over the bed. “Johnny. Exfil.”

Exfil. Leavin’ here. Good. Dinnae fuckin’ want tae be here any moar. Soap manages to slap the bed rail, just once, and then he fades into blackness as the sedatives kick in.

When he wakes up again, it’s to a dim room that he doesn’t recognise. Panic shoots through him. His heart races, his mouth is dry and his eyes dart everywhere, searching for something, anything familiar. 

A figure looms over him. He can’t see its face, not properly. Just the usual mishmash of features that don’t make any fucking sense. He slaps at it. Misses. Tries again. It catches his hand. Holds it.

“Johnny. It’s me. You’re ok. You’re safe. I’ve got ya.”

Deep voice. Big. Warm hand. 

Ghost.

Ghost is here. He’s safe. He’s ok. As long as Ghost is here, he’s ok. 

The beeping on the monitor gradually slows down as Soap calms.

“Ghost,” he says. His voice is scratchy and weak, the word slow and slurred but recognisable. 

Ghost lets out a wet laugh. “Yeah, yeah, Johnny. Ghost.” He’s shaking as he sits down, still holding Soap’s hand.

Soap squeezes his hand and closes his eyes again. He still feels heavy and slow, like he’s stuck in quicksand or caught in a scifi horror where time has slowed down.

Sleep sucks him in quickly.

Ghost doesn’t let go of his hand.

Chapter Text

The rehab centre is grey and distinctly uncheerful, but it’s secure. There's no need for them to stay with Soap 24/7 anymore. Armed guards on all entrances, a visitors permit system, security cameras, and even metal detectors, mean that he's as safe as he can be.

Gaz goes back to Credenhill to pack up Soap's room and empty his locker. It's harder than he thought it would be. He's alive, he reminds himself. He's alive and he's going to be ok. You're not doing this because he's dead. But it still hurts. 

He sorts everything into three piles. Rubbish, which is mostly things like socks with holes in them and half empty bottles of toiletries. Soap, which is almost everything else. A new journal, pens and pencils. Clothes. His laptop, but only after Gaz has accessed it and wiped everything that's identifiably Soap. Memories, which is all of the things Soap can't keep. Photos, mainly. His medals. His wallet and phone. His filled journal, the final entry missing; he'll give that to Price because it's full of intel that might be useful. Anything else, anything that someone might notice and link back to who he really is, Gaz takes those. He'll keep them safe himself, hold onto them for whenever Soap wants to look at them. That won't raise suspicions, it's perfectly normal to keep mementos from a dead best mate. Soap would have done the same for him, kept hold of anything important that his family didn't want. Gaz will do it now.

And if he sheds a tear or two over his not-dead best friend, well, no one will ever know about it.

He stops at the shop on the way to the hospital, picks up some drinks for Soap. Something more interesting than water. Something more boring than beer. Fruit juices and milkshakes and sports drinks that are really just sugar, and some Dr. Pepper because he knows Soap likes it. He hesitates in the biscuit aisle, fingers hovering over a packet of jammie dodgers for a full minute before he thinks better of it. As far as he knows, Soap isn't eating yet. 

Soon, he tells himself. Soon. 

When he gets to Soap’s room, Ghost is asleep in a chair, arms folded, chin on his chest. His gear is stashed in a corner and Gaz wonders if he’s left at all, or whether he’s sleeping here. 

Soap isn’t asleep though. He’s sitting up, looking at Gaz expectantly.

“Awright, mate,” Gaz says, pitching his voice low as he moves closer to Soap’s bed. “How are you doing?”

“I know you’re here, Garrick,” Ghost says, not looking up. “Don’t have to be quiet.”

“Fucking hell, thought you were sparko.”

“Resting my eyes.”

“Old man.”

“You will be too one day.”

“Hopefully. I brought some of his stuff. And some drinks.”

Soap slams the bed rail. Steamin’ fuckin’ jesus, will ye both stop fuckin’ ignorin’ me. Ah’m still fuckin’ here. 

Gaz looks round at him. “Sorry, mate. Here, I brought some stuff for you.” He puts the bags down in the corner, next to Ghost’s, and unpacks a couple of things; not much, he knows Soap is easily overwhelmed and giving him everything at once will be too much, but he takes out the blank journal and a pen, and puts them on the table in front of Soap. “Not sure if you can write instead of speaking. Or draw pictures. Thought you might like it anyway.”

Soap stares blankly at them. Whit the fuck am ah meant tae do wi’ that? Something itches in his brain, something familiar, like he’s forgotten something vital, but he doesn’t know why a notebook would be important. 

“Look,” Gaz says encouragingly. He flips the journal open, picks up the pen, and draws the worst picture of a cat that anyone’s ever seen, then hands it to Soap.

Soap takes it. The cogs in his brain slowly whir into life, making connections painfully slowly. Just thinking hurts. His head is aching already. Notebook. Drawin’. Journal. Ah used tae draw in one. He looks closer at the drawing Gaz did. It’s some sort of animal but he can’t work out what it is. He isn’t sure if that’s because the drawing looks like a four year old did it, or if it’s yet another gap in his broken brain, whether he can’t recognise animals in the same way he can’t recognise faces. 

Aye, ‘cause ah’m a stupid fuckin’ prick the now. Cannae even fuckin’ think. He takes the pen when Gaz hands it to him and tries to draw something. It used to come naturally to him but it doesn’t now. Now he can barely get the pen onto the paper. When he tries to make the pen follow his thoughts, it doesn’t. It darts away of its own accord, makes lines and marks that he didn’t mean to. He scribbles over it. Tries again. And again. And again. Until, finally, he’s made the shape he was intending to. Two circles meet two parallel lines which are joined at one end by a curve. He pushes the notebook back towards Gaz and jabs himself in the chest with his thumb, trying to communicate what he means.

Gaz laughs and Soap hits the bed rail, then does it again. He taps the notebook, jabs himself in the chest, over and over until Gaz isn’t laughing anymore.

“Jesus,” Gaz mutters. “No, mate. No.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Ghost says, abandoning his attempt to rest his eyes. He’s too worried for that. “What have ya done?”

“Nothing. I don’t think. Look.”

Ghost peers at the drawing, looks at Soap, takes his hand to stop him poking himself. “Kyle, can you draw?”

“Well that was meant to be a cat, so. No.”

“Fuck’s sake. Take his hand, stop him fuckin’ hurtin’ himself. Tell him he’s not a fuckin’ prick.” Ghost takes the journal and the pen, lets Gaz talk to Soap, and gets to work. He draws a thick circle around the dick that Soap drew, then crosses it through with a thick black line. Below it, he draws a stick figure. It’s crap but at least it has the right number of arms and legs, which can’t be said of Gaz’s attempt to draw a cat, unless cats have evolved to have six legs in the time since Ghost last saw one. He draws a circle above the stick figures head, lines coming off it in an attempt to make it look like it’s shining. It looks nothing like an angel but it’s the best he can do. He puts the journal down so Soap can see it, taps the crossed out drawing and shakes his head, then the stick figure angel, then at Soap.

Soap watches everything he does, tries to work it out. He doesn’t understand, not really, but he thinks he gets the concept. His head aches too much to think too deeply about it. The dick he drew has been crossed out so that means no. Then Ghost has drawn something else. A figure. There’s more to it which he can’t work out, there’s something more complex that he’s missing, but he thinks Ghost is saying ye arenae a prick, ye’re this. What the this is escapes Soap. It’s still enough, though. He settles down, squeezes Gaz’s hand and closes his eyes, calm now.

Ghost lets out a quiet sigh. At least Soap is communicating. That’s a huge step. It gives them something to work with. He closes the journal and puts it to one side, just for now, just while Soap settles down again. He’s looking tired, he’ll want to lie down soon.

“Are ya stayin’ for a while?”

“Was plannin’ to.”

“Mind if I go? Need to get somethin’ to eat.”

“Yeah, fine. I’ll stay.”

“See if he wants a drink, then put the bed down. He’s been up a while.”

Gaz nods. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after him.”

“I know.” Ghost leaves Soap in Gaz’s hands, trusts that nothing else will go wrong in the 15 minutes it takes him to get to the cafeteria, bolt down a terrible meal, and get back.

Gaz gets two drinks out of the bag, opens one of the milkshakes and passes it to Soap. They sit there, each drinking their drink and it feels like old times in the pub. Only much, much quieter.

He sighs quietly to himself.

Maybe those days will come back.

Until then, he’s happy to sit here quietly with his friend.

*

Price goes back to Credenhill too. There's a lot of admin that goes with a soldier's death and he knows it all too well. Soap isn't dead but it still has to be done. It still feels real. In a way, it is. Soap will never be coming back to this, not to the army, not to the base, probably not even to the task force, though Price hasn't completely ruled out the possibility. Not yet. It's still early days. A tiny part of him still hopes. He squashes it down. Hope is a useless emotion.

Gaz has given him Soap's room key, spare uniforms and boots and equipment that he'd been squirreling away. And his journal.

Price swallows hard as he opens it. Each page is covered with detailed drawings and notes; mostly intel but some personal things from Soap. Little doodles and anecdotes. Thoughts he'd had that day. Kill Makarov underlined six times. A drawing of a skull with a heart around it. Price checks the reverse of that page; it's blank so he tears it out. That's too personal to leave in a journal he's keeping for intel purposes. 

He flicks to the last page, picks up his pen, and writes.

Who dares wins. Rest easy, Johnny. 

He sighs to himself and closes the journal. Feels too fuckin’ real. All does. Fuckin’ morbid writin’ that shit but if anyone else ever reads it… Can't put him at risk like that. Have to finish it properly. 

He puts the journal on his shelf and starts collecting all of Soap's gear. He painstakingly launders and irons all of the army issue clothing; the fatigues, number two uniform, dress uniform. He polishes boots and cap badges until they shine and shaves all the fuzz off Soap's beret. He spends an hour sponging blood off the tac vest Soap was wearing when he was shot. He stacks everything up and takes it all back to the stores who check it all off against the list, though they turn a blind eye to a missing regimental belt and a spare pair of boot laces. Under the circumstances, they say, we'll let it slide. 

Price just about manages not to snort at that but it's a close run thing. 

All that done, he starts cleaning Soap's weapons. Every last one has to be spotless. The knives, the grenades, the flash bangs, the guns.

The guns that should have saved him from gettin’ fuckin’ hurt. Should’ve let him kill that cunt four years ago. Won't ever make that fuckin’ mistake again. My fuckin’ fault all this happened. My fuckin’ fault he's lyin’ in a fuckin’ hospital bed. He should fuckin’ be here. Someone should be doin’ all this shit for me, not me doin’ it for him. I'm the one who should have been fuckin’ hurt. Not him. Not him. Shouldn't be cleanin’ his blood off his own fuckin’ weapons. He got hurt protectin’ me. Brave stupid fucker should've let Makarov kill me.

He works slowly, methodically, the steps ingrained into him by months of training and years of practice. 

And then, finally, once they're all cleaned, he gathers them all together and takes them to the armoury. He didn't really have to do it himself. They would have done it for him if he'd taken them in as was, but it isn't their responsibility. It's his.

“Sergeant MacTavish,” he says as he hands them over. “KIA 21st November. Sorry for the delay.”

His voice is cracking further and further with each word and he's grateful that the on duty armourer doesn't make a big deal out of it, just checks each weapon, ticks it off a list, and hands him a slip of paper that confirms all weapons are returned in ready to use condition. 

He leaves quickly, hurried footsteps carrying him on until he's somewhere dark and quiet and he can break. Just for a minute. Only a minute. That's all he can allow himself.

But for that one minute, he lets himself fully break. He cries, huge wracking sobs; he punches the wall and kicks the door and he lets go of all of it for 60 seconds. And then he takes a deep breath and gets back to work. That's all the time he has for emotions. 

Admin office next, more paperwork. He’s handed Soap’s will, which leaves everything to him, the closest person he has to a next of kin. Good. Means I can transfer it all back to him. Sell his car, close his bank account, give it all back to him under his new name. He’ll have to be careful, use some sort of intermediary, leave no trace, but at least Soap won’t be left with nothing. 

He’s given a letter, too. They all have one. To be opened in the event of my death. Price isn’t sure if he should read it. Soap isn’t dead and these letters, they’re personal. Most of them, anyway. His own isn’t. It’s just a list of practicalities and assets that no one knows he holds. Soap’s might be the same. Maybe there’s stuff that Price doesn’t know and Soap can’t communicate; important things that need to be dealt with.

He has to read it.

Just in case.

He goes back to his room before he opens that. Needs to be alone. He sits down, pours himself a whisky, and starts to read.

Cap

Ye’re probably blaming yeself, aye? Stop it. Whatever happened, it wis my fault. Too slow or something. Ye always looked out fae me. Hope ah didnae blow maself up ‘cause that would’ve been really fucking stupid. And messy. Hope ah didnae leave a mess for ye tae clear up. Quick and clean, aye? Best way. Make sure Gaz and Ghost know it wasnae their fault too. Hope ah went out daeing something good. Dinnae tell me if ah did something stupid like forgetting tae pull ma parachute cord or something. Ah dinnae want tae know.

Have a wee dram fir me and then move on.

Soap

Price draws a shaking hand over his face and downs his glass of whisky. Instructions followed, Sergeant. First part anyway. Second part is harder. Fuckin’ hell, have to stop thinkin’ like this. He isn’t fuckin’ dead. I’ll fuckin’ see him tomorrow. Jesus. 

He pours himself another whisky, gulps that one too, and beds down for the night. He still has a lot to do tomorrow.

In the morning, he heads out early, goes to a tiny town just off the motorway, finds the dead drop Kate has directed him to, collects the envelope and checks the contents. All in order. Good. There’s a new passport, bank account, driving licence, army ID, NI number, everything Soap needs to live his life as John MacIntyre. Explaining all of this to him isn’t possible. Not yet. Not until he can understand what the fuck anyone is saying to him, but it’s all ready when he needs it. A whole new identity. A fresh start. 

Wouldn’t that be fuckin’ good for all of us? Price thinks as he drives to the rehab centre. A clean fuckin’ slate. Reset our ledgers. He knows it wouldn’t work though. The things they’ve done, they’ll carry it all forever, no matter what name they use. There’s no cleaning all of that blood off their hands. Not for any of them.

Especially not him.

Instead of sitting down and having a nice drink with Soap like Gaz did, Price walks headfirst into an argument with Ghost.

“Need ya back at work,” Price says, before he’s even said hello or asked how Soap is.

Ghost is immediately on the defensive. “He needs me here.”

“No. It’s secure. He’s safe. Get back to work. Don’t make me pull rank on ya.” Price puts the envelope of documents with the rest of Soap’s things and stands there, arms crossed, an immovable object.

“Don’t give a fuck. Makarov could pay off someone who works here. Soap isn’t safe ‘til that cunt’s dead.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Price bites out. “An’ he could’ve done that any time he was in the other fuckin’ hospital but he didn’t.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t.”

“Fuck’s sake, Simon. I need ya back at work. I’ve already lost him, don’t make me lose you too.”

Ghost hesitates, considers arguing his case but thinks better of it. “Give me a week, John. Let me get him settled in.”

“Looks pretty settled to me,” Price says, glancing at a sleeping Soap. Then he runs his hand over his beard and sighs. “Fine. One week, then you’re back in the game.”

“One week.”

“Good. Now go and take a shower, Lieutenant Riley, you fuckin’ stink. There’s a gym five minutes up the road. Take my car.”

Ghost grabs his bag, takes the keys, and walks out, and Price sits down with Soap.

He picks up the journal and flicks through it, then puts it down with a deep sigh. Soap’s old journal was full of intricate drawings and calculations, notes for increasing the effectiveness of explosives. This one is full of random marks and childish doodles. Nothing resembling the skill he’d had before.

Another thing he’s lost. Another thing we’ve all fuckin’ lost. He was an asset to this fuckin’ team, he was the best of us, and now it’s just the three of us. I hope. Maybe it isn’t anymore. Maybe I’ve lost them too. Lost their respect. I got him hurt. Only natural they won’t respect me after that. Probably fuckin’ scared the same will happen to them. So am I.

So am fuckin’ I.

Price pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t let himself think like that. If he sinks into that spiral, there’s no way back. He can’t do his job if he’s scared to lose his men. 

And he has to do his job.

He has to get Makarov.

For Soap.

Chapter Text

Soap doesn’t get much chance to rest over the next couple of days. He’s doing well with drinking liquids and eating soft foods; he likes soup, he hates scrambled eggs, which is odd because he used to love eggs but now they taste like used condoms filled with chalk. Nevertheless, he’s made enough progress that they can remove his feeding tube. It makes him gag and his head hurts, but he feels better once it’s out, and it’s easier to swallow without it.

That night, he’s allowed a proper meal. His first proper meal. He eats less than half of it before he feels sick. The doctors tell Ghost that’s normal, he’s still on heavy duty medication and the head injury alone will be making him feel sick; with the side effects of the drugs, it’s no big surprise that he doesn’t have much of an appetite.

Ghost takes one bite of what the hospital says, laughably, is chicken curry, and goes down to the nearest takeaway to get Soap some proper food.

He eats less than half of that too, even though he likes a doner kebab with garlic sauce. 

Ghost finishes the rest of it. Not the curry, though. He thinks that should be outlawed under the Geneva Convention.

The next day, Soap manages a few bites of cereal which he doesn’t like, and a cup of orange juice which he does. His head is pounding from sitting up and he feels sick so he hits the bed rail but they don’t lie him down. Ghost doesn’t lie him down. He’s there and he’s watching and Soap throws a ball at him to try to get his attention but it doesn’t work, Ghost just says stuff to him that he can’t understand and then there are two nurses by his bed and Soap is being yanked around.

Get yer fuckin’ hands offae me. Need tae lie down. Ma heid’s killin’. Get tae fuck. 

But he can’t say that and they don’t stop. His legs are swung off the side of the bed and he reflexively sits up. His head hurts more, white hot bolts of pain that drill from his temple, down his spine and deep into his stomach. He groans and slaps them away. One of them yelps and claps her hand to her mouth, then Ghost is saying something. He can’t make out the words but the tone is soft. Soothing. 

And then Ghost is in front of him, warm and solid, and Soap collapses forwards into him, his forehead leaning against Ghost’s torso.

Ghost catches him, his heart aching. He knows how much this must be hurting Soap. How much pain he must be in. But it’s necessary. It’s the next step. “You’re ok, Johnny. Take a beat, then we’ll move, yeah? Gotta get ya up.”

Soap whimpers quietly. He just wants to lie down. He doesn't know why they won't let him lie down.

His whimpers turn to sobs as Ghost hoists him up, strong arms wrapped around his back, holding him close in the way he'd wanted to be held for so fucking long now but not like this. Not like this.

He tries to stand on his own, wants to stand, wants to prove he isn't weak, but his legs seem to have forgotten how to be legs and if Ghost wasn't holding him, he would crumple to the floor. More hands on him, something solid behind his knees, and then he's sitting down. 

Waves of nausea run through him. The room spins. Pain drills through his head. Nothing else exists. He's only vaguely aware of what's going on around him; of bright lights and being moved and then more hands on him and there's no deep voice to reassure him as he's stripped, no one to steady him as he tries to fight his way free. Water. Too cold then too hot. It prickles his skin and gets in his eyes and it’s too much, it’s all too much. More hands. A rough towel being dragged across his body, so sharp that it hurts. Hands again. Plasticky underwear that makes him feel like a wee fuckin’ kiddie. Softer clothing that smells familiar. Chattering voices. Laughter. He wonders if they’re laughing at him.

He’s parked in front of a mirror, staring at a reflection that he knows should be his own face. He doesn’t recognise it any more than he recognises any others. It’s just a face. Could be anyone. He looks away, closes his eyes, seeks escape from the all encompassing pain.

More lights rushing past, more movement and then finally, blissfully, he’s lying down in bed again. A cold rush through his veins that makes him shiver, a warm hand on his shoulder, a deep voice and then he’s floating, free from pain once again.

*

Ghost lets him rest, lets him sleep. When the nurses try to wake Soap up to eat, Ghost sends them away. Soap needs rest more than he needs food. He can’t take any more pain today. So Ghost sits there and he holds Soap’s hand and he makes sure Soap knows he isn’t alone. When Soap stirs, he encourages him to drink something, then lets him go back to sleep.

Soap doesn’t wake again until the morning. His head still hurts but he feels less sick and he manages a slice of toast after a bit of coaxing. 

The nurses insist that Soap gets up again. Ghost says he'll handle it. They aren't particularly happy but they agree and give him some instructions, first of which is don't go outside. 

Which, of course, is exactly what Ghost does.

He takes it more slowly than the nurses did yesterday, gives Soap time to adjust, watches him closely for any sign that he's not comfortable. The slightest flicker of Soap's eyelashes and Ghost stops and waits, lets him take a beat. 

Soap doesn't want to sit up again. It hurts. But it's Ghost. There are no other voices, just Ghost's, and Soap trusts. He's safe in Ghost's hands.

Warm socks are slipped onto his feet and then he's wrapped in a hoodie. It's black and smells of fag smoke and deodorant and the sleeves hang over his hands.

Ghost's. Feels like a hug. Steamin’ jesus ah'm turnin’ intae a fuckin’ softie. 

Soap looks up at him, searching for Ghost’s eyes and when he finds them, he can't stop the tears from falling. There's so much he wants to say and he can't. 

So he says the one thing he can say. “Ghost.”

The word is slow and slurred but it's clear enough to make Ghost smile. 

He brushes away the tears that slip down Soap's cheeks and gently pulls the hoodie sleeves up over his hands. “Ok, Johnny, time to move.”

Soap doesn't understand the words but he understands when Ghost wraps his arms around him. Stand up. He's stronger today. His legs have remembered how to be legs and he takes a shuffling step to the left when Ghost moves. 

Ghost carefully moves Soap to the wheelchair and lowers him down. He moves the IV bags from the bed stand to the wheelchair stand, per the nurse’s instructions, and grabs a blanket. He wraps it around Soap and tucks it in. “Right, mate, we're goin’ out. Fuckin' freezin’ out there an’ - hang on.” He goes over to his bag and rummages around until he finds a pair of sunglasses. He slips them over Soap’s eyes. “That'll help with the light. Not fuckin' rainin’ for once. Bright an’ cold. So ya can't complain that it's fuckin' pishin’ it doon.” 

Soap visibly relaxes once he has the sunglasses on and the light no longer hurts his eyes. He slowly tries to make connections. Ghost willnae be takin’ me tae the fuckin' bathroom. Fuckin' hope not, anyway. An’ he wouldnae hae given me his hoodie. Or sunglasses. So no’ the bathroom. Where? 

“Johnny,” Ghost says and waits for Soap to look up at him. He still isn't sure how much Soap can understand but he has to try, and a lot of army stuff is so ingrained into them that it's almost impossible to forget. If Soap's going to understand anything beyond their names, it's going to be signals. He places one finger to his lips. Then makes a circle with his fingers and lifts it to his eye like he's using a scope. And finally, he makes a sweeping, open handed, gesture towards the door.

Soap watches him carefully. Quiet. Eyes on. This way. Got it. He nods his head, the movement slow and exaggerated. Affirm. 

Ghost gives him a nod in return and moves in behind the wheelchair. He rolls Soap to the door, opens it and waits.

Cogs whir slowly in Soap’s brain. Why has he fuckin’ stopped? Thought we were gaein’ somewhere. What am ah meant tae be daein’? Quiet. Eyes on. This way. Eyes on. Eyes on. Eyes on. Got it! Ah can still fuckin’ think. He leans forwards, pushes past the spike of pain the tiny movement causes, and peers down the corridor. Looks clear. Signal. Signal. What’s the fuckin’ signal? It takes him a moment but then he slowly raises his hand, his thumb sticking up.

And then they’re rolling again. Ghost pauses at each turn, waits for Soap to give the all clear before he moves forwards. He’s getting quicker each time. Until the final corner when Soap doesn’t give the all clear. He doesn’t give the hold signal either but maybe he doesn’t remember that one yet. Ghost is about to take a step forward when a nurse rounds the corner and gives them a suspicious look. Soap’s eyes follow her and once she’s out of sight, he gives a thumbs up, grinning happily.

Ghost laughs thickly and rolls the chair down the corridor to the door. Good man. Couldn’t remember the hold signal but he knew not to give me the all clear. Good enough. He opens the door and waits again but only for a split second before he gets the thumbs up again and moves forwards into the enclosed garden.

Surrounded by buildings on all four sides and with only two doors, one of which is locked and for maintenance use only, it’s solid and secure. White frost litters the ground and lines the bare trees. A sun patch falls over a bench on the south side. Ghost makes his way over to it. He parks the chair so Soap’s back is to the sun and the light won’t bother him too much, puts the brake on, then sits down on the bench.

A gentle breeze tickles the skin on the back of Soap's neck. The cold soothes away the pain in his head until it fades into almost nothing. He can breathe out here. Space around him, sun on his back, fresh air. He closes his eyes and soaks it all up. Then there's a familiar click spark of a lighter and his nose is filled with the smell he knows so well. His chest aches with need, his mouth waters and he doesn’t even think. He opens his eyes, reaches out and swipes the cigarette from Ghost’s fingers.

“Oi,” Ghost grumbles goodnaturedly. “My fuckin’ fags have been lasting me a lot fuckin’ longer since you’ve been in here.”

But Soap doesn’t hear him. He lifts the cigarette to his lips, takes a drag and inhales deeply, draws the smoke into his lungs, holds it there, then breathes it back out. It burns and it makes his head spin but it’s like the first sip of water the morning after an all night bender. It makes him feel alive. It makes him feel normal. Sharing a quiet smoke with Ghost is normal. Doesn’t matter that he can’t speak and can’t understand anything Ghost says because they never talk when they do this anyway.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost says and lights another one. Maybe he’ll actually be allowed to smoke this one. For all his complaining, though, he puts the packet and the lighter down on the arm of the bench where Soap can reach them.

They sit there and smoke, one after another after another until Soap has had his fill and Ghost, having given his hoodie to Soap, is cold. 

“Ok, Johnny, let’s RTB,” Ghost says, standing up. Once again, he gives the signals for quiet, eyes on, and this way, but this time he adds the words.

Soap, once again, nods. He checks round every corner on the way back in and everything goes smoothly, right up until the final corner.

“Lieutenant Riley!” a sharp voice sounds out. “What did I tell you about taking Staff Sergeant MacIntyre outside?”

“Haven’t been outside, Colonel Lang,” Ghost says, maintaining a straight face.

“Of fucking course you haven’t,” Colonel Lang says, striding over to them. She leans down and looks distinctly unimpressed. “So why, then, does MacIntyre smell like a chimney.”

“He was cold, Ma’am. Lent him my hoodie. Had a smoke just before I came in. Must be that.”

“Mm. Must be. Don’t fucking do it again. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good. On your way, soldiers.”

Ghost snaps a half arsed salute which Colonel Lang returns, then he wheels Soap back to his room. He keeps a straight face right up until he closes the door, then he cracks a smile. “Close one.”

Soap, having not understood a single fucking word, had not missed the tone. He knows what a very thorough bollocking sounds like, and he knows what Ghost sounds like when he lies, and he barely makes it through the door before he’s laughing and laughing and laughing. 

And then Ghost is laughing with him and it’s normal. It’s the same laughter they share after a close call on a mission, a brush with death that leaves them high on the air they breathe.

It’s good.

It’s normal.

It’s them. 

*

They sneak out for another smoke that afternoon. They don’t get caught this time. The following morning, the nurses try to get Soap up for a shower again; and once again he violently opposes the idea. But when Ghost takes over and makes it a choice, Soap settles down and goes along with it. Ghost’s sunglasses help. The nurses have to take them off to help him wash his face but he’s allowed to wear them the rest of the time and it makes the light bearable. So much so that when he gets back to his room, he doesn’t fight them when they try to put him in the hospital chair instead of back in bed.

There isn't much chance to rest, though. Each day, he gets wheeled off to speech therapy which he hates because he doesn't understand what's being asked of him and it makes his head hurt and leaves him feeling so drained that even breathing feels like too much effort. Physical therapy is easier. Muscle memory kicks in; if they put a weight in his hand, he remembers how to do a bicep curl. If they lift his leg, he knows how to hold it there. Resistance bands and stretches all make sense to him. 

He's starting to move more on his own now. He needs less help transferring from the bed to the wheelchair, or from the wheelchair onto the physio table, as long as he doesn't have to shuffle more than a couple of inches one way or the other and as long as he has some support, someone to steady him and balance him. The dizziness still kicks in when he stands up and that's really the only thing stopping him. He's strong enough to walk, his legs still work, but his balance is shot to shit. 

But then they give him a challenge. He's in the wheelchair, parked in front of two parallel bars and he has no idea what's expected of him. The physiotherapist explains but Soap can't understand. His hands are moved so they're on the bars and something is starting to click into place. The physio is beside him, a little behind him, ready to help. Ghost is a few feet in front of him. Soap knows he's supposed to do something but he can't quite figure out what. 

Not until Ghost takes two steps backwards and waves at him. “Johnny,” he says, and places his open hand on his head. “On me.”

Then, finally, Soap gets it. On me. Come here. Get up an’ fuckin’ walk. Move your arse, Sergeant. 

He grips the bars, plants his feet, slowly stands up. The room spins around him, a kaleidoscope of colours that whirl around and make him want to boak. Head up. Eyes on Ghost. He willnae let me fall. He tightens his grip on the bars, steadies himself, fixes his eyes on Ghost, solid in front of him. Probably has fags in his pocket. Can probably steal ‘em fae him. If ah can get tae him. 

His head pounds, the room swims around him, but he shifts his grip on the bars and takes a step forwards with his left foot. He wobbles. Like he's drunk but not in a fun way. He lists to the right, holds tighter to the left bar to pull himself upright again, takes a step with his right foot. 

Creepin' bloody jesus, walkin’ used tae be easier than this. Ma heid's fucked. Cannae fuckin’ stand by maself. Breathe. Take another step. Get tae Ghost. 

So he does. Step after torturous step, he gets closer and closer until he’s toe to toe with Ghost. He’s clinging to the bars so tightly that his knuckles turn white. The room spins. Nausea rises in his throat. The pain in his head is so sharp, so hot and sharp, that he wants to place the ice cold muzzle of a gun to his forehead and pull the trigger, just to make it stop. 

But he’s made it. He’s made it all the way to Ghost.

“Good man,” Ghost says, then adds over Soap’s shoulder to the physio, “we done here?” 

More words, more hands on him, then Soap is back in his wheelchair, bundled up in Ghost’s hoodie and a blanket and he knows this. He understands this. He knows what’s happening. Outside. Fag break. Cold air. Quiet. His head hurts and he’s still dizzy and he still feels sick but he nods enthusiastically. He wants to go out. He wants that fag. He’s earned it.

Ghost doesn’t play any games this time. Soap’s done enough already. He walks quickly through the hospital to the door that leads out into the garden. 

Snow blankets the ground and muffles any noise. Soap stares at it. There wasnae any snow before. Looks deep. Looks like wherever the fuck that mission wis. Where wis it? Price was so fuckin’ angry, thought he wis gonnae kill that cunt. General whatever the fuck his name was. His heart rate ticks up. His head pounds harder. Why can ah no’ fuckin’ remember? Used tae remember everythin’. Why can ah no’ remember this? When did it start fuckin’ snowin’? It doesnae even look fresh, there are footprints aw over the place. Sun was out before. Last time. When did it start fuckin’ snowin? 

“Johnny,” Ghost says and taps his right hip. “Fags.”

Soap blinks and focuses on him but he can’t understand, he can’t fucking think. 

“Johnny,” Ghost says, and makes a more exaggerated motion this time, mimes putting his hand into a non-existent pocket. “Fags.”

“Fuck off!” Soap shouts. “Ah cannae fuckin’ understand a fuckin’ word ye’re fuckin’ sayin’ an’ ma fuckin’ heid fuckin’ hurts an’ ah cannae fuckin’ think any fuckin’ moar so get tae fuck.” But what comes out isn’t that. They aren’t even words, they’re incomprehensible angry sounds and his voice is so loud that it makes his head hurt even more.

Ghost barely reacts. He stands there impassively, his expression carefully neutral, and waits for Soap to stop shouting. “Ya done?” he says, calm and quiet. He bends down and scoops up a handful of snow, forms it into a loose ball and holds it out to Soap. When Soap takes it, Ghost backs off, stands further away, arms spread wide, offers himself up as a target.

Soap doesn’t even think. He just launches the snowball at Ghost and hits him squarely in the chest. Then another one is handed to him, and another and another; his aim is more accurate with each, until Ghost’s eyebrows are white and snow clings to his eyelashes and Soap is calm again.

Then Ghost comes back. “Johnny.” He taps his right hip. “Fags.”

This time, Soap copies his movement. Right hip. Pocket. He puts his hand in, closes his fingers around a small rectangular box and takes it out. Fags. He fishes around again until he comes out with a small metal lighter and then he smiles triumphantly. He fumbles a little but he manages to get two cigarettes out, puts them both in his mouth and lights them, then holds one out to Ghost.

Ghost takes it and leans against the wall, stares down at the ground. “I have to leave, mate. Have to go back to work.” He laughs. “Not even sure ya can understand me. Tellin’ ya anyway. I’ll come back if I can. Visit if I do. Not leavin’ ya, Johnny. Not again.”

Soap tries to listen, tries to pick up words, but all he gets is mate and Johnny. The tone, though, he knows that. Ghost is struggling with something. Trying to hide how he feels but his voice always lets him down. Cannae hide the emotions in his voice, only his face. He’s upset about somethin’. Ah dinnae know what. 

Ghost sighs and tries again, points at himself. “Me. Exfil.”

Soap understands that well enough. Ghost is leaving. He looks away, looks at the scruffed up snow.

“I'm sorry,” Ghost says quietly. “Price needs me.”

Soap looks up again. Price. Exfil. Mission. He has tae go. Work tae dae. Can understand that. He slowly lifts his hand, presses his thumb to his forefinger in a circle, his other fingers facing straight up. Ok. Then he looks away again, closes his eyes, drained of all energy.

Ghost takes him back inside. He gets him a doner kebab that evening.

The next day, he's gone.

He leaves behind his hoodie, his sunglasses, his fags and lighter.

Soap needs them more than he does.

Chapter Text

Without Ghost there, Soap is lost. He’s been left. Again. So much for nae man left behind, aye? They’ve gone withoot me. Ah know ah cannae gae but fuckin’ jesus, they’ve fuckin’ left me again. 

He tries, for the first few days. He gets up when the nurses tell him to, doesn’t lash out when they take him into the too bright bathroom and forget to give him his sunglasses. He wants to get better. Physical therapy, speech therapy, some other stupid fucking therapy that’s supposed to improve something but he doesn’t know what because he can’t understand what they’re telling him to do. There are coloured blocks and shapes and cartoon pictures designed for children. He throws the blocks across the room, screams something incoherent, and sits there with his arms folded, refusing to engage. 

When he isn’t in some sort of therapy session, he’s in his room. He wraps himself up in Ghost’s hoodie and draws in his journal. The skill he used to have is still lacking but he’s getting better, he can manage recognisable shapes now. He draws a skull. A blank face with a baseball cap. Another blank face with a boonie hat and a mutton chops beard. He still can’t recognise faces; they’re still a jumbled mess of features that he knows is a face but not who it belongs to. He still can’t remember the names of any of the medical staff. He knows when they tell him their names but he can’t retain the information for later and they don’t bother reintroducing themselves.

No one takes him out for a smoke. Repeated banging of the bed rails or throwing things, or slamming the fag packet on the table doesn’t get him anywhere. He can’t tell them what he wants and they don’t understand. Or if they do, they don’t act on it. He tries lighting up in his room but that just gets the fags and lighter confiscated.

After that, he spirals in on himself. He does what they want him to do, when he knows what they want him to do. If he doesn’t, well, he doesn’t put any effort into trying to understand. He does his physio sessions. He does their stupid fucking puzzles and when he gets it right and they give him a round of applause like he’s a wee fuckin’ kiddie, he throws the puzzle at them. He isn’t taken back there after that. 

The nurses get him up every day and take him to the too bright bathroom. They don’t help him so much now but they stand there and watch and somehow that’s worse. Somehow that feels like a bigger loss of dignity than being helped. Like he can’t be trusted to wash himself properly so he has to be supervised. He hates every second of it.

His IV is taken out so now he has to swallow pills several times a day. They don’t work as well. He’s left in the chair with the television on, blaring light and noise into his head. and nothing to relieve the pain. He cries, sometimes. When it gets too much and screaming and throwing things doesn’t bring anyone to his room to fix it. When the pain has spread from his head, down his nerves, until it fills him and nothing else exists except the white hot sensation that makes him want to destroy everything that causes it. Even if that’s himself.

The wheelchair is taken away and replaced with a wheeled walker. It’s harder to use but Soap considers it a good thing. He can get himself to and from the bathroom now so there’s no more plastic underwear, and he can take himself out for a smoke. Except he can’t because that’s still too far. The bathroom is ok because it’s just down the corridor, but the door to the garden is so far away that it might as well be on the moon. It’s further away than the physical therapy unit and they take him there in a wheelchair so he doesn’t stand a hope in hell of getting to the door to smoke. If he even still had Ghost’s fags and lighter. Which he doesn’t, though he’s formulating a plan to steal them back once he’s more mobile again.

There are ups and downs but the longer Ghost is away, the more downs there are. 

Soap cries more. His angry outbursts come more frequently and over more minor things. Food he doesn’t like. The wrong television programme. Too bright lights. When they take Ghost’s hoodie away to wash it, Soap lashes out so violently and for so long that they have to sedate him. 

The one positive comes when they leave him in the hospital chair for too long. The television is too loud, the remote control is by the bed, and his walker is out of reach. Pain is digging white hot needles into him; not just his head but his whole body, and Ghost isn’t here and there’s no fucking point in anything any more. He might as well be dead.

Being in a hospital makes that pretty close to impossible so he chooses the next best thing.

He grips the arms of the chair and pushes himself to his feet. It’s the first time he’s tried to stand without help, without another person or some sort of aid, and he wobbles dangerously as the room spins around him. But he’s determined and he doesn’t really care if he falls. 

He walks.

Between the chair and the bed is only a few feet but it feels like the 40 mile long drag, only with less mud and rain. But he makes it. He makes it and he collapses into the bed with a cry of pain. He doesn’t have anything left to be able to turn the television off. Even breathing takes too much out of him.

So instead, he wraps his arms around his head, shields himself from the light and the noise, and he cries and he cries and he cries.

Eventually he falls asleep.

The television is still on when he wakes up.

*

Ghost steps off the plane at Credenhill, throws his gear in the boot of his car and gets on the road. He’s been gone too long. The mission went FUBAR, took longer than expected, and none of them came out completely unscathed. Gaz took a bullet to the plate which has left him with bruised ribs. Price caught a piece of shrapnel to the leg; he’s fine, he’s been patched up, but he’s still limping heavily even though he’s trying to hide it. Ghost considers himself lucky to get away with a few bruises, a boxer’s fracture, and a dislocated shoulder which is now back in place, albeit still painful. For the first time, he feels old. He knows, objectively, that he isn’t, but he aches more than he used to and his knees and back have started creaking. 

But he doesn’t have time to worry about that now. The miles fly beneath the tyres. He stops to get kebabs from the chippy and it’s late by the time he reaches the hospital. One of the nurses tries to say something about visiting hours. Ghost breezes right past her. He doesn’t so much as slow until he reaches Soap’s room. 

He pauses in the doorway, watching. Soap is sitting up in the chair, drawing something in his journal. He’s no longer attached to an IV stand and he looks tired; pale and thinner than he was, but he looks good. He looks better. Better than last time Ghost was here. He’s still wearing Ghost’s hoodie and that does things to Ghost. Things that he doesn’t want to think about. Things he’s been carefully avoiding thinking about since long before Soap got shot.

“Johnny,” he says quietly.

Soap looks up. In an instant, the journal goes flying and he’s on his feet, barrelling towards Ghost. He crashes into him and hugs him with all of his strength.

Ghost’s ribs creak under Soap’s arms and he lets out a soft, surprised laugh as he brings his arms up and hugs him back. “Anyone’d think ya missed me or somethin’.”

“Aye,” Soap mumbles into Ghost’s shoulder. He can’t make out all of the words but he’s catching more and more every day. Some sentences are a jumbled mess. Others contain a few words and fragments that he can make sense of. Not always but sometimes. You. Miss. Me. He understood that. Not the rest of it, but those three words, and he knows how to respond. Aye, ah fuckin’ missed ye, ye cunt. Ah’m glad ye’re ok. Ah’m glad ye’re here. It’s pure fuckin’ gold tae see ye again. Ah dinnae know how long ye’ve been gone but ah’m glad ye’re here now. 

Ghost makes a choked sound and squeezes Soap tighter. “Fuckin’ hell, can ya understand me again?”

But Soap doesn’t say anything this time, just stands there, still hugging Ghost.

“Johnny? Ya understand?”

“Aye.”

Ghost exhales a shaky breath. “Missed ya.”

“M-” Soap says, but the word won’t come. He knows it, he knows what he wants to say, but it’s like the word is stuck. He makes a frustrated sound and pulls away. He doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to let go, he’s wanted this for so long, to hold Ghost and he held by him, but he has to. He points at himself, then at Ghost, hoping that’s enough.

“Ya missed me too?”

“Aye.” Soap is getting shaky now and his head is pounding so he retreats to his chair and sits down. He wants to ask about the others, about Price and Gaz, whether they made it home safe from the mission, but he doesn’t have the words for that yet so he gestures at the journal on the floor. When Ghost hands it to him, Soap spots the dark bruise across his hand. He catches his wrist, gently eases his hand closer so he can look. Bruised, split skin. He looks up at Ghost’s face. Moar bruises. Holdin’ his arm weird too. Tired. Fuckin’ hell, ah’m complainin’ aboot bein’ all shoogly an’ he looks fuckin’ wrecked. “Y-” he tries, then sighs and points at Ghost, then makes the ok symbol.

“Yeah,” Ghost says, giving him a thumbs up. “Yeah, I’m ok, Johnny.”

Soap nods and opens the journal, slowly flicks through the pages until he finds the drawings he’s looking for. He points at the blank face with the beard and hat, then makes the ok symbol again.

Once more, Ghost gives him a thumbs up. “Yeah. Price is ok.”

Soap nods and points at the blank face with a baseball cap, makes the ok symbol.

Thumbs up. “Gaz is ok too.”

“Aye, g-” Soap lets out an annoyed grunt. “Aye,” he repeats, then adds a thumbs up. 

Yes, all clear, all good. Fuckin’ hell, he’s communicating again. Almost like a conversation. He’ll be tellin’ me to fuck off soon. And takin’ the piss out of me for somethin’. Can’t fuckin’ wait. Ghost runs a shaking hand over his face and takes out a packet of fags. He holds them up in one hand, the bag of food in the other. “Food. Fag. Which first?”

Soap stares at him, brows furrowed as he tries to work out what’s being asked of him. It takes him a minute. He’s not used to being given a choice. Not any more. Everything he does is dictated by someone else, everything that’s done to him is someone else’s choice, not his. Food. Fag. Ah’m no’ hungry, feel like ah’m gonnae fuckin’ boak again but he’s fuckin’ knackered an’ he’s still covered in fuckin’ dust an’ shite, wee cunt’s probably straight offae the fuckin’ plane an’ ah cannae walk tae the fuckin’ door an’ the fuckin’ wheelchair’s not here so he’ll have tae gae an’ fuckin’ find one. Ah cannae ask him tae dae all tha’. He points at the food and gives Ghost a thumbs up.

“Rog’.” Ghost takes two boxes out of the bag and passes one to Soap. They’re both the same. He didn’t have the energy to decide what he wanted to eat so he got the same as Soap. Doner kebab with chips and garlic sauce. It’s fine. He doesn’t really care what he eats, food is food. He tries not to wince as he slowly lowers himself to sit on the floor, his back leaning against the wall.

Soap doesn’t miss it, though. Doesn’t miss how stiffly he’s moving or the flicker in his jaw as he sits down. “Ghost,” he says, then points at the bed.

Ghost stifles a groan. He’s just sat down. “Need help, Johnny?”

Soap shakes his head, side to side, just once, clear enough without making him even more dizzy than he already is. He points at Ghost, then at the bed.

Ghost follows his gestures and shakes his head. “No. You. Bed. Me. Chair.” His words are followed by a sharp yelp as Soap kicks him in the leg, really fucking hard. “The fuck was that for?”

Soap doesn’t answer, just kicks him again and points at the bed. Aye, get yer fuckin’ arse up an’ gae an’ lie down an’ then ah’ll stop fuckin’ kickin’ ye. 

“Bloody fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” Ghost snaps, rubbing his leg. “No.”

Soap throws a chip at him. It hits him on the jaw and lands on his shoulder. Ghost picks it up and eats it. He still doesn’t move. Soap kicks him again. And again. And again. Not so hard now but insistent. Bullying. Apparently he really isn’t going to give up so Ghost gets to his feet, using the wall for support and sits down on the bed.

“There. Ya fuckin’ happy now?”

Soap throws another chip at him. Ghost catches it in the air and eats that one too. He misses the next three, though, they land on the floor and he should probably pick them up but that feels like a problem for another time. Such as, after he’s finished eating his own food. Except he can’t eat his own fucking food because Soap doesn’t stop. He throws a chip, then points at the bed. Repeat. Clearly he isn’t happy yet.

Ghost sighs quietly. He knows what Soap wants him to do, he isn’t that fucking thick, but if he lies down, if he stops for a single second, he’s going to crash out and he can’t. He can’t do that. He can’t take Soap’s bed. Soap needs it more than he does. But Soap has that expression, one that Ghost knows so very, very well. The one that says ah will fuckin’ end ye if ye dinnae fuckin’ dae whit ah say. The set of his jaw, the glint in his eyes. Soap isn’t backing down. If he had a gun in his hand, it would be raised, ready, safety off. So Ghost sighs again and lies down, balancing the kebab on his chest. “Happy now?” he snaps.

“Aye,” Soap says, and starts eating his chips instead of throwing them. He watches Ghost until he’s satisfied that his breathing has evened out and he’s asleep with the takeaway box still on his chest. Only then does he pull up his hood and curl up in the chair. It isn’t big enough for him to really do that and it isn’t comfortable but it’s only for one night. Ghost needs the rest more than he does. He’s been resting for what feels like forever. He can handle one night with no sleep and too much pain.

But at some point he dozes off until he’s rudely awakened by a very loud voice.

“Lieutenant Riley!”

A loud thud as Ghost hits the floor.

“Beds are for patients,” Colonel Lang snaps, “not visitors. Lance Corporal Evans, can you please go and find a cot for Riley, apparently we’re stuck with him and Staff Sergeant MacIntyre needs his rest.”

Ghost rubs his elbow and manages to look contrite and confused all at once.

Colonel Lang sighs and shouts after Lance Corporal Evans. “And a couple of ice packs. Riley, perhaps you’d care to explain why you’re sleeping in a patient bed, why MacIntyre has been in a chair all night, and why there are chips all over my fucking floor.” 

“Sorry, Ma’am,” Ghost says, struggling to his feet. He isn’t sure he’s awake enough for a bollocking. “We were -”

“The pair of you are old enough to know better! Behaving like a couple of wet behind the ear recruits! Don’t do it again!”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Colonel Lang tosses a packet of cigarettes and a familiar lighter onto the table. “Speaking of things you aren’t going to do again, I believe these are yours and I will thank you for not leaving them here again. I don’t particularly care if either of you want to smoke yourselves to death but lighting up inside the fucking hospital is not permitted. Understood?”

Ghost glances at Soap who is trying and failing to keep a straight face. “Absolutely, Ma’am.”

“Good,” Colonel Lang says briskly. “Now seeing as Lance Corporal Evans is sorting out your sleeping arrangements, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to take Staff Sergeant MacIntyre to the canteen for breakfast.”

“Roger that, Ma’am.” Ghost salutes, Colonel Lang salutes in return, then sweeps out of the door.

Soap bursts out laughing. He can’t contain it any longer. He laughs and laughs and laughs, until he’s crying and the ever present pain spikes through his head and he still doesn’t stop.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost says, but he’s laughing too. He feels like a wet behind the ears recruit; he hasn’t had a bollocking like that since basic training. Even the one she gave him last time wasn’t as bad as this one and he has to admit that she has a point. He shouldn’t have taken Soap’s bed. But it’s not like he had much choice, it was either that or let Soap kick him to death. Or maybe death by chips. He laughs harder, unable to help himself. Months of worry and tension bubble out of him until he’s crying along with Soap and his ribs are sore. 

He picks up the chips and throws them away, and the box he dropped when he hurled himself to the ground, which he doesn’t throw away. A sniff test tells him it’s still fine to eat. Probably. He’s pretty sure no one’s ever died from eating a 12 hour old kebab. He pockets the fags and lighter and turns around, only to find himself toe to toe with Soap.

They stand there, staring into each other's eyes. The air crackles with something unknown and unspoken and then there’s a tiny movement, a brush against his hip, there and gone before he can react. 

Soap smirks and holds up the packet of fags and the lighter.

Ghost laughs and shakes his head. “Good job.”

“Aye.” Soap points at Ghost, gestures to the door, then to the chair.

You. Go. Chair.

“Chair? Wheelchair?” Ghost says.

“Aye.” Soap gestures to the door again, twice this time; which Ghost surmises means hurry the fuck up. 

So he does. He goes out, finds the nearest wheelchair that doesn’t look like it’s being used, and goes back to Soap’s room. He’s barely through the door before Soap puts himself in the chair, complete with both of the takeaway boxes, the fags and lighter still clutched in his other hand. Ghost grabs a blanket for him and sets off.

As soon as they’re outside, Soap puts two cigarettes in his mouth and lights them. He passes one to Ghost and closes his eyes.

That’s the good shite. Fuckin’ missed this. Smokin’. Him. Aw it. Wish ma heid wasnae mince. Wish it didnae hurt so fuckin’ much. Wishin’s fuckin’ pointless, mind. Have tae keep workin’ at it. Have tae keep gettin’ better. Easier when he’s here but he cannae be here aw the time. 

Soap sighs to himself and watches Ghost smoke, the way his lips wrap around the filter, the way they purse as he breathes out the smoke; and he wonders if Ghost knows just how handsome he is, how the scars on his face only make him more attractive, not less. He thinks, maybe, one day, he’ll be able to tell him that.

If he’s brave enough.

If he can ever be brave enough.

They smoke together and eat their kebabs which are really quite vile when they’re cold but at least it fulfills the order of get him breakfast. They smoke again. And again.

When they go back in, when they get back to Soap’s room, his bed has been moved over and there’s a cot against the wall, complete with a pillow and a blanket, and several ice packs.

Soap takes himself back to bed, seeking relief from the pain that threatens to overwhelm him. He doesn’t want to fall apart. Not today. Not in front of Ghost. He can’t let him see how bad it is.

Ghost sits on the cot and makes use of the ice packs and he watches Soap sleep; and when the nurses come in to try to wake him to go to physio, Ghost quietly sends them away.

He sits and he watches and he sends thankful prayers up to gods he doesn’t believe in. He has Soap back. Not all the way. Not yet. But he’s back.

Maybe he’ll be all the way back soon.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

Gaz sits in his car in the hospital car park and tries to convince himself he isn’t nervous. There's no reason he should be. He's just going to visit his best mate in the hospital.

The hospital he's in because he got shot in the fucking head. 

The last mission is playing on his mind. It hadn't worked without Soap. When Gaz blew a door, it should have been Soap. When someone was taking potshots at them, Soap should have been there to cover his back. Instead it was someone else. Someone not as good. And the mission went bad. All of them walked away but none of them uninjured. 

Because they weren't a team without Soap. 

Come on, mate, kick yourself in the fucking arse and get in there. Can't be thinking this shit. Go and see your mate. 

He reads the messages Ghost sent him, even though he knows it all anyway.

He can understand now. A bit. Keep your sentences simple. Single words if possible. 

He knows military hand gestures. Use them.

Knows names but not faces. Say your name so he knows it's you. Wear a baseball cap. 

Bring fags. Take him outside. 

Cap, check. Name, check. Hand gestures, check. Simple sentences, check. Packet of fags, check. Jammie dodgers, check. Stop being stupid and fucking go in. 

He takes a breath, steadies himself, gets out of the car. 

When he gets to Soap's room he stops in the doorway and knocks. “Alright mate, it's Gaz. Can I come in?”

Simple sentences, fail. He face palms. 

But Soap looks up and smiles anyway. “Aye.”

“Fucking hell,” Gaz says. Soap looks so much better. He's sitting up in a chair, with his journal, and he's fucking smiling and he just fucking spoke. “You can speak again.”

“Aye.”

“Can you say anything else?”

Soap smirks. He fucking smirks. “Aye.”

“Fucking hell, mate. What else can you say?”

But Soap doesn't answer, just looks blankly back at him.

Right, right, not simple enough. “Say something else.”

“Ghost.”

Gaz laughs. “Should've fucking known.”

“Aye.”

“He said you'd want to go out for a smoke. Shall we?” Gaz face palms again. Keep it fucking simple, Kyle. He points at Soap, then himself, then towards the door, then mimes smoking.

Soap gives him a thumbs up and points at the wheelchair. He could walk to it himself but it's been parked at an awkward angle, half facing the wall, and it'll be easier for Gaz to move it before Soap gets into it. Gaz fetches it and Soap gets straight in. He zips up his hoodie - Ghost's hoodie - and slips on the sunglasses, and grabs the blanket from Ghost's cot.

“Ghost sleeps here?” Gaz says, spotting the spare cot and Ghost's bergen poking out from underneath it.

“Aye.”

“Huh. He didn't say.” Soap doesn't answer so Gaz moves towards the door and stops. “Uh. Left or right?”

Soap sits there blankly. He doesn't know. He doesn't fucking know. He understands the question, Gaz is asking for directions, but Soap doesn't fucking know. He knows right goes to the bathroom. He makes that trip several times a day, he knows his way there and back. He knows left goes to the therapy places, all of them are in that direction, but he doesn't know which one is where. And he doesn't know where the smoking door is. The one that Ghost always takes him to, the one with the garden and the snow and the rain and the sunshine and the fresh air that makes him feel alive again. He doesn't fucking know. His heart beats faster, his breathing turns ragged, and the pain starts to spike again.

“Ok, mate?” Gaz asks, resting his hand on Soap's shoulder. 

Soap flinches away from the touch, shrugs his shoulder violently to get the hand off him. He’s dimly aware of Gaz’s voice. Words he doesn’t understand. His own thoughts drown out anything else, screaming and screaming at him. Ye’re a fuckin’ useless cunt. Ye dinnae even know yer own fuckin’ name. Ye think ye dae but they dinnae call ye by it an’ the one they call ye sounds wrong. So which one of youse is right? Are ye? Or are they? An’ now ye dinnae even know how tae get out of the fuckin’ hospital. Ye went out there today and ye cannae fuckin’ remember how tae get there because ye’re fuckin’ stupid now. Useless an’ fuckin’ stupid. Nae fuckin’ wonder they keep leavin’ ye. They dinnae want ye around any moar. He screams and slaps the side of his head, hard, trying to make the voice stop. 

Gaz catches his wrist before he can do it again. He doesn’t know what else to do. He isn’t prepared for this, Ghost didn’t tell him what to do if Soap loses it. Maybe Ghost doesn’t know. Maybe Soap’s only like this with me. Maybe I got something wrong. Upset him somehow. Out of my fucking depth here. He pulls out his phone and dials Ghost’s number, hopes that he picks up for once in his fucking life.

He does.

Gaz speaks to him, explains everything, listens to the instructions Ghost gives him, then presses the phone to Soap’s good ear.

“Johnny,” Ghost says. “Ghost.”

Ghost. Cannae see him. Voice. Ear. Phone. Soap tilts his head, calmer already. “Ghost,” he says.

“Yeah. RTB ETA one hour. Copy?”

“Aye.”

“Gaz. Smoke. Now. Copy?”

“Aye.”

“Good man. One hour.” Then a beep and Ghost’s voice is gone.

Soap settles down and glances up at Gaz, then holds his fist out for a fist bump. It’s the closest thing he has to an apology.

Gaz smiles and bumps Soap’s fist. “Right then, mate, let’s go. Ghost gave me directions. Sorry for stressing you out.” He turns right out of the door, goes past the bathroom, and then finally, Soap knows the way. 

Fuckin’ jesus, ah’m fuckin’ stupid, should’ve fuckin’ known it wis this way. Cannae believe ah got maself all worked up like tha’. Fuckin’ stupid wee cunt.

As soon as they’re outside, Gaz passes him a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Soap takes them and lights one, and offers the packet to Gaz. He doesn’t light one like he does for Ghost. Gaz doesn’t always smoke; usually only when he’s drinking, or when he’s trying to blend into a crowd.

Gaz shakes his head. “Keep ‘em, mate. Got ‘em for you.”

Soap nods and puts them in his pocket. He wishes he could say thanks. Maybe he’ll work on that next; he needs to thank Ghost too.

As soon as he puts out his fag, Gaz takes him back inside. Back to the too bright room with the too loud television and the too cheerful nurses and the too stuffy air and the too scratchy blankets. He gets into the bed so Gaz can sit down in the high backed chair which looks like it should be comfortable but isn’t.

Before he sits down, Gaz opens the packet of jammie dodgers and passes them to Soap. “Got you these.”

Soap takes one. They seem familiar but he can’t remember what they’re called, other than a biscuit. He doesn’t think he likes biscuits. The nurses bring him one sometimes, with a cup of coffee; he always leaves both untouched. But maybe these are better biscuits. Maybe it’s just hospital biscuits he doesn’t like. So he takes a tentative bite out of the edge and immediately pulls a face.

“Not good?” Gaz asks quietly.

Soap shakes his head and hands the packet back to Gaz.

“Sorry. You used to love ‘em.” Gaz takes the packet and sits down in the chair. He doesn’t eat any, his stomach is tied up in knots and food is the furthest thing from his mind.

He’s gone. Soap is gone. Lost my best fucking mate and he ain’t coming back. Not the way he was. All the shit we shared, all the missions, all the rituals, the fun we used to have, it’s all fucking gone. He used to be so fucking brave. Braver than the rest of us. Now he’s having a fucking panic attack because - I don’t even know why. Fucking Makarov fucking destroyed him with that bullet. He’ll never come on a mission with us again. Maybe never come drinking with us again, never get another late night curry on the way back from the pub. 

He’s distracted from his thoughts when he’s hit in the side of the head by Soap’s discarded jammie dodger. “Oi.”

Soap raises his eyebrows, points at Gaz, makes the ok symbol.

Gaz smiles and nods. “Yeah, mate. Yeah, I’m ok. I’m grand. You?”

“Aye.”

“Good. Did I tell you about this bird I met in Cairo?”

Soap shakes his head and Gaz launches into his story. Some of it is true. Most of it isn’t. But he keeps his sentences short and simple and Soap laughs at the more outrageous bits and Gaz slowly unwinds from his spiral.

When he leaves, he bumps into Ghost.

“How is he?” Ghost asks, laden down with carrier bags.

“Fine. What is all that?”

“Stuff. Fine?”

Gaz sighs. “He’s gone, yeah? Soap is gone.”

Ghost is silent for a moment. “Maybe. But Johnny isn’t.”

Gaz nods. Maybe he can cling to that. Soap might be gone but Johnny’s still here. Maybe he just has to get to know his best mate again and find out who he is now. 

Maybe he won’t be so different after all.

*

Ghost’s bags are in fact full of stuff. Mostly art supplies. There's card and markers, glue and scissors, and a whole load of magazines. He spends the next three days helping Soap to make signs so he can ask for what he wants - food, drink, tea, fags, blanket, quiet, dark; everything they can possibly make a sign for, Ghost helps him make one. Soap draws a skull. Ghost writes Lt. Riley underneath it, and adds his phone number to the back. If Soap wants him, now the nurses know who to call.

He has to leave again. He hopes this will make it easier for Soap, that he'll have everything he needs. It eases his conscience. He doesn't want to leave Soap here alone.

He doesn't want to leave at all.

But he does. They have a mission and he needs to prepare so he says goodbye, explains that he'll be back if he can, doesn't make any promises he might not be able to keep, and then he walks away and Soap is alone again.

With no one there to distract him, no calm voice and stable presence, no outdoor excursions and sneaking around behind Colonel Lang’s back, Soap sinks. 

He's been left again. He's been left behind because he's fucking stupid, because he fucking failed, because he was too fucking slow. That's why he's here. He remembers now. He remembers the tunnel and the bomb and the man whose name he can't remember. He remembers his face. The twisted grin as he raised his gun. He draws it in his journal. The one face he can see clearly in his mind. He draws it and he stabs it with his pen and when he's still full of rage and hatred, he jams the pen into his thigh, over and over, until he screams and the nurses come in and there's a sharp scratch on his arm and then he's floating again.

The signs he and Ghost made don't help much. He asks for food and gets the wrong food, it's always something he doesn't like. He asks for a drink and gets juice when he wants water. He asks for tea and gets coffee and a biscuit. He wants a fag, they give him a nicotine patch. He taps the skull sign repeatedly and they smile and nod and say it's ok, he'll be back soon except they don't know that he will be. No one does. Not even Ghost himself. 

But Soap tries to use the signs in other ways, tries to teach himself the words, practices saying them when there's no one around to hear him and laugh when he gets it wrong. He tries to be hopeful. Ghost is comin’ back, ye wee melt. An’ if he cannae, it willnae be his fault. He'll try. He'll try. 

He tries to stay hopeful, tries to stay positive, but as the days slip by with no company except the one face that haunts him, he slowly sinks. 

They bring someone in to give him a haircut. The next time Soap sees his reflection, he punches the mirror and has to have stitches in his hand. He can't see his own fucking face properly but he can see the giant scar on the side of his head, red and twisted, an ugly reminder of why he's here and what he's lost. He remembers being normal. He remembers being tough and strong and not afraid of anything. He remembers what life was like before the pain. He remembers being able to talk, how fucking quick he was. He remembers all of it. 

Physically, he's stronger now. He no longer uses the wheelchair; he uses the walker to get to and from his therapy sessions, and his physiotherapist gives him a walking stick to use for shorter journeys like to and from the bathroom. His balance is still shot to shit and he's prone to wobbling as the room spins around him. Sometimes he ends up standing there, willing himself not to be sick as he clings to the wall to keep himself upright. The walking stick doesn't help much with that. 

Days turn into weeks and the face still haunts him. It's there in his dreams; he wakes up screaming. If he closes his eyes during the day and someone touches him; he lashes out at them. He draws it, over and over again, as though putting it on paper will somehow lessen the effect it has on him. 

It doesn't. He still sees it, clearer than he can see his own face in the mirror. 

Why can ah remember his face and no’ his name but ah can remember ma own name an’ no’ ma own face? Makes no fuckin' sense. Bu’ of course it doesnae make any sense ‘cause ah'm fuckin’ stupid now. Cannae fuckin' think. 

The staff have mostly been calling Soap John lately, which is fine, it's not the name he goes by but it's his given name, it's fine. And then one of the nurses calls him Staff Sergeant MacIntyre and Soap flips.

He lashes out, catching him in the mouth. “Dinnae fuckin' call me tha’! Why’re ye fuckin' calling’ me tha’? It's no’ ma fuckin' name! Ah dinnae even know who that person is! I'm fuckin' Soap MacTavish, not fuckin' John MacIntyre.”

It's fortunate, perhaps, that what comes out of his mouth isn't words but a string of angry noises and nonsense words, but that just makes him even more furious. He hits himself in the head, over and over, as hard as he can.

Cannae fuckin' think. Cannae fuckin' speak. Should be fuckin' deid. Don't want this. Want it tae stop. Want it tae be over. 

He screams and hits himself and attacks anyone who comes near him; teeth bared and fists flying as he shouts at them in incomprehensible noises.

Eventually someone manages to corner him, jams a needle into his arm and then he's floating. He's not angry anymore. He's not anything anymore.

When he wakes up, his wrists and ankles are restrained to the bed with buckled cuffs. He screams and shouts and rocks himself from side to side, trying to get free, trying to turn the bed over. Something. Anything.

But they don't let him go.

He’s still in restraints when Ghost comes back. 

Ghost stops in the doorway. A muscle flickers in his jaw. His heart shatters. What the fuck have they done to him? “Johnny,” he says quietly.

Tears slip down Soap’s cheeks. “Ghost,” he whispers.

Ghost drops his bags to the floor, leaves them where they fall, and crosses the room to the bed in three long strides. Deft fingers make quick work of the restraints around Soap’s ankles, then the ones around his wrists. 

The second Soap’s hands are free, he throws himself at Ghost. He hugs him tightly, fingers balled into fists around Ghost’s hoodie. “Ghost,” he sobs, crying openly now.

“You’re ok, Johnny. I’m here. I’m here. I’ve got ya,” Ghost says. He hugs him back, cradles Soap’s head to his shoulder, lets Soap cling to him for as long as he needs.

Soap is still crying into Ghost’s shoulder when a sharp voice sounds from behind them.

“What is going on here?” Colonel Lang snaps. “Ah. Riley. Of fucking course. There’s always trouble when you’re here.”

Ghost looks around, still holding Soap. “Colonel, perhaps you’d care to explain why you’re treating a patient like a fucking prisoner.”

“Staff Sergeant MacIntyre -” is as far as she gets before Soap screams and pulls away from Ghost.

He hits himself in the head, right over his temple, right over the scar, and he screams. He tries to hit himself again but Ghost catches his wrist and leans in close.

“No. Johnny, no. If ya need to hit someone, hit me. Only me.”

And Soap does. As soon as Ghost lets go of his wrist, Soap hits him. His shoulder. His ribs. His jaw. Ghost stands there and takes it and when nurses rush in with a syringe full of something, he blocks them. He takes every hit that Soap dishes out until Soap is calm once again. He deserves every single blow that lands on its mark. Every. Single. Fucking. One. And more. Worse. 

Only when Soap is quiet does Ghost turn away. Soap’s hand still clutches the sleeve of his hoodie.

“As you can see, he’s a danger to himself,” Colonel Lang says. “We have the necessary paperwork, it’s called a deprivation of liberty order and it’s been signed by two doctors and the commanding officer of this hospital. Which is me. We have done nothing except keep Staff Sergeant MacIntyre safe.”

“Reverse it.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Fuckin’ reverse it. If I find him fuckin’ tied up again, I’m fuckin’ signin’ him out.”

“Lieutenant Riley, he isn’t safe to be left unrestrained.”

“I don’t fuckin’ care! Reverse that order now! I’ll make sure he is fuckin’ safe!”

Colonel Lang sighs deeply. “Very well. But I will ask you to remember that you don’t give the fucking orders here.”

“Duly fuckin’ noted.” Ghost waits until she leaves, along with the nurses, then extracts his hoodie from Soap’s grip. He shuts the door and jams it closed with his knife. No one is coming back in. He punches the wall, takes a breath, then turns back to Soap.

“Thanks,” Soap says. The word is slow and halting but clear enough. “Ghost. Thanks.”

Ghost nods. “Ya good? Won’t hit yourself again?”

“Aye. Naw.”

“Good.” Ghost gets a packet of fags and a lighter out of his pocket and tosses them to Soap. “Light ‘em up, then.”

Soap grins and does exactly that, holding one out to Ghost as soon as it’s lit. But his face falls. A bruise is blooming on Ghost’s jaw, red and angry. It’ll be black tomorrow. Ah did that. Ah fuckin’ did that tae him. Fuckin’ prick. Why did ah dae that? Especially tae him. “Ghost,” he says quietly, then makes the ok symbol.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m ok. Smoke your fag.”

Words bubble through Soap. Words he can’t say. Thank ye. Ah’m sorry. Ah missed ye. Ah’m glad ye’re here. But there are words he can say. Words he’s been practicing. The important ones. “Gaz,” he says, slow and slurred, then adds, “Price.”

Ghost nods. “They’re ok too. All good, Johnny. Don’t need to worry about us.”

Aye bu’ ah dae fuckin’ worry aboot ye. Aw of youse. But Soap just nods and finishes his cigarette, stubs it out on an empty can Ghost passes to him.

Ghost sits down, perches on the edge of the chair, elbows on his knees. “Need to know what’s goin’ on. Ya can’t tell me so I’ll make a guess, you’ll tell me if I’m right. Ok?”

“Aye.”

“Ya won’t hurt yourself again?”

“Naw.”

“If ya need to, you fuckin’ hit me, yeah?”

Soap doesn’t answer, won’t agree to that.

“Johnny. Fuckin’ promise me.”

Soap glares at him, raises his middle finger, then makes a circle with his finger to his thumb and shakes his wrist. He’s been practicing those too.

Ghost bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “Yeah, ok. I got that one. Fuck off yourself, ya wanker.”

Soap laughs and gestures with his hand to say fuckin’ get on wi’ it, then. 

“Ya reacted to the name they’re usin’ for ya. Yeah?”

“Aye.”

“Because ya don’t understand it?”

Soap nods. Aye, ah dinnae fuckin’ understand why they’re callin’ me a name that isnae mine. Ah dinnae know whit’s fuckin’ real any more.

Ghost speaks slowly, pauses between each sentence for Soap to nod once he’s parsed the meaning. “We faked your death. I faked your death. I told them to. Laswell got you a new identity. Makarov has it in for ya. Only way to keep you safe.”

Soap reaches for his journal, flicks to a drawing of the face, holds it up to Ghost, tapping it insistently.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost mutters. “Yeah. That’s the cunt. Makarov. Ya remember?”

“Aye.”

“We’re workin’ on it. Price is workin’ on it. Never fuckin’ stops. Nik’s helpin’ him.”

Soap nods and points at himself. Who am I? 

“Staff Sergeant John MacIntyre, formerly of Black Watch, transferred to the SAS under Captain Price’s command 15th November 2023. Injured in the line of duty 21st November 2023 in the same incident that killed Sergeant John MacTavish. Copy?”

“Aye.” Creepin’ jesus that’s a good fuckin’ plan. Fuckin’ clever, LT. Fuckin’ cunt wouldae come after me if he knew ah’m still alive. 

“Does it help? Knowing?”

“Aye.”

“I’m sorry, Johnny. Know we blew up your fuckin’ life. Couldn’t let anythin’ happen to you. Not you.”

Ye did the right thing. Wouldae done the same if it had been ye. Any of youse. Fuckin’ hell, he actually feels fuckin’ guilty. Soap slowly stands up. He’s stiff from not moving for so long and it makes his head swim, but he’s determined. He goes over to Ghost. Grabs a handful of his hoodie and hauls him to his feet. Then he hugs him, hooks his chin over Ghost’s shoulder and hugs him tightly. “Thanks,” he says quietly.

Ghost lets out a shaky breath. “Ya don’t think I’m a cunt?”

“Naw.” Soap squeezes him even tighter, presses in even closer, inhales Ghost's warm scent; fag smoke and gunpowder and safety. Fuckin’ jesus, feels so fuckin’ good tae be close tae someone again. ‘Specially him. Wish he’d never let me fuckin’ gae. But in the end, Soap lets go first. He coughs and turns away sharply, goes back to the bed and straight under a blanket, one knee pulled up to his chest. Fuckin’ hell, ah hope he didnae notice tha’. Probably no’. His jeans are too thick an’ he doesnae look embarrassed. Feel like a fuckin’ horny teenager again. Gettin’ a stiffy from a fuckin’ hug. Hasnae happened tae me since ah was 15. Fuckin’ melt. He wouldnae want me anyway. No’ now ah'm like this. 

Ghost hasn’t noticed. Mostly because he’s too busy thinking about how hot Soap’s breath was on his neck and how cold he is now Soap is no longer holding him. Bloody stupid. Should just be happy that he’s accepted what I did. Least he knows now. He needed to know. Couldn’t explain it to him before. Should’ve tried anyway. Would’ve helped him. Can’t believe they fuckin’ tied him up. How bad was it before I got back? Must’ve been bad. How long did they fuckin’ leave him like that? Need to get him out of here. Fuckin’ soon. Have to do everythin’ I can to help him so he can leave. 

He runs a hand over his face and picks up the signs they made together. “Need anythin’?” he says, holding them up. 

“Aye.” Soap takes three from him. A picture of a packet of fags, the drawing he did of a glass of water, and the skull. He holds each one up in turn. “Fag. Drink. You.” The words are slow, not completely clear yet, but recognisable and he knows Ghost won’t laugh at him.

“You’re showin’ off now,” Ghost says. A tiny smile curves his lips as he pours a cup of water and puts it down on the table in front of Soap.

Soap just smirks back at him. Fuckin’ right ah’m fuckin’ showin’ off. Been a while since ah fuckin’ had anythin’ tae show off. 

Ghost lights the cigarettes this time and passes one to Soap, then sits down again.

He’s really fucking tired but there’s work to do.

After he’s finished his fag.

Chapter Text

Ghost gets a phone call from Price; a half arsed reprimand that fizzles out after Ghost explains what happened. Then Price’s voice turns cold. He says to leave it with him and hangs up before Ghost can ask what that means.

He spends his time working with Soap. Every time he picks something up, he holds it out to Soap and waits for him to say the word - or at least try. Single syllables are easier for him; he can’t manage water but he can say drink or cup. Book, not journal. Fag, not cigarette. Food, not breakfast. Shoes, not trainers. Each time Soap says a word, it gets clearer, quicker, until Ghost is rapid firing items at him and Soap answers each one without having to think about it. In fact, the more he has to think about it, the less he can find the right word. The same happens with his motor skills. If Ghost throws something at him with no warning, Soap catches it; if he’s expecting it, he either fumbles it or misses it completely. 

Each day brings progress. More progress now that he isn’t upset by the medical staff calling him the wrong name every five minutes. He has less angry outbursts. He hasn’t tried to hit himself again. Or Ghost.

He still wakes up screaming, though. Makarov’s face still haunts him. And all Soap can do is scream and cry and repeatedly jam his finger into one of the drawings he’s done as Ghost tries to reassure him, says they’ll get him soon, makes promises he knows he can’t keep. We’ll get him, Johnny. I promise ya that. We’ll get him. Soon. Already workin’ on it. 

It breaks his heart every time. 

But there’s nothing he can do, not here, not now, he has to wait. So he laughs when Soap has an outburst of laughter and he keeps his voice low and calm when Soap screams and cries, and when Soap is scared, Ghost presses a knife into his hand and tells him he’s ok.

The day before Ghost leaves again, Soap’s regular speech therapist is off sick. He’s given an appointment with a different one who works out of the NHS hospital next door to the rehab centre.

Ghost takes him over there. They stop for a smoke break on the way which helps keep Soap calm. He hasn’t been across to the main hospital often, only for tests, and it’s all unfamiliar but Ghost has explained everything and it’s fine. It’s fine. He just needs a fag to steady his nerves.

When they first go into the speech therapy room, Ghost is hopeful. The therapist is young and pretty and Soap always likes to chase pretty ladies so he thinks this might be a good match.

And then she introduces herself as Dana and makes jazz hands and gives Soap a bright and obviously fake grin and Ghost inwardly groans.

This is not going to go well.

“Can you confirm your name is John MacIntyre,” Dana says, peering at the notes in front of her.

“Aye.”

Dana claps and bounces in her seat. “Good job! You get a sticker for your chart!”

Soap looks at Ghost with an expression that clearly says save me. 

Ghost rolls his eyes in response. “Not sure this is helpful, love.”

Dana looks over at him. “Right. Of course. Sorry. How much does he understand?” 

“Ask him, not me.”

Dana plasters the smile back onto her face and puts a children’s book in front of Soap. It has cartoonish pictures of animals on the cover. “Can you tell me the names of these animals?”

Soap once again looks to Ghost for rescue, then back at the book. He knows the words but they won’t come out of his mouth, all that comes out are stuttered sounds, nothing coherent at all.

“Look! This one’s a cat! Can you say cat?” 

Soap glares at her and Ghost decides he’d better step in before the whole thing goes south.

“Johnny. What’s this?”

“Fags.”

“This?”

“Phone.”

Ghost points at himself.

“You.”

Points at Soap.

“Me.”

Ghost moves closer and points at the book.

“Book.”

“This?” Ghost taps the picture of the cat, not giving Soap any time to think about it.

“Cat.”

Ghost smiles and winks at him, then slaps his knife down on the table. “This?”

“Knife.”

“An’ what do we do with it?”

Soap smirks, picks up the knife and throws it at the wall without even looking. It sticks there, handling wobbling slightly as it comes to rest.

Ghost turns back to Dana. “He’s a fuckin’ special forces soldier, not a fuckin’ five year old. Treat him like it.”

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry, I usually work with children, it’s just a habit, I didn’t mean to cause any offence.” 

“None taken. Making a point. That’s all.”

Dana nods and focuses back on Soap but it’s too late. Soap takes the knife out of the wall, hands it back to Ghost, handle first, then walks out of the room.

“Think we’re done here,” Ghost says, and follows Soap, pausing only to pick up the walker Soap uses for longer journeys. He finds him a little way down the corridor, slumped onto a bench, cackling away to himself.

“Funny as fuck,” Soap says when he sees Ghost. The words aren’t clear, they merge together, but they’re clear enough. 

Ghost laughs thickly and sniffs as he sits down next to Soap. “Yeah? Liked that, did ya?”

“Aye. Funny.”

“Not sure she thought so.”

Soap shrugs and pulls a face. She shouldnae have treated me like a wee fuckin’ kiddie then, should she? Ah didnae hurt her. She’ll get over it. An’ maybe she willnae treat anyone else like tha’ again. 

“Thought you’d like her. She’s pretty.”

“Naw.”

“She isn’t pretty?”

Soap shakes his head.

“Right. Thought she was your type. Sorry.”

“Naw. Not -” Soap hesitates, tries to find the words, but the right ones won’t come so he uses the wrong ones and hopes Ghost will figure it out. “No dick.”

“No dick?” Ghost repeats, somewhat doubtfully. He thinks his way around that, tries to work out what Soap is trying to tell him. Not his type. No dick. Fuckin' hell how did I fuckin' miss that? “You're gay?”

Fuckin' finally. “Aye.”

“Didn't know, Johnny,” Ghost says quietly. “Sorry. Feel like a bit of a cunt now.”

Soap shakes his head. Ye couldnae have known. Ah was hidin’ it. Gaz knows but only him. Hard tae be gay in the fuckin’ army. No’ supposed tae be bu’ it still is. “Ye no’,” he says, wishes he could say more.

Ghost nods, acknowledging rather than agreeing. “I am too. Gay, I mean.”

Soap rolls his eyes and smirks as though he's saying tell me something ah dinnae fuckin’ know. 

“Fuck off,” Ghost says good naturedly. “Let's go an’ have a fag.”

Chapter Text

Ghost doesn’t concentrate on their next mission. Nothing goes wrong, he’s capable enough of carrying out a basic HVI capture even if he’s operating with less than a hundred percent focus, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. 

Gaz asks if he’s ok and gets an affirmative grunt in response.

Price takes a more hands on approach. Literally. He grabs Ghost by the tac vest and pulls him in so they’re nose to nose. “Get your fuckin’ head in the fuckin’ game, Lieutenant! Don’t make me ask you a-fuckin’-gain!” 

Which is easier said than done. Ghost’s head is very much not in the game, it's back in the hospital with Soap. It’s back in that conversation. He replays it, over and over, wondering how he ever missed it. Wondering if he would have done anything differently if he’d known Soap was gay before.

No, he decides. Then, maybe. Maybe he would have. Maybe he would have said something about how he feels, about how the first time Soap touched him, the light punch on the shoulder, about how he felt human again for the first time in fucking forever. Maybe he would have said that. Maybe he would have asked him out for a drink. Maybe he would have made a move, a clumsy move that would have made Soap laugh and revealed just how not smooth he is, how hopeless he is at any of this stuff, how totally unsuitable he is. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe knowing wouldn’t have made the slightest difference. That seems more likely.

He regrets it now, though. 

Life feels too fucking short to be scared of a vulnerable display of emotion. 

And now it’s too late. 

Now he can’t say anything, can’t put that sort of pressure on Soap, not when he’s so emotional and so vulnerable and so hurt. 

The moment the plane sets down on the tarmac at Credenhill, Ghost pulls out his phone. It's been switched off for two weeks. Messages and missed calls pop up, all from the hospital. He swears. Loudly. He doesn't listen to the voicemails, just dials the number.

Still grabbing their gear, Gaz and Price look round when Ghost starts shouting into his phone. 

Gaz goes over first, heart in his mouth. He ducks when Ghost hurls his phone across the hangar. “What happened? Is Soap ok?” he asks.

“Fine,” Ghost bites out. He rips off his mask and strides across the hangar to retrieve his phone. It's scratched but not broken so he shoves it back in his pocket.

“Problem?” Price barks when he catches up to them, carrying all of their bags.

“Yes there's a fuckin’ problem.”

Price raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

Ghost takes a breath, slow and smooth and steady. “Spoke to the Colonel. Soap's been moved to a locked ward. Said he went for a wander, left the hospital, got lost. Taxi driver picked him up, saw the wristband, took him back to the hospital. That was ten fuckin’ days ago. He'll be doin’ his fuckin’ nut by now.”

“Fucking hell,” Gaz says. “Are you going there now?”

“Obviously.”

“I'll stow your gear, come up tomorrow.”

“Appreciate it.” Ghost gives him a nod, turns towards Price.

“Go. I'll try to come in a few days.”

“He needs to see you as well, sir,” Gaz says.

Price turns on him. “Don't you think I fuckin’ know that, Sergeant?! I fuckin' do. But what he really fuckin’ needs is for us to kill that fuckin’ cunt. Nik's got new intel. Soap needs me workin’ on that more than he needs my fuckin’ company.”

“Needs your support,” Gaz mutters but he nods. “Understood, Cap.”

Ghost ignores them. Price has already given him the order. Go. So he does, he gets into his car, swears when he remembers he hasn't put petrol in it, and screeches out of the base in a cloud of tyre smoke. He stops to fill up, grabs a sausage roll and a coffee from Greggs, and hits the road.

A hundred miles seems to take forever. No traffic, no hold ups, he gets a clear run, breaks a few speed limits, but it still takes him almost two hours. By the time he pulls into the hospital car park, he's ready to chew the steering wheel.

The secure ward, he's told, is on the other side of the hospital. He's also told he can't go in there without prior permission but there are a lot of places he's been without prior permission so he doesn't give that a second thought.

He strides through the hospital, up the stairs and along the corridor. People fly out of his way, scattering in his path. Until he reaches the locked door to the secure ward. Then his path is blocked, not just by guards but by a solid door.

He looks left. Right. Analysing. 

Can't kill ‘em. Can't hurt ‘em. On a mission, I'd take ‘em down, one with a silenced pistol, the other with a knife. Can't do that here. Bribery? With fuckin’ what? The fuckin’ shrapnel in your back pocket? Go official. Soap must be allowed visitors. Fuckin' sign in like a normal person. 

“Lieutenant Riley to see Staff Sergeant MacIntyre,” he says, in the voice he's used to train hundreds of recruits. The one that says don't fuckin' try me. 

He’s met with a flat no and mumblings about procedure.

He draws himself up to his full height, widens his stance, fixes his face, and bellows. “Open the fuckin’ door before I rip it off its fuckin’ hinges! Chop fuckin’ chop! Move your fuckin’ arses!”

They do and as Ghost sweeps through the now open door, he can hear them whispering to call Colonel Lang. Well fuckin’ good ‘cause I want a fuckin’ word with her. Lockin’ Soap up like a fuckin’ criminal. Price is right. Need to kill Makarov and get Soap the fuck out of here. 

He has no idea where he’s going, which room Soap is in, so he checks each one, clears the corridor like he’d clear a warehouse full of combatants. Some of the doors are closed. He bypasses those, clears the open ones first. When there’s no sign of Soap, he goes to the nurses desk at the end of the corridor.

“MacIntyre,” he barks. “His CO wants to see him.”

“Uh, room 5, third on the left as you came in.”

“Locked?”

“No.”

“Good,” Ghost snaps and strides back the way he came. He pauses outside the door, braces himself, then knocks and opens it and his heart shatters.

Soap is curled up in the bed, Ghost’s hoodie wrapped around himself, the hood pulled over his head. He doesn’t look up.

“Johnny,” Ghost says quietly and steps into the dark, silent room.

Soap still doesn’t look up but he curls further in on himself, turns his head further into the pillow.

What the bloody fuck have they done to him? Knocked him out with drugs instead of tying him up? Ghost sneaks a peek at the chart that’s hanging on the foot of the bed. He has no right to but he needs to know. But under medications, the only ones listed are paracetamol and ibuprofen. That wouldn’t do it. Probably not touching his pain either though. He puts the chart down and moves closer, crouches down beside the bed, hesitates before he reaches out and rests his hand on Soap’s shoulder.

Soap shrugs him off, shoves his hand away. “Go,” he says, low and harsh. He still doesn’t look up.

“Johnny. It’s me. Ghost.”

Soap wraps his arm around his head. “Go,” he repeats.

Ghost lets out a shaky breath. “Pain bad?”

“Fuckin’ go!” Soap screams and lashes out; the side of his hand connects solidly with Ghost’s cheekbone.

Ghost reels backwards under the force. Better he hits me than himself but fuckin’ christ where did that come from? He’s still rubbing his cheek when a voice sounds from the door.

“Riley,” Colonel Lang says, “a word, please.” She waits for Ghost to follow her down the corridor. “Might I remind you that threats and shouting don’t work here. Please stop intimidating my staff. I don’t want to have to make a call to your superior officer.”

“I’ll stop the threats when you stop treatin’ my -” Ghost pauses, searches for the right word, isn’t sure which word he’s searching for. Friend? Colleague? Brother in arms? Something more? “- my sergeant like he’s a prisoner.”

“He isn’t a prisoner, he’s only here for his own safety.”

Ghost snorts. “Yeah? An’ how’s that goin’? ‘Cause he doesn’t look particularly fuckin’ safe.”

“He is. You aren’t. He’s having some anger issues.”

“Really? I hadn’t fuckin’ noticed.”

Colonel Lang sighs and picks up an ice pack from a nearby trolley. She pops it, shakes it, hands it to Ghost, then pokes his cheekbone.

“Ow.”

“Thought you were a tough guy SAS soldier, stop being a baby. Nothing broken. Ice it.”

Ghost glowers but presses the ice pack to his cheek. “What happened to him? He was fuckin’ fine when I left.”

“We don’t know. He won’t tell us, or can’t tell us, I’m not sure which. Won’t engage. Can’t get him to any of his therapy sessions. Managed to get him over for tests, nothing physically wrong. He’ll eat, drink, use the bathroom, but otherwise, nothing. No engagement. Doesn’t want the television on, has to have the lights off, definitely some sensory issues going on. We don’t know why he left the hospital -”

“Why ya fuckin’ lost him, ya mean.”

“No, I mean why he left the hospital. We don’t know what happened to him while he was gone. We moved him straight here after he came back -”

“Got brought back like a lost fuckin’ dog.”

Colonel Lang sighs loudly. “Fine, after he was brought back, we moved him straight up here so he was safe. Since then, he stays in bed. Corporal Gill even tried to take him out for a cigarette but he refused to move.”

Ghost scowls and presses the ice pack harder against his cheek. He deserves the pain. This is all his fault. He never should have left Soap. “What can I do to help him? If you can’t, what can I do?”

“Good grief, Lieutenant Riley, don’t tell me you’re asking for my opinion instead of telling me what I’m doing wrong?”

“...” Ghost says.

“Right. You have two approaches. One, you can be his friend or whatever the hell you two are, try coaxing him to get up, bribe him with cigarettes or something else he likes. Or two, you find someone whose authority he actually respects and have them order him to get out of bed. If that’s you, go for it, otherwise call someone else. We’ve tried both approaches and neither has worked but that might be because he doesn’t like or respect us.”

Ghost nods. “Noted. I’ll be stayin’ here for a while. See what I can do.”

“Not on the secure ward, Riley. There are limits. I’ll see if there’s a family room available. Otherwise, you’ll have to arrange your own accommodation. Which will not be in the cafeteria or any of the waiting areas, understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You can be here for two hours twice a day. No more.”

“Can I take him out? Smoke, food, fresh air?”

“Not off hospital grounds, otherwise yes.”

“Two hours isn’t long if we need to get downstairs and out.”

Colonel Lang sighs. “Riley, the two of you are a pair of pains in my fucking arse. 10 til 4 and you aren’t here during lunch. If the two of you are off having lunch somewhere together, I’ll turn a blind eye.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“Don’t fucking push me, Lieutenant, you’re already at your limit. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ghost says. He actually means it. 

“Keep icing that cheek and dig in, Riley,” Colonel Lang says, then sweeps off again.

Ghost stays where he is, tries to think his way through it all, tries to put himself in Soap’s place, tries to work out what the fuck is going on with him. It doesn’t help much. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t fucking know and Soap can’t tell him. All he can do is be here. So he takes a breath, opens the door and goes back in.

“You hit fuckin’ hard, Johnny,” he says. “Keep doin’ it if it helps ya. I can take it. But you’re not gettin’ rid of me that easily.”

Soap looks up, his face wet with tears. “Go,” he whispers. “Fuckin’ go.”

“No. You want me to go, you get your fuckin’ arse out of that bed an’ you fuckin’ throw me out. Fair warnin’, though, I’ll fuckin’ fight back.”

Ye should fuckin’ leave. Ah’m no’ worth anythin’. Cannae even gae fir a fuckin’ walk without losin’ the fuckin’ plot. All too big an’ fuckin’ scary an’ ah never used tae be scared of anythin’ but now ah cannae leave the fuckin’ hospital. Jist want tae stay in this room an’ fuckin’ die and then ye’ll all be fuckin’ free of me. Willnae be yer problem any more. So jist fuckin’ go. 

“Come on. I’m fuckin’ waitin’, Sergeant.”

Soap is on his feet in an instant. Pain flares through his head but it’s nothing compared to the burning rage inside him, the all consuming fire that’s destroying him from the inside out. He doesn’t hit, not at first. He shoves Ghost, both hands squarely on his chest. Ghost barely rocks back, it’s like pushing a two ton concrete block up a fucking hill. Soap tries again but Ghost has set his feet now and he doesn’t move at all, not so much as an inch.

Why will ye no’ fuckin’ gae? Why will ye no’ fuckin’ leave? Do ye no’ fuckin’ understand what ah’m tryin’ tae dae? I’ll fuckin’ hurt ye if ye stay. Jist fuckin’ gae. Please jist fuckin’ leave. 

“Go!” he screams, one final chance for Ghost to walk away.

Ghost doesn’t so much as flinch. He stands there. Immobile. Waiting. And then Soap’s first punch hits its target, right under Ghost’s ribs, and Ghost laughs. Soap is pulling his punches. Just like he always did. 

They’ve sparred like this a hundred times. It’s no different. Ghost knows Soap won’t hurt him. Not really. Nothing beyond some bruises, nothing he can’t walk off. And Soap, Soap knows Ghost won’t let him hurt him. Ghost has the strength to stop him if he goes too far. He’s perhaps the only person Soap can trust with this.

So he lets go, lets his rage take over and he hits and he shoves and he punches. Ghost lets some land. Blocks others. Pushes back, manoeuvres Soap around the room, away from anything he might hurt himself on, guides him, directs him. He never hits back.

And when Soap slows, starts to look tired, Ghost gets right into his face. “That all you fuckin’ got, Sergeant? Thought you wanted to kick my fuckin’ arse.”

Soap rallies. He doesn’t hit now, there are no blows for Ghost to deflect. He uses his body, hip checks and shoulder barges, slowly pushing Ghost towards the door. If ah can get him tae the fuckin’ door, ah win. He has tae leave. He’s so close, one more shove and Ghost will be through the doorway and out of the room and Soap will have won. 

He goes in, drops his shoulder, tries to catch Ghost off balance. But at the last moment, Ghost sidesteps, puts himself against the wall, pulls Soap with him. They stand there, toe to toe and hip to hip, both breathing hard, and then Ghost laughs.

“Didn’t think I’d make it easy for ya, did ya, Sergeant? Come on. What else have ya got?”

A breath. A flicker of eyelashes as Soap’s gaze drops to Ghost’s lips. Another breath. Soap does the only thing he can think of, the only thing that might work. 

He angles his head and presses his lips to Ghost’s. 

Just for a second, barely more than a heartbeat before he pulls away again. His eyes search Ghost’s face, silently asking for permission.

Ghost nods and Soap kisses him again. More heated this time. Longer. Deeper. Insistent. He cages Ghost’s head between his hands, palms pressed to the wall, holds him in place with his hips, and lets him know who’s in control. 

Come on, Johnny, take your fill. Whatever ya fuckin’ need. I’m here for it. Fuckin’ hell, should I even be fuckin’ doin’ this? But Soap is hard against his thigh and he’s making quiet little keening sounds and every thought Ghost has ever suppressed about what this might be like is making itself known. So he goes with it. He trusts that Soap knows what he wants and what he doesn’t and he goes with it.

Soap keeps kissing him, nips Ghost’s bottom lip, demands that he opens up for him, licks inside his mouth, searching and tasting and wanting. Wanting, just like he has done for years. He might be useless now, might not be able to think, might be a pathetic wee cunt who’s scared of everything, but he still has this. He can still do this. He still has his body. He’s still good for something. He angles his hips, rubs himself against Ghost’s thigh as he undoes Ghost's jeans. Ghost is as hard as he is and Soap smirks against his lips as he curls his fingers around Ghost’s length and starts stroking him.

Ghost wouldn’t stop him even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t. He very definitely doesn’t. Jesus bloody fuckin’ christ, he thinks as his hips arch of their own accord, pushing his dick into Soap’s hand, it’s just a fuckin’ wank, calm the fuck down. But he can’t. He’s too lost for that. All of the want he’s ever had for Soap breaks free and bubbles to the surface, escaping from him in kisses that grow ever more uncoordinated until they’re not kissing so much as sharing breath. He reaches for Soap, offers some reciprocation, but Soap grabs his wrist, pins his hand above his head. Ghost closes his eyes, lets the wall hold him up, and tries counting backwards from a hundred in an attempt to not come too soon.

Soap ruts against Ghost’s thigh, harder and faster in his desperation for release, searching for something other than the pain and torment in his fucked up head. He finds it in the warmth and solidity of Ghost’s body against his own. He’s wanted this - wanted Ghost - for so long now that he can’t last, he can’t hold out, all of his long held fantasies flood through his head and then he’s coming, filling his joggers with a sticky mess that might be the best feeling he’s had for as long as he can remember. He doesn’t pull away yet, though. He stills but keeps kissing, works his way along the sharp line of Ghost’s jaw, nips at his neck, inhales the smoky safe scent of him. Ghost’s dick is throbbing and twitching in Soap’s fingers, drawing a smirk from Soap’s lips. Aye, ah fuckin’ did tha’. No’ so fuckin’ useless if ah can dae this fir him. He lets go of Ghost’s wrist, links their hands together instead, and keeps stroking him, increasing his speed and pressure as Ghost’s breath hitches in his chest, faster and faster until Ghost comes with a muffled curse.

Soap is still smirking as he takes a step back and it only grows wider as he fixes his eyes on Ghost’s and licks his fucking hand clean. 

“Bloody fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” Ghost chokes out. His dick makes a valiant effort to twitch back into life again.

But then Soap is gone. He picks up some clothes and disappears into the adjoining bathroom and Ghost is left alone with his thoughts.

Which are not exactly coherent. Mostly they cycle around a variety of swear words. He does have the presence of mind to grab a handful of tissues and clean himself up, and he goes over to the door to close it.

Unfortunately it happens to be just as Colonel Lang is walking past and she gives him a look. “Not quite what I had in mind, Riley, but whatever works, yes?” is all she says before she carries on walking.

Ghost shuts the door and leans his forehead against it with a soft groan. He can only hope she means the fighting and not the rest of it. Somehow he doubts that. He groans again and goes to sit in the chair to wait for Soap.

Soap takes a shower. A very long, very hot shower. He can’t actually remember how long it’s been since he last had one but he’s fairly sure he smells bad which he would be embarrassed about except he doesn’t seem to feel that emotion any more. One of the few he doesn’t feel. The rest of them are so huge they threaten to engulf him at any given moment. 

He’s dried off and mostly dressed by the time he realises his head doesn’t hurt. 

He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt and an ear to ear grin when he emerges from the bathroom and he immediately picks up Ghost’s discarded hoodie and puts it on, then hunts around for the sunglasses and puts those on too. “Fag?” he says.

Ghost nods. “Got a question first.”

Soap shrugs and gestures to say go on then. 

“What we just did. Did ya want that?”

“Aye,” Soap says, giving him a look like he thinks Ghost might be temporarily insane if he doesn’t already know that.

Ghost nods slowly, takes a relieved breath in, lets it fill his lungs. “Would ya have wanted it before?”

“Aye,” Soap says, like that should have been obvious too.

“Before ya got hurt?”

Soap rolls his eyes and lets out a frustrated grunt. “Aye,” he says and searches for the word he needs but it won’t come. He knows it but it sits there just out of reach. “Gaz.”

“Gaz?”

“Tell,” Soap says, then makes a flipping gesture with his hand, “Gaz.”

Ghost watches him, tries to parse the meaning. Tell. Flip. Opposite. Ask. “Ask Gaz?”

“Aye. Fag? Now?”

“Yeah. Put your fucking shoes on.”

Soap does and Ghost wonders how in the actual bloody fuck he’s going to broach that subject with Gaz.

But that’s a problem for tomorrow.

*

Gaz meets Ghost in the canteen while Soap is doing speech therapy; he agreed to go but only if Ghost takes him to the nearest ‘Spoons for lunch - which Soap communicated through the medium of repeatedly tapping Ghost’s nose with a teaspoon from his breakfast tray until he got the point. He also wanted to borrow Ghost’s knife but Ghost decided that was a very bad idea and refused. 

“Need to ask ya somethin’,” Ghost says as soon as Gaz arrives.

“Uh, ok? How's Johnny?”

“Fine. Jumped me yesterday. Asked him if he would have wanted it before he got hurt, told me to ask ya. So I'm askin’.”

“Fucking hell, can I at least get a fucking coffee before I get dragged into your relationship drama?”

“I'll buy you a fuckin' coffee when you answer the fuckin' question.”

Gaz groans and thumps into the chair opposite Ghost, and resigns himself to talking about this. “What's the question?”

“The one I already asked,” Ghost says with a patience he doesn't feel.

“You didn't ask a question, you made a couple of statements but none of them were questions.”

“You're as bad as he is,” Ghost says through gritted teeth. Apparently he's going to have to spell this out. “Did Johnny have any interest in me before he got hurt? Need intel here, Kyle.”

“Interest?” Gaz barely keeps the smirk from his face.

“Fuckin' hell, Garrick. You know what I'm fuckin’ talkin’ about, stop pretendin’ ya don't.”

Gaz laughs. “Ok, ok, yes, he did.”

“He told ya?”

“...Not exactly.”

“What, then?”

“A while back, after Chicago, we were on a mission, gathering intel for Laswell. He was getting some sleep, bunked down in this dusty old warehouse. I forgot something, went back to get it, found him -” Gaz makes the wanking gesture “- and he said your name. Tried to pretend I didn't hear but we both knew I had so he told me.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That's between me and him. You have the intel you need, I'm not saying any more than that.”

“Kyle.”

“No.”

Ghost sighs. “At least tell me how long.”

“Longer than you think.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“It's the best one you're getting.”

“You're really fuckin’ annoyin’, Garrick.”

Gaz smiles in the same sarcastic way that Price does. “Yes I am. Now why don't you tell me how long you've liked him.”

“You don't need that intel,” Ghost snaps.

“Oh but I do. You see, he's my best fucking friend and he's hurt and if you're just playing with him…”

“I'm not. I wouldn't.”

“So answer the question.”

“Longer than you think. Best you're getting.”

“Fine. Do you love him?”

Ghost stares back at him. “The hell kind of question is that?”

Gaz shrugs. “Pretty fucking obvious. You carried him out of the tunnel, you only leave his side when Price drags you away for a mission, you can’t focus when you’re away from him. So. Do you?”

“So one second ya doubt my intentions and the next ya say it’s obvious I love him. Make up your fuckin’ mind.”

“I have.” Gaz sighs. “Don’t fuck it up, mate. And don’t fuck him up. Because I will end you and no one will ever find your fucking body.”

“Noted. Never doubted it. He’s lucky to have you as a friend, Kyle.” Ghost stands up. “Go and get him from speech therapy, would ya? I’ll bring the car round.”

Gaz looks blank. “Car? I thought you were getting me a fucking coffee after I answered your not-question.”

“I’ll get you a fucking coffee when we get to the ‘Spoons.”

“‘Spoons?”

“Wether-fuckin’-spoons. Keep up, Garrick.”

And then Ghost is gone and Gaz is left wondering what the hell is going on and where the fuck the speech therapy place is. He finds it - and Soap - eventually and he smiles as soon as he sees Soap. 

He hasn’t visited for weeks; with Price hellbent on finding Makarov and Ghost spending every waking minute by Soap’s side, someone needs to hold down the fort so it’s been up to Gaz to keep everything running smoothly. He’s missed Soap and it’s so fucking good to see him looking so much more like himself. 

Soap is brighter, standing taller with just a walking stick to help him balance. He’s properly dressed in his usual jeans and a t-shirt with trainers, just with the new addition of Ghost’s hoodie and a pair of sunglasses which seem out of place indoors but which suit him. There’s no sign of the scar now, Soap has grown his hair out enough to hide it. He looks normal. He looks like Soap again.

Especially when he immediately smiles and walks over. “Gaz,” he says.

“Fucking hell, you recognise me now, mate?”

“Aye,” Soap says, and reaches out to flick Gaz’s baseball cap. 

“Still having trouble with faces?”

Soap seesaws his hand and pulls a face. “Better. But aye.”

“I’ll keep wearing the cap,” Gaz promises. “Ghost is bringing the car round. C’mon.”

“Exfil.”

“Yeah, exfil to the fucking ‘Spoons.”

Soap grins and gives the gestures for eyes on and quiet. 

Gaz takes a step closer, pitches his voice low. “Wait. Are we not supposed to be doing this?”

But Soap just winks and strides off and Gaz is left hurrying behind him, at least until Soap loses his sense of direction and waits for Gaz to take point.

Given the screech of tyres from Ghost’s car as he stops outside the door, and the screech as he roars off again once they’ve both got in, Gaz surmises that no, they are not in fact supposed to be doing this. He’s not sure how he feels about being roped into what amounts to a prison break. But Soap is grinning so Gaz decides to stay quiet and trust that Ghost knows what he’s doing.

Soap might be grinning happily but his heart rate has ticked up. He’s outside. The last time he left the hospital, left safety, he doesn’t really remember, he just remembers that it was bad. But he wants to do this. He wants to go to a fucking pub. He wants a beer that tastes of dog piss, and food that’s on the verge of being too cold and inedible. He wants to do something normal. And he’s with Ghost and Gaz and it’s safe. They’ll make sure it’s safe. There’s nothing to worry about.

Except, maybe, throwing up in Ghost’s car. He should definitely be worrying about that. The engine is too loud and it makes his ears ring. Buildings fly past too fast. His head spins. The lurch of the car around every corner, every stop and start, sends his stomach into his throat. By the time they arrive at the pub every nerve in his body is frayed and on edge. He leans heavily on the stick as he gets out of the car; holds onto the roof when he wobbles, and shakes his head when Gaz asks if he needs help. He can do this. He’s going to do this. 

There is one fundamental flaw in the plan, though, as he discovers when he sits down at a table in a quiet corner. He can’t read the fucking menu. He laughs. He’s drawing attention from a nearby table but he can’t stop. He just laughs and laughs and laughs at how ridiculous it is. 

“Johnny,” Ghost says as soon as Soap has stopped laughing enough to answer. “Drink?”

“Aye.”

“What?”

Soap makes a frustrated sound and slaps the table.

“Who’s that?” Ghost points at Gaz.

“Gaz.”

“Who am I?”

“Ghost.”

“What’s this?” Ghost puts his keys on the table.

“Keys.”

“What do you want to drink?”

“Pint.”

“Pint for you, coffee for Garrick. Food?”

“Aye.”

Ghost goes through the routine again and this time Soap is able to say pizza. It sounds more like pissy but Ghost repeats it back to him and Soap nods so he knows he’s got it right. He asks what Gaz wants, then goes to the bar to order.

Gaz watches him go. “He’s really good at this, yeah?”

“Aye. Good.”

“Happy for you, mate. Both of you.”

“He tell ye?”

“Yeah. ‘Bout fucking time the two of you got your acts together.”

Soap nods but he isn’t really sure they’ve got their acts together at all. What happened was probably just a one off. Ghost was probably just being nice to him, trying to help him or assuage his own guilt or something. He wishes now that he’d asked the same question Ghost did. Did ye want this? Did ye want it before? But he didn’t and now he can’t. He doesn’t have the words for that yet. 

By the time they get back to the hospital in the middle of the afternoon, Soap doesn’t have any words at all. He only has giggles. He’s abandoned the walking stick in favour of hanging around Ghost’s neck and he’s laughing so loudly that Colonel Lang appears out of nowhere and stops right in front of them.

“Oh good,” she says, “now MacIntyre smells like a brewery and a chimney, that’s excellent, Riley. Well fucking done.”

“...” Ghost says, unsure if she’s being sarcastic or not.

“Come on, mate,” Gaz says, getting his arm around Soap’s waist. “Think you need to sleep it off. Time to go nighty night.”

“Fuckhead,” Soap slurs.

“That’s right. Nighty night fuckhead. C’mon.” Gaz steers him away and into his room.

Colonel Lang takes a step closer to Ghost, pats him on the shoulder. “Good job, Lieutenant. He needed that.”

Ghost doesn’t get a chance to respond before she sweeps off again. He follows the giggles to Soap’s room and immediately finds himself being hugged like he’s Soap’s long lost childhood teddy bear.

He’s still being hugged when Gaz walks out.

Gaz laughs all the way back to his car.

For the first time, he really feels like he might have his mate back.

Chapter Text

Three days later, Price sends a text. Tomorrow. 1100. JM’s room. Be there. 

They’re all there when Price strides in and closes the door behind him. “This room secure? No bugs? Cameras?”

“Clear,” Ghost says.

“Morning, sir,” Gaz says, “how are you?”

Price runs his hand over his face. “Sorry.” He shakes himself off and smiles. “Johnny, how are ya?”

“Price. Aye, good.”

“Ya look better. Simon takin’ good care of ya?”

Soap glances at Ghost and smiles. “Aye. He is.”

Price looks from Soap’s smile to Ghost’s almost blush and nods knowingly. “Good. Kyle, doin’ ok?”

“Fine, Cap. You?”

“Yeah. Fine. Simon?”

Ghost nods. “What's this about?”

“We found him. Nik found him.”

Soap grabs his journal, flicks to a drawing of the face that haunts him and points at it. “Him?”

“Bloody hell,” Price says under his breath. “Yeah. That cunt. Nik found him.”

A swift movement and Soap swipes Ghost’s knife from the holster on his belt.

“Oi,” Ghost complains and reaches to take it back but Soap is too fast.

He stabs the drawing. The point of the knife drives into Makarov’s right eye.

Price smiles that dark smile. “Yeah. That’s the plan.”

“When do we go?” Gaz says as Ghost snatches his knife back from Soap.

“Let me be very fuckin’ clear,” Price says, “this is not sanctioned. They have no fuckin’ idea where he is an’ if they get to him before we do, they’ll give him a fuckin’ trial and put him in fuckin’ prison. This is not an off-books mission. This is a fuckin’ murder. Things go south, we’re all fucked. So. That in mind, who’s in? Kyle?”

“I’m in,” Gaz says. He has to do this. For Soap.

Price smiles and nods. “Good man. Simon?”

“Obviously.” No hesitation.

“Didn’t doubt it. Johnny?”

“Aye.” Cannae fuckin’ go wi’ them bu’ s’nice that he asked. 

“An’ me an’ Nik. Four of us. No backup. Call sign for this op will be Tav, not Bravo.”

Soap nods his appreciation.

“Usual numbers, I’ll take 6, Nik 6-1. Simon, 7, Kyle, 7-1. Full briefing on the chopper. Your gear’s in my car. Wheels up 1300. I’ll text ya the coordinates.”

“Rog’,” they chorus. Even Soap.

“Johnny.” Price nods and leaves as abruptly as he entered. There’s work to do. He can be Soap’s friend later. For now, this is what Soap needs him to be.

“I’ll, uh -” Gaz says and doesn’t bother to make an excuse before he leaves.

As soon as he’s gone, Soap stands up. “Ghost,” he says quietly.

“Johnny.”

Soap growls in frustration. He doesn’t have the words for this. He can’t say come back, come back safe, stay safe, I’ll miss ye, promise me ye’ll come back tae me. And even if he could, he would never ask Ghost to promise that, not when they both know that promise is out of his hands. If Ghost dies, Soap doesn’t want his last thought to be that he broke a fucking promise. But he thinks it and he feels it and he wraps Ghost up in a hug, as though a single hug can convey everything he wants to say but can’t. 

Ghost squeezes him tightly. “We’ll get him, Johnny. We’ll get the cunt.”

“Aye,” Soap mumbles against Ghost’s shoulder. He’s not even thinking about that, hasn’t doubted that for a single second. They’ll get him. It’s just a question of who else Makarov takes down in the process. That’s what Soap is thinking about. And he has no way to communicate that.

When Ghost finally walks away, closes the door behind him and carries Soap’s heart with him, Soap sinks down into the chair. The bed is calling to him. His head hurts and he’s dizzy and he feels sick and he’s listened to so many familiar yet unfamiliar words that his thoughts feel slow and uncoordinated, like he’s dropped half his IQ points in just a few minutes. He needs to lie down and sleep it off. 

But more than that, he needs words. He needs more words. He needs to get better. He needs to be able to communicate. When - if - Ghost comes back, Soap needs to be able to talk to him, properly talk to him.

So instead of lying down and sleeping, he turns on the television. He can push through the pain. He has to. They’re doing all of this for him. They’re putting themselves at risk for him. The least he can do is push through a bit of a headache so he can try to communicate with them when they come back.

And when he goes for speech therapy that afternoon, he manages to ask for extra sessions. It’s a long and complicated process. No one understands him like Ghost does. But he manages it with a lot of pointing and gesticulating and they finally grasp his meaning and assign him two sessions a day instead of the usual one.

He keeps the television on when he gets back to his room. Maybe it’s helping his listening comprehension but most of all it’s company and it keeps his mind off everything else.

Being left behind still hurts.

Even though he knows they’re doing this for him.

Chapter Text

Makarov staked his entire operation on the attack in the Eurotunnel and it failed. Most of his men were killed, either by the 141 or by the SFO. His funds were lost when Kate hacked his account. He was left with nothing.

Tracking him down took Nik months. He traced Makarov to Doha, then Baku, and finally to Minsk where he’s been bold enough to shake down the Russian mafia operations and has taken over a casino. The Belarusian mafia are just as unhappy with this as the Russians are which makes Nik’s job of gathering intel much, much easier. 

Makarov is holed up in the casino. Four guards. Never leaves. Lives in the Penthouse. 

It should be a straightforward HVI capture but none of them are underestimating it.

Price goes over the plan three times. Less than that isn’t enough, more than that breeds overfamiliarity and overconfidence. He needs them sharp. There’s no room for error here.

Nik has an inside woman, someone he’s charmed (or blackmailed, or bribed, or threatened, he’s admitting to nothing) who tells them Makarov’s routine, and gets them a permit to land a helicopter on the roof. None of them speak Belarusian but Nik tells them that won’t be a problem. Most people here speak Russian anyway.

Given that Nik is needed to fly the helicopter and Gaz’s Russian is limited, Ghost and Price infiltrate the casino. 

They blend in. Dark suits and fancy watches and Price has even shaved his beard so he isn’t easily recognisable. Ghost isn’t recognisable anyway; no one in Makarov’s crew has ever seen his unmasked face. They drink enough to fit in, not enough to dull their senses. They gamble enough to pass as regular punters, not enough to win or lose big and be noticed. 

And they watch.

Every move Makarov makes, they have eyes on him and his henchmen. When they move upstairs, Price and Ghost follow. 

“Tav 7-1,” Gaz says over the radio. “Got ‘em on thermal. Two outside. Two inside with the target.”

“Rog,” Price hushes into his mic.

“Copy,” Ghost mumbles into his.

Price indicates that he’s going left and Ghost should go right. Ghost nods.

Step.

Stab.

Twist.

Out.

Move.  

Knives holstered. Silenced pistols out. Price shoots out the lock. Ghost kicks in the door.

Move. Fast. 

Two shots. Guards are down. 

Makarov stands alone.

He goes for a gun. Ghost is faster.

A soft pop. A scream.

Makarov is down.

But it isn’t over for him yet. This isn’t the plan. He doesn’t die here.

Ghost shoves a rag in his mouth to shut him up. Price yanks a hood over his head, slips too tight cable ties around his wrists, and hauls him to his feet.

“Tav 7, ready for exfil,” Ghost says.

“Rog’,” Gaz comes back. “Meet you at the door. Nothing on thermals.”

“Copy. 90 seconds.”

Nik spins up the blades. Gaz meets them at the door, helps to get Makarov into the chopper.

Three hours later, they land at Nik’s farm. It’s in the back end of fucking nowhere, on the border of Poland and Russia; a safe haven yet close enough to his beloved country that he can stare across the line while he smokes and prays for the day the regime falls and a better one can be installed in its place. He puts his life on the line for that every single day.

Makarov is secured in a barn. Gaz takes watch while the others prepare. He doesn’t quite have the stomach for what comes next. Price has made his intentions clear and while Gaz is fully on board with the plan - the whole plan - he doesn’t need to be involved in this part. Neither does Nik.

Even Price hesitates before he goes into the barn. Am I really fuckin’ doin’ this? Cunt deserves it but jesus fuck I’ve lost sight of the fuckin’ line now. He runs his hand over his face, wishes he still had the beard. He could hide behind that. Fuckin’ get on with it, he tells himself, takes a deep breath and shoves the door open.

Ghost follows him. He isn’t having second thoughts. Everything that Soap has been through, everything that Soap is still going through, Ghost wants to repay a hundredfold. He wraps a heavy chain around his knuckles and takes the first hit.

Hours pass as they trade off. Ghost, then Price. They inflict every cruelty imaginable on the man in front of them. On the face that haunts Soap’s dreams. 

And then, when Makarov is near the end, Ghost leans in. 

“All this is for Soap,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Nighty night fuckhead.”

He pulls back. Price takes the final shot that ends it. Makarov slumps in the chains. Price steadies his head. Ghost carves out his right eye, wraps it in plastic and puts it in a box.

They leave his body there and go into the farmhouse. They’re both covered in blood.

“Trash in the barn, Nik,” Price says. His voice is high, higher than usual, the only part of him that betrays his emotion.

“I have bags,” Nik says easily. “I will take care of it. Your bags are upstairs. There is hot water. Food when you are ready.”

“It’s done?” Gaz asks quietly.

“Done,” Ghost confirms. “It’s over. Where are the bags, Nik?”

“Follow John. He knows.”

Price looks slightly sheepish as he goes upstairs with Ghost following in his footsteps but Ghost doesn’t ask. Not any of his business.

They shower and change and eat Nik’s beef stroganoff. Price mostly pushes it around his plate. So does Gaz. But Ghost eats. He has an appetite again for the first time in months.

Nik deals with the trash while they sleep. They pack up while he sleeps. That evening, he drops Ghost and Gaz back near the hospital. Price stays at the farm. He needs a few more days before he’s ready to be a human again.

Gaz takes off as soon as they land. He needs to get back to base and he has a date tomorrow with the woman he met in Cairo, so he wants to get some sleep and put what they’ve just done behind him. He tells Ghost to let Soap know he’ll visit again soon.

Ghost goes straight to the hospital. It’s late and he’s expecting to have issues getting in to see Soap but he has to try anyway. He has to tell Soap that it’s over. He has to tell Soap that he's safe. That takes priority over visiting hours and rules and red tape and bureaucracy. As he approaches the door to the locked ward, he squares his shoulders and prepares for a fight.

He doesn’t get one. The guards check a list, salute, and open the door. Ghost gives them a strange look but doesn’t question it, he just goes straight down the corridor to Soap’s room.

Despite the lateness of the hour, Soap is still up. He’s sitting in the chair, sunglasses on, hood over his head, watching the television and mouthing words to himself. Ghost stops in the doorway and just watches. 

He’s safe now. We did it. He can rest easy. Might stop the nightmares. Fuckin’ hope so. He doesn’t need that on top of everything else. 

Ghost takes a step into the room. “Johnny,” he says quietly.

Soap is on his feet in an instant, has Ghost wrapped up in a hug before he can so much as blink. “Ye’re here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. It’s done. It’s over.”

“Ye ok?”

“Fine. Tired.”

Soap lets him go. Reluctantly, he doesn’t want to let go of him, not now, not ever, but he does. “Gaz? Price? N-” he cuts out, looks frustrated and gestures vaguely.

“All fine. Price stayed at Nik’s. Gaz has gone back to base, says he’ll visit soon.”

“Good.” Soap gestures towards the chair and sits down on the bed.

“In a minute. Got you something.” Ghost digs deep into his pocket and takes out the box. He feels absurdly like he should have wrapped it, or that he should get down on one knee or something. It feels big. It feels like a declaration. But it isn’t. It’s just an eyeball. He hands the box to Soap and waits.

Soap opens it. He slowly peels away the plastic and then he smiles, slow and wide, his eyes lighting up. “His?”

“Yes.”

“Knife,” Soap says, holding out his hand.

“Why do I get the feelin’ this is a bad fuckin’ idea?” Ghost mutters, but he gives Soap his knife anyway.

Soap puts the box down on the table and, with immense concentration, plunges the knife into the eyeball. It skewers it like butter. Straight through the eyeball, through the box, and lodges in the formica table top below. Vitreous fluid spurts everywhere. Soap laughs.

“Enjoyed that, did ya?” Ghost says, smirking as he sits down in the chair. 

“Aye.” Soap turns back to look at him. “Thanks. Ghost, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Ghost says gruffly.

“Tell me?”

“About the op?”

“Aye.”

“You sure you want to know?”

“Aye.”

Ghost takes a deep breath. “He was holed up in a casino in Minsk. Took him from there. Quick an’ clean. Back to Nik’s. Got a farm in Poland. Quiet. No neighbours. Took our time. Me an’ Price. Just us. Made it hurt. Made him scream. Told him it was for you. Told him nighty night fuckhead. Like you would’ve. Price shot him -” Ghost taps his left temple, the same place as Soap’s scar “- to end it. Nik took out the trash.”

Soap nods. “Ye’re tired. Sleep.”

“Can’t. Late. Shouldn’t be here.”

“Sleep.”

“Fuckin’ hell. Bossy. Least you’re not throwin’ fuckin’ chips at me this time.”

Soap throws a pen at him instead.

Ghost rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says, and gets more comfortable in the chair. He closes his eyes and is fast asleep in seconds.

Soap covers him with a blanket, then turns off the television and lies down, on his side so he can watch Ghost sleep. He doesn’t want to take his eyes off him. Creepin’ jesus, Ah cannae believe they fuckin’ did all tha’ fir me. Knew they were gonnae kill him but torture? Ah wouldae done it too. If he’d done this tae one of them. Ah wouldae done it too. Glad they made it fuckin’ hurt. Cunt deserved it. An’ now he’s gone. Willnae be comin’ after me any more. My fuckin’ fault, tryin’ tae kill him on that fuckin’ chopper. Fuckin’ years ago but he never forgot. They shouldnae have had tae dae all this fir me. Let them down. Ah keep lettin’ them down. Especially him. He deserves better. Deserves the fuckin’ world even if he cannae believe that. Need tae show him. If ah cannae tell him, ah need tae show him. Somehow. If he wants me tae. Maybe he doesnae. Ah dinnae fuckin’ know. Need tae take care of him but ah cannae dae tha’ from here. Need tae get him tae leave. Need tae ask him nicely. Dinnae want him tae think ah’m throwing him out. Need tae think how. Tired. Heid’s mince again. Tomorrow. Ah’ll work it out tomorrow. 

He falls asleep still facing Ghost, still watching him in his dreams.

He doesn’t dream about Makarov for the first time in months.

*

But neither of them get to sleep for long. Ghost is certain he’s only been asleep for five minutes before a loud voice is bellowing in his ear.

“Riley!”

Ghost startles awake and stumbles over his words. “Uh - wh- jus’ restin’ my eyes.”

“Of course you fucking were,” Colonel Lang snaps. “When I said you could be here from 10 til 4, I meant during the fucking daytime, not in the middle of the fucking night.” 

“Me,” Soap says. “Not him. Me.”

Colonel Lang turns towards him. “I’m assuming, MacIntyre, that you’re taking responsibility and, honestly, I should have known. You’re as bad as each other. Now, can one of you please explain why there is a fucking eyeball in my hospital.”

“...” they both say.

“No. You know what? I don’t want to fucking know. I am choosing to believe it’s a Hallowe’en decoration in the middle of fucking March. Just fucking get it out of here. It’s a health hazard. Riley, be gone by 4pm. Understood?”

“Out by 4. Take Hallowe’en decoration with me. Understood, ma’am.”

“Good. MacIntyre, best behaviour, yes?”

“Aye,” Soap says, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

And then she’s gone and Soap is laughing again. He laughs a lot these days. He supposes it’s better than being full of white hot rage, or suicidal depression that sends rivers of tears down his cheeks, or apathy that’s so deep that he doesn’t want to so much as take another breath. Laughter is better than that. Even if he can’t stop once he starts; even if it makes his head hurt and lights sparkle in front of his eyes. 

Ghost shakes his head and lets out a huff of laughter. “Glad you enjoyed that ‘cause I fuckin’ didn’t.”

But that just makes Soap laugh even harder, even louder, until he’s almost howling and he’s clutching his head and then, finally, the pain is enough to make him stop. He sinks back onto the bed, once again facing Ghost. “Ghost,” he says, the words slurring a little now. “You. RTB. Rest.”

“I’m restin’.”

“No. RTB.”

“You don’t want me here?”

Soap shakes his head and groans. “Aye. Ah do.”

“But you want me to leave so I can rest?”

“Aye. Rest.”

Ghost nods. “Tomorrow. I’ll RTB tomorrow. Get some kip.”

He doesn’t want to leave but Soap has asked him to and Ghost won’t deny him anything. Not a single thing.

And when Ghost leaves, before the 4pm deadline and with the souvenir eyeball, Soap wonders if he’ll ever come back. He wonders if Ghost only stayed while Makarov was alive. He wonders if it was only ever about keeping him safe. 

Chapter Text

But Ghost does come back. 

He goes back to base where he catches up on some sleep, polishes his weapons and cleans his gear, and does all the general life stuff that he’s been ignoring since that day in the tunnel.

He’s back at the hospital three days later.

Soap lights up when he finds Ghost waiting outside the physio centre. “Ye came back,” he says, smiling a little soft smile that makes Ghost’s heart ache.

“Yeah. ‘course I did. ‘Spoons?”

“Naw. Go-” Soap slows down, waits for the words to come to him. “Speech thing.”

“Speech therapy?”

“Aye. Gettin’ better.”

Ghost smiles. “Yeah, ya are. Proud of ya, Johnny.”

“Thank ye, Ghost.”

“What time’s speech therapy?”

Soap pulls an appointment card from his pocket and hands it to Ghost.

“15 minutes. Got time for a fag, then. Comin’?”

“Aye.” Soap follows Ghost outside and leans against the wall. He shakes his head when Ghost takes out his cigarettes and pulls a packet from his own pocket instead - along with an unfamiliar plastic lighter.

“Fuckin’ hell, someone actually bought you fags?”

“Naw,” Soap says, smirking. He lights two and passes one to Ghost, buying himself time to form the word. “Stole.”

Ghost laughs. “You fuckin’ swiped ‘em from someone?”

“Aye. The -” Soap lets out a frustrated noise. “Fuckin’ thing. Desk.”

“Desk? Nurses desk? In the ward?”

“Aye. There.”

Ghost’s eyes crinkle at the corners and he watches Soap smoke, the way his lips purse around the filter, the way his cheeks hollow as he draws in smoke, the way his eyelids go heavy and the lines in his face smooth out as he relaxes. He wants to take the fag from Soap’s mouth and replace it with a kiss. He wonders how Soap would react. Whether he’d want it or not. Gaz’s words ring in his ears. Longer than you think. Don’t fuck it up. He thinks, on balance, Soap would want it, that it would be ok, that he wouldn’t be doing anything wrong. But he’s scared. He can face down a whole battalion of armed enemy combatants but facing any sort of emotion fills him with a terror so deep that he can’t find the words to describe it. Kissing Soap means facing up to that. To his shortcomings, to his limitations, to his absolute and total fucked-up-ness. 

And if he falls, if he fails, if he fucks it up, Soap will be the one who’s hurt.

Soap doesn’t need that extra pressure. Not when he’s doing so well. He doesn’t need to be lumbered with a fucked up Ghost who has no idea what he’s doing or how to take care of Soap’s beautiful, too big for his own good, heart. Soap needs a friend. More than anything, Soap needs a friend.

Friends don’t kiss.

So he stands and he watches and he tries not to think about that night and that conversation. He needs to put it behind him.

“Want lunch?” he says, grinding out his cigarette under the toe of his boot. “After speech therapy?”

“Aye. Ah’d like that.” Soap tosses his cigarette, still burning, into a nearby puddle where it fizzles out.

“Where? ‘Spoons?”

“Naw, got - fuck fuckin’ -” Soap lets out a frustrated groan and gestures vaguely back at the hospital.

“Stuff to do. Got it. I’ll pick somethin’ up. Better than the shite the hospital serves you, yeah?”

“Aye. Better. Thanks.”

“Maybe we can get a pint later?”

Soap smiles. “Aye, good.”

Ghost smiles back and walks Soap to speech therapy. He picks up some sandwiches from a nearby cafe which they eat on a bench that’s still damp from earlier rainfall. And if Ghost rests his knee against Soap’s and if Soap leans in so their shoulders brush, well that isn’t crossing a line. That’s just two friends eating lunch together.

Even if both of them know it isn’t.

After lunch, Soap has cognitive rehab therapy which is supposed to help his brain remap so he can relearn patterns, reading and writing and recognising faces, as well as improving his reflexes and strategic thinking. It is helping but it’s also the most draining of all of his therapies. He always leaves with a headache. They make him do some puzzles and memory tasks. Mostly he thinks they’re ridiculous. So many of them feel like they’re geared towards children and he’s not a child, he can think fine, there are just a few things he struggles with. Like directions and time and communicating. 

But today the therapist cracks out Tetris and hands the console to Soap and he’s immediately engrossed. He hasn’t played it much, growing up in a Catholic orphanage on the outskirts of Glasgow didn’t exactly lend itself to a childhood of playing games, but he was allowed to go to Scouts and one of the other kids had a GameBoy and sometimes Soap was allowed to play Tetris on it. It’s one of the few good memories from before he joined the army. Playing it now is warm and familiar, like visiting an old friend. It doesn’t feel like therapy. He’s almost disappointed when it’s time to stop.

Almost. 

But stopping means it’s time to go for a pint with Ghost and that’s better even than Tetris.

He’s still tired when he leaves though. His balance is worse and he leans heavily on his walking stick as he weaves his way towards Ghost.

“Ok?” Ghost asks quietly.

“Aye. Tired.”

“Need to rest?”

Soap shakes his head. “Pint.”

“Sure?”

“Aye.”

Ghost nods and stays close to Soap as they walk out of the hospital to the car. As soon as they get to the Wetherspoons, he gets a pint for Soap and a lager top for himself and glares at a group of people until they get off the sofa in the corner, then glares at them some more until they pick up their empties and move out of the way. As soon as they’ve gone, he sits down at one end of the sofa, leaving Soap plenty of space to decide how close he wants to sit to Ghost.

Which, it turns out, is very close. 

Soap plonks himself down beside Ghost, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. No second thoughts, he just needs to be close. Needs that contact. Not anything else. Not now. Not yet. He wants to, he wants to kiss Ghost again, wants to press up against him and see if he can make Ghost fall apart in his hands. Or mouth. He isn’t fussy. But he won’t. He still isn’t sure how Ghost felt about the whole thing, whether he tolerated it to be nice or whether he was actually into it. He doesn’t know and he can’t ask and he really, really doesn’t want a pity fuck. So he’s not doing anything. Nothing except this. 

It’s enough. It’s nice. He only moves when Ghost gets up to get more drinks and when Ghost sits down again, Soap presses into him once more. They don’t talk much. Soap is tired and Ghost spends two drinks with his heart lodged somewhere in his throat, fingers itching with the need to touch. Words don’t seem particularly important.

When he comes back with their third round of drinks and Soap leans into him, Ghost takes a risk. He shifts his weight, angles his body, and wraps his arm around Soap’s shoulders. Soap turns into him, meets Ghost’s eyes, just for a heartbeat, then buries his smile in the crook of Ghost’s neck, that little nook that feels like it’s been made just for him. Ghost holds him tighter, presses a soft, silent kiss to the top of Soap’s head. It’s crossing a line but it doesn’t feel like it.

It feels like coming home at the end of a long day. Warm and welcoming and safe. 

They don’t move for the rest of the evening. 

They’re both in trouble for getting back to the ward so late.

Soap laughs again. 

This time, Ghost joins him.

Chapter Text

Back on base, Price gets the bollocking of his entire career. Lesser men would have quailed before the onslaught from Lieutenant Colonel Adams but Price stands to attention, bites his tongue, and says yes, sir and no, sir when he’s required to answer. He’s given a choice and a deadline and then he’s dismissed.

Bubbling with rage, he sends a text. Meeting today. JM’s room. 1500. Gaz, with me. Kate, video call. Ghost, tell Johnny. Don’t be fucking late. Any of you. 

Everyone has questions. No one asks any. 

Price drives like a madman to the hospital. Gaz doesn’t say a word. When they get there, he sends Gaz in ahead and takes a couple of minutes to breathe. He has time.

He runs his hand over his face. His beard is growing back in fast but he hasn’t trimmed it and it’s as much of a mess as the rest of him is. 

Fuckin’ unfair, he thinks to himself. We put our lives on the fuckin’ line for this shit. Soap deserves fuckin’ better. Can’t believe I’m about to fuckin’ do this. Why the fuck do we bother? Why the fuck do any of us bother when it ends up like this? The army takes care of their own? Bullshit. Fuckin’ bullshit. Bunch of fuckin’ cunts. Done with it all. Time to fuckin’ take retirement and get out of the fuckin’ game. Doesn’t matter now. Need to sort Soap out first. Need to fuckin’ tell him. Fuckin’ christ. It’ll break him. Breakin’ me too. Ghost will probably punch my fuckin’ lights out. Gaz will look like a kicked puppy. Jesus fuck, I hate this. 

He digs into his pocket, drags his fingers along the star shaped cap badge Nik gave him. His. A symbol. A question. One he knows how to answer now.

Another breath and he strides in.

His phone rings as he gets to Soap’s room. Kate. He answers it and goes in.

“Hello everyone,” he says, voice thin and tight. “No pleasantries. Let me get through this. First up, you’re all here because it affects all of ya but only one person is allowed a fuckin’ opinion and that’s Johnny. He’s the only one I want to hear from. The rest of ya are here as a fuckin’ courtesy. Understood?”

“What's going on, John?” Kate asks.

Price runs his hand over his beard and stands tall. “We’ve been found out. Covering up your death. Lieutenant Colonel Adams hauled me in this morning, ripped me a new one.”

“How did he find out? John’s new identity is watertight. I made sure of it,” Kate says.

“Don’t doubt it is watertight, but the old boys club -” Price chuckles darkly. “Looks like the Black Watch CO blabbed at the officer’s fuckin’ Christmas party an’ then someone did some diggin’ an’ now we’re all in the fuckin’ shit.”

A chorus of quiet fucking hells from all of them except Soap who is staring at Price and shaking his head.

“How deep in the shit?” Ghost says.

“Neck fuckin’ deep.” Price runs his hand over his beard again. It doesn’t make him feel any better. “Adams says he’s glad to hear you’re still alive, Johnny. I’ll give him that. He wasn’t a heartless cunt about it. Came down over his head. He’s the messenger. Gave me a choice. I make it disappear or we’re up on charges. All of us.”

“Disappear?” Gaz says. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means I have to kick ya out, Johnny.” Price manages to meet Soap’s eyes but quickly looks away again. He can’t bear the hurt he sees there.

“And the charges?”

Price turns to Gaz. Anything to avoid looking at Soap. “Unspecified. There’d be a full investigation. Into the mission, into our cover up. CIA involvement -” Price nods at Kate on the phone “- means it would be an international incident. Might uncover Shepherd’s death. And Makarov’s. Americans won’t be happy with us. Neither will the Russians.”

“Wouldn’t be good, then.”

“No, it wouldn’t be fuckin’ good, it would be very fuckin’ bad. But that’s the choice I’ve been fuckin’ given. If I don’t file the paperwork for Johnny’s discharge by 1000 tomorrow, we’re up on charges and the investigation starts.”

Ghost looks from Soap to Price. “And what happens to Johnny?”

“I’ll make it a medical discharge, he’ll be entitled to a pension, have access to support, but he’ll be treated by the NHS, won’t be able to stay here.”

“Me,” Soap says sharply. “Talk tae me. No’ -” he gestures vaguely to indicate not everyone fucking else. 

“Sorry,” Price says quietly. The word feels strange in his mouth; not one he says often. “I’ll do everythin’ I can to make sure you’re taken care of but I can’t fix this, Johnny. I can’t make it go away.”

“Sounds like your mind’s made up,” Gaz says. “You said you were given a fucking choice but you’ve already made it, haven’t you, sir?”

“No. It isn’t my choice to fuckin’ make. It’s yours, Johnny.”

“It isn’t a fuckin’ choice,” Ghost snaps. “Not when you already know what he’ll say.”

Price doesn’t look away from Soap. “It’s a choice. Should I file your discharge papers?”

A pause. A whispered fucking hell from Gaz who’s shaking his head in disbelief. A stony stare from Ghost, containing his anger. A tap tap tap from Kate as she drums her nails on her desk. 

Soap stares back at Price. So much information. So many unfamiliar words. So much he wants to say but can’t. Ghost’s right, it isnae a fuckin’ choice. Aw of us would make the same one. Protect the team at all costs. Cannae let them gae down fir me. Cannae let them face charges an’ aw the other shite, cannae let that happen. Aw of us know it might come tae this. Or worse. 

He nods. “Aye. Dae it.”

Price smiles, thin and tight. “Thank you, Johnny. Means a lot. Wish it hadn’t come to this.”

“Aye,” Soap says and looks away, looks to Ghost, fixes his eyes on the one constant in his life.

“Johnny,” Kate says over the phone. “I’m sorry this happened, I should have made sure it was more watertight than this. I’ll do what I can from this end, make sure you’re taken care of.”

“Yeah,” Gaz says, “sorry, mate, but you aren’t losing us, you’re stuck with me now. I’ll still be around.”

But Soap doesn’t answer either of them. Ghost does.

“Out. All of ya. Get the fuck out.”

“Settle down, Simon.”

Ghost stands up, goes nose to nose with Price. “Don’t take your fuckin’ orders when I’m off duty, old man. Out.”

The air crackles as Price stares him down; he doesn’t blink until there’s a quiet John from Kate on the phone. Then Gaz’s hand on his arm and Price looks away.

“We should go, Cap. Johnny looks tired. C’mon, I’ll drive.”

Price nods. “Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Sorry, Johnny. Really.”

“Aye,” Soap says, but he doesn’t look at him, can’t look at him.

Gaz steers Price out of the room, bootsteps heavy with anger.

Ghost quietly closes the door behind them. He stands there, back to Soap, and slaps the wall, three times, hard enough to send vibrations up through his arm to his shoulder.

“Ghost,” Soap says; pleads, really.

“Sorry.” Ghost fixes his face into something resembling neutral and turns around. “I’m here.”

“What now?”

“Don’t know. We’ll work it out. I’ll work it out. You’re not alone here, Johnny. I’ve got ya.”

“Aye?”

“Yes.”

Soap nods and runs his fingers over the tattoo on his arm. The SAS insignia, tattooed the day after he passed selection. It’s all over now. He’s no longer a soldier. He took a bullet to save Price’s life and now he’s been thrown out like an empty fag packet. 

Tears slip from his eyes. He blinks them away, seeks out the comforting figure of Ghost. The one constant. The one person who hasn’t left him.

Yet.

Maybe he won’t even have Ghost soon.

Maybe he’ll be all alone.

*

Price files the paperwork the next day. His heart is heavy. Soap is only in this situation because of him, because Soap was stupid enough to save his worthless fucking life, and now Soap is paying the price for it. He tells himself he has no choice. He’s doing what has to be done. Sacrifice the one to save the many. It’s the right thing to do. Soap gave him permission to do it. But it still weighs on him, heavier and more unbalancing than a fully loaded bergen at the end of the long drag.

Gaz tries not to dwell on things. He’s as much of a pent up bundle of emotions as the others are but he knows there’s no use sinking into it all. Instead, he focuses on the future. On what he can do to change things. He can’t help Soap but maybe he can make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else. He makes phone call after phone call; to Aaliyah who he met in Cairo, to Kate Laswell, and to his family who still don’t really know what he does. And then he fills out some paperwork and takes it to Price. He has a plan.

Ghost doesn’t leave Soap’s side, even under threat of grievous bodily injury from Colonel Lang. He sleeps in the chair and he seethes. When Soap goes for his various therapy sessions, Ghost goes to the nearby gym and takes out his anger on a punchbag. It doesn’t really help. He can’t get past the injustice of it all, how Soap deserves better than to be discarded like he’s nothing. Because he’s not nothing, he’s everything. And if the army won’t take care of him, if the army is prepared to throw him away after everything Soap has given them, well, Ghost will bloody well do it himself. Whatever the next few days and weeks and months throw at Soap, Ghost will be there for all of it. He’s dug in and determined. There isn’t much he can change, but he can change this. Soap won’t be alone.

Soap goes to therapy but everything is too overwhelming and he can’t concentrate. He can’t even think. Every time he tries, it’s like being stuck in a slow motion replay of a Celtic own goal during an old firm match. The more he can’t think, the more his emotions surface. Instead of using his limited vocabulary, he throws things. If something annoys him, he pushes it away. When he is able to use his words, he’s either too loud or too quiet or he gets the wrong word or the right word in his head but the wrong one comes out of his mouth and confuses him. All he wants to do is glue himself to Ghost, to his one safe space, to the one place where everything is ok. But he can’t do that. Not when every time he looks at Ghost, he wonders how long it will be until he loses him, too. He turns in on himself, sleeps more, only eats and drinks when he’s prompted, only goes to therapy sessions if Ghost bribes him with fags and a promise of a pint afterwards.

He starts to feel like he’s the ghost. A shadow of who he had once been.

A feeling which is not helped when, three days after Price’s bombshell, Colonel Lang sweeps into Soap’s room after breakfast.

“MacIntyre,” she says. “I have your discharge paperwork, need to discuss where you’re off to next. Riley, I have you listed as next of kin along with Captain Price and a -” she consults her papers “- Sergeant Garrick. Can we speak without them or should I arrange a meeting with all of you?”

She’s looking at Soap, expecting an answer, but he only caught every third word and some of those he didn’t understand. He shakes his head and looks to Ghost, pleading silently for help.

“Exfil papers,” Ghost says, pausing between each word so Soap can nod his understanding. “Where next. Meeting. Just me an’ you, or with Price an’ Gaz?”

“You,” Soap says. He doesn’t want the others here. Not for this. Not when he’s so weak and fragile and vulnerable. He can’t deal with that.

“Just us,” Ghost says. 

“As I expected. Haven’t seen much of the other two. Captain Price phones every day but he doesn’t visit often, does he?”

“No.”

“Right, well, let’s get on with it, shall we? The good news is that medically, there’s no reason for you to be in a hospital any longer so you can go home. We’ll put -”

“Hold up,” Ghost says and turns to Soap. “No more hospital. Go home.”

“Ah -” Soap says.

“I know. Handling it.” Ghost turns back to Colonel Lang. “He lives on base. Home isn’t an option. What else ya got?”

Colonel Lang sighs. “I thought that would be the case. Right, the alternatives are a community hospital or a nursing home but it would be a short term solution while you find somewhere to live. Rent a flat or something. The council might be able to help but it’ll take a while.”

“A fuckin’ nursin’ home? Where people dump the grannies they don’t fuckin’ want anymore?”

“Riley, that’s an unfair viewpoint, not everyone is well placed to take care of elderly loved ones. But yes. A nursing home. I’ll try for a community hospital but I can’t make any guarantees and if he has no ties to a particular area then it could be anywhere in the country.”

“No. Not an option. Find something else.”

“There is nothing else. If he doesn’t have a home to go to, it’ll be a hospital or nursing home and from there, they’ll help him arrange accommodation, probably through the council, probably an HMO or shelter if he isn’t in a position to rent or buy somewhere, though there might be some help available through one of the veterans charities. If that’s unacceptable then I’m sorry but he’s on his own. There’s nothing else I can do.”

“Then what fuckin’ good are ya?”

“I’m not in the habit of taking insults from lieutenants with attitudes that outstrip their ranks, Riley, but I’ll let this one slide. I’ll let the two of you discuss it and I’ll try to find a hospital that has space for him. I am doing my best here.”

Ghost nods. “Fine. Appreciate it.”

“Good.” Colonel Lang sweeps out without another word.

Soap lost track of the conversation somewhere around the first mention of nursing home. He tried to follow it, he really did, but there were too many words he didn’t know, too many angry voices and his head is hurting and he can’t think again. By the time Colonel Lang leaves the room, he feels small. Like a wee kiddie who’s been talked over and talked about and not given any choices; like he’s out of control of his own life. Which he is. He is. Everyone is making decisions for him and he can’t even understand a simple fucking sentence. His heart pounds in his chest, sends sparks up into his head, and his breathing is ragged as he turns towards Ghost. “Ghost?” he whispers. “Tell me?”

Ghost runs his hand over his face, lingers over the bumpy scars that remind him not of who he is but of who he was. He leans forwards, elbows on his knees, and speaks slowly, pausing to let Soap catch up as he goes over the whole conversation and explains the different options. He leaves out the nursing home option. Because it isn’t one. He won’t let that happen. “Flat or hospital?” he asks when he’s finished and Soap has nodded his understanding.

Soap blinks back tears. Cannae get a flat. Cannae afford it, cannae manage on my own, an’ ah know he’ll help me but he cannae keep helping me. Steamin’ bloody jesus another hospital an’ then fuck knows where. Cannae understand any of it. Terror rises in him, digging cold tendrils into his stomach, then his heart, climbs its icy way up to his head and shrouds him in a fog so dense that he can’t see through it. Everything is new and terrifying so he chooses what’s most familiar, fights his way through the fog to find the right words. “Stay. Here. No’ here.”

“Hospital?”

“Aye.”

Ghost nods and does something that doesn’t come naturally to him, something he hasn’t done for a long, long time. He stands up, goes over to Soap, stoops down, and hugs him. 

Soap crumbles against him, sobbing into Ghost’s shoulder. He doesn’t hear the soft words Ghost murmurs to him, and Ghost won’t remember them later. 

For now, a hug will have to be enough.

There’s nothing else Ghost can do.

Chapter Text

When Colonel Lang comes back with an update, it isn’t good. All she can find is a nursing home all the way up in Hexham; too far for Ghost to visit regularly. Soap would be stuck there all alone. And when the hospital discharge him, the local council will assume responsibility for him, his whole life will be there. Somewhere he hasn’t chosen for himself.

Ghost tells her that isn’t acceptable, it isn’t even an option, and he tells her that he’ll sort something else out himself. She tells him she’ll accept the place to secure it and she’ll start making arrangements, just in case whatever harebrained plan Ghost has come up with doesn’t pan out. Which, Ghost thinks, is probably a solid contingency plan. Even if it isn’t needed because he will sort something else out.

He explains everything to Soap, promises he’ll be back soon, hugs Soap again, and then he leaves.

The miles race under his tyres. He roars into the base and screeches to a halt outside the admin office.

Twenty minutes later, he marches into Price’s office.

Price looks up, warily eyeing the feral expression on Ghost’s face. “Simon,” he says guardedly when Ghost strides right up to his desk.

Ghost slams down some paperwork on the desk. “My retirement forms. Effective immediately. Sign ‘em.”

“Not until ya tell me what the bloody fuck is goin’ on.”

“Obvious, innit? I’m retirin’.”

“Sit down, Lieutenant Riley, your papers aren’t signed yet,” Price snaps.

Ghost glares but he sits down. “They’ve fucked him over, John. Only place Lang can find is a fuckin’ old people’s home in fuckin’ Hexham. An’ he won’t be able to stay there long, then he’ll be in some fuckin’ shelter or somethin’. Not lettin’ that happen. I retire, find us a flat, take care of him, he’ll be ok. Better for him.”

“This really what ya want?”

“My fuckin’ fault, innit? I was too fuckin’ slow. If I hadn’t been…”

“If we’re goin’ that route, it’s my fuckin’ fault too.”

“Yes.”

Price sighs. “Are ya sure, Simon?”

“Very.”

“Hate to fuckin’ lose ya,” Price says, but he signs the paperwork. “You’re the best we’ve got.”

“Don’t much like it myself but no option. Not for Johnny. He needs me.”

Price nods and holds out the signed paperwork, but he doesn’t let go of it, doesn’t let Ghost leave yet. “Don’t get a flat yet. Might have an idea. Need to make a call. Two days. I’ll come to the hospital, talk to the both of ya. Ok?”

“Copy.”

“Good.” Price lets go of the paperwork.

Ghost checks it before he pulls his mask out of his pocket and tosses it onto the desk. “Find yourself a new ghost. Make sure they’re good.” And then he’s gone, long strides carrying him out of the office and back to the admin building.

Price watches him go and tugs at his beard. His team is gone. Fractured and broken until it’s only him and Gaz. He isn’t sure he has the heart to rebuild it. He’s too old for that. But he can’t abandon it either, he’ll stick it out for a while longer, make sure he leaves some sort of legacy instead of all of this shit. He can do that much at least.

He pulls out his phone and makes three calls, not just the one. He fast tracks Gaz’s application to Sandhurst, that’s easy enough, his name carries enough clout that it’s a quick call and a promise of a box of good cigars. The other calls are longer. One to Kate for a quick catch up on everything. The last one takes the longest. He calls Nik and tells him soon. 

When he’s finished, he leans back in his chair. He’s almost done. It feels like a weight has been lifted.

Now he just has to make a couple more arrangements to make sure Soap is taken care of. It won’t take him long.

*

“Ghost,” Soap says as soon as Ghost appears in the doorway. 

“Think you’d better start practicin’ callin’ me Simon,” Ghost says. He stands just inside the door, arms hanging by his sides. “Not Ghost anymore.”

Soap looks blank and shakes his head, raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

“Filed my retirement papers. Price signed ‘em. I'm done.”

Soap stares at him. He understands the words, he just doesn't understand why. The word sticks in his throat, comes out as an indistinguishable sound and he lets out a frustrated grunt. This is important. It matters. If he can’t say the word itself, he has to approximate it somehow. “Wh -” he manages, then adds, “aye?”

“Why? Fuckin’ obvious, innit? ‘Cause I’m not lettin’ them ship ya off to fuck knows where an’ stick ya in a fuckin’ old people’s home. I’ll find a flat for us.”

Tears spring to Soap’s eyes and he shakes his head in disbelief. He cannae dae this fir me. He cannae leave his fuckin’ job fir me. Ah’m no’ worth that. Ah’m no’ worth anythin’. Probably jus’ feels fuckin’ sorry fir me. Guilty or somethin’. But there’s something in the weight of Ghost’s shoulders, in the stillness of his stance, in his downcast eyes, that tells Soap something different. 

This isn’t guilt. It’s a fucking declaration.

Realisations crash into him like bullets out of a machine gun. 

Ghost saved him that day, carried him out of the tunnel. Gaz told him that; Soap can’t remember when, he’s mostly forgotten it until now. Ghost has been by his side ever since. Ghost has only left for missions, when Price ordered him to. Ghost keeps coming back.

Steamin’ jesus, he keeps comin’ back. 

Ghost keeps coming back. Not Gaz. Not his best friend. Not Price. Not his commanding officer, his mentor. Not them.

Ghost. 

Even when Soap’s been a total cunt, when he’s thrown things and lashed out and screamed words that aren’t words, Ghost has never left.

And now he’s blown up his whole fucking life, just because Soap needs help.

Any doubts Soap has about how Ghost feels about him, about that kiss and what happened after, are gone. All the questions he hasn’t been able to ask are answered.

Words he can’t say bubble through him. He’s on his feet in an instant. He pauses, toe to toe with Ghost, wobbles slightly as he tilts his chin to meet Ghost’s eyes, but then Ghost’s hand is on his arm, steadying him the same way he always does, and Soap catches Ghost’s jaw in his palm. He brushes his thumb across Ghost’s cheek, as tender as can be. Ghost turns his face into the gentle contact and his eyes flutter closed, so calm and trusting that it makes Soap’s heart ache.

Ah love ye, Simon Riley. Ah always fuckin’ loved ye. 

And as Soap presses his lips to Ghost’s, as he kisses him with all of the love he feels, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, getting shot in the head was worth it. 

Maybe. 

*

Ghost, when he isn’t helping Soap with something, spends all of his time on Rightmove, looking at flats to rent. The enormity of what he’s just done is starting to hit him. 

Prior preparation and planning prevents piss poor performance. 

Except he hasn’t prepared or planned anything. He has no idea where he’s going or what he’s doing or how to make any of it work. He didn’t even check how much his army pension would net him.

Probably not enough, he thinks to himself, have to find a job, no fuckin’ idea what. Bouncer, maybe. Work the doors at night, be there for him during the day. Doesn’t fuckin’ matter. None of that shit matters. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll make it fuckin’ work. Even if we have to sleep in my fuckin’ car for a while, I’ll make it fuckin’ work. Can’t do that. He can’t do that. No fuckin’ way. He deserves better. Better than that. Better than me. Have to find somewhere. 

He redoubles his efforts, doesn’t look up from his phone unless Soap needs something. Nothing else matters. Only Soap. Only their future. He doesn’t care about anything else; hasn’t done since that day in the tunnel. 

That day. 

Staring at Soap dying on the concrete in front of him had been one of the most terrifying moments of his life. He felt like his world was breaking apart in slow motion as all the words he’d never said, all the feelings he’d left unspoken, as all of it crashed down around him in one heavy weight that only he can carry.

Where he’d once served the army, served his country, protected its citizens, been part of saving the world, now he only serves Soap, protects Soap. Saves Soap. It’s nothing monumental, it’s just what anyone would do. It isn’t special.

He isn’t special.

He’s only doing what’s right. He’s taking care of the man he loves.

Anyone would do it.

Except anyone else would do it better. Anyone else would have made a plan, not gone off with a half baked idea and no fucking clue about what comes next.

Ghost is used to improvising, making plans on the fly and he’s no stranger to responsibility; he’s a lieutenant in the British army and while the SAS has always sat outside of the typical command structure, he has - had - direct reports and direct responsibility for 32 soldiers. Including Soap. But this is different. This isn’t a mission. This isn’t even general army welfare issues. This is personal. 

And it scares him shitless.

He doubles down. Checks his pension through the army's online portal, checks his bank through the app, even messages Price to find out what sort of pension Soap will get. Once he knows what they can afford, he can come up with a shortlist of locations for Soap to choose from, then he can find the right flat and the right job and it’ll be fine. 

Price answers his message with a figure and a question.

“Price wants to visit tomorrow,” Ghost tells Soap. “At 11. Yes or no?”

“Naw. Phys-”

“Physio. Right. After?”

“Aye. ‘Spoons?”

“Your ‘Spoons addiction will fuckin’ bankrupt me,” Ghost complains, but he replies to Price in the affirmative, lets him know the new time and to meet them at the pub. Then he gets back to work. He has all the information he needs now. He can come up with a workable plan.

*

Price parks outside the Wetherspoons and strokes his beard. He needs a minute. He lost his two best men in one gunshot that took Gaz’s respect along with it. He only accepted Ghost’s retirement papers because Ghost is a danger in the field now and he can’t see a way to pull him back from the brink. Not from this. And maybe he doesn’t want to. After all, Price understands what a liability love can be.

Ghost has done the right thing. Price is sure of that. But it feels like closing a book, one he’s not ready to finish reading. There has to be more to the story than this. It can’t end like this.

He makes sure he has everything he needs and goes inside.

He finds them at a table in the corner, both sitting with their backs to the wall, half empty glasses in front of them.

“Johnny. Simon,” he greets them both.

“Price,” Soap greets him in return.

“John. We’re equals now, Johnny. Another round?”

“I’ll get ‘em,” Ghost says.

“No. On me this time. So’s lunch. What’re ya havin’? Same again?” He waits for their answers and goes to the bar. He comes back with their drinks and tells them the food will be out soon, then sits down. His back is to the room and he doesn’t like it. Too exposed. Too much risk. No one to have his six. Just the two men in front of him, neither of whom are exactly his biggest fans in this present moment.

But he has something that he thinks might thaw the ice a little.

He pulls two sets of identical keys from his pocket and slides them across the table, one to Ghost, the other to Soap. “Safehouse,” he says. “Mine. Use it. Long as ya need. Rest of ya lives if needs be.”

Soap stares at him, then picks up the keys and looks to Ghost.

“Rent?” Ghost says, face impassive. “How much?”

“No. Doesn’t cost me anything, inherited it from my parents. Pay the bills, keep up with maintenance, don’t piss off the neighbours.”

“What happens if ya need it?”

“Hope I don’t. Hope you’ll open the door if I do.”

Ghost glances at Soap, then back at Price, and nods. “Always will.”

“Thank ye, John,” Soap says, and offers his hand across the table.

Price shakes it, and Ghost’s when it’s offered too, and clears his throat. “It’s a nice place. Near Monmouth. England side of the border. ‘Bout an hour from base. Parents built it when they retired an’ moved out of London a few years back an’ I’ve maintained it so it’s in good nick. All one level. Three beds, two bathrooms. Garden an’ parking. Right by a forestry track, goes down to a fishing lake. Oil heating, septic tank, left notes an’ stuff for ya. Only one near neighbour, couple of old ladies, can’t remember their names, harmless enough but one of em’s got a bark on her. Local pub’s decent. Close enough to town to get takeaway. Fuckin’ hell, I sound like a fuckin’ estate agent.”

Ghost cracks a smile. “Not sure an estate agent would mention the neighbours.”

Price laughs thickly and runs his hand over his beard. “Yeah, probably not.”

“Where?” Soap says, then shakes his head because Price already told them roughly where it is and he doesn’t mean that, he means the address but he doesn’t have that word yet, it’s too unfamiliar, and he’s too overwhelmed to come up with an alternative. Too many lights, too much noise, too much new information. Too many emotions. He takes out the phone Ghost got for him; he still can’t read anything, but one of his therapists recommended a game to help him with his cognitive rehab and he’s slowly relearning all the different symbols and what they mean. It takes him a few goes but he manages to open the map and holds his phone out to Price.

“Here,” Price says. He drops a pin in the map and hands the phone back.

Soap immediately passes it to Ghost who sends it to his own phone and nods. “Goat it. Thank ye. Means a lot.”

“‘S’nothing,” Price says gruffly. “Got somethin’ else for ya too.”

“Anyone’d think it was fuckin’ christmas or somethin’.”

“Well, we missed that, didn’t we?”

“Point.”

Price takes an envelope from inside his jacket and passes it to Soap. “Bank account. Don’t thank me for this one, it’s all Kate. Let’s call it redirected funds from certain people who’re no longer alive to notice. Not enough to go wild with but enough to keep ya comfortable. Both of ya.”

Ghost stares at him. “Comfortable?”

“As in not havin’ to find a fuckin’ job.”

Soap looks from Price to Ghost and back again. “Both? Him too?”

“Assumin’ I’m not readin’ this wrong. An’ assumin’ you’re willin’ to share. All in your name, Johnny. Your choice.”

“Aye,” Soap says, smiling as he takes Ghost’s hand. “His too.”

Ghost practically sags onto the table as all of the tension seeps out of him. No more scrolling through Rightmove. No more searching for jobs. No more worry that they’ll end up sleeping in his car. No more worry that Soap will be forced to stay with him through circumstances. He has enough money to live his own life now, and to hire any professional help he needs. He doesn’t need Ghost. He has choices. Everything is sorted. And while Ghost might have an issue with accepting Price’s charity for himself, he has absolutely no qualms about accepting it for Soap. Because Soap fucking deserves it. He deserves a lot more.  

“Load off, yeah?” Price says quietly.

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Good. Can ya give us a minute, Simon? Need to say a couple of things to Johnny.”

Ghost nods and stands up. “I’ll get a round in,” he says, and goes over to the bar.

Prices takes a deep breath. “Apologies and gratitude don’t come easy to me, Johnny, but ya deserve both from me. What ya did…ya saved my life an’ there’s nothin’ in the fuckin’ world I can do to thank ya for that. Nothin’ would ever be enough. Need ya to know how grateful I am.”

“Aye, ah know,” Soap says, squirming a little. Any of us wouldae done that. Ye wouldae done the same fir me. Dinnae need tae say thank ye. 

“Ok, ‘nough said. Need ya to know how sorry I am too. Lot of my bad decisions led us there. Should’ve let ya kill him in that chopper. Shouldn’t’ve trusted Shepherd.” Price sighs. “I’m sorry for all that but mostly I’m sorry for havin’ to discharge ya. Wouldn’t’ve if I could’ve helped it. Havin’ to give ya that news, that choice, christ, if I still had a heart, I think that would’ve broken it.”

“Ye do,” Soap says quietly.

“What? Have a heart?”

“Aye.”

“Not so sure about that. I really am sorry, Johnny. For all of it. Can’t make up for it but I’ll make sure you’re ok. Anything ya need, ya call me, ok? Money. Help hiding a body. Alibi for whatever chaos you’re goin’ to get yaself into when ya leave the hospital. Call me. Goes for both of ya.”

“Aye. Thank ye, Pr- John.”

“Welcome. So. You an’ him, eh? Been obvious for a long fuckin’ time. Glad the two of ya finally got your acts together.”

Soap beams, but he’s not looking at Price, he’s looking at Ghost’s back as he stands at the bar, getting impatient with the slow service. 

Price follows his gaze and lets out a soft chuckle. “Happy for ya,” he says, then leans over the table, pitches his voice low. “Don’t breathe a fuckin’ word of this to anyone. Me an’ Nik.”

Soap raises his eyebrows and grins, reaches over to lightly punch Price on the shoulder. “Aye? Good.”

Price laughs thickly and sniffs. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it’s good.”

And when Ghost comes back with more drinks, grumbling about how long the food is taking when Soap has to get back for speech therapy, Price settles in and enjoys the time with them.

Maybe this isn’t the end of their story.

Maybe it’s just a new chapter.

Chapter Text

When they get back to the hospital, Soap goes straight to speech therapy and Ghost goes to find Colonel Lang. He gives her their new address and lets her know that she can release the place in the nursing home in Hexham. She smiles and says she’ll make arrangements for outpatient support and Soap can expect to be discharged in the next day or two. 

Which sends Ghost into another spiral of oh bloody fuckin’ hell I’m not prepared for this. He hasn’t picked up his gear from the base yet, not that he has much to worry about  because most of it is in his car anyway, but he does have some stuff that he wants, and he still needs to hand back all his equipment. Then there’s the house to get ready. He’s sure Price has left it clean and tidy but he needs to know where everything is, needs to move their stuff over there, get some food in, make sure there are towels and bedding and it’s all ready so that Soap doesn’t have to worry about anything. There’s a lot to do but it’s fine. He has a plan now. It’s fine.

He’s outside the speech therapy room when Soap comes out.

Soap lights up and walks over to him. “Simon,” he says, a little slurred, a little slow, but clear.

Ghost lets out a little shaky breath. “Sounds good when you say it,” he says quietly. 

“Good.” Soap bumps his shoulder against Ghost’s. “Fag?”

“Yeah. Quick one though. Need to RTB.”

“Aye?”

“Yeah. Lang says ya can go home in a day or two. Need to get the place ready for ya.”

“Home soon?”

Ghost nods. “Very fuckin’ soon. Bet ya can’t wait.”

“Aye,” Soap says and gestures towards the door so they can go out for a fag.

They smoke together, then Ghost walks Soap back to his room. He packs up all the stuff Soap won’t need in the next couple of days so he can take it to the house. He hugs him tightly and promises to be back soon, probably tomorrow but it depends on how much there is to do when he gets there. Soap hugs him back and kisses the side of his head, tries to say it’s ok, that he knows Ghost will come back, that he appreciates everything he’s doing, but he doesn’t have all of the words he needs yet so he has to settle for giving him an extra tight squeeze and hopes that’s enough to convey his meaning.

Ghost loads up his car and heads back to the base first. He cleans up his gear and hands it all back - minus a couple of knives which have conveniently been lost on a recent mission, which raises some eyebrows with the stores officer but ultimately goes unquestioned. Then he packs up what’s left in his room. A handful of books. Clothes. A few photos that he doesn’t want to lose. There’s not much to show for a whole lifetime, it all fits into one large bag, though he has to lean on the zip to close it.

Price is off base but Gaz is at a loose end and when Ghost goes back to his car, Gaz is waiting there for him, holding a large cardboard box.

“Alright, mate?” he says. “How’s Johnny.”

“Yeah, good. How ‘bout you.”

“Same. Got some of his stuff here, can you take it to the house for him?”

Ghost nods and takes the box, loads it into the car along with the rest of their stuff. “Thanks, Kyle, he’ll appreciate it.”

“Can you let me know when it’s ok to visit? I’m leaving for Sandhurst in a couple of weeks, would be good to see you both before I go.”

“Sandhurst?” Ghost leans against his car and lights a fag, offers the box to Gaz.

Gaz shrugs and takes one, accepts a light when Ghost offers that too. “Yeah. Planning to get my commission, work my way up, see if I can do some good along the way.”

“Take over from the old man?”

Gaz chuckles. “If he ever retires.”

“He will. He’s ready. Can see it in his eyes.”

“You reckon?”

“Yeah. You’ll be good in his place. Better you than anyone else.”

“Thanks, Ghost, that’s…really sweet.”

“Simon. Not Ghost anymore. An’ I’m not sweet.”

“Simon. Not sweet. Duly noted,” Gaz says with a smirk that reminds Ghost of Soap.

“Shut up,” Ghost says, rolling his eyes. “Still seein’ that bird from Cairo?”

“Aaliyah?” Gaz says, his voice going soft. “Yeah. She’s great. Lives in Birmingham now, she’s a doc in the children’s A and E so between her shifts and me being away so much, we don’t get to see each other often but we talk every day and she’s really supportive of me going to Sandhurst, even though it’ll make it even harder to see each other and -”

Ghost laughs. “You’ve got it bad, mate. Happy for ya.”

“Thanks. Might buy a ring soon.”

“Already? You’ve only known her five minutes.”

Gaz shrugs. “Yeah, but life’s fucking short, innit?”

“Point.” Ghost grinds his fag out under his toe. “You’ve got the address, yeah?”

“Yeah, Cap gave it to me when he said you two’re moving in there. Don’t worry, won’t come by unannounced.”

“An’ you’ve got Johnny’s number? Phone still confuses him but you can send him pictures an’ shit. Nothing with words on.”

Gaz smiles. “I’ll do that. Got some great pics from Cairo that he hasn’t seen.”

“Good man, he’ll like that.”

“You’ll call me if you need anything? Either of you?”

“Will do. Thanks, Kyle, appreciate it.”

“Yeah, no worries. See you soon, ok? I leave on the 11th.”

Ghost nods. “We’ll get somethin’ sorted once Johnny’s settled. Before the 11th.”

“Cool beans. Take care, Simon. And take care of Johnny.”

“Will do. You too, Kyle.” Ghost shakes his hand, then gets into his car.

Gaz waves him off and watches his lights fade into the deepening gloom. It feels like an ending. Like a loss. The team will never be the same again. His best friend will never be the same again. But he knows Soap is in good hands with Ghost, that he’s safe, that they’re both safe and they have a future. Together. That’s all that really matters. The team can be rebuilt. Ghost and Soap are replaceable. They’re all replaceable. That’s part of being a soldier, there are hundreds more ready and waiting to step into the breach. It’s part of who they are.

He’s still sad, though, and he takes a moment to stand there and feel that before he mentally brushes himself off. He has his own future to think about.

*

Ghost drives out of the base for the last time. He’s no longer a soldier. Maybe he isn’t anything any more. He thumps the steering wheel in frustration at himself. He is something. He’s whatever he is to Soap. Friend. Boyfriend. Partner. Caregiver. Whatever the fuck they’re calling themselves. 

He can’t be nothing when he’s something to Soap. 

He has responsibilities. Things to do. He can’t let himself sink into a spiral about losing the life he built for himself. He’s going to have to dig in and build a new one. With Soap. 

Starting now.

He stops in Hereford to grab a bite to eat from a crappy takeaway joint. It’s terrible but it fills a hole and he carries on driving along dark roads until he reaches the house.

It’s down a little lane off the main road and has a wooden gate that leads onto a gravel drive. Good. Can hear people comin’. A security light pops on as he drives up and illuminates the porch which is more of a roofed trellis with plants growing up it. Ghost has no idea what plants they might be. He makes a mental note to ask Price what the fuck he’s meant to do with them, and any other plants that he might suddenly be responsible for, and gets out of the car.

The house, when he figures out which key opens the front door, is warm. Heating’s on. Nice. He uses his phone torch to find the lightswitch and flicks it on. He’s in a utility room which feels unusual for a front entrance, but there are coat hooks and a boot rack so it’s practical. It leads into a large kitchen with a dining table. Price’s notes for them are spread across it but he only gives them a perfunctory glance. There’ll be time for that later. The living room has two sofas, a television, and a log burner so it’ll be cosy in the winter. He finds the smallest bedroom first, it’s set up as an office which might be useful, might give Soap somewhere to do his rehab stuff, somewhere quiet where he can concentrate. The bathroom is next to it; tiled walls and a large shower, and fluffy towels are already set out, along with toiletries and even two fresh toothbrushes. He moves on, finds the main bedroom next. The bed is already made up with new, freshly laundered sheets, and the bathroom is the same as the other one; towels and toiletries and toothbrushes already set out. That’ll do for Soap. Won’t have to move too far when his head hurts so bad that he fuckin’ cries. Got everythin’ he needs right here. The second bedroom is smaller but plenty big enough for Ghost and his handful of personal possessions, and the bed is made up in there too. When Ghost explores further, he finds the kitchen cupboards stocked with some basics as well as milk and butter in the fridge, a loaf of bread in the freezer, laundry detergent in the utility room. It’s move in ready; not just a house but a home. He only needs to go out and get food and then he can bring Soap back here, make sure he’s safe and cared for, for as long as Soap wants him to.

He takes a beat. Makes himself a cup of tea and sits down at the kitchen table with Price’s typed notes and starts to go through them. There are instructions for everything. Schedules for oil refills and septic tank emptying, how to work the heating and hot water which looks as confusing as all fuck. There are no instructions for the plants, however. Maybe because Price doesn’t know either. Ghost will ask him anyway.

Right at the bottom of the final page is a handwritten note.

Simon

You’ve got this. Take care of him. Yourself too. Safe in the office. Code is the last four digits of your serial number. Present in there for both of you. Locked them away in case Johnny shouldn’t be on the hard stuff yet. Enjoy.

Stay safe.

John

Ghost laughs softly and lets out a little sniffle. He goes to investigate the safe and finds a bottle of Wild Turkey, his favourite. Beside it is a bottle of ten year old Laphroaig, Soap’s favourite. Old man thought of fuckin’ everythin’. Givin’ us a home. Takin’ care of us. It’s what Soap deserves but not me. Not me. Need to thank him somehow. Doubt he’ll let me. Just have to take care of this place. Take care of Soap. All I can do. He leaves the bottle of bourbon in the safe. As tempting as it is, he has work to do and he needs a clear head. There’ll be time for that another day.

For now, he needs to bring stuff in and unpack.

It doesn’t take him long.

He unpacks Soap’s stuff first, all of his clothes go into the wardrobe, except one of the many hoodies Soap has stolen from him. Ghost puts that on the bed. The box of stuff from Gaz has a few photos in it which Ghost puts out on the dresser. The rest goes into a drawer for Soap to look at later. He looks around, satisfied. It’s ready for Soap. He moves on, unpacks his own stuff, puts it away neatly in drawers and in the wardrobe until there’s no sign that he even lives here.

The bed is tempting him. He locks up, strips down to his underwear, and crawls under the covers. It’s warm and cosy and the most comfortable bed he’s ever been in. He’s asleep within seconds.

*

Sunlight is streaming through the curtains when he wakes up and he’s momentarily disorientated. He blinks away the sleep, remembers where he is and what he’s supposed to be doing.

Fuck. Need to get to the shop and then back to the hospital, what fuckin’ time is it? 

His watch, when he finds it amongst his pile of discarded clothes, tells him it’s 11 in the morning.

Jesus fuck, I never sleep this fuckin’ late. Should’ve set a fuckin’ alarm. 

He runs his hand over his face and drags himself off to take a shower and get dressed. He doesn’t really have time to eat anything but his stomach complains so he defrosts some bread in the microwave and toasts it, eats it standing up at the worktop, and bolts down a cup of tea before he grabs his keys and heads out.

Google tells him that the nearest supermarket is a Co-Op, but there’s a big Tesco in a nearby town, or a Waitrose if he goes all the way to Monmouth. He decides, in the interests of being as quick as possible, to go to the Co-Op.

Which would have been fine, if it wasn’t for the four way traffic lights in the centre of town, and if it wasn’t for the fact that the Co-Op doesn’t have its own car park so then he has to use the pay and display which only takes phone payments and he doesn’t have the app so he has to call and go through the automated system which doesn’t respond to his swearing. He’s pissed off as fuck before he even gets through the doors.

The shop is crowded, people bustling all over the place. Someone bumps into him and immediately apologises but Ghost glares at them anyway. He can’t get a trolley because he doesn’t have the pound coin he needs to unlock it, so he grabs two baskets, takes a deep breath, and ventures along the first aisle. He doesn’t know where anything is. He doesn’t even know what they need, he’s never had to do a shop like this before, he’s been in the army since he was 18 and he hasn’t needed to shop for himself, let alone for someone else whose preferences change by the day - sometimes by the hour.

The layout is confusing and he ends up backtracking over and over again to try to find the right stuff. Bread. Check. Milk. Check. What the fuck else. He grabs some apples and bananas, skirts round the vegetables because he doesn’t know how to cook them, and heads to the ready meal section. Soap definitely likes pizza so he grabs a few different ones, and some meals that they - he - can microwave. There are various cuts of meat that he thinks he can probably work out how to cook, but that’s too complicated to worry about now, so he picks up some canned food because that’s basically the same as ration packs, and some pot noodles which can’t really be called food but they’re hot and fill a gap when needed. He has most of what he thinks they need but he stops in the treats aisle to get some goodies for Soap. Some chocolate and crisps, and sweets to feed his ever growing addiction to Haribo. The baskets are full but he tucks a crate of beer under his arm and heads to the checkouts.

Which are busy.

And there’s a child screaming.

And Ghost is up to his limit and he understands the child’s need to scream, he wants to scream too, but it’s another thing that’s crawling under his skin along with the too bright lights that flicker and the cacophony of voices and trollies and the constant beep beep beep of items being scanned. Effective fire is easier to deal with than this is. He takes a deep breath, and another one, and reminds himself that he’s doing this for Soap. He has to get through it.

Eventually, he gets through the checkout and pays an extortionate amount of money for so little food, and goes to the kiosk at the back where he pays an even more extortionate amount for two cartons of fags. He’s not planning on coming back here any time soon.

He’s halfway back to the house when he realises he’s forgotten to get fucking bog roll.

That, he decides, is a problem for later. There’s enough to last a few days and they’ll probably need something else before then anyway.

He puts everything away and washes up his dishes from breakfast, dries them and puts those away too. No sign he was ever here.

There’s a conservatory off the living room which he didn’t notice last night. It has a wicker sofa and opens out onto a patio with a table and chairs, and a barbecue. He wonders if Price sat here with his parents. Drinking beer and eating chargrilled steaks and half raw sausages. He wonders what it must have been like to grow up with a family who did that sort of thing. He opens the door and goes out. The garden is nice, from what he can tell. It looks pretty, anyway. Flowers are starting to bloom and it overlooks a large field with another house in the distance. The neighbours Price mentioned. He still has no idea how he’s going to look after a garden, he’ll probably end up destroying Price’s parents’ hard work because that’s what he does. He’s only good for destruction. But he’ll try his best. He’ll learn how to operate a fucking lawn mower and whatever the fuck else he needs, and he’ll try his best. 

He stands out there for a few minutes, smoking. Trying not to let himself be engulfed by all of the everything that suddenly feels very, very heavy. He smokes and he breathes and he feels the sun on his face and he wants Soap to be here too, by his side, enjoying a fag in the pretty garden with the sunlight streaming down.

When he’s done, he locks up and sets off for the hospital. He needs to get back to Soap.

By the time he gets there, Soap is in one of his rehab sessions but Colonel Lang collars him before he’s even had a chance to sit down and drags him off to her office.

“Sit,” she barks, and Ghost immediately plonks himself into the chair across from her. “Right then, Riley, home time tomorrow, yes?”

Ghost nods. “Johnny know yet?”

“No. I’ll leave that to you. Now. I’ve set up some outpatient rehab sessions for him but they’re limited. Only six sessions. Spread them out over the next 12 months, do homework in between.”

“Homework?”

“Yes, Riley, fucking homework. Lots of it. Physical, cognitive, speech and language.”

“Specifics?”

Colonel Lang sighs. “Walking, balance exercises, yoga would be good if he can be persuaded to do it.”

“Yoga,” Ghost says faintly.

“Yoga. Gym work, resistance bands, weights, normal strength work. Things like catch or football to help with his reflexes. Some sort of craft to help his fine motor skills. Knitting or something.”

Ghost snorts and Colonel Lang smiles.

“Yes, well, I did think that might be your reaction. Find him something. Cognitive, any sort of brain games. Logic puzzles, phone games. Memory games, matching cards, play Snap with him. Strategy games, poker, rummy, chess as he gets more advanced. Video games are good, I gather he’s doing well with Tetris. He might find he likes first person shooters which will help with strategy and reflexes. Anything to help the brain remap.”

“Got it. Brain shit.”

“Brain shit. Exactly. Work on his speech. Get him practicing different sounds. The speech therapist will give you a handout before you leave, all the sounds he needs to work on. Get him working on new words. Give him a new word or two each day and let him practice. He’ll probably cope with more than that but take it slow to start. Ok?”

“Copy.”

“Good. Reading and writing practice is pissing him off. Only way to do it is go back to basics and he feels like a child so he pushes back against it and gets frustrated. Maybe you’ll have better luck, he won’t be so defensive with you. Keep at it.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“He needs structure and routine. Very important. Get him up at the same time every day, keep the same meal times, the same rehab at the same time, it’ll help if he knows what to expect and what to do next. Make sure he gets plenty of rest and adequate pain relief. Over the counter painkillers are fine, make sure he doesn’t take too many by mistake. I’ll give you a prescription for something to help the nausea and migraines, you can pick that up at any pharmacy. Register him with a local GP for ongoing care, they can request his records from us. Questions?”

“No.”

“Good. Consider a psychiatric evaluation and possibly psychotherapy in November. His GP will be able to arrange the eval but you’ll be better off paying for therapy privately, the NHS waiting list is a disaster zone and they only offer one type of therapy which isn’t always effective.”

“You think he needs that?”

“Difficult to tell. We won’t evaluate until a year after the traumatic incident but yes, he needs to be evaluated for clinical PTSD, signs of dissociation, that sort of thing. Particularly with a head injury, it can be masked. If he starts having issues before then, you can go through your GP to get help sooner.”

Ghost nods. “Ok. November, sooner if he’s struggling.”

“That’s it. Make sure he has an emotional outlet. That should help too.”

“What the fuck is an emotional outlet?”

“A way to let out his emotions.”

“What, like cryin’ or somethin’?”

“No, Riley, I was thinking more like fighting or fucking. That is what the two of you are good at, yes?”

“...” Ghost says.

“Anything like that. Let him smash stuff, scream it out, whatever it takes.”

“Ok, let him vent all that shit. Understood.”

“Good. Any questions?”

“A million of ‘em,” Ghost says. “No. Not now.”

Colonel Lang gives him a reassuring smile and hands him a card. “You'll do fine, Riley. So will he. He'll be better once he's home. Any problems, give me a call. Preferably during working hours but my mobile’s on there. If you leave a voicemail, I'll call back when I can.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“Ginny. I think we can drop the formalities, can't we?”

Ghost manages a smile. “Thank you, Ginny. Call me Simon.”

“Good god no. You'll always be Riley. I can't bellow Simon at you, can I?”

“Prefer it if you didn't bellow at me at all.”

“Can't promise that. Now, off you fuck. I'll see the two of you before you leave. Aiming to get you out of here in the morning.”

Ghost nods and stands up, extends his hand in lieu of a salute. Colonel Lang - Ginny - shakes his hand and Ghost makes a quick exit.

He feels a little less alone now.

Chapter Text

In the morning, Soap is up and dressed before breakfast and he’s ready to bite people if it’ll get him out of here any sooner. Ghost keeps disappearing. First he comes back with some papers. Then a paper bag full of medication. Then papers again, even more of them this time, a whole file full. Then he leaves with their bags and Soap thinks fuckin’ finally, gettin’ out of here. 

Except he isn’t. Because they make him eat breakfast before he’s allowed to leave, and then Colonel Lang appears and wishes them well and she and Ghost appear to be matey now so they chitchat and Soap makes a break for the door. He’s hauled back by Ghost’s hand grabbing the back of his hoodie and Soap wheels round, shoves his hand away, glares at Ghost who glares back and tells him to wait.

But then, finally, Colonel Lang shakes their hands and Ghost jerks his head towards the door and says “exfil”. 

Soap doesn’t need to be told twice. His balance is good today so he takes off and he’s halfway to the main entrance before Ghost catches up to him.

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” Ghost complains. “Do ya even know where you’re fuckin’ goin’?”

“Aye. Door,” Soap says, pointing in the general direction.

Ghost rolls his eyes and Soap sets off again. He doesn’t slow down until he’s outside and then he allows Ghost to take point until they reach the car. Ghost lights two fags and passes one to Soap. He smokes it fast, not taking a single breath between drags. He’s so fucking ready to leave and he doesn’t want to be here a second longer than he has to be. He’s in the car and waiting before Ghost has smoked even half of his cigarette.

“Anyone’d think you’re in a rush or somethin’,” Ghost grumbles when he finally gets into the car.

“Aye. Ah am.”

“Fine. Put your belt on.”

Soap pings his seatbelt to show that he already has it on. Ghost rolls his eyes and drives away.

The first half an hour is fine. Soap is too happy to be leaving to think about anything else. The engine is loud but Ghost hasn’t put the stereo on so it isn’t too overwhelming, and it’s cloudy so there’s no bright sunlight to send spikes of pain through his eyes and up into his head. He grins happily to himself as they drive.

Ah’m out. Ah’m wi’ Ghost. Goin’ home. No’ home ‘cause ah dinnae hae one, bu’ somewhere. Ghost says it’s nice. Anywhere’d be nicer than the fuckin’ hospital. Dinnae care aboot anythin’ else. Jist wan’ tae be somewhere. Wi’ him. He glances over at Ghost and his smile turns soft. Still cannae believe he’s daeing aw this fir me. No’ sure whit ah ever did tae deserve it. Wonder if he knows how much it means tae me. Hae tae show him later. When we get there. 

He’s busily thinking about all the ways in which he might show Ghost how much it means to him when Ghost has to brake suddenly for a car pulling out in front of them. It’s not much, it’s not dangerous, but it’s enough. 

Soap’s stomach lurches into his throat. His head spins, a kaleidoscope of colours circling around him until he doesn’t know which way is up anymore and that all too familiar white hot pain settles deep into his skull.

“Ok?” Ghost asks quietly, glancing over at him.

“Aye,” Soap manages, though it’s not exactly the truth. He puts on his sunglasses - Ghost’s sunglasses - in an attempt to dull the passing scenery. They don’t help much. He closes his eyes and pulls his hood up, settles deeper into the seat, but that just makes the nausea worse. He’s not going to boak, doesn’t need to ask Ghost to stop the car, he’s never actually sick with it, he just feels like he’s going to be, his stomach churning and roiling like an angry ocean. There’s nothing he can do. Nothing that helps. He just has to endure. 

A lifetime seems to pass before the car stops and Ghost gets out. Then it moves again, gravel crunching under tyres, loud enough to make Soap feel like his eardrums are being pierced with an ice pick. Then, blissfully, silence. Just the quiet sound of Ghost breathing beside him.

“Johnny? We’re here.”

Soap knows Ghost is trying to be as quiet as possible. He knows that. He knows what Ghost sounds like when he’s shouting, when he raises his voice, when he’s talking normally, when he’s talking quietly, even when he’s whispering. He knows this is Ghost’s quiet voice. But it still drills into his head and makes him want to scream and lash out, anything to make it stop. 

“C’mon, let’s get ya inside.”

The driver's door closing sounds like a gunshot. The passenger door opening sounds like the swish of a knife being pulled from its sheath. Soap pushes past Ghost, ignores his offers of help, and leans against the car, head down, breathing against the waves of nausea that have been washing over him for hours.

“Johnny?” Ghost says, not from nearby.

Soap slowly looks up. Lights flash in his vision but he can just make out the lurking figure by a building that must be the house. “Aye,” he says, the word slow, his voice weak. He weaves his way over to Ghost, grateful when Ghost’s hand catches his, gives him something to hold onto. He allows Ghost to lead him inside. He can’t make head nor tail of his surroundings through the zigzag lights that dance across his eyes. It’s warm though. And it doesn’t smell like a hospital. It smells of burnt toast and faint cigar smoke. He sits down when Ghost gently pushes him into a chair, swallows pills and water when Ghost puts them in his hand.

“Ya look fucked. Bed?”

Soap nods and regrets it when it makes the room spin around him. But then Ghost’s hand is on his arm, leading him, guiding him, until he’s in a room with a bed. It’s too bright until Ghost’s hand leaves him, then there’s a metallic swish and it’s blissfully dark and Soap feels like maybe he can breathe again. He slowly starts to get undressed. His arm gets stuck in his - Ghost’s - hoodie and Ghost has to help him. Then his head hurts too much to bend down and unlace his trainers so Ghost has to help him with that too. Soap manages to take off his jeans but decides that’s enough movement for now and crawls under the covers, wearing only boxers and a t-shirt instead of his usual t-shirt and joggers. He doesn’t think he’ll be cold here anyway.

The click of a light switch. A faint light through a closed door.

“Johnny. Bathroom’s here, yeah?” Ghost says. “Put the light on for ya so ya can find it.”

“Aye,” Soap mumbles into the pillow.

Then strong hands tucking the covers in around him, gentle lips on his temple, retreating footsteps and blissful, wonderful quiet. 

Shrouded in the dark, Soap allows stinging tears to fall down his cheeks onto the soft pillow. No one has ever taken care of him like this. Not like this. He’s been provided with food and somewhere to sleep and medical care and even a friendly ear when he’s needed it. But not this. Not this tenderness.

He isn’t sure he deserves it.

At some point the meds kick in. The pain eases, the nausea disappears and the flashing lights retreat to only the very edges of his vision. He’s warm and in the biggest, most comfortable bed he’s ever been in, and he can finally relax and allow himself to drift.

*

Dark.

Too dark.

He blinks awake fast.

A light behind a closed door. Nothing else. No flickering lights in the corridor, no comforting hum of nearby machines, or the distant buzz of other people.

No Ghost.

Soap’s pulse jumps, his heart pounds in his chest like a caged animal that’s trying to break free, his breaths are harsh and ragged.

Where the fuck am ah? Where’s he? Cannae fuckin’ see anythin’. Whit the fuck happened? Where am ah? No’ the hospital. Cannae be the hospital. Left there. Wi’ Ghost. An’ he isnae here. Whit happened to him? Did someone get tae us? Has someone hurt him? Am ah next?

Wherever he is, it’s too dark to see much so he listens instead. There’s nothing. It’s quiet. Too quiet. No signs of life. He reaches out, fingers padding along soft bedding in search of something, anything he can use as a weapon. He finds the sharp edge of a table beside the bed, sits up, follows it along, ignores the spike of pain in his head, runs his hand over the smooth wooden surface until he reaches the base of something heavy.

Lamp. Blunt instrument. That’ll do. 

He follows the flex, bends down to unplug it but he can’t quite reach. He tilts himself further forwards but his balance is fucked and all he succeeds in doing is pushing the lamp out of reach. It hits the floor with a solid clatter.

Steamin’ fuckin’ jesus, that’s fuckin’ bad. Will hae heard me now. Fuck. 

He scrambles backwards, puts distance between himself and the noise. That’s where they’ll look first. They’ll move towards the noise. He tucks himself up against a wall and waits, breathing fast.

Heavy footsteps. A click. A creak. Light floods into the room, silhouetting a big, hulking figure.

Soap seizes his opportunity.

He launches himself at the figure. His fist connects with solid bone on the side of its face. It says something that he can’t make out. He forces it backwards. It hits the wall with a loud thud and a sharp exhale. He wraps his fingers around its throat and then -

“Johnny!”

Soap lets his hand fall away, blinks in the harsh light of the hall. “Ghost?”

Ghost pushes him back, gentle but insistent, and rubs his cheek. “Yeah. The fuck was that for?”

“Ah din’ -” Soap takes another step back and shakes his head, tears slipping down his cheeks once again. He never used to cry, now it sometimes feels like he never stops. 

Ghost takes a step towards him. “‘S’ok, I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re safe.”

“Where?”

“Home. Price’s place. Remember?”

“Aye. Fuck. Ah’m -” Soap runs out of words. His head feels like it’s about to explode and he takes another step back, putting distance between them. Cannae hurt him again. Done that too much already. He shouldnae be anywhere near me. Couldae fuckin’ killed him an’ he knows it. Probably hates me now. 

Ghost closes the distance. “Johnny. What do ya need?”

Soap shakes his head. He doesn’t know, couldn’t say it even if he did. He remembers now. Leaving the hospital, being in the car, his head hurting, feeling sick. Ghost tucking him up in bed. He remembers it all. Everything he’s done fir me an’ ah just fuckin’ hit him an’ tried to fuckin’ choke him. He fuckin’ should hate me. Why the fuck did ah dae that? 

“Breathe,” Ghost says quietly, placing his hand on Soap’s shoulder, warm and grounding. “Just breathe, Johnny. You’re ok.”

Soap stands there, breathes as Ghost coaches him through it until he's calmer. He rubs his head. It's useless, it doesn't help, but it's better than doing nothing. 

“Head hurt?”

“Aye.”

“Right. Let's get ya some meds and some toast. Must be fuckin’ starvin’ by now.”

“When?”

“What time is it?”

“Aye.”

“Dunno. Gone 11. Night.”

Soap nods. That explains why Ghost is only wearing a pair of boxers. He wants to look, wants to admire, find out what he's been hiding under all those layers, but now doesn't feel like the appropriate time for that. 

“Come on. Tea an’ toast an’ more meds.”

A heartbeat while Soap thinks about objecting. Ghost shouldn’t have to take care of him. Not now. Not after what he’s just done. But instead he nods. Refusing would just make him difficult, would create more work for Ghost if he has to coax Soap to do what he needs to do. So he follows him to the kitchen and obediently takes the meds Ghost gives him, swallows them with gulps of water and watches Ghost making toast.

He tries not to stare. He has no right to do that. But he can’t help but notice. The full sleeve tattoo. The muscles. The scars.

Oh god, the scars.

So many of them, littering Ghost’s body; some old and white and twisted, others newer and pink and raised. Some are normal soldier injuries. They all have them. Soap’s carrying a few himself, even before the new ones on his head and shoulder. But the old ones. Those aren’t normal. 

Ye dinnae get scars like that from normal injuries. They’re from somethin’ else. Can guess what. Ah didnae know an’ he never said. Wonder who hurt him. Wonder if they’re deid. ‘Cause if they arenae in a fuckin’ grave, ah’ll kill ‘em maself. 

Soap’s head still feels like there’s an axe lodged in it but he stands up, lets his feet fall heavy as he walks up to Ghost’s back, makes a quiet sound before he wraps his arms around Ghost’s waist and hooks his chin over Ghost’s shoulder.

Ghost leans into him and says something that Soap doesn’t hear. He holds Ghost tightly and makes a promise to himself.

Ah’ll always protect him. Even from maself if ah have tae. Willnae let anythin’ hurt him ever again.

It’s a promise that he’ll keep for the rest of his life.

Chapter Text

The next day is difficult. Soap is still tired and still in pain and a thick fog has settled around him. It clouds his thoughts and makes him feel small and stupid. He used to be cleverer than this. He knows he did. But now he can barely remember where the bathroom is and he keeps finding himself in the office when he’s trying to find the kitchen to get a glass of water. He doesn’t say much. He answers questions with aye or naw but doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t ask anything. He spends most of the day in the bedroom. His bedroom, he supposes, and he isn’t sure what that says about what he and Ghost are meant to be. 

One wee fumble, a kiss, a handful of wee hugs, cannae expect him to be in yer bed, ‘specially no’ after whit ye did tae him. 

But still, it makes his heart ache. 

He cries a lot. Alone. In his bedroom. Where Ghost can’t see him.

Ghost takes the kind option and pretends he can’t hear him either. He mostly leaves Soap to his own devices, only makes sure he eats and drinks and takes his meds. The rest of the time he spends planning. He starts with a routine. Every minute is detailed with military precision, with set times for getting up, meals, rehab, rest breaks, downtime, sleep. It will keep Soap busy without being too demanding. He writes it up neatly and pins it to the fridge with a magnet that says Welcome to Las Vegas. He wonders if it’s Price’s, or if it’s a remnant from his parents.

Papers are strewn across the table, scratchy writing and crossings out, so he tidies those up, then gets to work on a weekly schedule; partly for Soap so he has variety across his rehab and isn’t doing exactly the same thing every day, but mostly for himself so he knows which day he needs to shop, when he needs to do laundry, when he needs to remember to take the bins out to the road. There isn’t a Wetherspoons anywhere nearby but there is a local pub so he adds that to the schedule for Friday. He thinks Soap will like that.

By the time he’s finished, more papers cover the table so he clears them up and pins the schedule to the fridge with another magnet. This one says I heart Wales which is definitely a remnant from Price’s parents. Price does not like Wales. Not since he twisted his ankle on a training run in the Brecon Beacons and decided to blame the entire country for it instead of his own moment of inattentiveness.

He starts a shopping list next but that’s more difficult. In the end, he starts two; one for the weekly shop which he’ll add to when they run low on something, and one for things Soap needs for rehab. Like a deck of cards and a gaming console. Resistance bands, weights, a yoga mat that will make Soap look at him like he’s gone very slightly insane. It ends up being a very long list.

He finds some post it notes in a drawer, and some coloured markers, and spends the rest of the day making labels. Everything in the house gets a label; a written word with Ghost’s best attempt at drawing underneath it. His drawings are terrible. Soap could do better. But he hopes the word with a picture, attached to what it actually is, will help Soap relearn how to read. Mostly he hopes it doesn’t piss him off. Every door is labelled with what’s behind it; the bedrooms with their names and a silly picture of them - a skull and a head with a mohican cut. The bathroom with a picture of a bath. Each cupboard has several labels; mugs and plates and glasses and pots and pans and tins and packets. Each drawer, too; cutlery and cooking implements. He runs out of inspiration when it comes to teabags, though, and just draws a rectangle, then realises the teabags are round ones so he swears to himself and redoes it. Maybe Soap can do some better drawings. Preferably with neater handwriting. There is, after all, a reason why Ghost has always typed up his post mission reports instead of writing them by hand.

But they’re done and the house is now covered in post its so he decides it’s time to crack open a beer and go outside for a fag.

*

Soap barely leaves his room all day but when he emerges the next morning, prompted by Ghost shouting tea’s up, he finds the post it note labels and smiles. Everything has a post it. Terrible drawings with a word above it that Soap can’t read. His head hurts less today so he does try, and he can make assumptions based on the (bad) drawing and whatever the label is attached to. It’s a million times better than the kid’s books they were trying to make him read at the hospital. Even his fags and lighter, when he finds them in the kitchen, have labels. 

A steaming mug of tea is sitting on the worktop by the kettle. He picks it up, along with his fags and lighter, and goes out to where Ghost is sitting on the patio. He’s leaning back in his chair, feet up on another chair, face turned towards the morning sun. He looks so relaxed that Soap doesn’t want to disturb him so he sits down as quietly as he can and lights a cigarette.

“Mornin’,” Ghost says without looking round.

“Aye. Mornin’,” Soap says. It comes out slowly, not completely clearly, but he hasn’t tried to say morning before and he thinks he’s done pretty well. “Thank ye, Simon. Fir the - the - the fuckin’, fucks sake, fuckin’ -” he gestures vaguely towards the house with his cigarette.

“Post its?”

“Aye. Thank ye. They’re grand.”

“‘S’nothing,” Ghost says gruffly. “Can’t draw for shit. Ya can redo ‘em.”

“Mebbe. No’ yet, mind.”

“How’s your head?”

“Better.”

Ghost nods. “Ya sound better. Talkin’ more again.”

“Aye. Can think this mornin’.” 

The word is clearer this time and Ghost lets out a soft chuckle. “You’re goin’ to keep sayin’ that, aren’t ya?”

“Mornin’? Aye, I will.”

“Call that your new word for the day. I’ll give ya another one later.”

“Now.”

“Patio,” Ghost says, pointing down at it. “Want to hear ya say it by tonight.”

“Ugh,” Soap says, then adds “ugh” again, just in case Ghost missed how unimpressed he is.

“Didn’t expect me to go easy on ya, did ya?”

“Fine,” Soap grumbles. He puts out his fag on the empty beer can on the table and sits there, mouthing the word, feeling it, where his lips need to be, his tongue, his teeth, so that it comes out right.

“Breakfast, then walk. Copy?”

“Walk?”

“Yeah. A walk. Out there,” Ghost says, pointing out at the forest behind the house. “Be good for ya. Rough ground, help your balance and shit.”

Soap nods. “Aye, good plan.”

“Got a whole plan worked out for ya, Johnny. Like Lang told me. Structure an’ routine, keep up your rehab an’ all that.”

“Ye did that?”

“Yeah. Worked on it yesterday.”

“Thank ye,” Soap says, though it isn’t enough. It isn’t anywhere near enough.

“Toast for breakfast?”

“Aye, thanks.”

Ghost nods and stands up, turns away from Soap and goes towards the house, his head angled so Soap can’t see his face. 

But he isn’t quick enough. Soap catches his wrist and stops him, stands up as his heart sinks into his feet. A large black bruise covers Ghost’s left cheekbone.

Ah did that tae him. Ah fuckin’ did that tae him. Steamin’ fuckin’ bloody jesus, how can he ever fuckin’ forgive me fir that? 

“Sorry,” he says quietly. He slowly reaches up, cups Ghost’s cheek in his palm and brushes the pad of his thumb over the bruise. Ghost doesn’t so much as flinch. “Simon. Ah’m sorry.”

“I know. It’s ok, Johnny. I’m ok. ‘S’not a problem.”

“Ah hurt ye.”

“No.”

“Aye.”

“No,” Ghost says firmly. “Did ya know it was me? Did ya know you were hittin’ me?”

Soap shakes his head, his eyes filling with tears. He blinks them away. This isn’t about him, not now. He’s not going to let Ghost comfort him.

“Then ya didn’t hurt me. Ya hurt someone else. Not me. ‘S’fine. Really. C’mon. Let’s get some toast.”

But Soap doesn’t move. He brushes his thumb over the bruise once again, then lowers his hand and replaces his thumb with his lips, kissing the bruise as though he can make it better with the power of love alone.

Ghost’s eyelashes flutter closed and he lets out a shaky breath. No one has ever been so tender with him before, no one has ever cared enough to be, and maybe Soap just feels guilty but he doesn’t think so. When Soap kisses the bruise again, Ghost slips his arm around Soap’s waist, holding onto him as though Soap is the only thing keeping him afloat in a storm of rough seas. 

And then Soap’s arm is round his back and it feels like salvation. Ghost can’t stop the quiet, almost broken, sound that escapes from him, and he can’t stop himself from holding on even tighter. 

“Ye’re ok, Simon,” Soap says quietly. He moves his hand, slides it around to the back of Ghost’s neck and coaxes him down, cradles Ghost’s head into the crook of his neck, just like Ghost has done for him so many times before. If Ghost won’t accept an apology, maybe he’ll accept this. Maybe it’ll be enough. 

Ghost melts against him, allows Soap to take some of his weight, inhales the warm scent of him and lets it fill him until his legs feel strong again. Then he slowly lifts his head and loosens his grip. “Ok. Tea an’ toast.”

Soap shakes his head and points at the chair Ghost just got up from. “You. Fag.”

“I’m makin’ ya breakfast.”

“Naw, ah’m - thing. Ah’m daein’ it.”

Soap walks off without waiting for an answer. Ghost hesitates, then sits back down and lights a cigarette. He keeps a close ear out for any noises, any sign that Soap might be having problems, but there’s nothing, just the sound of cupboards opening and closing and the distinctive clink of a teaspoon against a mug.

In the kitchen, Soap is finding his way around. It’s bigger and more confusing than the tiny kitchen in the rehab centre and it’s new, he doesn’t know where anything is yet, but in some ways it’s easier. The post its Ghost made give him prompts. He doesn’t have to open every cupboard to see if what he needs is in there, he can just check the post it on the door. And he’s alone. No one looking over his shoulder, watching him and supervising him and judging him and making notes on their stupid fucking clipboard. It’s just him and if he fucks up, it doesn’t matter. So he takes his time, thinks through each step before he does it and if he uses a spoon instead of a knife to spread the butter onto the toast, well at least it’s a clean spoon and not the one he just used to stir the tea.

Ghost finishes his cigarette before he goes inside. He stops in the kitchen doorway, watching Soap moving around, the way he stops and looks at the post its before he opens the right cupboard, the way he confidently butters the toast, albeit with a teaspoon. He knows what he’s doing and Ghost had no idea. 

“Didn’t know ya could do all this,” Ghost says, sitting down at the table.

Soap puts a plate of toast in front of him, and a mug of tea, though he can't remember how many sugars Ghost takes so he puts the packet and a spoon down on the table too. “Aye. Rehab.”

“They got ya doin’ all this stuff?”

“Aye. Some.”

“Like what?”

Soap gets a can of beans out of the cupboard. “This, in the - the fuckin’ - the thing,” he says, pointing at the microwave. “Bu’ no’ - needs a -” he mimes pouring it into a bowl. “An’ this -” he gets a ready meal out of the fridge, mimes stabbing it and points at the microwave again.

Ghost smiles. “An’ what happens if you put the can in the microwave?”

Soap smirks, full on smirks, and makes a sound like an explosion, complete with hand gestures. “Fun.”

“Fuckin’ knew ya’d say that,” Ghost says, biting back a laugh. “Sit down an’ eat your fuckin’ toast.”

So Soap does and when they’ve finished their breakfast, he jumps straight up and washes the dishes in the sink. Ghost dries them. Soap puts them away and manages to get them all in the right places, though he does open the wrong cupboard first. 

Afterwards, they go outside for another fag. Soap sits there mouthing the word patio but it won’t quite be a word yet. He thinks he’ll get it, though. It’s close. But he doesn’t get a chance to practice it any longer because as soon as he stubs out his cigarette, Ghost gets up and drags Soap for a walk in the forest.

Not that he takes much dragging. His head hurts but it doesn’t hurt, his balance is good, he isn’t too tired. A walk with Ghost will be nice.

And it is. The path is a stoned forestry track so it isn’t too bumpy - though it’s a long way from the smooth hospital floors that Soap is used to walking on so he has to concentrate. Tall trees surround them and shield them from the outside world. Birds twitter and rustle through the bushes and there’s no sign of anyone, not even a distant rumble from a nearby road. They might be the last two people left on the planet.

Ghost doesn’t want to go too far, isn’t sure how much will be too much for Soap, so he stops much sooner than either of them need to. “Like it out here.”

“Aye. Walk more?”

“Let’s head home.”

Soap nods and turns around, takes a breath for the dizziness to subside before he starts walking again. He likes the sound of home. He’s never had one before and he doesn’t think Ghost has either, and it conjures up images of everything else he’s never had. Home cooked meals and quiet nights by the fire and cuddling up on the sofa with a good film, tucked away from anything that could ever hurt them. For the first time since he woke up in the hospital, he thinks that maybe he has a future. He just hopes all of this isn’t temporary. That Price won’t change his mind and kick them out, and that Ghost won’t decide that he isn’t worth the trouble. Having had the barest taste of what it might feel like to be loved, he doesn’t think he could stand to lose it.

As if he can sense Soap’s thoughts, Ghost takes his hand and squeezes it.

He doesn’t let go all the way home.

When they get back, Soap still isn’t tired so he plays some of the brain games on his phone before he helps Ghost make lunch. Well, watches. He watches Ghost make lunch because Ghost is very insistent that Soap made breakfast so he’s making lunch and Soap doesn’t have the words to argue his point yet. 

He does, however, have a new word, which he cracks out as soon as they finish their sandwiches.

“Fag on the - on the fuckin’ - the patio?”

“Bloody hell, Johnny, I’ll have to come up with some more difficult words for ya, ya got that one so fuckin’ fast.”

Soap grins. “Aye. Fag? Patio?”

“Yeah, c’mon.”

After lunch, Soap’s schedule is for downtime. Napping, if his head hurts or he’s tired; or something relaxing if he doesn’t need to nap. He doesn’t want to nap today. He wants to be with Ghost. So after he puts out his fag, he goes back inside and turns on the TV, and immediately passes the remote control to Ghost because it’s different to the one he used in the hospital and he doesn’t know how to change the channel. Ghost shows him which button it is, but that doesn’t really solve the problem of Soap not knowing what he wants to watch. He clicks through a few channels until he finds something that isn’t too loud or bright or fast; one of the daytime programmes about houses. He can’t remember what it’s called. If he ever knew anyway.

While he settles down to watch, Ghost scrolls on his phone, looking both focussed and confused.

Soap nudges him and raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

“Stuff,” Ghost says.

“TV.”

“In a minute.”

Soap gives him another three minutes before he nudges him again. “Whit’re ye daein’?” he says. The words are clear but the sentence doesn’t run smoothly, like an engine that’s missing a cylinder and keeps misfiring.

“Orderin’ stuff for ya. Rehab stuff.”

“Aye?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank ye.” Soap falls silent and watches the television again, but he can’t focus on it. Not when Ghost is busy doing even more stuff for him. He’s daein’ so fuckin’ much fir me. Needs tae rest too. Bu’ he willnae, ah know what he’s like. He’ll keep fuckin’ goin’ until he fuckin’ drops. Have tae stop him somehow. 

He gives it another few minutes, then leans over and plucks the phone out of Ghost’s hand.

Ghost rolls his eyes and holds his hand out for Soap to give it back. “Johnny,” he says when Soap doesn’t immediately return it. “Phone. Now.”

“Naw. Ye rest.”

“In a minute.”

“Now.”

“Bloody hell, Johnny. New fuckin’ word for you. Patience. Let me finish what I was doin’, then I’ll stop, yeah?”

Soap narrows his eyes but passes him the phone and watches him closely. The second Ghost puts his phone down, Soap throws himself across the sofa, sprawls out so his head and shoulders are across Ghost’s lap. He smirks up at Ghost, closes his eyes, and promptly pretends to be asleep. 

Ghost is not even remotely convinced. He sighs quietly and resigns himself to an afternoon of terrible daytime television that he really doesn’t care about. He does, however, care about Soap, and he knows exactly what Soap is doing and he’s grateful. He is. He’s grateful. He just wishes he didn’t have to watch back to back episodes of Homes Under the Hammer. Even Bargain Hunt would be better than this. But it’s good to stop and breathe for a couple of hours. Every time his hand so much as twitches to reach for his phone, Soap cracks one eye open and Ghost thinks better of it. 

They don’t move for hours. At some point Ghost starts stroking through Soap’s hair and he just…doesn’t stop. Not until the sun starts to drop and the room grows dim.

“Should eat,” he says quietly. “Pizza ok?”

“Aye. Thanks.” Soap reluctantly sits up and stays on the sofa, practicing his new word while Ghost makes dinner. 

After they’ve eaten, Soap washes up and plays some more games on his phone while Ghost tries to look up some simple recipes. He really needs to learn how to cook something. Something that isn’t a frozen pizza or a microwave meal or out of a can. But all the recipes he finds require basic knowledge that he doesn’t have. He does find some easy instructions for how to cook an omelette and it looks manageable but Soap doesn’t like eggs so it’s a non starter. He tosses his phone to the side, crosses his arms and tries not to look like he’s sulking.

Which doesn’t convince Soap whatsoever. He sprawls out on the sofa again and nudges Ghost’s thigh with his heel until Ghost looks at him, and then he raises his eyebrows to ask what? 

“Cookin’. Feels like it should be easier to learn, yeah? But I don’t even know where to fuckin’ start an’ I can’t find anythin’ online. All assumes ya know the basics. An’ I don’t. Can boil water. Not much else.”

Soap thinks for a minute. He doesn’t know how to cook either but he did campfire cooking when he was in the scouts and that was easy enough. They wrapped baking potatoes in foil and put them in the embers of the fire and they came out great. He’s fairly sure the same would work in an oven. “Hoodie chips,” he says eventually.

“...What?”

“Food. Hoodie chips. Easy.”

“Hoodie…chips,” Ghost says, trying to work out what the fuck that means. 

“Aye. Hoodie, no’ a hoodie. Chips, no’ chips. The things. Like hoodie chips.”

Ghost is even more baffled with that explanation and rolls it around in his mind to try to make sense of it. It’s like a riddle. What’s a hoodie but not a hoodie? What’s a chip but not a chip? When he finally gets it, he laughs. “Jacket potatoes?”

Soap grins and gives him a thumbs up. “Wi’ things. The things. Like dicks.”

“Sausages?”

“Aye. Them.”

“Sausages with jacket potatoes,” Ghost says, and picks up his phone again. And there, finally, is something he thinks he might be able to cook. The potatoes just need to go in the oven for an hour or so, and sausages can be done in the oven too so there isn’t much he can fuck up He adds it to his shopping list. “Looks good. Thanks Johnny. Dicks an’ hoodie chips it is. I’ll go to Tesco tomorrow.”

Now that he feels slightly less out of his depth, Ghost settles down and watches some television until it’s time to remind Soap to take a shower and go to bed. As soon as Soap has gone, Ghost locks up and turns out the lights. He has a shower and gets into bed, settles down with his book. He’s not much of a reader but this one is an old friend with dog ears and loose pages from being read so many times.

After he’s taken a shower, Soap tries to lie down to sleep. He needs to. His head is starting to hurt and the dizziness is kicking in and he’s tired. But he can’t switch off. The bed is too big. Too cold, even though it isn’t cold at all. There’s a gap beside him. Something missing. Something Ghost shaped.

He gets up and goes to knock on Ghost’s door.

“Yeah? What’s up?” Ghost calls out, already on alert.

Soap opens the door and just says, “patience.”

Ghost laughs softly. “Good job. Is that all ya wanted to say?”

“Naw.” Soap goes inside, walks around to the other side of the bed and crawls under the covers and, when Ghost lifts his arm to make room for him, nestles himself into Ghost’s side.

Ghost puts down his book and wraps his arm around Soap. “Ya sleepin’ here, then?”

“Aye. Ok?”

“Yeah. ‘course it’s ok.”

Soap snuggles in closer. “Good.”

Ghost turns out the light and turns towards him, wraps his other arm around him and holds Soap close. He’s never actually done this before. Cuddling, once or twice, yeah, but not the sleeping part. He wonders if Soap has. Probably, he decides. He’s fairly sure Soap hasn’t tolerated half the shit that Ghost has in the past. At least he hopes he hasn’t. 

But now isn’t the time to ask.

Now is the time to make sure Soap feels safe and gets some rest.

So he holds a little tighter and he kisses the top of Soap’s head and he closes his eyes, more than happy to share some warmth and comfort. Anything that Soap needs.

And if he needs it too, well, he doesn’t have to admit that.

Does he?

Chapter Text

Soap goes to Ghost’s room the following night. And the one after that. Always the same; he knocks on the door, says his most recent word, then crawls into bed, snuggles up to Ghost and falls asleep. Ghost never invites him and Soap doesn’t ask. Somehow a stilted conversation about it feels more complicated than just doing it. 

The stuff Ghost ordered for him arrives in a multitude of deliveries. There are resistance bands and weights and a balance board. A deck of cards. An XBox with a subscription pass so he can play lots of different games. Ghost has to help him choose which ones he wants to play, and then download them, which results in a lot of swearing because Ghost and technology are not exactly best friends and he doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s doing. 

Soap is disappointed when Ghost finally tells him that there’s no Wetherspoon’s nearby but immediately rallies when Ghost tells him there’s a pub a few minutes walk away so they go down there on Friday night. It’s nice. It serves good food and decent beer and the people are friendly. They meet their neighbours, a couple of older ladies called Gladys and Mildred who refer to Price as young Jonathan which makes Soap laugh uncontrollably for at least five minutes. It’s a good night. Neither of them get absolutely wankered but they’re both definitely past tipsy by the time they leave, and Ghost has to keep Soap from falling in the hedge on the way home.

The day after is bad. Soap is hungover, slow and unfocused and pissed off with himself and the world around him. He goes to bed early; Ghost opens the bottle of Wild Turkey from the safe and stays on the sofa for most of the night, watching films he doesn’t care about. He thought Soap was getting better. He seemed so much more settled, making so much more progress, but as soon as something is off, he’s right back to where he was. 

He calls Colonel Lang the next morning. She isn’t very patient with him, just says it’s to be expected, that Soap will always have good days and bad days and sometimes there might be a reason but mostly there won’t be, that it’s just weird brain shit and not to worry about it. She tells him to keep Soap in a routine and keep him busy.

So that’s what Ghost does. He texts Gaz to let him know it’s ok to visit, and warns him that it might be a bad day. Gaz says he’ll be there the next day and asks if he can bring Aaliyah because she’s not on shift; Ghost checks with Soap who says it’s ok so Ghost replies to Gaz in the affirmative and then there’s a whole lot of back and forth about whether or not they can bring anything (no), if Ghost should make food (also no, they won’t stay long), and a whole thread about the best way to get there from Birmingham because they’ll be coming from Aaliyah’s place. Ghost is pretty well exhausted by the end of it. He hates texting but he hates phone calls more.

But, as tired as he is and with Colonel Lang’s instructions in mind, he opens a deck of cards, splits it in half, and starts playing Snap with Soap. 

Soap really, really, doesn’t want to play Snap. It’s a kids game and he’s bad at it so there are two strikes against it before they even start. And then Ghost wins the first round, slaps his hands down on the cards before Soap has even registered that there’s a match. Soap glowers and tries to concentrate harder.

It doesn’t really work, though. Ghost takes the second and third rounds and Soap might not recognise the matching cards but he damn well knows that Ghost is slowing down each time. Ghost is letting him win. Or at least trying to; Soap isn’t good enough to win even when Ghost is giving him a chance. His thoughts spiral fast. Used tae be better than this. Fast. Clever. Now ah’m fuckin’ stupid. Lost so fuckin’ much that day. All fuckin’ taken fae me. Cannae even fuckin’ think or play a fuckin’ stupid wee kiddy game. Lost fuckin’ everythin’. Lost ma-fuckin’-self. Dinnae know who ah am anymore. No’ this. Ah’m no’ this. Need tae dae better, need tae fuckin’ beat him, need tae get a fuckin’ win. But Ghost takes the fourth and fifth rounds too and Soap’s frustration boils over. He throws the cards across the room and slaps himself in the head, again and again, until Ghost catches his wrist and stops him.

“Johnny. Don’t,” he says quietly. “Please. Don’t.”

Soap twists his wrist out of Ghost’s grip. He’s on his feet in an instant. The heel of his hand connects with the bridge of Ghost’s nose, forcing him backwards, forcing him out of his space. He turns to go. He needs air. Needs to be able to breathe. Needs to run. But Ghost’s hand catches him by the shoulder and pulls him back around, and Ghost crowds into his space once again.

“Come on then,” Ghost snarls, right up in Soap’s face. “Let’s fuckin’ go.”

So Soap does. He takes all of his emotions; his frustration over being useless, his fear that he’ll never be who he once was, his grief over all of the loss he’s suffered, he takes them all and he shoves and he punches and he trusts Ghost to stop him if he goes too far.

And when it finally fades, when all of that rage is finally quiet again, he finds that he’s backed up against the wall with Ghost’s face hovering inches in front of his. Blood drips from a cut on his nose. Soap doesn’t have a mark on him. 

Ghost wipes away the blood with his sleeve, leans in closer. “Show me what else ya got, Johnny. C’mon, you’re not done yet, are ya?”

Soap’s gaze flicks from Ghost’s nose to his lips and back up to meet his eyes, waits for Ghost to nod an answer to his unasked question. He gently swipes his thumb across Ghost’s nose, wipes away the blood that’s pooled there once again, and lifts his thumb to his mouth, keeping eye contact as he sucks the blood away, swirling his tongue around in a promise.

Ghost’s breath catches in his throat, emerges as a quiet whine. “Jesus fuck-” is as far as he gets before Soap drops to his knees and makes quick work of undoing Ghost’s jeans.

This, at least, isn’t something Soap has forgotten how to do. He pulls Ghost’s jeans down, his boxers along with them, and licks his lips as his prize is unveiled, hot and thick and already hard.

Ghost barely gets a chance to draw breath before Soap’s mouth is on him, hot and wet and insistent. His tongue licks a stripe from root to tip, making Ghost’s dick jerk upwards. His lips are soft, gentle as they take Ghost into his mouth and then - oh god - his throat is tight and hot and Ghost can hardly breathe, every pint of blood in his body has pooled into his dick, he’s so fucking hard it hurts and his knees are so weak that he has to brace himself against the wall to stay upright.

Soap knows exactly what effect he’s having. He pulls off and swallows Ghost down again, over and over, seeking the rhythm that will earn him a sound of pleasure. When he gets it, he smirks around his mouthful and settles into that rhythm, giving Ghost what he so obviously wants. His mind quietens. The dark thoughts lift. He’s useful like this. He has something to offer, even if it’s just his body. He isn’t useless. Not when he can still do this. Not when he can still draw moans and gasps and broken words from Ghost’s lips. Not when Ghost’s cock is twitching in his throat and throbbing against his tongue. 

Not when Ghost is crying out his name like it’s a prayer.

Not when Ghost is coming into his mouth and Soap is swallowing everything Ghost gives him.

Not when he pulls off and looks up and sees how utterly wrecked Ghost looks.

He’s not useless now.

“Johnny,” Ghost says, a broken whisper. His breaths are coming fast and ragged, like he’s just done 20 miles on a hot day. He’s still leaning against the wall, giving Soap just enough room to stand up. 

“Simon,” Soap says, getting to his feet. He looks - and sounds - particularly pleased with himself.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost says with a soft laugh. “Bloody fuckin’ hell.”

“Good, aye?”

“Very.” Ghost pushes Soap against the wall, leans in, kisses the taste of himself out of Soap’s mouth. Not for long, his nose is definitely broken and it’s making a whistling sound every time he breathes, and he regrets not being able to repay the favour, but there is something he can do. He holds Soap in place, one hand on his chest, undoes his jeans and slips his other hand inside his boxers. 

Soap leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. He can’t stop himself from arching into Ghost’s hand. 

“Impatient?” Ghost says, a hint of laughter in his voice.

“Aye.”

Ghost leans in closer, pitches his voice low. “So I shouldn’t leave ya hangin’ then?”

Soap whimpers. He honest to god whimpers. His dick jerks against Ghost’s fingers and he mumbles something unintelligible.

Ghost laughs, deep and dark. “Another time,” he says, and gets to work. 

Soap’s heart races under Ghost’s palm. Heat floods south, turning his legs to jelly and his thoughts to nothing. Ghost’s hand is rough and gun calloused but his touch is gentle and precise, seeking out the right pressure, the right speed, the right place to add a slight twist that draws a groan from Soap’s lips. He finds it. He finds all of it, and Soap is drifting. Nothing else exists except Ghost’s hand on him and the pleasure that fills him and fills him until he can’t contain it any more. He comes with a loud groan and Ghost strokes him through it, keeps his touch light and waits until Soap is softening before he pulls his hand away. 

He watches Soap closely. The way his chest heaves under his palm, the way his eyes are closed, so relaxed and trusting. The way they’re glazed and fuck blown when he opens them again. 

The way they go wide when Ghost raises his hand to Soap’s lips.

“Go on. Ya like licking stuff. Get to it.”

Soap lets out a quiet sound. He grabs Ghost’s wrist, pulls his hand closer and licks it clean with the same enthusiasm that he usually reserves for savouring every last drop of a good malt whisky. 

Ghost watches him, his eyes dark, and when Soap lets go of his wrist, he slowly lowers his hand. “Better?”

“Aye. Thanks.”

“Think I got the better end of the deal there.”

“Sorry, fir -” Soap taps his own nose.

“Yeah. I know. Ya’d think I’d have learned to duck by now.”

Soap shakes his head. He wants to promise he’ll never do it again, wants to swear that Ghost will always be safe with him. But he can’t do that. It’s a promise he can never keep. Not when he doesn’t have any control over it, not when it comes out of nowhere and he doesn’t even see it coming. He wishes he did. He wishes he had the words to tell Ghost how sorry he is. All he can do is try to make up for it. Control it as best he can and make up for it when he can’t.

Ghost kisses his forehead and pulls away. He does his jeans back up and gingerly presses his nose. Broken but still in place. He won’t need to drag his arse to the nearest minor injuries unit, he’ll be fine in a few days. “Go get cleaned up. I’ll make lunch.”

Soap nods and does his jeans up. He’s a little unbalanced as he walks off to the bathroom but at least his head is clear. Full of guilt, but clear.

Ghost goes into the kitchen and makes a mental note to add ice packs to his shopping list.

*

By the morning, Ghost’s nose is bruised, spreading out across both eyes. Soap apologises again. He makes breakfast for them both and tries to keep himself out of the guilt spiral. There’s nothing he can do to change it. It’s done. All he can do is try to make up for it now and try to make sure he never does it again. Ghost tries to do some tidying and cleaning before Gaz and Aaliyah arrive but Soap won’t let him; he’s a bundle of nervous energy and he might as well put that to good use and make sure Ghost gets some rest in the process.

He’s never had a problem with meeting strangers before. He doesn’t really have a problem now. Not exactly. He stays quiet, uses minimal words when he has to say anything at all, and if anyone judges him, he can walk away. Or throw a punch if they’re total cunts. But meeting Aaliyah matters. He doesn’t want her to think he’s rude or standoffish, he doesn’t want Gaz to think he doesn’t like her. He wants to be normal. He wants to meet Gaz’s girlfriend and be normal. 

Except he’s not normal anymore. He’s not who he used to be, quick with the jokes, quick to make friends, quick to smile and laugh and build rapport. He’s not sure who he is now. Just that he’s different. He doesn’t want to stumble over his words or use the wrong one or sit in silence. He doesn’t want Gaz to have to make excuses for him like oh, don’t worry about Johnny, he got himself shot in the head and now he doesn’t say much and he beats the shit out of his boyfriend. 

He wants to be Soap again.

But he can’t be. Soap is dead. Now he’s just Johnny-with-a-head-injury and everything that comes along with that.

So he keeps himself busy and he goes out onto the patio to smoke every few minutes and when Ghost asks if he’s ok, he lies and says he is because he doesn’t have the words to explain how he feels anyway.

As soon as the gate creaks, Ghost jumps up. He opens the door as tyres crunch across the gravel, waits patiently while Aaliyah parks and Gaz closes the gate. Soap joins him as they approach the door.

Gaz is carrying a crate of beer under one arm, a football under the other. Aaliyah is carrying a shopping bag. She’s almost as tall as Gaz, pretty with dark skin and a blue patterned hijab and she’s smiling as she gets closer but there’s a glint in her eyes, the same one that Gaz has, the one that says I might seem nice but I’m made of fucking steel so don’t even try me. 

“Hi,” she says warmly, but then her face drops and she covers it with another smile.

Gaz isn’t so diplomatic. “The fuck happened to you, mate?” he says, peering at Ghost.

“Walked into a door,” Ghost says, at exactly the same time as Soap says “me”.

Gaz’s eyebrows creep up his forehead and Aaliyah nudges his elbow.

“Kyle, sweetie, why don’t you and Johnny go outside and play football. I’m sure Simon can show me where the kitchen is so I can get this cake baked.”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, ok.” Gaz passes the beers to Ghost and follows Soap through the house and out into the garden.

“Cake?” Ghost says, putting the beers in the fridge.

She puts down the shopping bag and starts taking ingredients and equipment out. “Cake. Red velvet, specifically. Which I would have made at home before we came over but my shift overran and - well, you know what it’s like.”

“I do. Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee. Please. I’m dead on my feet.”

“Sure ya want to be makin’ a cake?”

“Yes,” Aaliyah says firmly. “I’ve already done the hard part, anyway, the ingredients are all weighed out, now I just have to combine them.”

Ghost nods and starts making coffee - and tea for everyone else. “Looks like Kyle got lucky, findin’ someone who can cook.”

Aaliyah laughs and gets to work. “No, no he did not. I can’t cook for shit. I can bake because it’s like chemistry but cooking is an art form that I haven’t mastered. Kyle can cook, though, so I think I’m the one who got lucky.”

“Huh. He never said.”

“Doesn’t fit with the tough guy soldier image. His dad’s a really good cook too, Kyle learned from him.”

“I need to ask him for some help, then.”

“You can’t cook?”

“Army didn’t teach me that.”

Aaliyah glances over her shoulder with a smile. “Of course. Sorry. Once I’ve got this in the oven, I’ll take a look at your nose.”

Ghost drops a spoon into the sink with a clatter. “My nose is fine.”

“Seen a doc?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know it’s fine?”

“Experience.”

Aaliyah nods and drops the subject. For now. She carries on mixing ingredients while Ghost takes tea out to Gaz and Soap who aren’t playing football at all, they’re sitting and smoking and Gaz is telling a story about - well, Ghost doesn’t know, exactly, he doesn’t stick around long enough to listen. Gaz is Soap’s best mate, they deserve some time together to catch up and Soap seems happy enough.

When he gets back inside, the cake is in the oven and Aaliyah is sitting at the table with her coffee.

“Sit,” she says. “Don’t argue, just do.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost grumbles. “You’re as bad as a Sergeant Major.”

“So Kyle tells me.” Aaliyah gets up as soon as Ghost sits down and towers over him before she bends down and starts examining his nose. When she touches it, Ghost winces and flinches away, but she catches his chin and forces him to keep still so she can check it properly. “Definitely broken but not displaced. Ice, ibuprofen, you’ll be fine.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

“Ok, how’s this? There’s help available, Simon. If he’s abusing you, there’s help available.”

“‘S’not like that, love.”

“So what is it like?” Aaliyah sits back down with her coffee and raises her eyebrows expectantly.

“Not like fuckin’ that,” Ghost tries, but she doesn’t back down an inch. He knows when he’s beaten and he sighs and resigns himself to having to talk. “I provoke him. Do somethin’ to piss him off. He lashes out. Could stop him if I wanted to.”

“You think it’s your fault?”

“It is my fuckin’ fault.”

“No, Simon, abuse is never your fault. I promise you that. Why do you think it’s your fault?”

“He’s not abusin’ me. Bloody hell, he’s not, ok? I’ve fuckin’ seen that an’ it’s not that. He’s got a fuckin’ head injury. Doc says it’s called emotional lability or somethin’. He got upset, was hurtin’ himself, I stopped him, he hit me. Drop it, yeah?”

Aaliyah raises her hands. “Consider it dropped. Head injuries are difficult to navigate. Just…call us if it gets too much, we’ll help you. If it stops being an emotional outburst and starts being something else, call us. Keep yourself safe.”

“Won’t be necessary. But thanks. Appreciate ya lookin’ out for me.”

“Why did you lie about it? You said you walked into a door, he was the one who said he did it.”

“Yeah, an’ he wouldn’t’ve if he was abusin’ me, would he?”

“True. But why were you covering up for him?”

“Easier. Didn’t want to embarrass him. Didn’t want to get stuck in a conversation like this.”

“Right. Of course. Sorry. I think I’m too used to seeing kids with bruises and the way they lie to protect their parents so it activated my danger radar.”

Ghost nods. “Don’t know how ya do it. I’d kill ‘em. Anyone who hurts kids deserves it.”

Aaliyah smiles darkly and leans closer. “I regularly want to and I know how to do it without anyone ever suspecting it was a murder. Little injection and lights out.”

Ghost laughs. “Fuckin’ hell, love, I can see why Kyle likes ya.”

“Good. Now why don’t you tell me about Johnny while we wait for that cake to be ready. I’d ask you to tell me about yourself but somehow I don’t think you want to do that.”

“You’d be right,” Ghost says, but he’s happy to tell her all about Soap. He tells her how brave he is, about his military career and the medals he’s been given and why; about how he’s the best man he’s ever met and how clever he is, even now. He tells her about all the progress Soap is making. The way he finds familiar words to communicate new concepts, like hoodie chips and dicks, which makes her laugh. 

She’s still laughing when Gaz and Soap poke their heads around the door.

“Are we allowed back in now, babe?” Gaz says.

“I suppose so. What do you say, Simon?”

“S’pose they can. Only if Johnny makes more tea though.”

Soap nods and slinks off to the kettle while Gaz plonks himself down in the chair next to Aaliyah.

“How’s the cake doing?”

“Oh shit! The cake!” Aaliyah jumps up and opens the oven with a billow of smoke.

“I’m not an expert,” Gaz says, “but I think that might be fucked.”

“Barbecued,” Aaliyah agrees.

“Incinerated,” Ghost adds.

Aaliyah laughs. “Sorry. But hey, at least I tried, right?” She puts the cake tins on a rack to cool down but the cake is so burnt onto the edges that she doesn’t think there’s any way of saving them. Not the cake and not the tins. “I’ll bring you a proper housewarming gift next time, seeing as I have apparently lost the ability to bake a cake in the last hour or so.”

While they’re laughing and joking about the cake, Soap quietly makes three cups of tea and one of coffee and puts them on the table, along with milk and sugar and spoons and a packet of jammie dodgers that Ghost bought on his last trip to the supermarket and told Soap they were for Gaz. Tea making mission accomplished, he squeezes himself into the corner beside Ghost.

Ghost presses his knee up against Soap’s and leans close. “Ok?”

Soap nods but doesn’t say anything. There are too many eyes on him, too much judgement in them. He wishes he could disappear. He can’t do that, though. Not now. He wants to get to know Aaliyah, knows how important she is to Gaz, how important this meeting is, but it’s off to a bad start and she probably hates him. Fuck, Gaz probably hates him too and is too polite to say so. Which is fair, it’s all fair, it’s all his own fault, if he hadn’t hit Ghost, all of this would be fine. He tries to focus on Ghost’s knee against his, tries to let it ground him and comfort him but he doesn’t deserve that anyway so he pulls away, as far into the corner as he can get which just makes him feel trapped. Even more so when Aaliyah sits down opposite him and Soap imagines what she’s about to say. I’ve told him he should leave you, we’re taking him with us when we go, you don’t deserve someone as good as him, and you won’t be able to see Gaz either. He might be about to lose his boyfriend and his best mate in one sentence. Soap squares his shoulder and prepares himself. He’ll take it like a man. Accept whatever she says. Whatever Ghost decides. Whatever Gaz decides. He won’t fight it.

“I’m sorry, Johnny,” Aaliyah says. “I jumped to a conclusion that I probably shouldn’t have. Kyle’s told me so much about you, I should have known that it wasn’t what I thought it was. Simon’s very graciously explained what happened. I understand better now. If I might make an excuse, I’m still in work mode, haven’t really switched off yet, and part of my job involves assessing children for signs of abuse from their parents so I’m a bit…tuned into it. I saw something that wasn’t there. I’m sorry I pushed you out of your own home and I hope you understand why I needed to talk to Simon alone.”

“Aye,” Soap says, his head spinning with all of the new information, all the long sentences that he has to concentrate to keep up with, all of which contradict what he thought was going to happen. The mental shift is slow. Cogs whir, make connections, misfire, then he smiles. “Aye. Thank ye, fir -” he rolls his eyes and lets out a quiet, frustrated sound. He points at his eye, then at Ghost.

Aaliyah looks blank. So does Gaz.

“Thanks for looking out for me,” Ghost translates.

“And now I feel like an idiot,” Aaliyah says. “Sorry, that should have been obvious. No problem, Johnny. You two are Kyle’s friends, best friends, so now you’re mine too and that means looking out for the both of you.”

“Her friends are much nicer,” Gaz teases goodnaturedly. “Dunno how I got stuck with you horrible lot.”

“Not sure how we got stuck with ya either,” Ghost deadpans.

“Did something terrible in a past life?”

“That I did.”

Gaz laughs and opens the jammie dodgers, and dunks one in his tea. 

Soap takes one and does the same. He still doesn’t like biscuits but this is normal. This is what they always did; tea and jammie dodgers, and it’s worth suffering through a biscuit just for the way Gaz smiles at him. Like they’re mates again. Like nothing has changed. Even though everything has changed. Some of the tension has seeped out of his shoulders now and his head feels clearer again. “Cairo?” he says. It sounds odd, he hasn’t practiced it, but he can say Kyle and he can say oh and if he runs them together without the L, it’s close enough.

Aaliyah and Gaz exchange a smile. “Yeah,” she says. “I was out in Sudan, Doctors Without Borders for a year. I was on my way home and I needed some time to decompress before I was ready to come back here so I stopped in Cairo for a couple of weeks. We met in a bar, got chatting, found out we live - well, not close, but not too far either and things just kind of…went from there.”

“Ye make him ha -” Soap gives up on the word and grins to show what he means instead.

“Happy? I hope so.”

“Ye do. He -” Soap makes a chattering motion with his hand.

Aaliyah glances at Ghost for a translation.

Ghost ducks his head to hide his smile. “Gaz never shuts up about ya, love.”

“Hey,” Gaz objects, but he’s laughing.

“Sweet,” Aaliyah says and bumps her shoulder against Gaz’s.

The tension is gone now. It's just three old friends - and one new one - sitting around and enjoying a cuppa together. Ghost tells a story about the time Soap tried to light a cigarette with a toaster which not only blew all the electrics in the safe house they were operating from, but singed his eyebrows and left toast crumbs embedded in his forehead for a week. Soap laughs and points out a tiny scar just above his eyebrow, where one of the toast crumbs had embedded so deeply that he had to dig it out with a throwing knife. Gaz tells Aaliyah about the time Ghost's mask slipped round while he was napping on the chopper, and how he'd woken up convinced he was blind and they had to pin him to his seat and fix his mask before he calmed down. Ghost retaliates by telling Aaliyah about the time Gaz drank too much, was still throwing up in the morning and puked all over his uniform - less than five minutes before a regimental inspection. They'd managed to get him cleaned up and presentable, only for him to promptly be sick again. All over the visiting General's shoes. 

By the time they finish laughing, it's time for Gaz and Aaliyah to leave. Ghost tells Aaliyah to call if she needs anything while Gaz is away - either while he's at Sandhurst, or when he's on ops. While they're exchanging numbers, Soap pulls Gaz to one side.

“She’s good,” he says, tilting his head towards Aaliyah. “N-” the word fails but he hopes Gaz knows what he means.

“Nice? You like her?”

“Aye.”

“Thanks, mate, means a lot to me.”

Soap smiles and holds out his fist. Gaz bumps it, does the same to Ghost, and then he and Aaliyah say their goodbyes and leave.

It’s quiet when they’re gone and Soap is tired but happy. He goes out and kicks the football around; his foot-eye coordination is off but it’s still fun, more fun than frustrating, and it feels like something he might be able to get back. It reminds him that no matter what else has changed, no matter what else, he’s lost, he’s still here. He’s still breathing. He still has Gaz. He still has his best mate. 

And, more important than anything else, he still has Ghost.

Chapter Text

On his next trip into town, Ghost finds a shop. It’s small and crowded with stuff and he has trouble moving his large frame through small aisles to find the till so he can ask a question. The answer is yes and he’s shown to a bargain bin labelled broken electronics, decorative only, all items £1. 

£15 later, he leaves with a huge box stuffed full of all sorts. There’s a toaster, several radios, a battered bluetooth speaker, a DVD player, and even an old boombox with both a cassette and CD player. It’s probably almost as old as Soap is. He loads them into his car and goes off to the nearest hardware shop where he spends entirely too much money on a variety of tools, some for use around the house, but most for Soap; wire cutters and tiny screwdrivers and a soldering iron and everything else he might need.

Once he has everything, he finally takes himself off to the supermarket and tries not to get too stressed which is easier said than done. He just wants to get home and give Soap his latest rehab tool. But the supermarket is conspiring against him and it takes forever to get everything he needs. He’s about ready to bite people when he finally escapes and then he’s on his way home, on his way back to Soap, and he drives faster than he really should in his eagerness to show Soap what he’s bought.

He takes the shopping in first, carries all of the bags in one trip, just because he can, and puts them on the worktop.

“Johnny,” he calls out. “Two boxes in the boot. Can ya grab ‘em for me?”

“Aye. Minute,” Soap calls back from the garden. He finishes his fag and stubs it out, then goes inside, by which time he’s forgotten what Ghost asked him to do. “Whit was it ye wanted?”

Ghost smiles. “Good word day, yeah?”

“Aye. Bu’ no’ -” Soap taps his head.

“Right. Boxes. Two. Car boot.”

Ghost hasn’t even finished speaking before Soap vanishes out of the door, apparently having remembered as soon as Ghost started to remind him.

A crunch of footsteps on gravel. An excited whoop. Then quicker footsteps and Soap bursts in through the door with the box of electronics.

“Fir me, aye?”

“Yeah, Johnny. All broken. All need fixin’. Tools in the other box.”

Soap puts the box down on the table and races back to the car. He’s back moments later and puts the other box down too, then launches himself at Ghost and smothers him in kisses, ending with a long, lingering one that leaves them both breathing hard. 

Soap breaks the kiss. His hands are tight on Ghost’s hips, hard enough to bruise. Their eyes lock in contact for a blistering second before they surge back together. They don’t need words for this. Soap doesn’t need words for this.

Eager hands tug at clothing, seeking out skin and warmth and contact. Soap moves backwards, pulls Ghost with him, trusts Ghost to make sure he doesn’t bump into anything. He stops by his bedroom door. Reaches for the handle. Ghost tightens his grip on Soap’s waist, steers him towards his bedroom instead, opens the door and pulls Soap inside. He doesn’t get a chance to close the door before Soap’s lips are on his again. Hot. Insistent. Claiming. 

Ghost stifles a groan and pushes Soap away, just enough that he can peel Soap’s t-shirt off, then his own, and then Soap crowds back against him. His hands are everywhere, touching every inch of Ghost’s skin. This isn’t a slow exploration, this is quick and dirty recon. And Ghost is fine with that. He’s carrying out his own recon of Soap’s muscles and the dimpled scars, and he follows the happy trail of hair down under Soap’s jeans.

Soap steps out of them, shimmies out of his boxers, fingers impatient on Ghost’s fly until Ghost takes over and discards his own clothing and then Soap presses against him. He knows how to do this. He doesn’t have to speak, doesn’t have to think, he can just act. And it’s an act he knows so very, very well. He arches against Ghost’s hip, Ghost arches back against him, rutting together like they’re a pair of horny teenagers until Ghost groans and pulls away.

He gets a bottle out of the bedside table and hands it to Soap, lies down on the bed. “Take it easy, yeah? Been a while.”

Soap watches him, admires him, fuck-dark eyes stroking every contour of his body, every muscle and scar and line of ink. “‘S’ok? This?”

“Yeah.” Ghost spreads his legs wide, palms himself with slow, lazy strokes. “Make me yours, Johnny.”

A swift movement and Soap is between Ghost’s thighs. A click as he opens the bottle. Ghost hisses at the cold lube, parts his legs wider for Soap, impatient to feel him, to be filled, to be wanted. 

Just as impatient, Soap slicks himself up. He moves into position, shifts his weight, and slowly pushes inside Ghost. Impatient as he is, he doesn’t want to rush this part. He inches into him, pausing to wait for Ghost to press back against him, waiting for that wordless encouragement, the silent demand for more. He stills when he’s fully inside. Every muscle in his body is tense and shaking and then Ghost pulls him down and holds him close and all of that tension dissipates into the warmth of being surrounded, of being one with the man he loves.

Ghost holds him tight, tangles their legs together, clings to every inch of contact that they share. Soap is hot, heavy and solid and grounding. He breathes through the familiar sharp burn, waits until it subsides before he arches his hips, telling Soap it’s ok to move.

Soap lets out a quiet, almost broken sound, and obliges him. Ghost is tight around him, sucking him in, and then he wraps his thighs around Soap’s hips, angles himself so Soap slips in deeper and Soap is lost. “Mine,” he growls out with one short, sharp thrust.

Ghost gasps in a breath, presses back against him. “Yeah. Yours, Johnny. All yours. All fuckin’ yours.”

“Mine,” Soap says again. He grabs Ghost’s wrists, pins them above his head, lowers his mouth to Ghost’s neck, and when Ghost angles his head for him, Soap uses his teeth. He licks and sucks and bites and leaves marks to show where he’s been. The whole world needs to know that Ghost is his.

Ghost closes his eyes and melts into the bed, moulds himself around Soap. This is all he’s ever wanted. To belong to someone. To be Soap’s. And now Soap is claiming him and marking him and his dick is hitting Ghost just right and waves of sensation are flooding through him, so intense that he can barely remember his own name. He lets out groan after groan, louder and louder as Soap moves faster, as Soap seems to grow harder inside him, stretching him further, pressing deeper.

Soap shudders, thrusts coming short and sharp now as his orgasm grows closer. He clamps his teeth down on Ghost's shoulder, riding each wave of pleasure until it peaks and he comes with a low, muffled groan, buried deep inside Ghost. He rolls his hips, lazy now, taking every last drop of satisfaction that Ghost can give him until finally he stills. He releases Ghost’s hands, licks over the teeth marks on his shoulder and slowly starts to pull out, ready to give Ghost as much pleasure as he's just given Soap. But there's slick against his belly, he was too lost to notice before, and he cocks one eyebrow as he slips out and looks down at Ghost. “Ye can dae that?”

Ghost laughs softly. “Party trick.”

“Aye. Nice one.” Soap reaches over the side of the bed for his discarded boxers. He picks up Ghost’s by mistake but shrugs and decides it doesn't matter. Whoever's they are, they're going in the wash anyway. He wipes himself off, then tosses the boxers back on the floor. He has other plans for Ghost. Plans involving his tongue. He shuffles himself down the bed and gets to work, licks up every last drop of come from Ghost’s body; his own and Ghost's, their tastes combining on his tongue into something deep and dark and intoxicating like peated whisky. 

Ghost writhes beneath him, too sensitive for even this tender touch. But he doesn't object, doesn't ask Soap to stop; it doesn't even cross his mind. Overstimulation is a small price to pay for being the focus of Soap's rapt attention and gentle care. 

As soon as Ghost is clean, Soap moves up the bed and draws him close, wraps himself around Ghost as thoroughly as possible; arms and legs around him, bodies pressed close together. He places a gentle kiss to the side of Ghost’s head and settles down. His head is calm and quiet and he feels normal. He wants to hold onto this for as long as he can. For as long as Ghost will let him.

Which, it turns out, is a very long time.

*

Soap’s confidence grows after that. Ghost walks around with Soap’s marks on him, a visible reminder that Soap is still useful, he still has something to offer. They’re a visible sign that Ghost trusts him. That Ghost wants him. On the days when his brain is stuffed full of cotton wool fog, he can look at the marks on Ghost’s neck, clear for everyone to see, and be reminded that the fog isn’t all he is. He’s still strong and powerful and in control. He’s still who he used to be, back before all of this happened. Maybe Soap is dead, but he’s still Johnny fuckin’ MacTavish and he’s still fucking got it.

The downside to Ghost walking around with Soap’s marks on him is that Soap can’t keep his hands off him, which isn’t really a downside at all, Ghost is more than happy to have Soap’s hands on him at any given moment, but it does mean that he has to resort to bribery to persuade Soap to do rehab instead of dragging Ghost off to the bedroom every five minutes. 

If Soap’s confidence grows after that, it grows even more when he repairs the first radio. The second it crackles into life with a blare of static, he grins. When he tunes it to a music station, he jumps up with a whoop of delight, grabs Ghost around the waist and dances around the kitchen with him. 

The bad days still come. If Soap doesn’t sleep well, if he doesn’t eat enough, if he drinks too much at the pub on a Friday night, if something outside of his normal routine happens. Sometimes for no reason at all. He’ll be fine, then the fog will settle in or his head will hurt or he’ll lose a word and get frustrated and throw something. But they’re coming less and less often now. The good days are taking over.

He goes to his first NHS rehab session and hates it, but that gives him confidence too. Ghost can’t find anywhere to park so he has to drop Soap at the door and then Soap has to find his way through a big, busy hospital. He finds someone to ask, communicates what he needs, gets directions and actually remembers them. The therapy itself is boring and pointless, he’s already advanced past what they’re trying to get him to do and it’s all smiles and well done and overly cheerful until he’s about ready to start throwing punches. He doesn’t, which he thinks is quite restrained of him, but he does leave the second his time is up. Then he has to phone Ghost to let him know he’s ready to be picked up, which means being able to read the right name on his phone and press the right buttons, but he gets all of that right and finds his way back to the main exit where Ghost picks him up a few minutes later.

It’s a successful trip and it helps him feel more like his old self. 

Which is why, two days later, when Ghost goes out to the big Tesco, Soap decides to take himself out for a walk. Usually when Ghost is out, he’ll work out at home. But the sun is shining and he’s feeling good and confident and his head doesn’t hurt and he isn’t tired and his balance is fine and he wants to be normal. He can go for a walk on his own. He can do that.

He puts on his walking boots, his sunglasses, the same ones Ghost gave him all those months ago, and pulls on one of Ghost’s hoodies which are really Soap’s now anyway. The sun might be out but it’s breezy and unseasonably cold. He’s so excited to be going out alone, so focussed on doing something normal that he forgets to pick up his phone and he forgets to lock the door when he leaves.

The track is familiar. They’ve walked it together several times a week since they moved in and Soap knows it well. He gives Gladys and Mildred a wave as he passes their gate, and heads up past the wooden forestry barrier and into the trees. 

It’s cooler in the shade so he zips up his hoodie and keeps walking. A woodpecker drills in the trees, staccato like a machine gun and Soap’s head twists towards the sound, eyes scanning for any sign of a threat before he laughs and tells himself to stop being stupid. There are no machine guns here. He carries on along the track as it winds its way up the hill. 

After a mile or so, he comes to a clearing in the trees; five tracks lead off it. The one he’s just come up, two others which are almost identical, wide stoned paths that run left to right. One is narrow and muddy, wending its way down through the trees on the opposite side of the hill. The other is wide and grassy and looks inviting. It looks like an adventure. 

When Soap walks up here with Ghost, this is as far as they go. A mile up, a mile down. They’re both capable of going much further but Ghost always draws a line here and turns back. Soap isn’t sure why. Probably something to do with being careful and making sure Soap doesn’t get too tired. Which is sweet, really. The way he looks out for Soap is nice and Soap has no complaints, but he’s on his own today and he’s in the mood to explore.

He heads down the wide, grassy track.

As inviting as it looked at the start, it soon closes in and becomes overgrown. Brambles tug at his hoodie but Soap is sure there’s a way through, there must be, there’s always a way through, even if he has to brute force his way through thick undergrowth. Thorns tug at his hoodie. They tear his skin. He wishes he had a knife with him to hack them away. 

By the time he’s made his way through, the path has disappeared. He’s standing amongst the trees. It’s darker here. Oppressive. Even the birds don’t sing. Towering trees that had once felt like protection now feel like a prison. They rise above him and as the wind blows through them, it sounds like laughter.

Soap shivers as the first sense of unease rushes over him. The path he’d made through the undergrowth is gone; the brambles have closed in behind him and he can’t even see where he came out into the trees. He knows they normally turn round at the top of the hill. The way home is at the top of the hill. If he keeps going up, he should find the track he knows and then he can make his way home.

His heart is racing as he picks his way through the trees. The ground is muddy under his feet and he’s glad he put on boots instead of trainers, otherwise he’d have been on his arse by now. Big black clouds are drawing in and it’s dark in the thick forest, so unlike the usual route they walk. He moves faster. Tree roots catch his feet and feel like hands pulling him down, pulling him back. 

He doesn’t want to stay in the dark with only the trees for company.

He pushes forwards. Keeps moving uphill. Up is home. Up is Ghost. Up is safe. 

And then, finally, the trees open up and he’s on a wide stoned track. He laughs in relief. He’s found it. He can get home from here. But his relief is short-lived. He’s no sooner set foot onto the yellow-orange track before the heavens open and it’s fuckin’ pishin’ it doon. He takes off his sunglasses and shoves them in his pocket, and pulls up his hood against the rain. 

The track runs left and right and it doesn’t look familiar. It’s the same type of track as the one that leads to home and Ghost and safety, but Soap doesn’t think it is the same. Up is home. Up is Ghost. Up is safe. When he reaches the big clearing, where they usually turn back, then he can head downhill. Not until then.

He turns left and goes uphill.

The wind blows the rain into his face, cold and stinging, and he keeps having to blink away the drips. He angles his face away from the wind. It doesn’t help. Well, it does but it causes another problem because he can’t see out of his fucking right eye. If he turns his head left, he avoids the rain but he can’t see where he’s going. If he keeps his head straight, he can see, but he has to keep his eyes lidded against the drips and then he can’t see well anyway. The hood muffles the noise. The trees still sound like they’re laughing, the rain is so heavy it sounds like gunfire, and he can’t hear. He whirls around, checking every direction. Nothing. No movement. Something unseen crashes through the undergrowth and Soap runs. 

He’s breathing hard, dizzy, disorientated, but he runs. Uphill. Always uphill. He zigzags across the track. Be a movin’ target. Harder tae hit that way. Keep movin’. Fast. Have tae be fast. Cannae stop. 

He doesn’t stop. Even when his heart is pounding hard enough to burst. Even when he feels sick. Even when his head hurts so badly he thinks he’s about to drop dead. He runs.

He doesn’t slow until he reaches the clearing, the one he knows. He stops, panting for breath, and whirls around, checking his surroundings, making sure he hasn’t been followed. There’s nothing. No one.

But he isn’t safe yet.

He has to find his way home.

Down is home now. Down is Ghost. Down is safe. 

But which down?

He whirled around so much in his desperation to make sure he wasn’t followed that he’s lost track of which path is which. All the tracks lead downhill from here. Three of them are wide and stoney. None of them look familiar. He can’t tell which track he needs. Which track leads to home and Ghost and safety. They all look the same. They all look wrong. 

The rain is still coming down in gunshots, icy cold and in his face. Soap shivers and huddles under a tree, sinks down to the ground with his back up against the solid bark. Stay small, stay quiet, stay hidden, wait until it’s clear. He wraps his arms around his legs, hugs them to his chest to conserve warmth, and rests his head on his knees, small and lost and scared.

*

Ghost has had a terrible time at Tesco and now it’s raining very fucking hard and he really wants some help bringing the bags in so he doesn’t get completely soaked. 

“Johnny?” he calls out into the dim house. There’s no answer but maybe Soap is sleeping. He swears quietly to himself and brings in the rest of the shopping, puts it all away and makes two cups of tea. 

He takes one of them and taps on Soap’s door. No answer so he opens it as quietly as he can. “Johnny,” he whispers. “Tea’s up.”

But Soap isn’t there. His bed hasn’t been slept in, the bathroom light isn’t on so he’s not in there, or the other bathroom, or in Ghost’s room when he checks there. He isn’t in the house at all and Ghost’s heart is lodged somewhere in his throat. 

Soap doesn’t go out alone.

Someone’s taken him. Someone’s fuckin’ caught up to us. Somethin’ we did, someone’s found us, someone’s takin’ fuckin’ revenge. 

He pulls out his phone and dials Soap’s number. Soap’s phone rings from its spot on the kitchen windowsill, where he leaves it charging when he isn’t using it.

Fuck. 

He forces himself to breathe, to stay calm, to think logically.

He’s been doin’ better. Maybe he went out. Pub or walk. One or the other. Check first. If ya can’t find him, call Price, call the fuckin’ police an’ report him missin’. Check first. 

He looks at the coat hooks first; there’s a hoodie missing. Soap’s walking boots aren’t on the boot rack. Good. If anyone had taken him, they wouldn’t have given him time to put on boots and a hoodie. This is a good sign. Soap will probably be back any minute.

Ghost lets out a shaky breath. He can’t sit around and wait, not when he doesn’t know. Soap might be at the pub but if he’s put his boots on, he’s probably gone up the hill for a walk. That seems most likely.

Ghost pulls on his own boots, laces them up, grabs his waterproof and heads out. He’ll check their usual route through the forest and if Soap isn’t there, he’ll go down to the pub and check there too. If he isn’t in either of those places, then Ghost will panic. He doesn’t need to panic yet. Soap is fine. Soap is always fine.

Except when he isn’t. 

Except when he's lyin’ in a fuckin' tunnel, most of the way to dead.

Fuckin’ stop it. Get out an’ fuckin’ look for him.

Ghost thinks about locking the door but if Soap’s gone out without locking it then he doesn’t have his keys and if he comes home and can’t get in, he might wander off again, so he leaves the door unlocked and hopes no one picks this particular lunchtime to burgle them. 

The wind is blowing the rain in from the side, working its way through the seams of his jacket as he makes his way up the hill. He forces himself to move slowly. Slower than he wants to. There’s a chance Soap has lost his balance, stumbled and fallen and bashed his head; he could be lying unconscious in the undergrowth, just a few feet from the track, and Ghost wouldn’t see him. So he checks. Side to side, carefully studying the ground for any sign of disturbance, any footsteps, any boot treads, any scuffles that might indicate a fall. 

It takes forever and the rain is only getting harder. If Soap is out here in just a hoodie, he must be fucking freezing by now. Ghost forces himself to keep moving slowly but with each footstep, with each heartbeat, his worry grows. The walk to the top of the hill and back only takes half an hour. Soap has been gone for at least that long. Ghost keeps expecting to see him wending his way down the winding track, keeps expecting him to be just around the next corner. But there’s nothing. No sign of him anywhere. 

Even when he reaches the top of the hill, there’s no trace of Soap.

Soap hears the footsteps and his heartrate ticks up. He tucks his head down, makes himself as small as possible, hides and waits for whoever it is to move on.

And then a familiar, growled out, fuckin’ hell. 

Soap lifts his head. He peers through the rain, watches the figure he knows so well turn around until their eyes meet.

“Johnny!” Ghost hurries over, surefooted down the small bank to the tree. “Are ya hurt?”

“Naw,” Soap says, his teeth chattering against the cold.

Ghost crouches in front of him. “Ya sure?”

“Aye.”

“The fuck are ya doin’ out here?” Ghost takes off his waterproof and wraps it around Soap’s shoulders. He cups Soap’s cheek in his palm and hisses. “You’re fuckin’ freezin’. C’mon, let’s get ya home.”

Soap doesn’t answer. He lets Ghost help him up, wraps his arm around Ghost’s waist and leans into him, unsteady on his feet as they walk back down the track. His head hurts. Zigzags flash in front of his eyes. He’s one second away from throwing up and he keeps swallowing against it. He’s tired. He’s so fucking tired. So cold that he can’t remember what it felt like to be warm. And it’s all his own stupid fucking fault.

Ghost helps him all the way home. He’s shivering too by the time they get in. He takes off his boots, takes the waterproof from Soap’s shoulders, hangs it up to dry, then crouches down and unlaces Soap’s boots, helps him out of them. “Hot shower,” he says, nudging Soap in the right direction.

“Can’t,” Soap says. The single word sounds like it costs him everything to say.

Ghost nods and fetches Soap’s meds and a glass of water. He helps Soap take them, then steers him towards Soap’s bedroom. If Soap can’t manage a shower, the next best thing is dry clothes and lots of warmth. 

Soap is still shivering when they get to his room; he’s barely able to follow basic commands but Ghost manages to peel off his clothes and abandons the idea of trying to get Soap dressed again. Instead, he bundles him straight into the bed and tucks the covers in around him.

“Get some rest, Johnny,” he says quietly.

Soap doesn’t answer but his hand shoots out from under the covers and closes around Ghost’s wrist in a vicelike grip. 

“Want me to stay?”

The only answer is a gentle tug towards the bed.

“Ok, ok, I’m stayin’. Need to get out of this wet gear first. Let go. Not goin’ anywhere. Promise.”

Soap’s hand retreats back under the covers and Ghost strips out of his clothes, dumps them on the floor with Soap’s. He slips under the covers and draws Soap into his arms, presses against him with a quiet hiss. Soap is so cold he feels like he's dead. Ghost rubs his back, rubs warmth into skin, and thanks gods he doesn't believe in that Soap didn't decide to do this in the middle of winter. At least he's just cold. He's not in any real danger from it. Some rest and warming up and he'll be ok again. He holds Soap close and breathes quietly, letting all the worry seep out of him. Soap is safe. He's fine. He's here. Ghost hasn't lost him.

Soap stirs slightly, snuggles in closer, desperately seeking body heat. He curls himself against Ghost, small and scared and stupid. He's so fucking stupid. Couldn't even manage a short walk on his own. Had to get brave and go too far and get lost and then Ghost had to rescue him because Soap is an idiot who can't be trusted.

He sniffles quietly, buries his face against Ghost's chest, and lets the meds carry him off into oblivion.

Ghost doesn't move. He won't leave, not until Soap is awake. He doesn't want him to wake up alone, not when he feels like shit. He sighs quietly and wonders what the hell happened, what Soap was thinking.

But that's a problem to work out later.

For now, the only important thing is making sure Soap rests and gets warm.

Everything else can wait.

*

Soap sleeps for hours. He’s warm when he wakes up. Ghost makes them both something to eat. He asks Soap the question again. The fuck were ya doin’ out there? Soap just says walk and nothing else so Ghost drops it and makes sure Soap rests for the evening.

In the morning, he makes two new post its. The usual format; a word and a drawing that only vaguely resembles what it’s supposed to be. This time there’s one for a phone, and one for keys. He sticks them on the door, at eye level so Soap can’t miss them. Hopefully, if Soap goes out on his own again, he’ll at least lock up and take his phone with him and then Ghost can call him to find out where he is. Hopefully, if Soap does that, Ghost won’t be most of the way to a heart attack again.

His nerves still haven’t quite settled, despite Soap being home and safe; even after a solid night’s sleep, Ghost hasn’t quite shaken off that sinking feeling of oh fuck when he came home and found Soap gone. There are jobs in the garden that need doing. Weeds to pull and the lawn to mow, and wood to chop so it dries out before winter. But instead, Ghost finds himself in the living room where he can see both doors. He tells himself he’s not supervising Soap. It’s just a sensible precaution. Every time Soap goes out to smoke, Ghost goes with him. When Soap goes into the kitchen to make tea, Ghost finds something he needs to do in there too. 

He’s not hovering.

He’s not. 

He’s just being sensible.

“Simon,” Soap says, exasperated after the third time he bumps into Ghost who’s lurking right beside his elbow while he’s trying to make a cuppa. “Whit’re ye daein’?”

“Sorry,” Ghost says, backing off.

“Ye dinnae trust me? Is tha’ it?”

“I trust ya, Johnny.”

“Then whit’s wrong?”

Ghost sinks down onto one of the kitchen chairs. “Nothin’,” he tries.

Soap lets out a disbelieving snort and waves his hand. Try that again. 

“Can ya -” Ghost’s voice cracks. He runs his hand over his face and starts over. “Don’t want to stop ya goin’ out. But can ya tell me. Jus’ - tell me. Don’t make me come home to an empty house. Please.”

Soap’s heart shatters. He hasn’t even considered what that was like for Ghost, to come home and find the place empty, to find himself alone. He must have been worried. Maybe even scared, though Soap isn’t sure Ghost is scared of anything at all. He puts two mugs of tea on the table and leans over to hug Ghost from behind. “Aye,” he says quietly. “Aye, ah can dae that.”

Ghost lets out a shaky breath, drops his chin to press a kiss to Soap’s forearm. “Thanks.”

Soap kisses the side of his head, then pulls away and passes Ghost his phone. “Put the thingy on it.”

“What?”

“The thing. The fuckin’ - thing. So ye know where ah am.”

“Location sharing?”

“Aye. That.”

“Are ya sure?”

Soap nods. It’s no different to a GPS beacon and they used those on missions all the time. “Aye. Sure.”

“Just when I need it,” Ghost promises as he sets it up and checks it’s working. “I’ll only use it if I need it. An’ I’ll phone ya first. Before I use it. Only use it if ya don’t answer.”

“S’fine, Simon. Use it.”

“I put a post it on the door so ya don’t forget your phone again. Doesn’t work otherwise.”

“Aye. Thanks. Ah’ll tell ye if ah gae out again. Prob’ly willnae anyway.”

“Why did ya?”

Soap shrugs. “Wanted tae. Felt good. No’ anymore, mind.”

“Spooked yourself, yeah?”

“Aye.”

Ghost nods. “Spooked me too. Thought maybe - dunno. Someone got to ya. Came home, found ya gone, that’s what I thought.”

“Sorry,” Soap says quietly. 

“‘S’ok. Glad ya felt like doin’ it. Sorry it didn’t work out better. For either of us.”

Soap nods and falls silent, sips his tea and watches the slight shake in Ghost’s hand as he lifts his mug. Nothin’ fuckin’ scares him. He said spooked bu’ that’s jus’ another word fir scared. He was scared. Ah scared him. Naw. No’ me. Losin’ me. He’s walked through fuckin’ gunfire an’ no’ been scared bu’ jus’ the thought of losin’ me an’ he’s still shakin’ a day after. Cannae be adrenaline. No’ any more. He’s still thinkin’ aboot it. Still worryin’ about it. Still scared. He reaches across the table and takes Ghost’s free hand; Ghost gives him a tiny smile in return, and Soap makes a decision.

It’s an easy one. Perhaps one of the easiest ones he’s made in his life.

After lunch, and a fag on the patio, Ghost finally drags himself away from Soap and gets to work in the garden. Despite yesterday’s unseasonably cold weather, today is hot and he soon takes off his shirt while he mows the lawn, but Soap won’t let himself be distracted even by that gorgeous sight. He has work of his own to do.

He should have done this sooner, or at least spoken to Ghost about it before now. But he hasn’t wanted to. It feels like asking something more of Ghost when he’s already doing so much, when he’s already given up so much. Now, though, now it feels like Ghost needs it as much as he does. 

He hesitates outside Ghost’s bedroom door. Whit if he doesnae want this? Whit if that’s why he hasnae brought it up? He brushes the thought aside. They sleep together most nights anyway, this is just one small change, and if Ghost doesn’t like it, doesn’t want it, then he can say so and Soap will undo it all. For now, sending this one unambiguous message is important. 

It says more than Soap’s still limited words can manage.

He gets to work.

There’s really no sign of Ghost in his bedroom. It’s so tidy that it doesn’t look like anyone lives there. Soap is determined to show him that he belongs. That he has a place here. That he can take up space. He empties the wardrobe first, the clothes and hoodies, shoes and a couple of bags. Then the chest of drawers, socks and underwear and t-shirts with holes in. The small stack of well read books that are hidden in the little cupboard at the bottom of the bedside table. The bedside drawer, which only houses a bottle of lube and a pile of loose change alongside three framed photos; one of a young Ghost standing next to a tiny woman who must be his mother. He’s in uniform and he’s smiling into the camera, more relaxed than Soap has ever seen him. Another of the same woman with two small children. Soap recognises Ghost instantly; the other kid must be his brother because he’s all grown up in the third photo, standing next to a pretty woman, both of them holding a small boy between them, and there’s a little label, half hidden under the frame. Soap can’t make out all of the words but he can read miss and uncle Simon. 

He has a family an’ ah didnae know. He doesnae see them, ah know that much, an’ he never talks aboot them. He wouldnae have walked away fae them. He doesnae do tha’. He doesnae leave anyone behind. No’ even me. 

His heart aching, Soap moves everything across to his bedroom and starts putting it all away. It takes him forever. Not because Ghost has a lot of stuff, he really doesn’t, but because Soap has to work out where to put it. The clothes on hangers are obvious. They go in the wardrobe. But then he blanks on where the t-shirts should go and ends up hanging those up too. There aren’t any empty drawers so he moves some of his own stuff around and ends up with random shit shoved in his sock drawer but that’s fine, he can worry about that another day. He puts Ghost’s socks and underwear away and promptly forgets which drawers he’s put them in but that’s fine too. That’s a problem for later. The lube and change go into the bedside drawer on Ghost’s side of the bed. The books go on the windowsill. They’re a part of who Ghost is, Soap isn’t going to hide them away.

Nor will he hide the photos.

He puts them out on Ghost’s bedside table, neatly arranged beside the lamp.

Bedroom done, he moves on to the bathroom. He gets all of Ghost’s toiletries, and his towel, and moves them all to the en suite bathroom where he spends an age trying to put them away in a logical order, so they each have a side of the sink, a side of the cabinet, a side of the shower rack. 

There’s one last thing to do. 

He moves the skull post it from Ghost’s bedroom door to Soap’s, then he stands back, satisfied. It isn’t his bedroom anymore. It’s theirs. And now they have a spare bedroom for anyone who wants to stay overnight; Gaz and Aaliyah or Price and Nik.

He decides that counts as all of his rehab for the day so he goes outside, sits on the patio and smokes, and watches Ghost as he chops some wood. He’s glistening in the sunlight. Sweaty and dirty with smears of mud across his face and forearms. Soap thinks he’s never looked more beautiful. For once, though, he decides to keep his hands to himself, as tempting as the sight is. He values Ghost for far more than just his body and he needs to make sure Ghost knows that, that he never has a single doubt in his mind. But there’s also no harm in looking so he sits there and he watches and when Ghost finishes up and walks over, rubbing the sweat away with his discarded t-shirt, Soap lights a fag and passes it to him. 

Ghost sits down beside him and takes a deep drag. “What ya been up to?”

“Stuff,” Soap says, barely hiding a smile. 

“Rehab stuff?”

“Aye.”

“Good man. How’s it goin’?”

“Aye, good. Show ye after -” Soap points at the lit cigarette.

“That a hint that I should hurry up?”

“Naw. Take yer time. Nae rush.”

“Can I have a shower first?”

“No’ exactly.”

“...What have ya done?”

“Ye’ll see.”

“We still have electric, yeah?”

“Aye.”

“An’ water?”

“Aye, tha’ too.”

Ghost laughs and shakes his head. He smokes quickly, unsure if he wants to know what Soap has been up to and why, exactly, he can’t have a shower before he finds out. He’s imagining total chaos when he goes inside, Soap right behind him, but everything looks normal. There’s nothing out of place. No sign Soap has been doing anything. There aren’t any empty haribo packets, even, and he usually needs at least one packet to get through any form of cognitive rehab. Ghost raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

Soap smirks and steers him towards the bedroom, stops in front of the door so Ghost can see the two post its together.

Ghost stares at them. He thinks he might have stopped breathing. “Johnny, what?”

“Ours,” Soap says. He leans around Ghost to open the door and gently nudges him inside.

Ghost stops short. His photos are on the bedside table. His books are on the windowsill. The rest of his stuff is, presumably, in here too. His breath catches in his throat and he turns around. “Are ya sure? Johnny, are ya sure?”

Soap smiles and nods. “Aye, Simon. Ah’m sure. Our room now. If ye want it tae be.”

For once, it’s Ghost who’s lost for words. He steps forwards, stumbles, but Soap is right there, solid and strong enough to catch Ghost around the waist to steady him. Ghost hugs him tightly and if he’s blinking back tears, well at least Soap can’t see him. He’s warm from more than just the physical labour on a hot day, warm from the inside out, full of emotions and for once, all of them are good. Soap has shown him exactly how he feels. He’s made it so fucking clear that even Ghost with all his emotional stuntedness can’t miss it. He’s welcome here. He belongs here. He’s accepted here.

He’s loved here.

By Soap.

Ghost holds him even more tightly. 

And when they go to bed, in their bedroom, Ghost holds him all night. He doesn’t plan on letting go.

Not ever.

Chapter Text

Now that Soap is getting better with his phone and recognising all the different apps and what they do, he starts using a screen reader to help him with texts and websites. He reads the words as the phone speaks them to him and he’s starting to be able to read more easily, no longer poring over each individual word but picking out the ones he knows and inferring the context from them. It helps. He uses voice-to-text to reply to messages though it doesn’t always understand his accent so he sends voice notes as well. Some of them are long. Very, very long. Gaz smiles every time he receives one, and sends his own in return. Price refuses to send a voice note but he’ll answer with a text and when Soap and Ghost both get a message from him asking if it’s ok to visit, they each reply in the affirmative without even having a discussion about it. The answer to that question will always be yes. 

Ghost goes on a tidying spree. He makes sure the house is spick and span, just like he would before a room inspection. He does the same in the garden and even goes to the nearest garden centre to pick up some plant food, where he gets distracted by some strawberry plants that are on a special offer. He gets six, and pots to grow them in because he doesn’t want to dig new holes in Price’s garden. He spends the afternoon tending to all of the plants and mowing the lawn again.

Only after he’s done that, and tidied the house even though it’s already perfectly tidy, does he decide that they’re finally ready for Price to visit, and sits down for dinner - ready meals that Soap has microwaved. 

When Price arrives the next day, it isn’t by car. He’s in a helicopter that lands in the neighbour’s field and he’s closely followed by Nik. They both vault over the fence and Soap and Ghost meet them in the garden.

“Johnny, Simon,” Price says, extending his hand to each of them in turn. “Good to see ya both.”

“Likewise,” Ghost says. “Travellin’ in style, yeah?”

“Only the best for John,” Nik says. He’s carrying a box and Price is giving him a suspicious side eye.

“Cuppa?” Ghost says.

“Could murder one. See you’re keepin’ up with all the garden stuff.”

“Haven’t killed anythin’ yet. Still time, though.”

Price claps his back. “You’re doin’ fine, Simon. Important thing is that the two of you are in one piece. House looks good too. Thanks for takin’ care of it.”

“‘S’nothing,” Ghost says gruffly. Not that he’ll ever admit it, but it feels good to have that acknowledgement, that good job. He misses that post mission pat on the back.

Soap puts the kettle on and starts getting out everything he needs while everyone sits down at the table. No one notices how delicately Nik puts the box down on the worktop. 

The kettle is just about to boil when Soap turns round. “Uh,” he says, then sighs loudly. “Fuckin’ - ugh. Fucks sake.”

“Tea or coffee, Nik?” Ghost says.

“Vodka,” Nik says, despite that having not been an option.

“You’re flyin’,” Price says. “He’ll have a coffee. Milk an’ one. Thanks, Johnny.”

Soap nods and mutters that to himself until he’s made a cup of coffee and put it on the table. Then he starts making three cups of tea and turns around again, looking frustrated. “John?”

“Milk, no sugar. Thanks.”

“Aye. ‘Course. Sorry.” Soap turns back and finishes making the tea, then puts all of the mugs down by which time he’s forgotten which is which so there’s a lot of sipping and grimacing and then swapping of mugs.

“How’re ya doin’?” Price asks once he has the right cup of tea.

Soap seesaws his hand. “Good an’ bad.”

“Is today good?”

“Naw. Ma heid’s mince.”

“Doin’ a fuck of a lot better than last time I saw ya. Good to see.”

Ghost smiles. “Should see him on a good day.”

“I’d like to,” Price says.

“All days are good days, Johnny,” Nik says. “Thought you would die in helicopter. Make mess for me to clean up. All days good after that.”

Soap laughs. Nik has a point. While he still struggles with the bad days where it feels like he’s stupid, he knows it could have been much, much worse. Which doesn’t make the bad days any easier to deal with and he thinks he’s allowed to go off on one on those days, but it does help to put them in perspective. “Aye,” he says. “True.”

Price takes a gulp of his still too hot tea and clears his throat. “Got somethin’ for ya, Johnny,” he says, reaching inside his jacket. He puts two small boxes on the table. “One for the shit that went down in Las Almas. Came through last month. Fuckin’ slow if ya ask me but no one did, so. An’ one for the tunnel. Stood up. Said a few words for ya -” he pauses and sniffs. “Was harder than I thought it’d be, talkin’ about ya like you’re dead. Anyway. They’re yours. You earned ‘em.”

“Thank ye, John,” Soap says quietly. He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel, being given medals from an army that discarded him like an old cigarette butt. 

Fortunately he doesn’t have to think about it for long. Nik looks from Soap to Price and stands up. He gets the box from the worktop and puts it down very gently in front of Soap. “Open carefully,” he warns.

Price narrows his eyes. Ghost looks from the box to Nik and raises his eyebrows. Nik leans against the worktop and folds his arms, looking pleased with himself. Soap carefully opens the cardboard box and his face lights up with the power of a thousand suns.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Price bites out. “Are you havin’ a fuckin’ laugh, Nik? A fuckin’ bomb?”

“Da. Johnny likes bombs. Is small bomb. Is fine. Long timer.”

“It’s on a fuckin’ timer?!” Price shouts.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell,” Ghost mutters.

Soap says nothing. He’s too busy assessing all of the wires and the battery and the timer and if his head was mince before, now it definitely isn’t. He’s thinking clearly, knows exactly what he’s doing. “Need the - the fuckin’ - the thingummy,” he says, and then, when no one knows what he’s talking about, he gets up and fetches his box of electronics tools.

“Outside, Johnny,” Ghost says quietly. He knows Soap can do this, he’s relatively sure Nik hasn’t brought him something he might kill himself with if it goes wrong, but if it does go wrong, it’s going to create a mess. And probably some singed eyebrows.

“Aye,” Soap says. He shoves his toolkit at Ghost and very carefully carries the bomb outside. He sits down on the grass, well away from the house and when Ghost passes him the tools, he gets to work. 

Everyone else stands well back. Ghost is confident that Soap can do this, he’s trying very hard not to worry, but he can’t stop the what ifs from escaping and flooding his mind. Nik is even more confident that Soap can do this, considering he made the bomb and he knows it’s a simple one without much explosive power. It’s barely more of a bomb than a Christmas cracker is. Price is less confident. Not in Soap, he’s sure Soap can handle it, but suddenly all the small explosions around the farm over the last two days are starting to make sense and he’s somewhat concerned that Nik might have been a touch enthusiastic with the explosives. 

“How long on the timer, Johnny?” he asks.

“Five,” Soap mutters back.

“Hours?”

Soap shoots him a look like he’s an idiot. “Minutes.”

“Jesus fuckin’ christ. It gets down to one minute, I want ya well away from it. Copy?”

“Aye. Copy. ‘s’fine. Ah got it.” 

“Fuckin’ hope so,” Price mutters, quiet enough that Soap can’t hear him. He shoots Nik a look that says we’ll have words later. Nik just smiles back at him, not even remotely concerned - either about Soap, the bomb, or how annoyed Price is.

Soap pays no attention to any of them. He examines all of the wires, the battery, the detonator, the timer. The explosive is a white powder which makes him think chemical bomb but he’s sure Nik wouldn’t have risked that so it’s something else, probably flour or icing sugar or maybe fertiliser but that would pack too big a punch for something that Nik described as small. He twirls the wire cutters around his fingers, then snips the blue wire. “Timer disconnected,” he calls out.

“Time?” Price asks.

“Two-thirty two remainin’.” Soap removes the timer completely and puts it on the grass, then goes back to the rats nest of wires. 

Ghost lets out a sigh of relief. Soap has this under control, just like he knew he would. With the timer out of action, Soap can take his time and think it through. He doesn’t have to worry now. He can just stand back and enjoy watching Soap doing what he’s always been so, so good at.

Price glances at Nik suspiciously. “Please tell me ya haven’t booby trapped it.”

“Nyet,” Nik lies.

“Fuckin’ hell, Nik.”

“Eh. Is fine. Is Soap.”

“Yeah,” Price says, but it isn’t Soap. It’s Johnny. He sighs and decides to trust Soap to handle whatever monstrosity Nik has built; and Nik to have not made it too complicated.

Soap gets down low, lies on the grass and squints closely at the wires. He cuts away the side of the box so he can see more clearly, then laughs. “Sneaky fuckin’ prick,” he calls out. “Fuckin’ pressure plate.”

“Da,” Nik says proudly. 

Soap laughs again and gets back to work. He slides the knife over the pressure plate, holds it down with the flat of the blade so he can lift the bomb enough to get to the detonator. It’s awkward working with one hand and he swears under his breath. But it only takes him another minute. He snips the wire to the detonator and removes the battery, tosses it to one side and goes back for one last check before he takes his knife off the pressure plate and sits up. “Detonator removed. Bomb is safe.”

“Good man,” Ghost says. His heart is still racing but it’s worth it for the grin that lights up Soap’s face as he looks over at them.

“Good job, Johnny,” Price says. “Nik’ll take the explosives back and get rid of them at home. Yes, Nik?”

“Naw,” Soap says. He makes a tiny slice in the packaging around the explosives and gives it a cautious sniff, then laughs, stands up and brushes grass clippings off himself. “Controlled explosion is safest.”

Nik nods enthusiastic agreement.

Price regrets his life choices.

Ghost groans inwardly.

Soap jog trots into the house and hunts through drawers until he finds what he’s looking for - a ball of string. He cuts off a very long length of it and goes back out, humming to himself as he works. He moves the barbecue further away from the house, places the packet of explosives on the grill, then rigs up the string so it runs from the white powder to his hand, at a safe (ish) distance. He ushers everyone else back, then lights a cigarette. Lit end to string. Slow burn. He drops it when it gets too close to his fingers, stands back and watches the tiny flame move up the white string, closer and closer, until -

Bang. 

Blue yellow flame.

Soap smokes his cigarette and watches with rapt attention as it burns, hot and fast until there’s nothing left except a sticky brown mess that clings to the barbecue grill. He turns back to the others, his eyes shining brightly. “Icin’ sugar an’ potassium permanganate. Improvised timer an’ a pressure plate. Bomb made safe an’ controlled explosion carried out. Mission successfully completed.”

“Well done, Johnny,” Ghost says. He walks over, kisses Soap on the side of his head, then examines the mess on the grill and sighs to himself. Apparently they’re going to have to buy a new barbecue. That shit is not going to come off.

“Head’s less mince now, is it?” Price says, a little soft smile curving his lips, though it’s hidden by his mutton chops.

“Aye. Thank ye, Nik. That wis pure gleamin’.”

Nik smiles. “Da. Was fun. More complicated next time.”

“Bloody hell,” Price mutters. “No. No next time. No more fuckin’ bombs. Lucky ya didn’t blow your idiot self up makin’ it.”

“Is fine, John,” Nik soothes.

Price sighs and rolls his eyes and resigns himself to picking up the pieces of his boyfriend when he inevitably gets it wrong because explosives are Soap’s speciality, not Nik’s. Nik usually just knows where to get his hands on them. He’s not generally involved with making them. It’s a very unsettling development. 

“Buildin’ you a fuckin’ burn pit before next time,” Ghost says. “Not buyin’ a new fuckin’ barbecue every time ya want to blow shit up.”

“Aye. Good idea. Can we hae lunch now?”

So they go back inside and while Ghost is making sandwiches, Price pulls Soap to one side.

“That was a good job, Johnny. Good to see ya enjoyin’ yaself. How ya feelin’?”

“Aye, good. Fuckin’ good. Wis nice of Nik tae dae that.”

Price laughs. “Yeah. Still havin’ words with him later. Should’ve fuckin’ told me at least.”

Soap grins. “Ye jist wouldae told him not tae.”

“Probably, yeah. Sorry. ‘bout the medals. Know it’s complicated for ya.”

“‘S’nice,” Soap says. “But aye. Mixed feelin’s.”

“Can understand that. Still wanted ya to have ‘em.”

“Thanks, John, appreciate it.”

“‘S’nothin’. Just wanted ya to be acknowledged.”

Soap nods and looks over Price’s shoulder to where Ghost is putting a huge plate of sandwiches down on the table. “Food’s up.”

They sit down and eat together, then Price and Nik say their goodbyes and leave. Price needs to get back to base and Nik has unspecified stuff to do. They leave happy. Nik because he knows he did a good thing. Price because Soap is doing so much better; bad days or not, he’s come a long way since that evening in the tunnel and the long days and weeks and months in the hospital. He’s almost back to his old self. He’s settled here with Ghost, who seems to have lost the edge he once had. The one that screamed stay away from me. He seems calmer now. More relaxed and open. Price isn’t sure if that’s the effect of being out of the army, or whether it’s Soap’s influence, but whichever it is, they’re good for each other. He doesn’t have to worry about them any more. His lads are safe and happy. Now he can focus on getting things sorted for Gaz and once that’s done, he can finalise the details for his retirement. Everything is coming together.

Soap helps Ghost tidy up after lunch. The barbecue is smashed up and put in the big bin to be collected next week. Ghost orders a new one online. Charcoal, not gas. He has a horrible feeling that gas bottles might be too big a temptation for Soap - or at least an additional hazard if Soap decides to get creative with plant food or something.

He also orders some fireworks.

They arrive a few days later.

Soap kisses him very, very thoroughly.

As soon as it’s dark, he starts letting them off. He grins under the bright lights.

Ghost watches him and thinks he’s never been happier.

He buys more fireworks the next day, but not until Soap promises not to modify them to create bigger explosions.

Soap doesn’t keep that promise.

Chapter Text

As the summer draws on, the garden blooms under Ghost’s diligent care. He waters and feeds and mows, deadheads and prunes and repairs, all with the same focus as he used to have for a mission. Each weed is a hostile target. Each plant is an innocent to be protected. Each ripe, luscious strawberry is a juicy picking from a well stocked weapons cache. 

And if the garden blooms under Ghost's care, so does Soap.

He gets his driving licence back. The day it arrives in the post, Ghost adds him to his car insurance, hands him the keys and they go for a drive. Soap is a little rusty. His gear changes graunch so loudly that Ghost winces and worries for his gearbox. But he’s safe. He doesn’t lose focus, his car control is good, and he still drives too fast.

The second time his gear changes are better and he loads up the satnav so he isn’t reliant on Ghost for directions. Ghost is just a passenger. Soap doesn’t need him anymore.

With Soap spending less time on rehab, they start to share the chores. They take it in turns to cook, even though neither of them know what they’re doing and their meals can be more accurately described as microwaved than cooked. Ghost is trying, though. With some help from Gaz who sends him youtube videos, he can now cook a handful of dishes that don’t come out of a plastic tray or a tin can. Soap does more of the cleaning, Ghost does more of the gardening. Mostly because he’s very protective of his hard work and Soap has no interest in anything in the garden and doesn’t know the difference between a weed and plant - though he knows exactly which ones the strawberries are and keeps sneaking them off the plants before Ghost can get to them. Ghost does the admin; makes sure the bills are paid and writes shopping lists and orders anything they can’t buy locally. Soap does the laundry which has the inevitable result that Ghost is walking round with t-shirts that cling to his muscles. He complains about it. Soap fails to see a problem. As far as he’s concerned, it’s a feature, not a glitch. Ghost orders new t-shirts and washes them himself.

The first time Soap goes out in the car alone, Ghost sits and worries. It’s only a short trip. He’s going to the Co-Op. Not the big one in town, the small corner shop outside of town. He has his phone. He has satnav. They’ve been there together; they’ve even been round the big Co-Op and the big Tesco together. Ghost knows Soap can handle it. But still. He sits and he worries and as soon as he hears the gate go, he jumps up to help bring in the single bag of shopping that Soap has picked up. 

Once Soap has made that first solo trip, there’s no stopping him. Not that Ghost tries. He understands that after months of being constrained, Soap needs his independence. He needs to be free again. Ghost won’t be the one to take that away from him. So when Soap joins a boxing club and is out three mornings a week, Ghost stays home and potters about. And when Soap signs up for a weekly art class, Ghost smiles and says it’s great.

Which it is. It’s great. Soap is completely independent now, he barely needs Ghost’s help at all.

He barely needs Ghost at all.

Ghost is no longer Soap’s shield.

He’s no longer anything. 

He’s not a soldier, he’s not taking care of Soap, he’s not anything.

He’s nothing.

And he’s just waiting for Soap to realise that.

Every morning and every night, his family photos are right there, he can’t not look at them, he doesn’t want to not look at them, he doesn’t want to put them away in a drawer like he has for so many years. But they’re a reminder of everything he’s lost and that’s all he can think about. How much he’s lost. His family. The army. Himself. Sometimes it hurts so much it causes a physical pain in his chest. Some days the grief is so deep that he can hardly stand to breathe. 

The thought of losing Soap is unbearable. He tries not to linger on it but it’s hard when every time he looks at Soap, at the smile when he goes out, at the light in his eyes when he comes home full of stories about where he’s been and what he’s done, the only thought in Ghost’s head is -

How long will it be before he realises I’m nothin’? How long will it be before he leaves me? 

He hides it well. He kisses Soap on the cheek before he goes out, says safe drive, and he smiles when Soap comes home, nods and listens to everything Soap tells him. And on the days he can’t quite hide it, he lies and says he just worries sometimes, that he trusts Soap but he hasn’t shaken the image of him bleeding out on concrete or lying frail and broken in a hospital bed. That’s safe. He can admit to that. He knows Soap understands that. And every time, Soap reassures him that he’s ok, that it’s in the past and he doesn’t have to worry any more, and it helps. It helps. But it doesn’t help him shake the fear that one day Soap will wake up and realise that Ghost is a total waste of fucking space with nothing to offer.

Eventually, it comes to a head.

As is so often the way with these things, it’s something minor. A non-event. Soap is late back. Ghost knows he’s out, Soap has always kept that promise, always tells Ghost before he goes anywhere, always tells him when he’ll be back. But he’s late. 

He sends a voice note a few minutes after the time he was meant to be home. He says he’s stopped at the shop and asks Ghost to text him a list if there’s anything they need. He’s fine. He’s safe. He hasn’t left. Nothing has happened to him.

But in those few minutes, the damage is done.

Ghost loses his grip on his slow, steady, vaguely controlled spiral and now it’s in freefall; a broken rope ascender that sends him plummeting to the ground. He’s helpless to do anything except watch and hope that he won’t be too badly injured when he lands. All of his carefully built walls crumble, shattering around him and he sinks to the floor amongst the ruins, too numb to do anything except stare into the emptiness that surrounds him.

He’s still there when Soap gets home.

“Simon?” Soap says, putting down the box he’s carrying. “Whit are ye daein’?” 

When Ghost doesn’t answer - or can’t answer - he shoves the bag of shopping in the fridge, doesn’t empty it, just shoves the whole thing in there, and crouches down in front of him. “Simon? Ye good?”

Ghost swallows and slowly focuses in on Soap. He still can’t say anything, doesn’t trust his voice not to crack, doesn’t trust himself not to fucking cry. 

Soap’s heart is racing. He leans forwards, snaps his fingers in front of Ghost’s face, breathes again when Ghost blinks. “Simon. Answer me. Are ye hurt? Dae ah need tae phone for a medic?”

Ghost shakes his head. He’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with him. He doesn’t need a medic, he just needs to kick himself in the arse and get his stupid wanker self up off the floor.

“Ok,” Soap says quietly. He sits down on the floor beside Ghost and leans into him, shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee. “We’ll jist sit here fir the now.”

So they do. They sit there without saying anything. When Ghost leans his head back against the worktop, Soap mirrors him. Ghost focuses in on the two points of contact, allows them to bring him back to himself until he feels more normal again. 

“What were ya up to?” he says eventually.

“Shoppin’. Like ah told ye.”

“For what?”

“Blender. Fruit. Makin’ smoothies. We talkin’ aboot this?”

“What?”

“Whatever the fuck’s wrong wi’ ye.”

“No.”

Soap sighs. “Ok. Cuppa?”

“No. Ta.”

“Fag?”

Ghost shakes his head.

“Smoothie?”

“Definitely not.”

“Fuck?”

“Now?”

“Aye.”

“No.”

“Why no’?”

“Because -” Ghost’s voice cracks. He can’t stop it. He swallows and tries again but it doesn’t help; every word wavers in his throat. “Because ya shouldn’t be takin’ care of me. That’s my job. I take care of us.”

“Pure shite,” Soap says, more gently than the words might suggest. “We take care of each other.”

“Not the way it works, Johnny.”

“No? ‘Cause ye dinnae trust me? Is tha’ it? Ye dinnae think ah can take it?”

“What? No. No. I trust ya. I know ya can handle anythin’.”

“Good.” Soap stands up, holds out his hand. “On yer fuckin’ feet, Simon.”

Ghost takes his hand, allows Soap to haul him to his feet. No sooner is he standing than Soap shoves him in the shoulder and Ghost staggers backwards. “The fuck was that for?”

“Whit we dae, aye?”

“You want to spar? Now?”

“Naw. Ah want ye tae fuckin’ tell me whit’s wrong wi’ ye. An’ if ye willnae, then aye, sparrin’.”

Ghost sighs and halfheartedly shoves Soap in the chest. He doesn’t move a fucking inch. Just stands there with his eyebrows raised and a cocky grin on his lips.

“Tha’ all ye got? ’mon. Let’s fuckin’ go.”

Ghost pushes him again, harder this time. Soap rolls with it, bounces to the side, still grinning that cocky grin. He’s winning and he knows it. His fists are up and when Ghost goes in again, Soap expertly blocks him. And again. And again.

“Fuckin’ hell, Simon, fuckin’ get on wi’ it. Ye can dae better than this. Ah fuckin’ know ye can. Ye’re no’ even fuckin’ tryin’. ’mon. Fuckin’ hit me. Fuckin’ try.”

“I don’t want to fuckin’ hit ya!” Ghost yells, right up in Soap’s face.

“Why fuckin’ no’?” Soap yells right back.

“Because I fuckin’ love ya!”

Soap’s fists slowly drop, his face along with them, no longer grinning cockily. Now he’s open and honest and sincere. “Ah love ye too, Simon,” he says quietly, wrapping his arms around him.

And somewhere in that embrace, Ghost breaks. 

His shoulders shake. He buries his face into Soap’s hair and lets the tears fall. Everything he’s been carrying, all the weight he’s shouldered for such a long time seeps out of him in stinging, bitter tears and hitched, broken sobs. He cries until he has nothing left and then he slowly pulls away and runs his hand over his face.

Soap gently rubs his shoulder. “’mon. Fag.”

Ghost nods and allows Soap to lead him outside, accepts the lit cigarette when Soap passes it to him. They sit there in silence, smoke three cigarettes each before Soap breaks the quiet.

“Can ye tell me whit’s gaein’ on?”

“I love ya.” Ghost lets out a humourless chuckle. “I love ya so fuckin’ much I’m scared of losin’ ya. Fuckin’ pathetic, yeah?”

“Naw. Ye think ah feel any different?”

“Yeah?”

“Aye. Every time ah hae a bad day an’ ah cannae fuckin’ think or whitever. Every time ah think, why is he still wit’ me when ah havenae go’ anythin’ tae offer. ‘Cept ma body. Least ah go’ that.”

Ghost stares at him. “Is that why ya always want sex?”

Soap shrugs. “Partly. Tha’ an’ ye’re fuckin’ beautiful. ‘Specially when ye’re covered in ma marks.”

“Provin’ somethin’?”

“Aye. Bu’ we arenae talkin’ aboot me the now. We're talkin' aboot you.”

“Any chance I can get out of this conversation?”

“Nae chance.”

Ghost sighs, knows it’s time to beat a tactical retreat. “Scared of losin’ ya.”

Soap nods. “Aye. Ye said tha’. Bu’ why?”

“‘Cause ya don't need me anymore.”

“Ah'll always need ye, Simon. An’ even if ah didnae, ah'll always love ye, always want ye.”

Ghost looks out over the field to the trees and sniffs. “Yeah?”

“Aye, fuckin' yeah. Whit’re ye scared of?”

“Lost everyone, Johnny,” Ghost says quietly. “Family. Myself. Simon was dead for so fuckin’ long an’ then ya came along an’ -” he pauses and swallows, wishes he had a glass of bourbon or three. “Started feelin’ alive again. An’ then…the tunnel. Almost lost ya. Couldn't fuckin’ stand it. Thought my heart might fuckin’ shatter. All that time in the hospital. Ya came back to me an’ I thought maybe I'd be ok again. If you were ok, I would be too. But I'm not. Lost the army. Lost myself again. Don't know who I am an’ if I don't have you…I'm nothin’.”

“Ye're everythin’, Simon,” Soap says quietly. 

Ghost scrubs his hand across his face. “I'm not. I'm not anythin’. Fuckin' hell, Johnny. Life an’ death missions scared me less than this shit does. The way I feel about ya. The way I feel about myself. Dunno what to do with it all.”

Soap lights another two cigarettes and passes one to Ghost. He smokes half of it while he thinks, tries to find the right words. They matter. This matters. He can’t fuck it up. “Whit ye lost…ah never had. Ah wis in a kiddie’s home. Wi’ nuns. Wis fuckin’ terrible. Saw all the other kiddies gettin’ adopted. They were wanted. Ah wisnae. Even the army. I wis always a problem. Naebody ever wanted me on the team until Price.”

“An’ then ya lost that too.”

“Aye. Bu’ then ye walked in an’ ye said ye retired. Fir me. Ye gave it all up. Fir me. An’ aw the shite in ma heid, knew tha’ ah hadnae lost everythin’. Ah still had you. An’ that’s when ah knew ah love ye an’ ye love me back an’ ah never had tha’ before an’ ah’m scared tha’ one day ye’ll look up an’ realise tha’ it wasnae fuckin’ worth it.”

“It’s worth it. You’re worth it. So fuckin’ worth it, Johnny.”

“Ye really think so?”

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

“So would I.”

“What?”

“Gettin’ shot in the heid. Ah’d dae it again. If it meant ah could have you. This. Worth it.”

Ghost stares at him. Ash drops from the cigarette in his fingers, lands on his jeans. He doesn’t notice. “You think,” he says, sounding like he’s being strangled, “that it was fuckin’ worth it?” 

“Aye,” Soap says quietly. “Aye, Simon, ah think it was worth it.”

“Fuckin’ hell, ya need a shrink.”

“So dae you.”

“Point,” Ghost says grudgingly. He tries to take another drag of his cigarette but it’s gone out so he puts the butt in the empty can they use as an ashtray. “I did once, ya know. Therapy. Helped. Should probably go back. Deal with my shit instead of dumpin’ it all on you.”

“Our shit.”

“No.”

“Aye. Ye dealt wi’ aw mine, remember?”

“Point. Again.”

Soap smirks, tasting victory. “So let me help ye, Simon. If ye want tae go tae therapy, ah’ll drive ye tae yer appointments, dae anythin’ ye need. Jist let me be there like ye were - are - fir me.”

“Yeah,” Ghost says thickly. “Yeah, ok, I can do that. Thanks, Johnny.”

“Nae bother.”

Ghost sits, quietly reassessing. He can’t quite believe Soap just said that, that Soap thinks that. It wasn’t worth it. It definitely wasn’t worth it. But Soap thinks it was. Soap thinks that he is worth that. Whatever Ghost thinks about himself, all of those dark thoughts and the voice that sounds like his father when it tells him he’s useless and worthless and nothing, whatever all of that says, Soap thinks that he’s worth losing everything for. He’s worth a lifetime of pain and struggling. 

This isn’t just love. This is devotion. 

It takes his breath away.

He’s still fucked up, that isn’t going to go away with some kind words and a few minutes of thinking, but now maybe, instead of being scared of losing Soap, he can be scared of not being good enough for him. Maybe he can be scared of not being the person Soap thinks he is. Maybe he can be scared of not being worth it.

Maybe he can choose which battle he has to fight.

He has work to do. He knows that. And he’ll do it, he’ll work on himself and he’ll be someone who deserves that amount of love and devotion.

He’ll do it for Soap.

He clears his throat and glances over at Soap. “Ya know, ya could’ve just asked me out for a drink instead of getting yaself shot in the fuckin’ head. Would’ve been easier.”

Soap laughs. “Wouldae been, aye. Bu’ less dramatic.”

“Less dramatic would’ve been good.”

“Point.”

Ghost leans over and pats Soap’s thigh, squeezes gently. “Right. Ya makin’ me a smoothie, then?”

“Aye. C’mon. An’ after, ah think ye need some more of ma marks on ye if ye want me tae.”

“Gladly.”

Soap follows Ghost inside and starts unpacking the blender, chopping fruit and pouring milk. He’s tired now. He had to do a lot of thinking, come up with a lot of words for a conversation that cost him a lot. He has a lot of emotions flying around too, memories that he prefers to keep further beneath the surface than where they’re currently floating, but the important thing is that Ghost seems to be ok again. At least for now.

So he makes smoothies and he covers Ghost in marks and later that night, when they go to bed, he holds Ghost tightly and whispers two words.

Worth it. 

Chapter Text

Ghost finds a therapist. Soap takes him to his first session. It’s in town so while Ghost is being coaxed into explaining why he’s there, Soap takes himself off to the nearest cafe for a donut and a cuppa. He meets Ghost outside the therapist’s office and gives him a hug and a donut. Ghost is quiet on the drive home. Soap doesn’t ask what they talked about. It’s none of his business and Ghost will tell him if he wants him to know.

After each session, Soap has something for him. A nice box of chocolates. A plant he saw that looked sad and he thought Ghost might like to take care of it. Ghost gets a little weepy about that one. A cuppa in a new thermal mug with his name on. A bottle of bourbon. A disgustingly sweet milkshake that Soap ends up drinking. A single red rose that he holds in his lips. He cuts himself on the thorns. Ghost kisses the blood away.

Slowly, session after session, Ghost opens up and talks about why he’s there. Not about everything, he can’t talk about everything because ninety percent of it is classified, but he can talk around it and he can talk about how he feels about it. His therapist gives him tips and strategies and homework. One thing she says to him sticks. 

Love is often quiet and sometimes we need it to be louder. When we do, it’s ok to ask your partner to love you a little louder today. 

The first time he asks, he isn’t sure what reaction to expect from Soap. Whether he’ll even understand what Ghost means, whether he’ll have questions, whether he’ll need Ghost to tell him how to do that, which will be an issue because Ghost doesn’t actually know what he needs, he hasn’t figured that part out yet. It’s putting a lot on to Soap. Maybe too much. But Ghost trusts him to be able to carry it, and Soap does. 

Turns out, he’s actually really fucking good at loud love. He’s good at the quiet stuff too but any time Ghost asks for it to be louder, asks for the reassurance he needs, Soap has it handled. Sometimes it’s soft words. Other times a warm, open, full body hug. Or a smirk before he drops to his knees. A little doodle of the two of them holding hands, neatly folded to fit in Ghost’s wallet. A bunch of flowers when he comes back from art class. 

He loves in the same way he does everything else; with his whole heart. 

Faced with Soap’s openness, Ghost starts to let down his own walls. He speaks more in therapy. Laughs more easily at home. He’s never going to be the sort of man who breaks down and cries often, not now the initial crisis is over, but he’s not keeping himself locked up any more. If he experiences an emotion, he allows it to happen, allows Soap to see it. His admittedly terrible jokes make a return and he reduces Soap to crying with laughter at least twice a day, so maybe his jokes aren’t too terrible after all.

Soap still has bad days. He sideswipes the hallway wall on more than one occasion; careers off a doorway and gives himself a nosebleed. Some days his thoughts are slow, his movements uncoordinated, and he’s quiet. On the worst days, his head hurts too much to get out of bed and Ghost brings him water and meds and food if he doesn’t feel too sick to eat. He’s been warned that it’ll be a lifelong issue, but they come less often now and he’s learning to deal with them better. If he takes the meds and goes to bed at the first hint of a headache, it’ll only knock him out for a day. If he tries to push through, he can expect to be down and out for longer. His emotional issues can still be a little unpredictable but sparring at the boxing club regularly is helping, and Ghost learns to spot the tiny signs that indicate Soap is starting to get frustrated, and he’s quicker to suggest sparring or fucking to give Soap an outlet before it spills out in a mess.

They’re both doing a lot better so when arrangements are made for Price and Nik, and Gaz and Aaliyah to all visit together, it’s no longer an overwhelming source of stress. This time it’s anticipation; a chance to catch up with old - and new - friends. 

Soap goes out to buy a cake. Ghost picks the last of the summer’s strawberries and uses them to decorate it. The house and garden are immaculate. Ghost goes out to move the car because the one thing Soap is objectively terrible at is parking. But then he was always bad at parking and every time Ghost takes the piss out of him for it, Soap says away wi’ ye, ye cannae dae any better which isn’t strictly accurate, as Ghost proves when he parks the car an inch away from the fence without even looking what he’s doing. 

One last check that everything’s in order and they go outside for a fag before everyone arrives.

Gaz and Aaliyah turn up first. Gaz has made lunch, pilau rice with jerk chicken, which he puts in the oven to reheat. Aaliyah is running on too much coffee and talks at a mile a minute about everything and nothing which Soap can’t quite keep up with even though he’s having a good day.

Price and Nik arrive not long after - by car this time, not helicopter. Price is carrying a large case of beer which he says is for anyone not driving and smugly opens a bottle for himself. Nik glowers and entertains himself by swapping recipes with Gaz.

Lunch passes in a flurry of conversation, interspersed with requests to chuck us a beer and pass the orange juice and is there any rice left. It’s warm and nice and light. They steer clear of any work talk, even about past missions that aren’t classified, though Gaz does tell them about his time at Sandhurst and Ghost and Soap congratulate him on graduating, and on his promotion. They already know, but it’s the first time they’ve seen him so they clink bottles and drink a toast to him.

Afterwards, Price clears his throat. “Right. Good a time as any to make my announcement. Filed my retirement papers yesterday.”

Silence.

Gaz already knows; Price told him straight after he filed them, and they talked about future plans for the 141, combining Gaz’s plan for a second task force with Price’s plan for Gaz to take over from him. It’s all coming together.

Nik already knows too. He’s smiling softly.

Aaliyah clears some of the dishes from the table. This isn’t her news to share in and she doesn’t really know Price yet.

Soap is probably the most surprised, he’s just staring at Price while the cogs in his brain whir, slowly searching for the right response.

Ghost keeps a carefully neutral face. He’s been expecting this, he knows Price has been done with all the red tape for a while, getting more and more pissed off with all the wanky bureaucracy he has to deal with. It’s not a bombshell. “When?”

“Six months,” Price says. “Gives me time to get everythin’ sorted.”

Ghost nods. Six months is long enough to find somewhere else to live. Plenty of time. He doesn’t have to worry. Yet. “We’ll be out before then.”

“What’re ya talkin’ about?”

“The house. We’ll find somewhere before then.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare. Told ya it’s your home. Fuckin’ meant it.”

Soap abandons his attempt to find the right response to Price’s news and smiles. “Ye’ll be wi’ Nik?”

Price leans his shoulder against Nik’s. “Yeah. On the farm.”

“Wait,” Gaz says, reacting to the part of the plan he didn’t know about. “You an’ Nik? Am I the only straight one here?”

“Da,” Nik says, wrapping his arm around Price’s shoulders. “You did not know?”

“Fuckin’ hell. Had no idea. Happy for you both.”

“Cheers, Kyle,” Price says. He reaches into Nik’s jacket and pulls a wad of papers from his inside pocket, and passes them to Ghost and Soap. “Transfer of deeds. Sign it. Don’t fuckin’ argue.”

“...” Ghost says, staring at Price.

“Don’t even fuckin’ think about it, Simon,” Price warns him, then adds more gently, “just sign it. Please.”

Ghost nods and grabs a pen. His hand shakes as he signs the piece of paper that secures their future. Whatever else happens, they’ll always have somewhere to live. 

Soap signs it too and passes the papers back to Price. “Thank ye, John. Might hae tae gie ye a wee hug.”

“Try it and ya’ll be drinkin’ through a straw for a week,” Price says, straight faced but with a laugh in his eyes.

Soap laughs and tilts his head as though he’s considering whether or not it’s worth it. In the end he decides not and offers a handshake instead, which Price accepts, and one from Ghost when he extends his hand too.

“Thank you, John,” Ghost says quietly. “Means a lot to us. Door’s always open for ya, yeah? Both of ya.”

Price sniffs and clears his throat. “Thanks, Simon. We’ll visit.”

“Does that go for us too?” Gaz asks, glancing at Aaliyah.

“Aye, ‘course it does,” Soap says. “Aw ye, any of ye.”

Aaliyah smiles and gives Gaz a little nod.

He smiles back. “Good. ‘cause we’ve got an announcement too. We’re getting married. Next year. September.”

A chorus of congratulations goes up. Soap is the first to offer Gaz a fist bump. Price claps Gaz on the back so hard that he chokes.

When he’s recovered enough to take a long gulp of beer, he says something else. “Johnny?”

“Aye?”

“Will you be my best man?”

Soap stares at him. “Me? No’ yer brother? Or yer da’? Me?”

“You’re my best friend and I almost fucking lost you.” Gaz shakes his head, remembering the long days and weeks, not knowing if Soap would ever be ok again, all the deals he’d struck with higher powers if Soap would just be ok, all the ifs and buts and maybes and the promise he’d made himself that if Soap was ok and if he needed a best man, that it would be Soap. “I want it to be you. Stand up with me. Speech. Stag night. The whole lot.”

Ghost pulls a face and shakes his head, silently trying to warn Gaz off.

Soap notices and glares at him. “Ye dinnae think ah can handle a fuckin’ speech, aye?”

“What? No. ‘course you can. Not worried about the fuckin’ speech. Worried about whatever fuckin’ chaos you’ll drag him into on his fuckin’ stag night.”

“One rule,” Aaliyah says sweetly. “No -”

“Nae strippers,” Soap says. “Ah know. Wouldnae dae that.”

“Strippers are fine. What I was going to say is no getting arrested, please. I’m making it a polite request but you should know it comes with a threat. If he gets arrested, I will hunt you down and murder you.”

“Aye. Fair craic.”

Price sighs. “We’ll stand by with bail money just in case.”

“Nope,” Gaz says. “You’ll be there with the rest of us.”

Which prompts a short discussion about the guest list and other plans for the stag night which Aaliyah quickly shuts down because there are some things she just doesn’t need to know. Gaz says he’ll message Soap a list of names and numbers. Soap says he’ll sort it. He’s already getting ideas for things they can do. Some of them don’t even involve alcohol.

There’s some more chat; about wedding plans, and what Price is going to do after he retires (drink, sleep), by which time it’s getting late so everyone pitches in with clearing up, except Ghost who pulls Price to one side and suggests they go out for a smoke.

“Garden looks good,” Price says, lighting a cigar.

Ghost nods and lights a fag. “Gettin’ the hang of it. Slowly. Ya sure about all this? Givin’ us this place?”

“Are ya arguin’ with me again, Simon?”

“No. Checkin’. That’s all.”

“I’m sure. Got no attachment to the place, only kept it in case I needed it an’ I don’t any more. Prefer it at Nik’s.”

Ghost nods. “Any financial implications for ya?”

“None. Consulted a solicitor an’ a tax accountant an’ even called fuckin’ HMRC to check. Spent a fuckin’ hour on hold. Cunts never answer the fuckin’ phone. No stamp duty for the two of ya to pay ‘cause it’s a gift, an’ the arse fell out of the property market right after I inherited it. It’s worth less now than it was then, so no capital gains for me to pay.”

“Hell of a fuckin’ gift, John.”

Price blows out a puff of smoke. “It was costin’ me money to keep the place, if ya want to look at it like that.”

Ghost shoots him a look that clearly says that isn’t what I meant an’ you fuckin’ know it. 

Price sighs. “Let me do this, Simon. I need to do this. Need to know the two of ya are safe. Couldn’t protect Johnny that night. Couldn’t stop ya from fallin’ with him. But I can do this. I can give ya this place. Fuckin’ hell, it’s the least I can fuckin’ do. Both of ya lost your fuckin’ futures in that tunnel an’ what happened never would’ve happened if I’d been payin’ better attention.”

“Shepherd?”

“Fuckin’ Shepherd.”

“Ya handled it.”

“Not until the damage was done. If ya can’t accept a gift, call it bloody compensation if that makes it easier for ya.”

Ghost nods. “Thank you for the gift, John. Strugglin’ a bit to accept it for myself but for Johnny…”

“Yeah. Understood, Simon. Good to see him doin’ better. An’ you.”

“Didn’t know there was anythin’ wrong with me.”

“Ya don’t hide it as well as ya think.”

“Neither do you.”

“Fuck off,” Price says with a little chuckle. “Nik sees straight through it too.”

“He’s good to ya?”

“The best.”

“Good. Ya deserve that.”

Price nods, an acknowledgement rather than agreement, and smokes his cigar in silence. He can retire in peace now. His lads are taken care of. Gaz’s career is sorted, he has a lovely fiancee and support from his family. Ghost and Soap have each other and a permanent roof over their heads. The task force is in safe hands. There’s nothing left for him to do. He can live out the rest of his life, a much longer one that he thought he might have, with Nik. He thinks he might buy a fishing rod and spend his days by the river that runs through the farm. He also thinks Nik might have other plans. Plans which probably involve helicopters and the fall of the Russian regime. Price doesn’t mind helping with that. At least he won’t be bored.

By the time they go back inside, the clearing up has been done and Soap is telling the others about the boxing gym he goes to and he’s borrowed Nik to demonstrate some moves which results in a knocked over chair and a bruise to Nik’s upper arm. Ghost rolls his eyes and rights the chair. Price rolls his eyes and tells Nik he’ll have to learn to duck if he’s spending time with Soap. Aaliyah recommends a particular brand of ice packs that they use in the hospital and Gaz steals the last strawberry off the leftover cake. Soap apologises. He doesn’t mean it.

Everyone says their goodbyes and Ghost and Soap wave them off. When they’ve gone, Ghost sinks into the nearest chair with a quiet sigh.

“Ye good, Simon?” Soap asks, rubbing his shoulder.

Ghost closes his fingers around Soap’s, holds his hand there. “Yeah. I’m good. Are you?”

“Fuckin’ brickin’ it aboot this speech, mind.”

“Got a year to work on it.”

“Will ye - if ah cannae dae it, will ye step in?”

“Yeah. ‘course. Help ya write it if ya want.”

“Aye?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank ye.” Soap trails his hand across the back of Ghost’s shoulders and sits down beside him, pulls Ghost into him so he can kiss the side of his head. He sits there and enjoys the quiet of their peaceful home. He still can’t quite believe Price has given it to them, he isn’t just letting them stay there, it’s their home. Permanently. It feels too big. Too much. But it’s theirs. It’s somewhere he can protect and defend and make sure that Ghost is always safe, and he knows Ghost will always do the same for him.

Even when it comes to best man speeches.

He’s still not sure how he’s going to handle that but he will. For Gaz and with Ghost by his side. He’ll handle it.

He might even throw in a few jokes.

Just for the craic.

Chapter Text

Ghost’s weekly therapy sessions are definitely helping. He’s making good progress and no longer feels like he’s carrying quite so much, although there’s a lot he still has to unpack. 

But as the 21st November draws ever closer, Ghost sinks. Memories crash down around him. Dark and gunshots and the smell of blood in his nostrils and the weight of Soap’s lifeless body on his back. Sometimes it’s so real that it’s like it’s happening again. The thud of Soap’s body hitting the ground, the crack of his head on the concrete, the trains rushing past, the whap whap of helicopter rotor blades. Blood and bruises and a face so swollen he can’t recognise it. Pale green hospital walls, flickering lights and white sheets and a frail figure hooked up to machines. The days and weeks of not knowing. The months of barely leaving the hospital, of watching Soap struggle with the most basic tasks. He relives a whole year in seconds, over and over again, and the fear is so sharp he can taste it, hot and metallic at the back of his throat.

He watches Soap constantly. Every time Soap leaves the house, Ghost’s heart rate skyrockets. His palms sweat, his knees turn weak, and he can’t breathe. Not until Soap is home again, and even then, Ghost has to have eyes on him at all times, needs to see him, needs to reassure himself that Soap is safe and healthy and whole and not a scatter of ashes on the breeze. 

His therapist tells him to talk to Soap about it. He argues that he doesn’t want to remind Soap of what happened. She asks if he really thinks that Soap has forgotten and he begrudgingly admits she has a point. 

Soap can tell there’s something wrong. He always can. He can read Ghost like a cheap newspaper. But he doesn’t push, doesn’t ask, and when Ghost follows him round the house like a scared puppy, Soap doesn’t complain. He is, however, relieved when they get home from Ghost’s therapy session and Ghost asks if they can talk.

Soap makes tea. Ghost asks for something stronger and puts the ashtray in the middle of the table because it’s too cold to smoke outside now. Soap gets a bottle of Wild Turkey from the cupboard and puts it down, along with a glass, then sits down with his cuppa and lights a fag.

“Whit’s wrong, Simon?”

Ghost’s hand shakes as he opens the bottle and takes a gulp, not bothering with the glass. He tries to light a cigarette but fails and Soap lights it for him. “Ya know what the date is?”

Soap checks his phone. “20th.”

“A year ago,” Ghost says thickly. “Tomorrow.”

“Ye rememberin’ it?”

“All the fuckin’ time.”

“Aye, well ye goat the worst of it.”

Ghost shakes his head. “I really fuckin’ didn’t.”

“Ah dinnae remember it. No’ that stuff, anyway.”

“What do ya remember?”

Soap takes another drag of his fag. “His face. An’ me, starin’ doon the barrel of a gun. Bu’ no’ like ah’m there, moar like ah’m watchin’ a film or somethin’. Then nothin’ ‘til the hospital. Wakin’ up an’ everythin’ bein’ fucked. Aw the other stuff. No’ bein’ able tae think an’ move right. Havin’ tae learn everythin’ again like a wee bairn. No’ haein’ any control of ma own life, bein’ locked up an’ shite. Aw that.”

“Still strugglin’ with all that?”

Soap crushes out his fag and smiles wryly. “Moar than ah let on. Bu’ we arenae talkin’ aboot me the now, we’re talkin’ aboot you.”

“Do we have to?” Ghost tries, though he knows the answer. It’s a half hearted protest and mostly just because he doesn’t want to put anything else onto Soap, doesn’t want to spark off any forgotten memories or add to the shit he’s already dealing with. Shit that Ghost didn’t even know about because he’s a selfish fucking cunt and hasn’t actually asked how Soap is dealing with everything, he’s just believed that Soap is as fine as he’s pretending to be and he isn’t, he just said he isn’t and now Ghost is about to drop a whole load more stuff on him when he really, really shouldn’t. 

“Aye, Simon, we do. ‘mon, out wi’ it.”

Ghost knocks back another huge gulp of bourbon, soaks up the burn, and starts to talk. He tells Soap about watching him drop, the thud and the crack as he hit the floor. He tells him about realising he was still alive and the hastily thought up plan to fake his death. And when he tells him about carrying him out of the tunnel, all 7 klicks, fuelled by desperation and so many stim shots he thought he was going to drop dead of a heart attack, Soap pulls a face.

“Gaz didnae tell me tha’ bit. The rest, aye, knew ye carried me oot, bu’ no’ tha’ bit. No’ aboot the stims.”

“Had to,” Ghost says quietly. “Couldn’t do anythin’ else. Had to get ya out of there.”

“Ye shouldnae hae risked yer fuckin’ life fir me.”

“Don’t. Don’t fuckin’ say that.” Ghost stands up, pacing from one side of the kitchen to the other. “I had to. Couldn’t fuckin’ let ya die ‘cause I was too fuckin’ weak to save ya. No fuckin’ chance.”

Soap stands up and catches his wrist, steadies him. “‘S’ok, Simon. Breathe. Ah’m ok now.”

Ghost meets his eyes, just for a heartbeat before he looks away again and carries on talking. 

Soap sits back down and listens, occasionally lighting a cigarette for them both, or passing Ghost the bottle so he can take a swig from it. He listens as Ghost tells him about the hospital. About how close it was, how they didn’t know if he’d survive or not, or what state he’d be in if he did. He listens to the crack in Ghost’s voice when he talks about Soap waking up and how he went from relief that he was awake to despair when he realised that Soap couldn’t speak. And when the day fades into night, Soap gets up to turn the lights on. He doesn’t interrupt. He sits quietly and lets Ghost talk it all out, fill in the gaps that Soap has been missing, and when Ghost finally draws to a shaking close, Soap bundles him up in a tight hug that makes his ribs creak.

“Ah’m ok, Simon. Ah’m ok now. Ye’re ok. Ye saved me,” he says quietly. “Ye did it. ‘Cause ye’re a tough fuckin’ bastard an’ ye dinnae know when tae give up. Now ‘mon, ye need tae rest.”

“Need to make some fuckin’ food.”

“I can dae tha’.” Soap pulls away and gives him a gentle shove towards the living room. “Away wi’ ye.”

Ghost, reluctantly, goes. He sits down on the sofa and tries not to sink into the guilt spiral. Every part of him feels raw and exposed, every thought feels like having a wound stitched without anaesthetic, but he thinks he might actually feel better for having got it all out. Now he can focus on Soap. When Soap stops for long enough to let him.

Soap makes himself useful. He needs to do that, needs to feel like he’s something other than a year’s worth of a burden, needs to distract himself from his own thoughts and memories. He’s always been like this, ever since he was a wee yin. Always fighting and busy because if he stops for too long, everything catches up with him and if that happens, everything falls apart. He falls apart. He can’t let that happen. 

So he lights a fire in the woodburning stove because it’s cold and damp and the heating works fine but Ghost needs the extra comfort and if he needs some extra comfort too, well at least he doesn’t have to admit that. Once it’s burning nicely, he goes back to the kitchen and hunts out the packet of crumpets he knows is in the cupboard. He takes them into the living room, along with two plates and the tub of butter, and one of Ghost’s old knives that Soap has adopted as his own.

Ghost watches him, a tiny smile curving his lips as Soap balances a crumpet on the tip of the knife. It’s on fire and Soap is blowing on it to try to put it out. It isn’t working. “Flame grilled crumpets for tea then, yeah?” 

“They’re best like tha’.”

Ghost isn’t convinced about that, but when Soap shoves a plate of half burnt crumpets dripping with butter at him, he has to admit that they’re really fucking good. 

“Told ye,” Soap says when Ghost says they’re vaguely edible. 

“Smug bastard. Only told ya they’re edible. Didn’t say they’re good.” 

“Wheesht, if they werenae good, ye wouldnae eat them. Ye wantin’ a cuppa, aye?”

“I’ll make ‘em.” Ghost gets up and clears away the plates. He washes up, makes tea, and goes back in with two mugs, fags and lighter, and the now emptied ashtray. He leaves the bottle of bourbon on the table. It’s a friend he doesn’t need any more of tonight.

As soon as Ghost sits down, Soap stretches out on the sofa with his head in Ghost’s lap. The ashtray is balanced on his chest where they can both reach it, and he lies there, smoking as he watches the flames dance behind the stove’s glass door.

Ghost smokes too, stroking Soap’s hair with his free hand. “Johnny, thank you,” he says quietly. “Helped to let that shit out. An’ the food an’ the fire an’ everythin’. Thanks.”

“Aye, nae bother. Ye feelin’ better?”

“Different. But yeah. Worried ‘bout ya though.”

“Whit fir?”

“Ya said ya still struggle with all the hospital shit an’ stuff. An’ I didn’t know. I’m sorry I didn’t know.”

“Ah didnae want ye tae know.”

“Tell me?”

Soap sighs. “Dae ah hae tae?”

“No.”

“Good. ‘cause a’v goat ma thingummy next month.”

“Psych assessment?”

“Aye, tha’. An’ ah’ll tell them an’ if they say ah’ve tae gae tae therapy or somethin’ then ah will bu’ if no’ then ah’ll jist…”

“Deal with it?”

“Aye.”

“But ya aren’t, are ya? You’re ignorin’ it.”

“Away tae fuck,” Soap says, though there’s no heat in his words. 

Ghost ruffles his hair. “Ok. Another time.”

Soap hums agreement. He thinks he might have just dodged a bigger bullet than the one that almost killed him. 

He also thinks that Ghost is a fuck of a lot braver than he is. At least Ghost can face up to the battles in his head.