Archive of Our Own

Ghost stares. Stares at the blood covering his gloves, leaving crimson prints on Soap’s clothes where he had grabbed him to shake the Sergeant awake. It’s already seeping through the fabric of his gear, so warm at first contact with his skin, but then quickly cooling down and leaving nothing except a cold dread where it touches.

Soap’s blood. Johnny’s blood spreading and spreading around his head where Makarov’s bullet had pierced through. The Sergeant’s dull eyes stare ahead, unseeing, unalive. Body limp and unresponsive.

The Ghost is just sitting there, kneeling next to his fallen comrade, but Simon Riley is screaming on the inside. He is wailing and thrashing against the walls that hold him back, scratching them to blood, tears smearing the black ink to lines down his face and cries prying their way out of his throat at seeing his best friend, his Johnny, his everything like this. He wants to cradle his face, call his name, plead him to come back to life. Say everything he never had the guts to say out loud. Yet the Ghost does not cry or wail. He doesn’t know how to.

The Ghost is frozen on the ground, unable to turn his eyes away while he only distantly perceives what is happening around him. Everything seems to be covered in some kind of fog, clouding his mind and filling his ears with static. Only the distant noises of the still active bomb and the yelling of Price and Gaz breaks through from time to time.

Let it blow up, Simon thinks to himself. Let the world burn, Ghost joins in.

Somehow, the two soldiers manage to make the beeping stop. It probably means the bomb is defused, yet to Ghost the relief never comes. He looks up at them, seeing the grief in their faces, the pain in their eyes. The fog lifts when Price is making the call.

“All stations – this is Bravo in the blind. Threat neutralized. Bomb is safe… One KIA…”

The last word echoes in Ghost’s head, mocking him. He hadn’t been fast enough. He hadn’t been here to protect him. And now, now Soap is gone.

Ghost doesn’t know how long he has remained there on the ground, how much time has passed since he stared at that one spot on the bomb where a red wire had been cut. It’s only when Gaz grabs his shoulder that he realizes that he probably hasn’t answered something.

“Come again?”

Gaz’s hand squeezes him in sympathy. “You coming? We have to get out of here.”

Ghost’s voice is raspy when he answers. “Uh, yeah.”

He gets up from where he had been kneeling, legs hurting and pants sticky with blood. Soap’s body is gone. Ghost only now realizes that Price has carefully picked up Johnny’s body and is carrying him towards the exit. Limbs dangling and head rolled against the Captain’s arm. Someone has closed his eyes, making him look more peaceful and appearing like he is just unconscious. Ghost wants to believe it and yet the excruciating pain in his chest reminds him that it’s just a delusion. Slowly, he treads after his team, mindfully averting his eyes from Price's arms.

On the way back the fog returns. It lulls the Lieutenant into a numbness he is grateful for. He has to stay professional, has to remain useful. Simon, as much as he tears up his insides, as much as he feels the unbelievable agony in his chest, must be locked away. For good this time.

The drive up into the Scottish Highlands is silent. Everyone dwells in their own thoughts, their own feelings. The landscape is beautiful, gorgeous even. Grassy plains stretching between sharp mountains, here and there a stream of clear water or a forest in a green so deep one could think the sight was a painting. They also pass through a few small villages and past a few cozy looking huts with thatched roofs. The Ghost takes notice of it as his head rests against the window, the cold seeping through the fabric of his balaclava, but he cannot feel what the sight should be eliciting. Simon however does.

This is Johnny’s home.

Ghost quickly shuts that thought down, though he cannot help but pull his backpack closer. Soap’s ashes are in there. Price gave the urn to him and he will make sure it gets safely to where they are headed. If he couldn’t protect Johnny in life, he will now in death.

The car comes to a bumpy stop at the side of the road. It looks like they are in the middle of nowhere, but Ghost immediately knows that this is the place his friend had told him about those years ago, on the seats of a plane. God, had the constant chattering gotten on his nerves back then, deep voice heavy with that endearing Scottish accent surrounding him the whole flight as the Sergeant told him about that cliff above the sea in the Highlands, not far from the town he grew up in. Ghost would give everything now to hear this voice again, just one more time.

He closes his eyes for a second to collect himself before stepping out of the vehicle to lead the way. There’s no road-sign, but his feet seem to know the way as he recalls the words of his friend.

His description was amazing. He has always been good at telling stories and make them come to life.

Price and Gaz just turn to follow him, well knowing that Ghost knew Soap the best. It doesn’t take them long to arrive at the spot the Sergeant had mentioned and all of them instantly recognize it. After they reach the top of a hill, the group stops in awe at the beautiful sight stretching in front of them.

The setting sun glitters on the surface of the water that stretches to the horizon. There’s a fort of some kind on the edge of a cliff in the distance, ruins whose shadow are stark against the orange sky.

Ghost is the first one of them to start walking again, but the others follow him shortly after. They stop only when they reach the edge of the cliff and the Lieutenant carefully puts down his backpack. For a few minutes, the three of them just stand in silence.

“He was the best of us,” Price begins.

“The toughest.” Gaz has his eyes closed, his hat against his chest.

“He’d have fought the world bare-handed…” Ghost hears himself say.

The urn is cold to the touch, steel-grey and without any ornaments. Simple and plain, how Soap would have liked it.

He would’ve loved color. Some dumb motives, maybe even something funny.

“Shut up,” Ghost mumbled to himself.

If the other’s notice, they are kind enough not to mention it.

All of their hands gather around the urn and everyone says their last words to their fallen comrade. Ghost is at a loss for words, a lump stuck in his throat, but his body had always known to act on its own when his mind wasn’t fast enough.

“Rest in peace, Johnny.”

He can’t help it, his voice breaks a little on the name, barely noticeable and yet it’s there. All the things he needs to say, he needs Johnny to know. Heavy on his tongue like lead, but remaining in his chest, unsaid.

I don’t want to live without you. You were the best thing in my life. I will never let go of you. My soul is yours. I love you.

The wound in Ghost’s chest feels as if it had been ripped open again, like when he had entered that stupid platform and seen Johnny’s body lifeless on the ground for the first time. Simon is bleeding out somewhere on the inside, repeating the things unsaid quietly as the ashes are spread. But the Ghost stays indifferent, his face unreadable even under the mask. Only his heart is beating faster than it should.

As Soap’s remains scatter in the wind, carried away by the breeze, Simon sees him. Sees the young Johnny balancing dangerously close by the edge with his arms stretched out and laughing against the sky. Tempting fate and happy with the adrenaline rushing through his veins, just like he had described his younger self back in that plane.

‘Even as a lad I loved that feeling.’

The hallucination is over as fast as it came and Ghost knows that’s what it is, a hallucination. Still, it takes all of his strength to tear himself from the place he is standing and stop staring at the spot he had just seen the young boy. His body turns away and walks with the rest of his team, but Simon stays. He is sitting at the edge of the cliff while feeling the wind in his uncovered hair, free of the balaclava. All Ghost hears is that part of himself whispering to the open sky.

My soul is yours. Wait for me.

The knife buries deep into the socket of the Konni soldier’s eye, causing a horrible scream to break out of the man’s mouth before it’s abruptly cut off. Ghost pulls the weapon out with a disgustingly wet sound and throws it at the next target before they even notice the soldier crouching above their dead comrade in a corner. The blade cuts through skin, flesh and tendons until it’s fully cut into the man’s throat, causing him to gurgle blood before dropping to the floor.

Ghost is up and running again when the next Konni asshole turns the corner, knife in hand he has retrieved in one swift motion.

“Who’s there?! Show yourself!”

They’ve got their gun raised, ready to attack anything that moves while inching forward. Ghost can see it from his spot behind the pillar in the reflection of the metal door on the other side of the corridor. He waits a few more seconds until the soldier has come closer, then he steps out of the shadow.

The enemy’s eyes grow big and scared at the sight of the huge man with the skull mask and raises his rifle. For a second, there is a flash of hope blooming in Ghost’s stomach. Maybe, just maybe they will be fast enough.

But the Ghost is faster. He always is. With one hand, he snatches the barrel and directs it upwards. The shot hits the ceiling behind him. There is nothing the soldier can do before the blade enters his temple, cracking the skull with a nasty sound. Their body drops to the ground immediately.

A few moments pass until he hears hurried footsteps behind him that he knows to belong to his team. Price and Gaz hurry up the staircase, but they stop when they see their Lieutenant stand in the hallway surrounded by corpses, holding a knife dripping with blood.

“Ghost, man, you …,” Gaz starts, but cuts himself off.

“What, Sergeant?” Ghost turns his head just enough to look over his shoulder. In the half-dark only his skullmask must be visible and he notices a flash of fear going through Gaz’s eyes.

“You were supposed to wait for us.”

The Lieutenant huffs before turning around and cleaning his blade on the next best piece of cloth.

“As you can see, I was able to handle this alone.”

Silence hangs between them for a few seconds, then he sees Price give the Sergeant a sign with his head. “Would you leave us for a minute, Gaz? Make sure that there aren’t more Konnis coming our way.”

Gaz nods and heads back down the stairs to check the entrance.

The Captain remains quiet for a while longer, watching his subordinate with his eyebrows drawn together in concern. Ghost hates that look, it makes his skin crawl. He knows that Price only means well, but this fatherly behavior is getting him on edge.

“What’s the matter?”

“What do you mean?” He doesn’t look at the bearded man, rather collecting his knives and cleaning them.

“Something has obviously changed in your behavior. Disregarding orders like that, heading into a Konni infested hide-out on your own, killing everyone in your path… that’s not like you.”

“Bloody hell, I’m just doing my job,” Ghost closes his eyes to calm himself. He has to remind himself that he is still talking to his superior here.

“No, Ghost, that is reckless and puts your life in danger.” He pauses, weighing his words. “Is it still because of Soa-“

“Don’t.” The word isn’t said very loudly, but the tone in Ghost’s voice shuts Price up immediately.

It will always be because of that.

“For months now you have become more unstable the closer we get to Makarov. And this!” The Captain points towards the corpse with the gouged-out eye, “this isn’t the Simon I know!”

Ghost is standing with his back facing the other man, shoulders lifted a little in defense at the accusation.

“Simon’s dead.”

The Ghost straightens his posture back to his tall self, collects the last knife and heads down the stairs to catch up with Gaz.

The steps of his boots echo through the corridor of the barracks as Ghost walks towards his room. It’s late and everyone else is probably already in bed, but he hadn’t been able to get a full night of sleep for months anyway, so he might as well work more on his aim in the training hall.

His hand already rests on the handle when he stops in his tracks. He has refused to look at the door across the hallway for weeks, now that the name tag is gone and all of Soap’s stuff returned to his family. For some reason, that damned door is calling for him. Why now? Why must you torture me like this?

Ghost takes a deep breath and turns around, grabbing the handle of the other door and opening it. He is quick to slip in and close it behind him quietly.

The room is dark and silent with only a few specks of dust illuminated by the sparse light falling through the gap the curtains don’t cover. Johnny’s stuff has been taken away long ago and now everything looks as anonymous as the day before the joyous Sergeant had moved in across from Ghost.

The absence of Soap’s presence, his charm speaking through his messy bed and a wall covered with photos of his family, stings Ghost's heart. This had always been his favorite place to come to when he needed a distraction. Now everything is barren and empty.

Still, there is a hint of something in the air and before he knows it, Ghost has pulled his balaclava over his head. The scent crashes over him like a wave and lights up every nerve end in his body.

Johnny.

It’s still faint after so many weeks without the Scot in this room, but it’s there, that smell of sandalwood shampoo, whatever washing lotion Soap had been using for his sheets and something unmistakable that Ghost could only describe as warmth.

The tall man can feel his heart speeding up in his chest and he has to place a hand above it to calm himself. Something inside of him threatens to burst forward, something he thought he had left on that cliff in Scottland.

Ghost swallows hard and bites his lip as a distraction. He needs a few second before his muscles relax again and the panic subsides.

When it finally does, he takes a shaky breath and steps further into the room. As he gets closer to the wall, he remembers something that kicks up his pulse once more. Maybe they hadn’t found Soap’s secret spot.

He has the bed pulled forward quickly, paying attention not to produce any sounds giving him away. The hole in the wall is just where he remembers it to be and when he crouches down, he cannot help but feel the corners of mouth twitch. Soap has always had a sweet tooth.

Carefully reaching into the hideout, Ghost pulls out a bag of sweets and a small metal box. He pushes the bed back into place and sits down before opening it with shaky hands. There’s a small object wrapped in plaid inside and when he unfolds it, he holds a brooch on his palm. It has been a long time since he’s last seen it, but he remembers it clear as day.

“Scoot over, Lt,” Soap said with a smile, giddy with energy. He was excited about something.

Ghost did as he said and made some room on the bed, but Johnny still sat down so close to him that their thighs lightly touched. The Lieutenant wouldn’t admit how much those casual acts of affection drove him crazy.

“This your secret stash, MacTavish? What are you hiding there? Drugs?” he teased.

The Sergeant demonstratively put down a bag of sweets.

“Com’on, Ghost, sugar’s my drug.” He pulled a small metal box from the pocket in his jacket, the thing he had been hiding there until now. “Can I count on you to keep this a secret?”

Soap searched for his eyes, fixating him in place. Ghost found himself captivated by them. Big and blue, dark lashes framing them.

“Of course, Johnny.”

Something in Soap’s searching eyes lit up and he lowered his gaze back to the box to open it and get out something wrapped in cloth. Ghost however caught himself observing the man next to him instead of the contents of the box. His eyes grew soft as they trailed over a stubbly chin with that signature scar, past rambling lips and over the tuft of hair the mohawk ended in above Johnny’s neck.

“Alright, then look at this. My personal charm, got it from ma grandpa. Passed doon over generations.”

Simon pried his eyes loose from the sight before Soap could notice it. The brooch the Sergeant unpacked showed a boar’s head with a quote engraved into the silvery metal: Non oblitus.

“That latin? What does it mean?” he asked as he admired the century old handiwork.

“Not forgotten,” Ghost whispers to himself. “I will never forget you, Johnny.”

Pressing the brooch to his chest, he has to bite his lip, hard, to prevent something to open inside of him that he is afraid he will not be able to close again. He tastes blood, but somehow the pain brings himself back to his senses, calming his hectic breathing a little. It has been a long time since he’s been this close to a panic attack.

Ghost slowly lays down onto the naked mattress and curls in on himself. It wouldn’t help much, yet it is better than nothing. His eyes trace the patterns of tiny holes in the wall where Soap’s family photos had been pinned to. Lifting his hand, he follows them with his fingertips and closes his eyes. The sensation calms him a little and he tries to concentrate on it.

Bumping against the small metal box with his arm produces a clattering sound that makes Ghost jolt, but he catches it before it can fall off the bed. In the motion, something else falls out of it and against his palm. It’s a notebook, small and brown with a leather band wrapped around it. Ghost has seen it many times before, but that had always been on Johnny. The Scot had kept this book close on their days off, always writing something in the shade of the few trees around the area.

Carefully unwrapping it, Ghost skips through the pages. There are a few doodles in there, of Price and Gaz and Ghost himself. The further he comes, the more drawings he finds of his skull mask. The notes become more and more detailed, first only stray thoughts written down or grocery lists, then increasing entries that appear like a journal.

Ghost stops on a page with a date he recognizes.

‘03. Nov. 2022: I’m stuck in the streets of Las Almas with those shadow bastards everywhere, bleeding out. Have to hide and wait until they fuck off, might as well write what could very well be my final words. I have to get to the church where Ghost is waiting, hope I can make it. I hate operating alone. At least he keeps me company over the comms. Gotta admit, he is funnier than I imagined. The chat made it hell of a lot easier to stay sane in this hellhole.’

Ghost’s fingers trace the ink on the page before turning them, gaze growing soft at the memories.

’04. Nov. 2022: Writing this at night in Alejandro’s safe house. I somehow made it out of Las Almas with Ghost. Thanks to Alejandro, we actually get a few hours of sleep without feeling like we’re hunted. We will get him back, no matter what happens. Still a little pissed though that Alejandro told Ghost about this place, but not me.’ The Brit has to smile a little at reading those words. ‘Now everyone’s sleeping around me. Ghost still has his balaclava on, but he somehow looks peaceful anyway. I owe this man my life. He waited for me and patched me up when I didn’t want to admit how dizzy I already was. I must admit, he is the best Lieutenant I ever served under. If he wouldn’t be my superior, I could imagine me having a little crush on the man.’

Ghost’s breath hitches for a second.

’05. Nov. 2022: Saw Ghost take of his mask today. I must say, he didn’t lie in Las Almas. He’s handsome. Doesn’t really help with this whole crush thing.’

’06. Nov. 2022: Those feelings from the night in the safe house are creeping back. Don’t think I have the guts to actually do something about it and yet I still notice how I want to get closer to the man behind the mask. Classical me to fall for a superior. Yer aff yer heid, MacTavish. Magairlean.’

He reads it again and again, those words that warm his stomach and yet sting like needles. Apparently, Ghost hasn’t been the only one lost in his feelings. If he had said something, maybe they would have had a chance. Maybe he would know how it feels to kiss those lips, how to brush his fingers through that mohawk. What it would be like to wake up to Soap’s scent surrounding him and a warm chest pressed to his back. Or being able to watch the man cursing in Gaelic to himself over a fishing rod without having to avert his eyes. If he’d know, Ghost knows it would destroy him and yet he craves everything he didn’t get to experience with the man that broke through his walls like it was nothing.

He recalls their conversation over the comms about Soap wanting to fish. It doesn’t take much to imagine it, Soap in a dumb outfit grinning up at him with a fishing rod in hand. A thought he treasures.

The metal of the brooch is already warm in his hand, edges digging into the skin of his palm.

“I will take care of it, Johnny.” His voice breaks, yet no tear falls. There is no relief that could make the pain of losing him disappear.

It is selfish to not give the family inheritance back to the MacTavish’s, but the soldier clings to this last piece of Soap left in his world.

As he puts away the book, Ghost curls even more into himself, eyes closed and summoning every moment with Soap he can remember. That night he doesn’t sleep, but it’s the first time he finds some sense of rest since Johnny has been gone.

“Welcome everyone. The day has finally come. Laswell closed in on Makarov with the help of an outside informant and it’s our job to finish him. He won’t get away a second time.” Price sounds determined and coarse. He has been working a lot over the last few days.

Ghost can feel their eyes prickle on his skin. It has been quite some time since they were on a mission together like this, the 141 reunited. The Lieutenant only joins them for jobs while retreating back into his room or office otherwise. He just can’t take a casual get-together without Soap’s laughter lighting up the room. His absence hurts even more in settings like this.

There’s a hint of remorse Ghost feels towards Gaz for leaving him alone like that, but he just cannot stand being in the same area as Johnny’s best friend when everything reminds him of how it should be, but isn’t.

Price however has been out of base for quite a while to hunt down information about Makarov together with Laswell, so they wouldn’t have had a chance to meet with him anyway. He has kept the contact of course, but that’s been it for socializing on Ghost’s side. Details about Makarov’s hide out had been his only point of interest.

The briefing is short and efficient, Laswell explaining the terrain and layout of the house they would have to infiltrate.

“Who’s taking which spot?” Gaz asks, leaned over the maps.

“You and Price will enter over the stairs up to the second floor. Ghost’s position is here at the backside of the house. To my knowledge the security is stronger on the front. Doesn’t mean this side will be easy, but there’s sniper support from the hill.” Laswell points to said hill behind the house.

“Sniper support? Do we know them?”

“No, but if you trust me, you can trust them. They helped me find Makarov’s hideout in the first place. They can’t come on comms, but they will be able to hear you.”

Ghost raises an eyebrow to that, but doesn’t comment on it.

“Then let’s get going, boys,” she closes. “Make him pay.”

The flight to the location is long and quiet, silence ringing loud in Ghost’s ears. There should be laughter, bantering, jokes. But Soap isn’t here anymore. And with him gone, so is the lightheartedness that helped them through the phase right before a mission. Now, they all sit and think about who it will be this time. Makarov or one of them.

It’s early in the morning when they arrive at their destination, sun sending its first rays of light over the horizon and painting it in orange. Wherever they are in Russia – Ghost hadn’t been able to bring himself to listen – it’s snowing and hoarfrost crunches beneath their boots. The dry cold is biting the Lieutenant’s skin before he puts on his gloves.

“Sniper’s in position. Good luck everyone,” he hears over the comms before his body gets taken over by the Ghost, mind dissociating from his actions.

He is most efficient like this, but also more brutal. The Ghost blames every last Konni soldier for what has been taken from him and most of all he lusts after Makarov’s blood.

Ghost on the inside just watches as his hands kill one man after another on his way closer to the house. Bullet through the chest, knife to the head, butt of the gun to the neck. One after one they fall and make way to his goal. The sniper takes out a few of them on the upper floor and in the garden, one time missing a guy the Lieutenant has to take down himself before the man can run away. He rolls his eyes at it, but doesn’t comment. The only one he’s ever communicated anything besides the absolute necessary with via comms has been Soap and it will stay like that.

“Ghost be careful, we are upstairs and it’s crawling with guards, but he isn’t here!”

That’s when he sees the shadow in front of him move. Three people come out of the basement, two security guys and in the middle, Makarov, head low behind the barriers between the gardens. Something snaps and before Ghost knows what he is doing, he’s already onto them with nothing but his knife in hand.

The guards go down easy, but their boss is a different thing.

“So, Ghost, what will it be? Bullet to the head like MacTavish? Noo, you’re more of a knife-fighting guy, am I right?”

Makarov already has a cut above his eyebrow, but he is standing ready to fight. Ghost sustained a graze shot to the leg and is bleeding heavily, though he almost doesn’t notice. His vision is tainted red with his revenge to close.

With a cry of rage he runs and tackles the man to the ground, prepared to ram his blade through the fucker’s heart. They roll on the ground, fighting for the upper hand while always looking for an opening in the other’s defense to cut through.

Makarov is good, but the Ghost is faster. When a knife finally finds its way below the man’s ribs, he stumbles back with disbelief edged into his face.

What Ghost hasn’t expected is his determination fueled by hatred. Makarov jumps backwards to one of his dead henge men with an angry scream and picks up their gun. Before Ghost can react from where he kneels on the ground, he stares down the barrel of it. Finally, he found someone that matches him in a fight and can fulfill what he has been yearning for deep down ever since Soap passed away. Shame it had to be Makarov, but he is sure that the man wouldn’t get far with the knife in his guts.

Ghost closes his eyes, ready for everything to be over. On the back of lids, Johnny is smiling at him.

The bang rings loud in his ears and he flinches, but the impact never comes. That sound has come from farther away than it should have. Warily, he opens his eyes to see Makarov crash onto his back, entry-wound gaping on his forehead where a bullet ate its way into his head. The Lieutenant just stays on his knees in shock.

The Sniper.

Bitter frustration and anger rise in his throat like bile. He had been so close this time and yet the reaper refused to come to him.

Hurried steps appear from a distance, probably that darn sniper Laswell had to bring to the mission. Ghost is ready to give him a lecture about anything he finds fault with and he knows he just wants to let his anger out on somebody, but he cannot get himself to care, not when Johnny had been at his fingertips.

The tall Lieutenant gets on his feet for that extra intimidation, turning ready to give the asshole a piece of his mind when he freezes.

Running towards him, face half hidden by a ski mask, is a man with a very distinctive mohawk. As he hurries towards Ghost, the black cloth is sliding down around the neck, revealing his stubbly face.

“What the fuck was that, Lt.?! Did you want to die?!! If I hadn’t gotten that fucker, he would have killed you!!”

Ghost doesn’t reply, he just stares at Soap’s angry face. The Sergeant has his features scrunched up into a furious pout, a sight so endearing it makes Ghost question if he can trust his eyes. All he can do is stand there and stare and stare and stare at what he has believed to be gone forever.

“Gosh dammit, Ghost, can you say something? Explain yourself! You were this close to getting shot, Simon!”

It’s his name that opens what had been locked away for months deep inside of him, melting the Ghost and Simon back into the same person. With it comes everything he forbade himself to feel and the tears are welling up without even blinking. They just rise and rise until they spill over the edge, flowing freely down his face until they are soaked up by the fabric of the balaclava.

“Simon? Lt., hey!” Soap’s arms are around Ghost’s neck in a second as he realizes.

“Johnny,” Simon croaks out between waves of spasms shaking his body as he encircles the Scot in his arms and presses him impossibly close, fingers curling into the wintercoat.

Ghost comes back to life and maneuvers them towards a wall, crowding Soap against it to shield the man with his body as if there’s still a sniper around that could target the Sergeant. Pulling the mask from his head, he buries the bridge of his nose in the crook between Johnny’s neck and shoulder.

“Ghost, are you sure you-,” Soap starts, but stops as he feels hot tears against his skin.

“I don’t give a shit, Johnny.” Simon’s answer is muffled by the other’s hoody. His hands still tremble around the Scot’s torso, clutching the fabric, heart racing against the inside of his chest. “You’re alive,” he manages to get out between sobs.

“Of course I am, ye idiot.” It’s said with a fondness that smashes the last remains of the wall Ghost had tried to build inside of himself over the last months. Soap’s voice is also breaking now and he pulls the giant man in his arms closer, one hand on the back of his head, fingers entangled in blonde strands of hair. Simon can feel a wetness along his cheek where they are pressed together that tells him that Johnny is shedding a few tears of his own as well.

Suddenly Soap becomes very still against Ghost’s body. He places his hands on the Lieutenant’s shoulders and pushes him a few inches back so he can see Simon’s face. It’s stained with black lines running down the man’s cheeks. As he looks into Ghost’s eyes, he seems to search for something that he doesn’t find and his face grows horrified.

“You didn’t know,” Soap whispers.

Ghost just shakes his head slightly. He’s not able to say anything yet while unthinkable relief washes over him and all the pain that had eaten a hole into his chest is released with it.

Johnny’s expression turns from startled to angry to appalled in the matter of seconds.

“No no no no, that’s not how this should have gone, fuck! Didn’t you get my letters?” Soap clutches the man’s vest now, eyes big in horror.

“What letters?” he forces himself to ask.

Johnny’s face completely falls now and tears well up in his beautiful blue eyes before falling from his lashes.

“Price was supposed to give them to you,” he croaks out, “to let you know I made it. To tell you about my recovery in that god forsaken hospital and my mission to find info on Makarov.”

Seeing the distress in Johnny’s eyes, desperately searching his Lieutenant’s for any signs of it not being true, brings Ghost back to himself. He raises a gloved hand to Soap’s cheek, brushing away a tear with his thumb.

“Johnny, I was prepared to die here.” The words are silently spoken, heavy with everything they imply. It scares him, the acknowledgment spoken out aloud of what he had known for a long time now. Ghost pulls his vest to the side a bit, revealing the MacTavish brooch attached to the shirt above his heart. “You were gone.”

Soap stares at it in disbelief, gaze softening at the sight of the charm. “You kept it.”

“It was everything I had left of you,” Ghost whispers, removing his glove before reaching up to cradle his Sergeant’s face. He wants to feel him without a barrier between them, sense that Johnny is truly alive. The heat Soap’s skin emanates warms him like nothing else could in this icy place. Leaning into the touch, the Scot looks up at him, eyes swimming with everything that has been unsaid between them for years. There’s a new scar on his temple, shaped like a star and not completely healed yet.

Ghost carefully lowers his face until their foreheads and the bridges of their noses touch. Soap’s breath is hot on his lips and releases visible billows into the cold air, only a hairs breadth from his own.

Simon doesn’t know who leans in first, but when his mouth meets Johnny’s, he feels a warmth blooming in his chest that manages to chase away the shadows clawed into his heart. The man‘s lips are a little chapped from the cold, but they are warm and gentle, searching Ghost‘s for more. What begins slow and hesitant, turns desperate real quick as they drown in each other, confirmation of this not being a dream. Simon‘s head is spinning while Johnny‘s tongue brushes against his own in a heated kiss and the Scot sighs against his mouth.

When Ghost pulls back, Soap is trying to chase him, not ready for it to be over. The Sergeant’s lips glisten deliciously, red and slightly swollen.

“Johnny.” The word rumbles out of Simon’s chest and he gently strokes the man’s lower lip with his thumb as he still tries to grasp that he has him back. He wants to continue just as much as the Sergeant, but he has to tell him something that’s been weighing on his heart.

“Fuck, I missed you,” Soap whispers.

He mumbles something in Gaelic Ghost doesn’t know to translate, but the Lieutenant doesn’t ask, the tone of Johnny’s voice and the look in his eyes are enough to sense the affection. Simon kisses the Scot’s forehead before burying his nose in the mohawk and inhales the scent that had faded from Soap’s old room, the scent he missed so dearly. Johnny lays his head against Ghost’s chest while his hands gently stroke the taller man’s back.

“I love you,” Simon breathes into the brown tuft of hair.

“I love ye too, Simon.” Johnny’s accent is thick now. It always gets like that when he’s tired or emotional. “Mo ghràidh.”

“English, MacTavish.” Ghost can’t help but feel his lips curl into a fond smile against the other’s head.

“Away n’bile yer heid,” Soap affectionately reciprocates their banter from the streets of Las Almas.

They stay like this for a while, the world around them and the distant gunfire forgotten. Ghost breathes him in, not letting go of the Scot for a second.

When Soap finally steps back a little to look up at the Brit, he seems troubled. “I’m so sorry, Ghost. If I had known that … Please never be so reckless ever again.”

Simon gently smiles at him. “It’s okay, Johnny. You couldn’t have known. Only thing that counts is that you’re alive.”

In that moment he hears footsteps behind himself, but he knows that it’s no one dangerous. First thing the Ghost had made sure of when he had recognized Soap, was to listen for any enemies around and the whole time they had stood here. Johnny’s safety is the most important thing to him, now more than ever, and despite Simon having been in shock, the other part of his soul had been watching out for them the entire time.

Ghost quickly pulls over his mask again before Gaz and Price can make it down the stairs. It had been quiet for a while now, the gunfire ceasing after the two soldiers had been done with the last Konni soldier blocking their way from going after their leader.

When Gaz sees the dead Makarov on the ground, he takes a sharp inhale. “Bloody hell. Thank God you got him, Ghost.”

“That wasn’t me.”

The Lieutenant turns to give way to the view on Johnny, reluctant to release him from the cover of his body even though all enemies are eliminated.

“Soap?!!” Gaz’s shocked yell at the sight of his best friend he thought to be dead reverberates from the walls and causes a big grin to stretch over the Scot’s face.

It takes only a few strides before he is over by them and pulls his fellow Sergeant into a big embrace. “Hey bro. Missed me?”

Gaz laugh rings bright. “Fuck mate, you don’t know how much! You can’t do this shit to my poor heart!”

That’s when Soap tenses and Ghost just knows that Price has fallen into his sight. Careful yet assertive he untangles himself from Gaz’s hug and takes a few steps towards their Captain.

“You,” he growls coldly, “you didn’t tell them.”

Price only stands there, rifle still loosely held in his arms and while his face remains unmoving, his eyes glisten with sadness.

“You made Ghost believe I was dead!! What about your promise to give my letters to him, huh?” Soap is screaming by now, jabbing his finger against the Captain’s chest in accusation. “Were those few visits to the hospital just meant to make me believe Lt. didn’t want to reply to me or why did you even bother to come by!!”

The Sergeant is pushing against his superior’s shoulder by now, yet the man doesn’t reprimand him for it. Gaz just stands there in confusion and stunned at the scene playing out before him, but Ghost sees the hurt in Price’s eyes and even though a part of him wants to punch the Captain in the face for what he put him through, he knows that he has no more room for anger. Gently placing a hand on Soap’s arm, he blocks the Scot from lunging forward.

“Johnny, stop.”

Soap still frowns in anger, but he let’s himself be pulled backwards, stand relaxing a little at the touch of the big hand.

“I’m sorry, Soap, I couldn’t. I wanted to, but it would have put you in danger.”

The Scottish soldier snorts deprecatingly. “Ghost and Gaz are the most trustworthy people there are.”

“They are. And yet they could have fallen into the hand of the enemy for that info to get tortured out of them. I knew you would have blamed and never forgiven yourself for it if they’d suffered or died because of that info. The less people knew you made it while Makarov was still alive out there the better and less risky for everyone.”

The bearded man’s voice sounds pained, but Ghost doesn’t take his eyes from Johnny, who starts to deflate a little. He is aware that Price knows him well.

“Then why did you agree to deliver my letters in the first place?” His words have calmed a little and as the anger fades away, only grief for the months of delusion remains.

“Because I couldn’t bear to disappoint you, John, not when you were all alone in that hospital, barely off death’s hook. You writing those letters was good for you to process everything that’s happened and I knew that you would have stopped otherwise,” the Captain admits. “Believe me, I wished I didn’t have to do it, but I didn’t want to put you in danger again, not when you just successfully managed to get off Makarov’s radar.”

Soap opens his mouth again for what looks like an upset reply when Ghost interrupts him. “He’s right, Johnny. Captain was only trying to protect you. You were safer like this.”

He doesn’t add that he would have rather died than give away information about Johnny to Makarov’s henge men if he had known about the other’s status, but that’s besides the point. Even though he can still feel the echo of his suffering, he understands the Cap’s decision and silently thanks him for doing everything in his power to ensure Soap’s safety.

The Scot however has a different opinion about it.

“And what about you and Gaz? What about your wellbeing? It would have fucking ruined me to think any of you was dead.”

Simon takes his hand and squeezes it gently. “We are okay now.”

“Well, you sure as hell weren’t before,” Soap says full of reproach swinging in his voice.

Ghost can’t help but admire Soap’s fire, despite it being a pain in the ass sometimes.

“I will get better.”

Johnny searches his eyes for a moment and what he sees seems to satisfy him for now.

Carefully stepping forward, Gaz brings himself back into the picture.

“Did I understand that correctly? You’re officially dead on paper?”

Soap nods. “Aye. No more Sergeant MacTavish out there. Would have loved to put down the weapons after this shitshow and cheating death, but I coudnae left you alone on this mission.”

Ghost’s eyes meet those of Price in silent communication. The Captain smiles, though a little wistful, and nods in agreement.

Simon’s heart beats against his chest as he takes the opportunity. “Captain Price, I would like to officially resign from my duty and leave for retirement.” His eyes dart to Johnny whose eyes have grown big, jaw dropping. “If the Sergeant is willing to as well of course. Otherwise, I will gladly stay and remain in my position as Lieutenant.”

Wherever you want to go, I will stay by your side.

All eyes wander to Soap who is standing there like a statue. It takes a moment – in which Simon’s heart is beating up his throat in hopes of not moving too fast – then he slowly starts to nod. “Yeah Lt. I’d like that.”

The cottage is cozy and warm when Simon wakes up, maybe even a little too warm. It takes a soft snore somewhere behind him to realize that it’s a muscular Scot pressed against his back and with his limbs thrown over Ghost’s body that is contributing to the heat. The covers are almost completely on the floor or half entangled with the ex-soldier sleeping peacefully in the middle of the bed.

Simon smiles at the sounds Johnny makes in his sleep, something between a sigh and puff. Careful not to wake his love, he kisses the knuckles that are hanging right in front of his face. The contrast between Soap’s tanned forearm and Ghost’s pale hands is stark in the morning light falling through the window of the hut.

He still remembers the first time he had gotten a sunburn on a hike out in the Scottish Highlands where they were living now. Johnny had been howling with laughter when he had seen Ghost’s red shoulders and face, skin still sensitive after years and years of being hidden behind a mask.

“What about that ‘impeccable bronze’ ye’ve been telling me aboot, Ghost?”

Simon had just growled something in reply, though having to turn away so Johnny wouldn’t see his smile. The Scot’s accent had gotten heavier now that he was back in the area he grew up in and Simon loved to listen to it, despite occasionally having to remind the other that he did in fact not understand everything yet. He knew it to be a sign of Soap being comfortable.

After that shameful experience with the sunburn, he had at least gotten his back rubbed in cooling cream by his lover’s hands and more, so he couldn’t really be mad about the teasing.

With a grunt, Soap changes his position in the bed and rolls to his other side. The scar on his temple is now visible, but it looks much better even after only a few months of them being out of the military.

As Johnny had told him on one of the first nights here, laying in darkness on the bed in each other’s arms and talking about everything that they had gone through in their time apart, the bullet had indeed entered his skull, yet so tilted it hadn’t damaged his brain long-term. When he had turned his head away from Makarov’s gun, it had been just enough not be immediately lethal. Still, there had been a hole in his skull and multiple shots to the chest, causing him to nearly bleed out.

Price had gotten him to some specialists in an instance that miraculously managed to stabilize his condition. It took multiple surgeries and additionally many weeks before Soap had woken from his coma. Months of recovery in a secluded hospital followed until he was strong enough to even stand on his own, let alone walk. The reason he had participated in their last mission only as a sniper was that he couldn’t have risked it to engage an enemy in a direct combat. Ghost had teased him for his shitty aim back then, getting a fist to the shoulder in return.

“Not everyone can be a master marksman. Still took out Makarov with a metal plate in my skull and saved your life, Lt.”

Soap still loved to call him by his rank. The former Lieutenant had pulled the Scot into his arms then, kissing the top of his head. “Yes you have. In more than one way.”

Johnny got increasingly better after that, now that they were safe and in a place of their own with Simon always around to help if needed as well as training with him to get the ambitious man back into shape.

Reaching for the nightstand, Simon grabs some papers and his balaclava. He still has some trouble to walk around uncovered a whole day, so he always keeps one close, only difference being the hard mask now exchanged for soft fabric. Ghost pulls it over his head before unfolding the crinkled letters in his hands.

Price had given him Soap’s letters that had been locked away in his vault so no one could find out about John MacTavish still being alive. With Johnny’s permission, he has been finally able to read them over the last few days. It had warmed Simon’s heart to see a whole box full of them.

Hey Lt,

today I feel like shit. Wound is itching like crazy, but I guess that means it’s healing, right? At least that’s what the nurses say. I hate being shut-in like this, unable to help you and the team get a lead on that fucker Makarov. I swear to God, if this bastards falls into my hands, he will not walk away this time, even if I have to crawl out of this bed.

Hope to see you all soon

Johnny

Madainn mhath tannasg,

That means good morning Ghost. I can almost hear you complaining about it, but the only thing I can occupy myself with in here is to prank new nurses into thinking I only speak Gaelic. So leave a bedridden man his amusement. I’m bored out of my mind and can’t stop thinking about what missions the 141 is sent on nowadays. What would I give to be at your side again.

See you soon

Johnny

Hey Ghost! Good news! I stood up on my own again today! I know, I know, doesn’t sound as exciting, but it truly feels amazing to be standing on my own two feet again, even if just for a few seconds. Ah, now that I write it down, it really does sound underwhelming. Thing is, I’m making progress and that’s something. So look out for me, I will be back in a second. I miss you all.

Johnny

Hey Simon,

Training in the pool is helping to get back on track. Really unfair how all of my muscles just vanished after only a few weeks of unconsciousness. I feel my body getting stronger again, but progress is slower now. Sometimes it really gets to me. Don’t tell Gaz about that though, he will think I’m a whiner.

Hope you are doing well. I miss you.

Johnny

Stirring next to him pulls Ghost back into reality.

“Mhm, mornin’ Si,” Johnny mumbles against his shoulder as he scoots closer, throwing an arm across the part of Simon’s naked torso that isn’t covered by a blanket.

“Morning, love.” Ghost lifts his arm for Soap to be able to rest his head on his chest while also being able to run his hand through the messy mohawk, strands soft between his fingers. It had gotten longer over the past few weeks and curls in Johnny’s neck now.

Soap begins to hum contently at the attention and lifts his chin a little to be able to look up, stopping in his motion though.

“Mo ghràidh, you’ve been crying?” Johnny’s eyes are attentive as ever, now filled with concern.

He wants to sit up, but Ghost’s arm holds him back. The Brit puts away the letters and uses his left hand to roll up his balaclava to press a quick kiss to Soap’s forehead.

“I’m fine, don’t worry. Happy even. Just relieved.”

The Scot’s eyes soften and he crawls up to Ghost’s face. “Dinnae fash. I get it.”

With that he lowers his lips onto Simon’s and presses him deeper into the pillow for a passionate kiss that makes the man forget all of his worries.