Chapter Text
John
John’s been standing in front of the mirror for a while now. His hair doesn’t stand as he wants it, his clothes suddenly fit all wrong, loose where they should snug him, tight where they should not. He opts for the hoodie that he put on and then off a few times while getting ready.
How is he supposed to dress for the day, anyways? Price told him that casual is fine, that he should wear whatever he feels comfortable in. As if it was a real possibility. John hasn’t felt comfortable for a while now. Not since his premature discharge, honorable as it were.
The scar on his left temple is a sure reminder of how his life changed in a split second two and a half years prior. The scar he hates with all his might. He has tried to cover it, growing his hair out, but he just looked ridiculous. No hair grows on most parts of the left side of his head, too much scar tissue. So he still sports his mohawk, because he hates the full buzz cut even more. Too much of a reminder of the time he spent in various hospitals and rehab clinics.
He is lucky, all things considered. He got away with minimal damage, which is a miracle on its own. That damn bullet cracked his skull, got him a nice brain bleed, and left him struggling for his life, sure, but he is still able to care for himself, And if he has speech issues every once in a while or struggles to remember chunks of his time in the SAS, well, it’s only his business. Not like he can’t pretend that he’s doing fine.
The phone on the kitchen table rings and John quickly answers without checking who it is.
“All ready?” the voice of Kyle chimes in from the other end of the line.
“Ready,” John confirms and grabs his light coat from the back of the chair.
“Meet me downstairs in five.”
They don’t say goodbye but hang up, and John looks in the mirror one last time. He refuses to dwell on the cause of his nervousness anymore. It’s only a reunion with some of the retired SAS lads they met along the way and even a couple of still active soldiers. Gaz and Price have managed to attend, which was another small miracle to be thankful for, and the only reason John even considered going.
Well, not the only one, but he wouldn’t have the courage to show his face without the support of his previous captain and fellow sergeant.
When he sees the familiar car parked right in front of the entrance of the block of flats, Gaz waves at him from the driver’s seat.
“Looking good, mate,” he greets him and steps out of the rented car. They clap each other’s shoulder and Soap is relieved that his old friend is still in one piece after their last mission he no longer has the clearance to know about.
“Lieutenant,” he greets him, winking and saluting, which makes Gaz roll his eyes. “Congrats, man. Ye really deserve it. Though I fear for any sergeant put under yer command.”
Soap smiles, and it is a heartfelt one. When he first heard from Price that Gaz finished his year at Sandhurst Academy and was officially given the title of Second Lieutenant, he may have drunk himself into oblivion and cried through the night out of jealousy. He knew that Gaz deserved the promotion but Soap still wanted it for himself. It should have been him going through commissioning, he should have been the one teasing the other lieutenant of their task force about being the new Lt. in town.
In the last couple of weeks John has been consciously working on his issues so when they finally met in person, he would be able to be truly happy for his friend. And now he is. Something still stings in his heart, but it feels more like acceptance than anything else.
As he sits in the passenger seat and fastens his seatbelt, Gaz starts the engine, but before they leave, he turns to Soap.
“How’s the head?” he asks tentatively and Soap assumes he means his mind more than his brain.
“Peachy. Less scrambled than it was a week ago. Maybe more messed up than a week from now.”
Gaz hums. “Good. You’ll need it today.”
They drive through the outskirts of Glasgow and as the roads get busier Soap stops his current rambling about football and how Celtic is doing this season and stares at Gaz.
“What did ye mean I will need it today?”
“What?”
“Ye said it when ye picked me up.”
Gaz’s eyes flick back and forth between Soap and the road. He stays silent too long for Soap’s liking and he is about to push, but the man finally speaks. “You know, because of him.”
Soap furrows his brows and feigns indifference. “Who, Ghost?”
Of course Ghost. Soap knows, Gaz knows, why act like they don’t?
“Yeah, mate.”
“Ah dinnae ken if he’d be there.”
“That’s my point. Either way, you’ll be fucked up.”
Soap scoffs at the assumption. “Aww, thanks for putting yer faith in me. Ah can handle myself jus’ fine.”
He is annoyed with Gaz the first time in forever. He does not know him better, in fact, knows less about him since they stopped working together. Whatever he thinks he knows is probably not the case.
Except it fucking is. If there is a constant about Soap’s life is his complicated feelings towards Ghost. Not that it counts, of ever has, for that matter. Nobody knows about it, except Gaz, who pulled it out of him way back in his active years over one too many drinks. To his credit, he’s never teased him about it, but he was concerned back then and still is, apparently.
“Ah be fine. Will let ye know if it changes,” Soap promises and considers the issue done and dealt with.
Gaz doesn’t push, he never does. But Soap’s guts begin to do their funny little twists anyway. He hasn’t spoken to the man in months. Soap wishes he could say it was Ghost who cut it off, but for once Soap was the one who didn’t text back.
Sometime during springtime he was in a dark place, in the midst of looking for a new therapist because the last one got pregnant and couldn’t continue her practice. Things were good, he still kept in touch with most of the 141, even with Ghost. The lieutenant had been complaining about increased workload and Soap convinced himself that Ghost only talked to him out of pity and duty.
Naturally, he came to the conclusion that he was nothing more than another task on Ghost’s plate to deal with, even though the man never indicated anything resembling that. He seemingly enjoyed their messaging, always replying as soon as he could. Sometimes they called, talking about nothing in particular. Ghost asked about his physio, even gave some advice, and kept track of Soap’s improvement. It was always nice, soothing in a way. Kept Soap afloat on harder days and happy on the good ones.
It was platonic, at least it felt like. Soap knew he once had wanted more, it was just never in the cards for him. And he was fine with that, talking was enough to soothe the longing for his past life, for his superior. They never met, though, not once since he was discharged two years ago. Ghost never offered and Soap never dared to ask.
On the night of Ghost’s last text message Soap did everything in his power to turn and twist their recent conversations into something unpleasant, replaying Ghost’s words in his head until they felt distorted and condescending, hurtful. So Soap didn’t answer, Ghost never pushed him, and that was that.
Fuck, he hopes Ghost will be there. He dreads to see him. And he wants nothing more.
***
Ghost
Ghost is never anxious. Never. Everyone who claims to know him would agree. Sure, he can be stressed, who wouldn’t be as a Lieutenant of a task force? Angry? Anytime. But not anxious. So why is Price so adamant about proving otherwise?
“Can we drop it?” Ghost begs. Price makes him beg, which makes him frustrated. Such a nice way to start the day.
“No,” the Captain answers, with a smile tugging on his mouth. “Because I know once we get there you will close off. And if you do, you’ll hurt him.”
Ghost turns to face the other. “I never hurt him. I let him do his own thing, haven’t bothered him.”
“I know that. But I also happen to know that you feel like you were dumped.”
“I don’t -”
“Yes, you do,” Price insists and it makes Ghost want to claw his own eyes out. “And I understand. He didn’t want to talk to you anymore for some messed up reason but he kept in touch with the rest of us. He dumped you.”
Ghost swallows hard. Price is right, and he feels dumb for it. He has no right to be salty about it, Soap is a grown man with his own issues, and if he felt like he was better off without Ghost, then it is his right. He knows that meeting his sergeant will stir up a lot of shit he’s been trying to pack away and it doesn’t make it easier that Price apparently sees right through him.
Ghost remembers the banters with Soap all too well. Their barely concealed flirting throughout the few years they worked together, the constant guessing if they would ever cross that line. Not that they could, not while on active duty. Even Price couldn’t have been able to cover up something like that, even if he would have been fine with it, which Ghost knew for a fact he would. The Captain said it himself on the night Ghost confessed to him. Just weeks before Soap’s last mission.
When Soap didn’t text him back for the first time after his discharge, he didn’t think anything of it. He wasn’t even waiting for a response, too swamped between paperwork and training greens. But one night he overheard Price talking on the phone with Soap. He saw the smile on Price’s face and was relieved that the sergeant was alright so he still pushed down the nagging thought to reach out again.
Then, a few nights passed and Gaz showed him a picture that Soap sent him about physio. At that point he hadn’t received a message from Soap, no updates about his wellbeing, something he got used to after the man was discharged. He made sure Gaz extended his best wishes to Soap and to let him know if he needed more advice on how to gain back his strength.
He never heard back. And it was fine, he thought. It really was.
Until it wasn’t.
Ghost doesn’t dwell on it anymore and he certainly doesn’t want to start now, minutes before meeting Soap again. He will be cordial, casual even. He will give exactly what Soap needs and nothing more. He still considers them friends and if the other lets him, he will keep it that way.
“Talk to him if you have a chance,” Price offers another fantastic piece of advice and pats Ghost’s shoulder in sympathy.
Ghost grunts in response and steps away from the older man, heading towards the entrance of the function. There are already people mingling at the front, smoking and chatting. Most of them are Price’s age, forty-somethings, and some are old enough to have served in wars he only knows about from history coursebooks and his officer trainings.
Nobody bats and eye that he’s wearing a black face mask, one thing he appreciates in events like this apart from the free booze, courtesy of several military-linked organizations.
He still feels uncomfortable among so many people, desperately looking for familiar faces, seeing none. Price has already stopped to greet some of his old comrades, leaving Ghost alone to deal with the crowd.
So, he gets himself a beer and stands by a faux marble column, peeling away the sticker on the bottle for the sake of doing anything. The anticipation tightens around his chest like a band, breathing feels harder than it should be. Ghost turns toward the entrance to get out and have some fresh air when he sees him.
Next to Gaz, the Scot takes the stairs that lead to the hall where most of the attendees conglomerate. He looks smaller than before. Not in height, obviously, but in mass. He’s lost a lot of it, muscles not that prominent anymore, shoulders and thighs leaner, waist smaller. His face is clean-shaven, something Ghost never had to get used to. Soap looks younger like this, fresher, even though horrible things have happened to him.
To Ghost’s relief, one thing hasn’t changed. That mohawk still sits on his head, a bit longer than before, almost black in the yellowish lights. Ghost savors the seconds he has to gauge Soap’s appearance and relishes in the knowledge that he seems to be alright. That’s all he needs.
Then the Scot looks up and into his eyes. Piercing blue eyes widen in recognition and he stops. Gaz is sensible enough to excuse himself and walks past Ghost, saluting him and saying a quick good evening, sir. Ghost puts his half-drunk bottle of beer on the top of a table and slowly makes his way toward Soap, who stands there, still and uncertain.
Why does he look uncertain, Ghost wonders as he closes the distance between them and stops in front of Soap.
„Ghost,” he greets the other, face carefully neutral.
„Johnny” Ghost answers but he isn’t prepared for the reaction his words bring about. The shorter man’s face contorts into a painful expression before he practically throws himself at Ghost. One second they stand and look into each other’s eyes, the other they clash with a bone-crushing hug, Johnny clings onto him as if Ghost was a lifeline. And Ghost holds him in return because of course he does, just like he promised himself he would if he ever got the chance again.
Their height difference forces Ghost to bend down a little, and he dares to bury his face into Johnny’s neck. He smells the same, sans the gun oil that used to cling to every one of them. Not to him anymore, it was just pure Johnny. He doesn’t want to break contact first and only reluctantly follows suit when the other eventually lets go.
“It’s good to see you, Johnny,” he croaks from behind his mask.
The Scot looks up to him, eyes shining with unshed tears. Fuck, if he ever felt angry because the man never replied anymore, it dissolved the second he looked into those sad pair of blues. Because Johnny seems distressed, and Ghost knows right away that the man regrets it. He needs to hear it, though, at least once. Not now, but needs it nonetheless.
“Good tae see ye, too, Lt.”
He smiles at the honorific, even though there’s no need to use it anymore.
“I’m not your lieutenant anymore,” he decides to voice it, too.
“I thought ye liked when I called ye that. I did,” Johnny smiles weakly, his voice still laced with uncertainty.
“I did too.”
He wants to smile but his throat closes dangerously and his eyes start to burn. He missed this man, more than he could voice, seeing him almost feels cathartic. He wants to know all about him, how he’s been doing, how he’s holding up as a civilian. Does he have a job? New hobbies or old ones he finally has the time for? Does he draw? He didn’t when they spoke last, but six months is long enough for things to change. He hopes he does, Johnny used to be really good at it. Ghost wants to know everything and hopes hard as hell that Johnny will open up again.
“Do you want to talk?” Ghost asks after a while, just to snap himself out of the trance. Johnny looks back at him and slowly nods. Good. They have a lot to discuss and Ghost’s silently bleeding heart yearns for any and all connection he can get in the next few hours.
“Come sit with me?” Johnny asks more than says and heads towards the round tables. And Ghost follows, having Johnny’s six as always, praying that if nothing more, he can have the closure he needs. To finally let go of the idea of them.