Chapter Text
“Sergeant John MacTavish, sir. But people call me Soap.”
Simon stares at the hand extended toward him. He’s always hated physical contact—recoils from it, avoids it reflexively.
It's why he wears the gloves. A protective layer between him and someone else's skin.
But this time, as he looks at the waiting calloused hand before him, something knots in his gut; heart pounding in sick excitement.
Standing in front of him, gear strapped with purpose and efficiency, is him.
His soulmate.
John.
No—Johnny, Simon decides instantly, without really knowing why.
He takes a moment to memorise every detail.
Close-cropped dark hair, shaved high and tight at the sides until it flares into a crooked mohawk, like he cut it himself in a mirror without caring how it turned out. A few days’ worth of stubble shadows his face—angular, severe—and his mouth is set in that way Simon knows means he’s used to swallowing what he really wants to say. There’s a faded scar just under his left cheekbone, like a slash of ash against his skin.
His eyes—Christ. Ice-clear blue. Not cold. Just sharp. Like a scalpel. Like something that knows how to cut right through to the bone.
Broad shoulders. Compact, scrappy frame. Everything about him says fighter. Brawler. Someone who doesn’t back down, even when he should. Confidence, sure—but behind that, something more enticing. Something shaped by rejection, by needing to be more than he is, all the time, just to earn his place.
Simon sees it. Recognises it like looking in a mirror.
The bravado, the way Johnny stands just a little too tall, like he’s daring the world to underestimate him. The way his teeth clench when he’s looked at too long.
It’s a kind of armour. And Simon wants to strip it down, take him apart bit by bit. Not out of cruelty—out of need. To understand.
“Lieutenant Simon Riley,” he replies, the title thick on his tongue. He never introduces himself like that.
“Ghost is fine.”
He takes the offered hand. His covered skin meets Johnny’s, warm even through the gloves, solid. Real.
He tries not to shiver at the contact, and mourns it when it ends.
“A’ve heard the stories,” Johnny says, lips quirking. “Bit of a reputation you’ve got goin’ for yourself.”
The coy smile is all mischief, but Simon catches the flicker of curiosity in his eyes—calculated, like Johnny’s trying to place him already, work him out.
Simon stares at his mouth as it moves — the way his lips curve upwards — beginning to feel blood rapidly rush south.
He straightens his spine, shuffles on the balls of his feet. Breathes in slow, deep. Keeps it controlled.
He’s always been good at pretending to be something he’s not.
Normal.
“All good things, I’m sure,” he says with a sarcastic lilt and a playful roll of his eyes. It’s automatic, the familiar performance of being half-charmed, half-amused.
Johnny grins wider, teeth flashing. And Simon feels it—that click behind his ribs.
He’s never felt this before. At least, not this quickly; not this violently.
But there it is.
The certainty:
This one’s mine.
Johnny huffs a laugh, shaking his head.
“Let’s get ourselves a win, yeah, L.T.? Save ya a seat, sir.”
Then he moves past, fist bumping Simon’s shoulder lightly as he heads toward the heli.
Simon doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
He just watches him go, eyes locked on the back of his head.
“Fuckin’ hell…”
The flight is short. The mood on board is loose—tense, but expectant. The kind of focused calm that comes before action. He doesn't take the seat Johnny had saved for him, too aware of the bulge in his trousers and heart racing in his chest.
Johnny jokes with the guy across from him, posture easy, but Simon keeps catching him glancing over.
Germany. Near the Czech border.
The forest stretches out below them like a blanket of iron green—dense, sloped terrain with steep ridge-lines and valleys threaded with old logging roads. Narrow trails snake between the trees, half-eaten by roots and disuse. Abandoned Cold War bunkers still linger beneath the moss, half-collapsed, hidden like wounds that never healed.
It’s beautiful, in that cold, European way.
Perfect.
The mission is simple, on paper—recon and extract. A trail of cartel-aligned movement across the border, supposedly running weapons or data. Johnny’s team runs point, Simon oversees overwatch and air support from a ridge-line to the west.
He didn’t choose the assignment. But when it came down to the planning phase, he volunteered for distance. Said he was best used coordinating. Said it with a smile behind his mask.
Truth is, he knew if he was near Johnny, he’d make a mistake.
So he stayed back.
And brought the truck.
It had been parked there before the mission started—tucked beneath camo netting down an old service path only Ghost knew about. A military-grade engine bought with favours, retrofitted and scrubbed of serials, courtesy of Nikolai. Reinforced chassis. Hidden compartment in the back.
He told himself it was just prep. Just habit. But it had been there for weeks.
Waiting.
He lights a cigarette and leans into the smoke, letting it fill the space behind his eyes. He smokes constantly on missions like this. Anything to keep his hands busy, his mind steady.
The smell is comfort.
The burn reminds him he’s here.
Until he isn’t.
He loses time.
One minute he’s watching Johnny’s signal move through the trees, the next his comms are rattling with static and his hands are shaking.
The world blurs at the edges. A sound rushes in his ears, like water flooding his eardrums.
Blood. A clawing hand slipping from his grip. The silence after a neck stops making sound—
NO. NO. NO.
He slams it shut, boxes it, locks it.
Screaming is not an option right now.
Focus.
Johnny’s signal went dark five minutes ago.
Simon’s already moving through the terrain, leaving his post in the name of saving a fellow soldier.
He finds him by a ridge. Johnny’s leg is torn open just above the knee. Not arterial, but deep—sliced by shrapnel.
He’s conscious, barely. Propped up on one arm, trying to keep pressure on the wound. He's pale, sweating, shaking. Simon follows the way his throat bobs at he swallows.
“Jesus, L.T.,” he slurs, voice low and mumbled. “Took your time…”
Simon drops to a knee beside him, checks the damage, the blood sluggishly leaking onto the ground.
“You’re lucky,” he says, more to himself than Johnny. “Missed the artery.”
He binds it quickly, too tightly. The gauze is soaked with a sedative, but Johnny's too out of it to notice.
“Guess I owe you a pint.”
Simon doesn’t answer. His mind is already three steps ahead.
He checks his watch. Times the blood loss. Calculates how quickly the sedative will take to sink into his bloodstream.
Johnny sits up before trying to stand. He fails, dizzily slumping against him with a pained groan.
Simon supports his weight easily, wrapping an arm around his waist, feeling almost dizzy himself with excitement.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
Johnny nods, barely conscious.
Simon triggers his emergency beacon. Sends out a false report:
Team hit. Soap separated. Injured. Presumed KIA.
Command will believe it. The terrain is bad, the comms worse.
They’ll move on.
They always do.
He'll keep his dog tags to send them, if they want proof.
He lifts Johnny into his arms like he weighs nothing. He’s something precious, something delicate to care for.
The camouflaged truck is where he left it—hidden under brush, cold metal beneath his gloves. He opens the rear door and lays Johnny across the backseat gently, taking his glove off to check his pulse again.
Still there. Still strong.
Still his.
The skin to skin contact makes him shudder.
He reluctantly pulls away and gets into the drivers seat. The drive starts smooth, nightfall swallows the trees in slow pieces, the forest turning to shadow and fog.
But after an hour, the road bends too quickly. The trees too tall, looming in a nightmarishly familiar way.
Something in his head tilts.
Simon isn't here anymore.
His vision flashes with a place that smells like rust, regret and a constant screaming.
His lungs pull tight in his chest, painful. His hands seize until it feels like atrophy.
He swerves the truck off-road, shoves the door open violently and stumbles out into the dirt, smoke still curling from the cigarette balanced between his lips.
“NO NO NO no no—”
He grips his skull with both hands, tries to squeeze the thought out. The memory.
The bile rises in his throat before he can stop it, and the cigarette falls to the floor as he heaves.
Nothing comes up.
He hears stirring movement behind him—soft.
Johnny. Still unconscious.
Still alive.
Simon steps back to the truck and steadies himself on the doorframe, peering in.
Johnny’s head has tipped back towards the window, where Simon stands. His brow furrowed faintly.
Simon watches his chest rise. Watches his lips part just slightly with every breath.
My beautiful boy.
“You’re okay,” he says quietly, voice breaking. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”
He gets back behind the wheel.
Lights a new cigarette with shaking hands, taking in a shuddering breath as the nicotine works its magic.
The engine roars back to life and he keeps driving.
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
The sun has just begun to rise by the time the truck crawls up the old gravel road, headlights cutting through early morning fog like two tired, blinking eyes.
The drive took longer than expected. Ghost didn’t rush. Couldn’t. Not with Johnny unconscious in the back, shifting now and then with quiet, half-formed sounds. Not quite awake, not quite gone.
The countryside around Credenhill is still damp with last night’s rain, trees dark with moisture, leaves hanging low. The narrow track to Ghost’s property is overgrown—thorny brush scrapes against the sides of the vehicle like it remembers him. A painful welcome home.
He pulls the truck into the overhang behind the house and kills the engine.
Everything goes still.
No birds. No wind.
Just the ticking of the cooling engine and the weight of everything he’s done.
His house isn’t much to look at—by design.
Low, squat brick, faded by time and soot. The roof is flat, reinforced beneath the shingles, and the windows are narrow, like slits in a bunker. Well, it is a bunker, of sorts. There's an old shed out back, wrapped in rusted fencing and ivy. Most people wouldn’t guess the place was occupied.
Which is the point.
He sits behind the wheel a moment longer, smoking one last cigarette down to the filter. His hands beginning to steady now.
Johnny had stirred once, back at the border—mumbled something into his own shoulder, words thick and muddled, but he hadn’t woken up.
Ghost gets out of the truck, before moving to the back. He opens the door with a quiet squeak.
And there’s Scar.
Or FH SCAR 17, if you want to get technical.
Named after his favourite rifle, of course.
The big mutt appears almost silently, padding out from behind the house. Grey muzzle, wolf-dog build, intelligent yellow eyes that track Simon with eerie precision.
She stops at the edge of the vehicle, ears perked, and lets out one soft sound.
Simon crouches beside her, resting his gloved hand on the thick fur at her neck.
“Easy, girl.” He says hoarsely. “He’s a good one. Promise.”
Scar huffs and leans into him, then trots around to sniff at the open truck door. Her nose brushes Johnny’s boot.
She doesn’t growl. Doesn’t flinch. Just sits.
Warily accepts him.
Simon exhales in mild relief. That’s enough.
Inside the house, it’s dark and quiet. The kind of quiet that sinks into the walls and never leaves.
The front room is bare—just old wood floors and a low shelf of thoroughly used books. Ghost’s back up mask is still nailed above the fireplace, staring down like a threat.
He carries Johnny down the hall, past the locked door that leads to the reinforced sub-basement, into a room with nothing but a bed — with chain restraints — a metal side table, and blackout curtains drawn shut.
Everything in here smells like antiseptic and dust.
He lays Johnny down carefully, adjusting the bandage on his leg, checking his pulse again. It’s still there. Still strong.
The sun finally crests the horizon outside. Thin light filters in under the curtains, painting soft gold lines across Johnny’s tanned arm.
Simon sits back on his heels. Stares at him as he sleeps so peacefully.
Scar’s already curled up in the corner. Watching. Waiting for the moment Johnny wakes.
He stays lodged in place, observing, slightly delirious from lack of sleep.
The temptation to explore his new lovers perfect body is strong, but he wants to wait until Johnny lets him.
He lights another cigarette, settling the urge to defile and take.
The room fills with smoke and silence and the sound of Johnny’s breathing.
But he does take the time to remove Johnny's gear, feeling downright giddy as he leaves him in just his t-shirt, cargos and socks.
He’s finally home.
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
When Soap opens his eyes, it’s not to the sharp, sterile white of hospital fluorescents like he’s come to expect after a mission gone wrong.
It’s warm. Soft. Dust dancing lazily in the air above him. The mattress beneath him is firm but unfamiliar. The pillow smells faintly of cigarette smoke and old linen.
Where the fuck—
Pain slams into his skull like a brick. A deep, throbbing ache just behind his eyes that makes him groan low in his throat. It comes paired with the dry pull of dehydration and a strange tightness in his chest that flares every time he tries to move.
Then he hears it.
Breathing.
Close.
Too close.
Slow, uneven—like whoever it is can’t decide if they’re relieved or about to fall apart. The rhythm’s just off enough to trigger every survival instinct he’s got.
Something is wrong.
His eyes snap to the side.
And there, sitting far too near on the edge of the bed, is a shape he knows instantly.
Skull mask. Broad shoulders. Black tactical gear, dusty and worn.
Ghost.
But not the way he remembers him.
Not standing tall on a battlefield. Not a calm, distant presence in comms.
No—this version of Ghost is smaller somehow. Folded in on himself. Hands clasped tightly between his knees. Shoulders tense. His mask tilts toward Soap like he's afraid to look away for even a second.
“How you feelin’, love?”
The voice is hoarse. Strained. Raw in a way Soap has never heard before.
Love?
His body reacts before his brain catches up. He flinches back sharply—immediately regretting it as pain lances through his thigh and his wrists tug against—
Wait.
What the fuck—
His ankles. Heavy.
He tries to sit up and chokes on his own breath when the cold bite of resistance locks him in place.
Leather cuffs. Thick. Bolted to chains. Long enough to move a little. Not long enough to reach the door.
“Ghost?” His voice cracks. “What the fuck—what happened? Where are we—why—”
His words get tangled in panic. His chest tightens, and every thought is scrambling for a way out.
Ghost shifts closer, palms raised. He’s still on his knees, like he doesn’t trust himself to get up. Like he’s trying to make himself smaller.
“Shh, shh, it’s alright. You’re safe.”
The words are gentle. Intimate. But Soap can’t feel anything past the roaring panic rushing through his ears.
“Why the fuck am I cuffed?” His voice is ragged. “What’s going on?”
Ghost looks down at the floor like it has the answers. His fingers twitch against his thighs.
“Your leg’s torn up,” he says finally. “Didn’t want you moving and makin’ it worse while I was out of the room.”
Soap just stares at him. Disbelief spreading like poison in his gut.
It’s the first real look he’s gotten at Ghost. And it’s not right.
His eyes are bloodshot. His uniform is stained—dirt, smoke, dried blood. And there’s a cigarette burned down nearly to the filter smouldering in an ashtray on the floor.
Ghost hasn’t just saved him.
He’s been here.
Waiting.
A long silence stretches out like a wire pulled too tight.
“…Where the fuck are we?”
Ghost lifts his head. There’s something unreadable in his eyes behind the mask’s mesh. His voice, when it comes, is oddly tender.
“Just my house, Johnny.”
Johnny.
Johnny?
That word settles over him like a wrong-sized coat. Too familiar. Too casual. Too intimate.
“Don’t call me that,” he snaps without thinking.
And that’s when he sees her.
In the corner.
A dog—big, German Shepherd build, scarred muzzle and watchful yellow eyes. She sits silently, but alert, like she’s been here the whole time. Watching. Guarding.
His stomach turns.
“I hate dogs,” he mutters, not looking away from her. “Why your house? Why not… why not a fucking hospital, Ghost? Why not base? Nikolai? Any of it?”
Ghost doesn’t answer right away. He lights another cigarette instead, putting his lighter back in his pocket with fingers that don’t stop trembling.
“Because,” he says, exhaling a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “I didn’t want to lose you.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Soap’s throat works uselessly around the lump forming there. Confusion? Fear? Something colder?
He tries to sit up again, and the chain tugs cruelly.
“Let me go.”
Ghost doesn’t flinch. He looks at him, really looks, head tilted slightly like he’s cataloguing each tiny movement.
“You’re hurt,” he says softly. “You don’t mean that.”
Soap stares at him. Breath ragged. Skin clammy with sweat. The words hit like oil on water—floating on the surface of something deeper, something darker.
Ghost is still kneeling beside the bed, hands curled into loose fists on his thighs. He looks... soft, somehow. Like if Soap blinked, he’d miss it. A mask over a mask.
“I’ll keep you safe,” Ghost murmurs, like a vow. “It won’t be like—”
He doesn’t finish.
Doesn’t get the words out.
Soap watches something move through him. Not across his face—the mask hides that—but in the way his whole body stills, then jerks.
Something terrible cracks in Ghost's posture. Like he’s remembering something he’s been trying to swallow down for years. His shoulders lock up. Breath quickens.
And then he stands.
Sudden. Violent.
Like he’s been burned.
“NO. NO. NO.”
The words rip out of him raw and loud, echoing in the quiet space of the room. Scar lifts her head in the corner but doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Like she’s seen this before.
Ghost takes three steps back and knocks over the ashtray. Cigarette butts and ash scatter across the wooden floor.
Soap flinches.
His heart stutters in his chest, loud and fast.
Ghost presses the heel of his hand into his temple, muttering under his breath. Pacing now, back and forth across the rug with heavy, uneven steps.
“Not the same—not again—not this—this is different—he’s alive, he’s alive—”
Who?
Soap’s breath catches in his throat.
He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what will make it better or worse. His instincts scream at him to stay still, to stay quiet, but his throat burns with a need to understand.
“…Ghost?”
The name lands gently. Too gently. Like it might break him.
Ghost stops.
Freezes.
Then he looks at him, and even with the mask on, Soap can feel the eye contact like a hook in his skin.
“Don’t call me that,” Ghost whispers. “Not here.”
Soap blinks. His mouth is dry.
“…What should I call you?”
Another beat of silence.
Then, without answering, Ghost turns away. Walks across the room to the wide window and cracks it open. Soap doesn't miss the bars lining the outside of it. He lights a cigarette with shaking hands. The lighter clicks twice before catching. His breathing is a wreck—too fast, too shallow—and when he exhales, the smoke curls toward the ceiling like an offering.
The light outside has shifted. The sun has passed its peak. Afternoon haze settles in, washing the room in gold and grey.
Soap tries again. Carefully.
“Where are we?”
Ghost doesn’t turn around. “Shropshire. Outskirts. Ten miles from Credenhill.”
A pause.
“My house,” he adds, quieter. “Only place that ever felt like mine.”
Soap swallows. The cuffs clink against the bed-frame when he shifts, drawing Ghost’s attention again. He half-turns, smoke drifting from his mask’s fabric.
“You were gonna say something. Before. About… it not being like something.”
Ghost doesn’t answer right away.
Then, “It doesn’t matter.”
“It fucking does if I’m chained to your bed, mate.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Crushing.
Ghost drags hard on the cigarette and walks back toward the bed, slower this time. Measured. Controlled. He crouches again beside Soap, same position as before. Knees on the rug. Hands resting on the edge of the mattress.
He reaches out. Not touching—just hovering. A breath away from Johnny’s ankle.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want to do it like this.”
Soap watches him like he’s watching a live wire unravel.
“You’re scarin’ the shit outta me, Ghost.”
At that, the man flinches. His shoulders tighten and his hands clench into fists again.
“Good,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Might keep you alive.”
Soap’s heart is pounding. He doesn’t understand any of it—but he’s starting to piece together the edges. Like a picture coming into focus through fog.
Ghost isn’t just broken.
He’s haunted.
And whatever he’s remembering—it’s not Soap he sees when he panics like that.
It’s someone else.
Someone who didn’t make it home.
Ghost finishes his cigarette slowly, like it’s keeping him tethered to the ground. Ash clings stubbornly to the tip before falling to the floor in a soft grey scatter. He doesn’t brush it away.
Then, without a word, he rolls up the sleeve on his right forearm. Methodical. Careful.
Soap’s eyes follow the motion without meaning to.
What he sees turns his stomach.
The skin is a patchwork of pain—jagged, angry scars overlaid with older, faded ones. Long, deliberate slices. Deep enough that they must’ve bled rivers. Some raised and ropy. Others newer, still red at the edges, skin puckered like it’s barely begun healing. Mixed in between—small, circular burn marks. Neat rows. Branding iron shapes. Cigarettes. Lighters. Heated metal, maybe.
Soap stares.
Jesus Christ.
It’s not just a history—it’s a map. A body turned into a record. Every inch of skin speaking in secrets Johnny can’t translate.
And then, without ceremony, Ghost presses the glowing end of his cigarette into his own arm.
There’s a soft sizzle. A tiny curl of smoke.
He exhales—not in pain, but relief. Like he’s letting something out. Like it helps.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just closes his eyes.
A sigh escapes his lips—shaky, but not from the burn.
Soap jerks against the restraints. A sharp, involuntary motion. His heart leaps into his throat.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he chokes.
Ghost doesn't respond at first. He looks down at the smoldering mark like it's a lit candle. Something sacred. He flicks the butt away carelessly, then finally looks at Soap.
His voice is quiet, flat.
“Reminds me I’m still here.”
The words land like stones.
Soap doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know if he’s more horrified or heartbroken.
“You—you don’t have to do that,” he breathes. “Fuck’s sake, Ghost—”
“Don’t call me that.”
The words snap like a wire pulled too tight. Ghost’s hand flexes at his side.
Soap pauses. He licks his lips, suddenly unsure.
“…What do I call you, then?”
Ghost walks over slowly, the burn on his arm still smouldering slightly, red and raw. He leans down, planting one hand beside Soap’s head on the mattress.
Close. Too close.
He tilts his head, the mask nearly brushing Soap’s cheek.
“You already know.”
Soap breathes shallowly, chest tight.
“…Simon.”
The name feels too intimate. Like it crosses a line they haven’t drawn yet. But Ghost doesn’t correct him.
Instead, he nods—just once—and shifts back a little. The air between them stays electric.
Soap shakes his head, throat tight. “You need help.”
Ghost laughs bitterly.
“You think I don’t know that?”
He turns away again, walking over to the locked cabinet in the corner. He opens it. Inside—rows of gauze, antiseptics, old pill bottles with the labels peeled off, syringes, and restraints. There’s something clinical about the way it’s arranged, like a trauma centre stripped down and rebuilt by someone who didn’t survive the event.
“I’ve had help,” he says, coldly. “Didn’t work.”
Soap swallows hard.
Every instinct in him is screaming to run. But he’s still chained. Still weak. And there’s something else keeping him there, too—a part of him that wants to understand. To see where this breaks. Or if it ever will.
Ghost turns, holding a clean bandage in his hands. His tone softens a fraction.
“You need rest. And water.”
Soap glares at him. “I need to leave.”
Ghost doesn’t respond. Just walks forward, bandage dangling from his fingers like a truce.
“Not yet,” he says, as if that settles it.
As if they have all the time in the world.