Chapter Text
Ghost’s gear weighs heavily on his shoulders. Air is stabbing through his lungs, in and out in quick, powerful takes. He cannot be fast enough.
Around the bend, he hears voices, then a gunshot. His body is screaming for reprieve. Even so, Ghost runs faster, Gaz panting by his side.
A scuffle. Another shot. Price’s voice screaming, “No!”
“Johnny!” Ghost yells.
Johnny’s lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood. The bullet’s gone right through his head. There’s no way he’s alive, but Ghost checks for a pulse nonetheless. He registers only vaguely that Price and Gaz are working behind him, muttering something about a wire.
He doesn’t care. This entire place could be blown to bits with every last civilian in it, because Johnny’s not breathing, and it has all been for nothing.
Nothing. It’s all that comes to mind when Ghost’s eyes fly open, registering a dark room. Once upon a time, he would’ve thought of the casket. Dirt filling his mouth to the brink of suffocation. And a tickle of laughter coursing through his diaphragm, refusing to be quelled.
Ghost sighs, placing a clammy palm over his eyes. The dream again. Just when he thought he was rid of the last of them, a new one starts up. And this one has nothing to do with the whore or the grave or even his father. He’s certain he’s never seen him before, this Johnny he’s too late to save.
Ghost turns his head, glaring down the digital clock on his bedside. 0400. Two hours till wake-up. Best get on with it, then.
He gets out of bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with shaking hands. In the ensuite, the sickening yellow light above the sink blinks on, blinding him. His eyes are bloodshot and circled with black even without the warpaint.
Out of all nights it had to be this one. He’s got his annual psych eval later today. They’ll put him back on the Fluoxetine, or better yet, declare him crazy and throw him out on his backside.
It’s all the same, Ghost supposes, stepping into the shower before the water’s had the chance to warm up. He wasn’t going to last this out forever.
The eval is as time effective as always, carried out with great speed without making the impression Ghost is wasting everyone’s time. He’s worked with the same shrink for years: a small woman in her fifties, streak of grey in her hair and her face always a mask of distant professionalism.
Ghost quite likes her. She doesn’t seem to think the brutal killing of his family any more shocking than the nearby grocery running out of milk. That alone makes the pain bearable. Like just another obstacle life has put in his way.
“Well,” she says when they’ve discussed the last point on the questionnaire. It’s something Ghost fills out before these visits—something to do with his mood. “Things seem to be going rather nicely for you, Simon. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Not at all. But if Ghost doesn’t keep this job, he’ll off himself.
“Yes.”
“Very good,” the shrink says, clicking her pen. Ghost struggles to keep his expression neutral. He’s barred from wearing his mask on these visits. It makes him feel raw, laid bare. Watched.
They make pleasant small talk for a few minutes more before she gently dismisses him. Ghost hesitates. He knows he’s endangering his team by lying during these evals, even if it is by omission. The shrink hasn’t asked about his dreams. Granted, he hasn’t had them in years, much like the fits of uncontrollable laughter.
Ghost doesn’t often go against the grain of these visits, and even though he stills for barely a second, the shrink notices.
“Is there something else?”
Ghost can’t make himself say it. “I’ve kept you for long enough.”
“Not at all,” the woman says, glancing at her watch. “We still have fifteen minutes.”
Damn these Americans and their ability to see through his excuses. Ghost leans back in his chair unwillingly, grabbing both armrests. Her eyes flick down to his hands, then back up again.
Fuck.
“I’ve had this dream,” Ghost says. The woman says nothing, mouth set in a focused line. “For a while now. I’m on a mission with Garrick. We’re running in a… tunnel of some kind. Trains are shooting past. I know that we’re late for something big. There’s blood on my clothes. And then…
“Then there are voices, and gunshots, and someone running, and… Well, the dream always ends the same. There’s a man I’ve never seen in my life, dead on the ground, but I know his name. I call him Johnny. He’s been shot in the head, but I check his vitals. And when there’s nothing, it’s like this… void ripping open.”
Ghost’s heart is pounding in his chest, his mouth dry as paper. Even now, in the lights of this room, the feeling seems so real. Like he’s lost something worth dying for. Something bigger than life itself.
The shrink regards him for a long time before speaking.
“You know, sometimes our dreams are like mirrors into ourselves,” she says. “Every person, every building, every thing we see in them are products of our imagination. Sometimes they tell us more about ourselves than they do of anyone else. Do you understand what I’m saying, Simon?”
Ghost is having a hard time focusing, so he just stares her down quietly. She smiles, crossing one leg over the other.
“Perhaps your subconscious is trying to tell you something,” she says. “Perhaps this Johnny is part of you. Maybe you’re mourning the loss of something important.”
Ghost racks his brain. He’s never been good at this psychoanalysis shit. But maybe Johnny could symbolize his job. Or… that feeling when the mess is out of tea some mornings.
He sighs, kicking his legs out on the carpet. The shrink is trying very hard not to smile.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she says. “And I’m sure it’s nothing to be afraid of. This Johnny is trying to tell you something, Simon. You just have to listen.”
“Right,” Ghost says, rubbing his forehead. Johnny the Corpse would rather fancy a talk. Makes perfect sense.
They exchange their pleasantries, make assurances toward the next eval the following year, and take leave of each other. Ghost is almost to his office when he remembers the mask still sitting in his back pocket. No wonder people were looking funny at him.
Shepherd places some sergeant under his command for the Hassan mission.
“Save ye a seat, sir,” he says, bumping Ghost’s shoulder like they’ve known for years.
It’s the goddamn corpse from his dreams.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
Soap is going to die. Ghost feels it in his gut the moment they meet, and every subsequent moment just works to confirm it. The sergeant does as he’s told, but he’s got a mouth on him. He’s naïve. He questions orders and risks himself for others.
It drives Ghost up the fucking walls, but if Shepherd’s put this bloke under his watch, he’s bringing him home in one piece. They clear the site in perfect order, their eyes dead set on the mission. Soap won’t shut up about the survivors. Hassan gets away right under their noses.
And then there’s the business with the missiles.
Ghost is a simple soldier, but even he understands American missiles in Al Mazrah is no good news. Soap is alive in a way Ghost has never been, eyes alight with fervour beside the cargo ship. He looks like he could take on the whole world. Something new and alien stirs in Ghost’s chest.
On the plane, Ghost feels like he can breathe for the first time in hours. Soap’s sitting beside him, thigh pushing up against Ghost’s on the cramped seats. He smells of sweat and gunpowder. They haven’t talked since leaving the site, Ghost too caught up in thoughts about tracks and trains and Soap too riled up with post-mission adrenaline to notice.
A political shitshow awaits when Ghost gets off the plane, but before that, there’s this. The deafening rumble of the engines, and the weight of Ghost’s gear over his chest. He leans back, closing his eyes.
“Long day, eh?”
Ghost scowls at the ceiling. If there is a god, he hopes it won’t put him through painful small talk with the fucking corpse.
“Long day,” Ghost confirms gruffly.
“Not a man of many words, are ye?” Soap asks, unbothered by Ghost’s mood. “I can respect that. Bit chatty, myself. They even put that on my fuckin’ file.”
“They did?”
“Aye. Bet they put somethin’ on yours, too. Tall, dark and handsome, somethin’ to that effect.”
Ghost narrows his eyes. Soap bursts out laughing.
“Cheeky little shit, aren’t you?” Ghost asks, but he’s very nearly smiling.
“Just a bit of banter, sir.” Soap claps his shoulder. “Ye looked like ye could use the pick-me-up.”
Ghost rumbles something unintelligible. Soap talks cheerfully at him for the rest of the ride back to base. He’s going to die, there’s no doubt about it. But Ghost finds himself thinking maybe he doesn’t deserve to.
Soap’s eyes are a striking blue-grey. Most of his shirts are long-sleeved and woollen, suited perfectly both for wearing underneath his gear and for the Scottish highlands at home.
Ghost collects these things like pretty seashells by the coast. He sees them in the mess or when Soap’s running the rookies ragged around base. Soap lets him look with puppyish innocence. The other soldiers have learnt to keep their distance and only approach Ghost about work, but Soap is fearless. He claps him on the shoulder like they’ve been mates for years. Asks him about inane things. Needles him about the mask.
In the nights, sometime between three and four o’clock, Ghost wakes up. His bed is without exception a puddle of cold sweat. His chest yawns apart with pain.
In the shower, Ghost thinks about his family. About what it felt like to lose them. But even that did not compare to this: Ghost felt unhinged back then, like a stranger in his own skin. This—whatever it is—is still him. This grief still bears his face, speaks with his voice. It’s the object of that grief that puzzles him.
Ghost can’t stand the empty walls of his room any longer. He wanders out to the mess, decided to get himself a warm drink to accompany him on a smoke outside. He tries to stay off it, but stress has the habit crawling right back. Relying on anything for a quick fix makes him disgusted with himself because it reminds him of Tommy, but times like these, he can’t help it.
Soap is there, sitting with his face hidden under a hand. He’s rubbing his eyes, his other hand resting on the lip of a cup of coffee. Ghost pauses when he sees him, lingering stupidly in the doorway. Out of every soldier on base, Soap was the last one he expected to meet here. It can’t be much past four in the morning.
“Sergeant,” Ghost says. He does it so as not to scare him just standing there, but Soap jumps nonetheless.
“L.t.,” Soap huffs, leaning back on his seat. “Fancy meetin’ ye here.”
Ghost grunts, heading into the kitchen for his tea. It’s a cheap brand. Tastes like shit without lots of milk in it, but Ghost takes it black.
Soap is still there, looking less like he’s going to collapse any moment and more like his usual, cocky self. Ghost takes a seat in front of him without ceremony, wincing at the first sip of bitter tea.
“Hassan situation stressin’ ye out?” Soap asks then.
“Not my problem,” Ghost says. “Not until someone tells me where to point my gun.”
Soap laughs. “Aye. Just doing what we’re told. Ah get it.”
They’re quiet for a moment. It’s strange, being just the two of them. Soap is usually surrounded by at least half a dozen other men.
“And you, Soap?” Ghost asks. “What’s eating at you?”
“Och, nothin’. Just a bad night’s sleep, sir.” But Soap’s smile grows tight, strained. Ghost’s eyes narrow. “Told ye it’s nothin’, L.t.. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Don’t lie to my face, then.”
“Says our beacon of openness,” Soap mutters. Ghost stares him down, unrelenting. “It’s stupid.”
“So’s everything comes out of your mouth.”
“Oh, har har.” Soap almost looks annoyed for a moment before burying his face in both hands, rubbing his eyes. “It’s a stupid fuckin’ dream, sir. Makes me feel like a preschooler again.”
“What kind of dream?”
Soap sighs. “It’s the same thing over and over again. I’m in a tunnel of sorts. Price and I, we’re taking apart a bomb. Trains’re speedin’ past. Then some bloke shows up and shoots me. He tries to take down Price too, but I get up and fight him, and there’s this scuffle before he puts a bullet right between me fuckin’ eyes.”
Soap swallows, touching the spot on his forehead Ghost has seen a hole in every night for the past few weeks.
“Anyway,” he says and laughs, though it comes out shaky. “Scares the shit out of me. It’s—it’s just messin’ with me head, I guess. Never been afraid of dyin’, but… experiencin’ it like that every night, it gets old real fuckin’ fast.”
“Yeah,” Ghost says. He doesn’t know if he sounds as noncommittal as he’d like. “I’m going for a smoke.”
Soap looks taken aback. “Er. All right?”
Ghost feels dizzy with the onslaught of thoughts racing through his head. Soap has been having the same dream, just out of his own perspective. Ghost doesn’t understand what any of this means. He needs to be alone.
“Wait, sir?” Ghost stops. He’s left his teacup behind, almost untouched. “Am I in trouble?”
“No,” Ghost says. Soap doesn’t look relieved in the least. “At ease now, soldier. And… talk to someone. If you feel like it.”
Soap blinks. “Wha?”
“About your… dream business,” Ghost explains. “Sometimes dreams tell us more about ourselves than anything else.” What the ever-loving fuck is he saying. “Goodnight, Johnny.”
The pet name slips out before he can do anything to stop it, and Soap’s eyes widen in surprise. Ghost can’t stand himself any longer. He turns on his heel and disappears out into the hallway, swallowed, soon, by the shadow of the world outside.
Las Almas is a shitshow. It’s only testament to how much of one that Soap doesn’t comment on Ghost’s driving on the way out of the city. Instead, he’s listing to one side, face increasingly grey.
“Soap.” Ghost glances over at him. The safehouse is about an hour away. “Johnny. Eyes open.”
“M’awake,” Soap mumbles, but his eyes keep slipping closed. This isn’t good. The stim must be wearing off. “Crashed once before in the street. Before ye got me.”
Ghost won’t even think about how much that worries him. “Stay awake, soldier. Get you fixed up at the destination.”
“Mm.” Soap’s mouth hangs the slightest bit open. “Gettin’ out of breath, L.t..”
A telltale sign of severe blood loss. Ghost understands they can’t keep going like this for another hour, but stopping is just as risky. Graves’ Shadow Company is sweeping the city, and Ghost and Soap weren’t exactly quiet about the way they left.
“Fuck,” Ghost swears, biting his teeth. “Fuck, shit.”
“Watch yer blood pressure, L.t.,” Soap grins. “Never know when you’re gonna—”
Ghost brings the pickup to a stop on the side of the road, getting his medkit. It’s drenched in sewage like the rest of him, but the insides are nice and dry. Soap regards him dizzily.
“Strip,” Ghost says.
“L.t.,” Soap coos. “At least take me out to dinner first.”
Ghost doesn’t have time for this. He lifts Soap towards him by the straps of his vest, starting to undo it with professional accuracy. All the while, Soap keeps staring at him with the stupidest smile on his face.
Ghost gets him out of the vest, picking out painkillers and antibiotics from the medkit. “Here. Take these.”
“That’s double the max amount.”
“Fucking hell, Johnny. Quit your yapping and do as you’re told for once.”
The playful glint in Soap’s eyes dulls somewhat. “Yes sir. Sorry, sir.”
“No matter,” Ghost says. Soap downs the pills, looking expectantly at him. He’s swaying in his seat, only just keeping up some semblance of attention. “Just wanna get us out of here alive. You copy that, sergeant?”
“Ah do. Sorry. Know I’ve got a mouth on me.”
Ghost smiles under the mask. “That you do, Johnny. That you do.”
They’re quiet for the while Ghost takes out wipes and antiseptic from the medkit and cleans up the immediate vicinity of the wound. Blood bubbles out of it every time he presses too hard. Finally, he takes a couple clean wipes and presses down until Soap’s back is flush against his seat.
It’s not supposed to feel comfortable. Soap winces, his breaths coming out quick and shallow. He’s covered in cold sweat. Ghost tries not to think of the trains.
“Yer lashes are white, L.t..”
“Suppose they are, Johnny.”
“Ye blond?”
Ghost meets his eye. Soap’s trying to distract himself. The only thing he could possibly be looking at this close to each other is Ghost. It’s not a way to fish around for possibly damning information about Ghost’s identity, surely.
“Sort of,” Ghost finally answers.
“Dark blond?” Ghost shrugs, focusing on the wound. He replaces the bloodied wipes with new ones, applying pressure again while starting with a dressing. He has to tower over Soap to do this, one knee on the centre console. Soap looks up at him in silence. “Ye have some reaaaally nice eyes, mate.”
“Johnny—”
“—Brown, aye? They’re pretty. Big, too. Real doe-eyed bloke ye are, eh L.t.?”
Ghost looks him in the eye, tugging the dressing so tight over the wound Soap sucks in a breath through his teeth. Then he laughs, knocking his head back onto the headrest, grinning lazily up at him.
“I believe ye. I do. You’re not keeping any hideous secrets behind that mask. Just yer face.”
“Appreciate the understanding,” Ghost clips.
“Aye. Whoever ye have back at home, well, she’s a lucky girl.”
“I don’t,” Ghost admits before realizing and curses inwardly. What about Soap is so bloody disarming? Sometimes it feels like Soap could make Ghost admit to everything, if he only knew to ask.
“Ah.” Soap’s expression shutters for just the barest of moments. “Well, canny say I don’t get it. It’s a dangerous job. Time-consuming. Think I’d feel bad for me partner if I had one, spending all that time worryin’.”
Like Ghost does each and every day. He waves that thought away. “No little wife waiting for you at home then, Johnny?”
“Heh, no. Bit too gay for that.” Ghost’s hands stop working of their own accord. Soap stills too, eyes growing wide. “I—I mean—well, not gay, I mean I swing every which way, but… It’s a lifestyle thing, I haven’t really met anyone I’d want to settle down with, ye ken. To—to share me life with like that.”
“Hmm. Well.” Ghost keeps working on the dressing, not really seeing what’s in front of him. He’s tucking in the end of it, he thinks. Securing it. Yeah. “Love. It’s a… a gift.”
“That it is,” Soap says. Ghost’s face is searing hot under the mask. “Bit of a romantic, aren’t ye, L.t.?”
“Reckon I am,” Ghost mutters. Soap is gazing into his eyes, shallow breaths puffing out over his mask. Ghost wonders fleetingly what he tastes like. Are his lips soft and sweet? Salty and rough?
“Aye,” Soap whispers. They’re impossibly close. Ghost’s knee is pressing into Soap’s side where it rests on the centre console, his hand on his arm. Soap’s skin is cool to the touch from the blood loss. Outside, the darkness of the night would cover them if something happened.
Ghost withdraws first, falling back until he’s sitting on the driver seat again. He packs his medkit, replacing the drugs and the antiseptic and the rolls of gauze into their exact order before closing it again.
“Gear up,” he tells Soap, starting the car. There’s an exasperated huff from the sergeant, but for once, he doesn’t bark back.
When Soap stares down the picture of Makarov, his expression doesn’t waver. Ghost takes one look at the man and suddenly everything clicks into place. There’s a dizzying surge of images in his head like memories from a life not completely his own. He sees the train tracks again, but also a helo and a landscape covered in snow and a woman screaming at him about her money. None of it makes sense until he sees Soap too, older and sterner but still watching him with keen blue-grey eyes.
Ghost glances over to where Soap sits by his side now, still young, still hopeful, and their eyes meet. Ghost… is going mental. He’s seeing the fucking future now. Is it psychosis? Must be psychosis. He needs to talk to someone. Ask for leave. Hide away and die in a hut somewhere far from civilization, lest he go on some mad spree.
If only this sickness in his head wasn’t convinced Soap was in danger, too. Ghost would take himself away easily, neutralize himself, if it meant protecting him. But something about this insanity is begging Ghost to do the opposite. To stay by Soap’s side. Not to leave him alone with the trains and the bomb and the man with the gun, hiding in the dark.
Price and Laswell are whispering about Makarov now, Gaz frowning into his beer. Soap puts a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, nice and easy this time, unlike his usual hard claps.
“All right, L.t.?” he asks. There’s an edge of concern in his tone, even though he tries to keep it casual. Ghost shakes his head.
“Brain’s fried.”
“Ah don’t blame ye,” Soap says. “We haven’t slept in a week.”
That’s right. Maybe Ghost is hallucinating. He scowls into his bourbon, pushing it away. Staying for drinks was more of a social call, something to do while catching up with Laswell, but maybe that’s over and dealt with. Maybe Ghost should just go to his room and get some sleep.
He clambers up from the barstool, the afterimages of things he recognizes but doesn’t understand still dancing across his vision. The rest of the group turns around, staring at him.
“Think I’m gonna get some sleep,” Ghost says. “I feel… off.”
“Of course, son. Long week,” Price says.
“Good job out there, soldier.”
“Right back at you, Laswell. Be seein’ you.”
“I’ll join ye,” Soap says, getting up from his seat. Price tries to hide a smile into his beer. “Don’t think I could keep my eyes open even if ye shot me in the other arm.”
The others chuckle, and Soap exchanges fistbumps with Gaz before shrugging on his coat. Ghost is already in his, waiting for Soap to stop talking before they walk out of the hotel lounge and into the lobby.
“Off, eh?”
“Like you said,” Ghost says, mashing the elevator’s call button for a second time. “Haven’t slept in a bloody week. Bound to make anyone at least a little bit mad.”
“Or madder, in yer case,” Soap grins. Ghost can’t object to that.
The ride up is silent, the elevator music grating on Ghost’s nerves. He’s overcome by the intense urge to be alone. To tell Soap everything. To beg his shrink to put him back on the fucking meds, because he’s losing it again.
Well on their floor and out of the elevator, Soap starts chatting again. It’s irrelevant, something about football and cunting referees and a player getting second and third chances. Ghost lends him only half an ear, striding down the corridor with that terrible feeling of emptiness growing in his chest.
“—and then the overtime—get this—the overtime ran for at least eight minutes when they said it was supposed to be five—”
“Soap,” Ghost says, stopping. They’re half a corridor from their rooms.
“Ghost?” Soap says, grinning nervously.
“You have… family, right? A sister?”
“Erm. Aye.” Soap regards him, puzzled. “Two sisters. One older, one younger.”
“Uh-huh. And… if you thought something was gonna happen to them, something bad, would you…”
Ghost trails off, swallowing. It’s a non-question. Back in the day, he himself did the same: rushed to save his family no matter the consequences. But he needs Soap to say the words. To give Ghost permission to protect him.
“Would I… spare no expense?” Soap asks. “Of course. Of course, sir, anythin’.”
It’s exactly what Ghost wanted to hear. So why’s it feel like his heart is breaking right open?
“Look, Ghost. Simon.” Soap sighs, his brow knit with unspoken worry. “I know you’re a private person. Ye don’t like goin’ around talkin’ about yer own stuff. I respect that. But if something’s up back at home… something you want to talk about, well, I’m all ears.”
“It’s not that,” Ghost says. “Don’t have a home to speak of. I just…”
I worry about you sometimes.
Because every night in the small hours of the morning, Ghost wakes up in a cold sweat for having held Soap’s cold dead body in his arms and believing it was real.
“Simon,” Soap murmurs, stepping closer, putting a hand on his wrist where the slightest bit of skin is peeking through between his glove and his sleeve. “Hey. Look at me.”
Ghost looks. Soap’s eyes glitter with determination. He’s sure Soap’s going to say something unbelievably sappy. That everything’s going to be fine. That nothing’s going to happen to him.
Ghost doesn’t want to hear it. He throws him against the wall, pressing their lips together through the mask. Soap barely yelps, chasing after him when Ghost leans back to pull the mask over his nose. Ghost kisses him breathless, then grabs his mohawk and bares his neck, sucking bruises into his skin. His thigh is pressing between Soap’s legs, his free hand massaging his throat. Soap is panting, eyes wild with want, Ghost’s hoodie trapped in a death grip.
“Simon,” Soap says, then more urgently, “Simon.”
“Yeah,” Ghost breathes against his neck.
“Ghost!”
“What—oh.” An old woman walks by with her handbag clasped in both hands, staring at them. She’s painstakingly slow. “Ma’am.”
Soap kicks him, hissing, “Patch aht, sir,” but there’s a trace of laughter in his tone. The woman reaches the elevator, glaring until the doors shut in front of her. Ghost and Soap huff out a simultaneous breath of relief.
“That went well,” Ghost says.
“Aye,” says Soap. “Scarred her for life, we did.”
“Eh, for the few years she has left.”
“Dark,” Soap says, lifting his eyebrows in mock indignation. “That’s dark, Simon.”
Ghost smiles, and Soap’s eyes flit immediately downwards. Right. The mask. He’s pulled up the mask.
Ghost covers his face again, clearing his throat. Soap grins lopsidedly at him. “So. Where were we, L.t.?”
“Hmm?”
Ghost has to fight to keep his face impassive. Soap’s mouth falls open in the most satisfying way.
“No way.” Ghost smirks to himself, walking the rest of the way to his room. “Ye dick.”
“What?”
“Ye cunt. Leaving a man hanging like this, sir? Frigid.”
“Dunno what you’re talking about, sergeant.”
“Sergeant,” Soap scoffs, shaking his head. But he’s smiling, fishing out his own keycard. “Ah see how it is. Well. Not long now, sir. Ye won’t resist me charms forever.”
“Who said anything about resisting?” Ghost asks, and Soap’s eyes snap up to meet his. Their doors are right next to each other. Ghost puts a hand on Soap’s neck. It’s hilarious how easily he leans closer, closing his eyes just for Ghost to whisper, “Goodnight, Johnny,” against his parted lips.
Ghost’s door clicks open with a beep, and Soap’s eyes open. “Oh,” he says, dazed at first. “Oh, ye fuckin’ dickwad.”
Ghost can’t keep from chuckling at the onslaught of Scottish cursing as he enters his room, leaning his back against the closed door. Finally, there’s a laugh from the other side, then a beep as Soap unlocks the door to his room and yanks it open. Ghost stands still, waiting until the smile on his face fades away and his heartrate slows down again.
Then, he sighs both long and hard, putting his face in his hands.
“Fuuuuckin’ hell.”
Ghost spends the Makarov mission with his heart in his throat. Soap is safe, he tells himself. He goes in with Price, but there are no tracks anywhere close to their location. The football stadium has underground areas, but they’re blocked off from any type of transport. And Soap is a trained killer. One of the best. He’ll be all right.
Despite this, Ghost is spiralling. The noise inside his head has turned from a constant murmur to a scream. He spends his nights awake, scared shitless for the dream where Soap dies again and again. And in the days, the looks Soap throws his way are hungrier, more daring. Ghost is trying to protect him. From himself, from the train tracks. But Soap won’t wait forever.
Soap and Price secure the target. Ghost can’t see what he’s doing for the images swirling around his head, focusing now on one thing: a man in a black hoodie, running away. Soap lying in his own blood, bullet through his head.
By the time Soap and Price bring Makarov, Ghost is covered in a cold sweat. He feels he might be sick, but holds it in enough to cover them for the while they board the helo. Makarov keeps up his act of a grade-A bastard, smirking and sneering until Soap pulls a gun on him.
Ever the hero, Ghost thinks, and it finally dawns on him. After more than half a year of restless nights, he knows exactly what to do.
It’s reckless, of course. Going through with it will put a permanent stain on his record. Might cost him his career, and if that happens, his life. It isn’t the first time he’s made such a choice. When it last happened, it cost him four of the most important people in his life. Today, there is only Johnny.
It’s an obvious choice. When Soap goes to sit down again, gun in his lap, Ghost springs into action. He doesn’t hesitate. He puts a knife through Makarov’s left carotid artery and, having pierced it, twists it around to make the damage irreparable. Makarov faints before Price has the time to throw himself at Ghost, falling limp like a sack of potatoes. Gaz is sitting with his mouth hanging open. Soap’s gone an interesting shade of grey.
“What the fuck, Ghost?” Price screams. Ghost has never seen him this livid, eyes just about bulging out of his head. “I told you to stand down, soldier. What part of that was too hard to understand?”
“I don’t know,” Ghost says. His gloves are drenched in blood. Makarov’s heart is still beating, but he won’t survive. Ghost’s made sure of it.
The noise in his head is finally quiet.
Price keeps yelling at him. Ghost knows he’s not really angry, just disappointed. TF-141 is known for hunting down the monsters of this world. The worst of the worst. Price takes pride in not being counted among them.
Ghost ducks his head and takes it all. He was prepared for this and worse.
“Captain,” Soap finally cuts in. He looks cool-headed and determined like he always does on missions, but when his eyes meet Ghost’s, there’s a sliver of uncertainty, too. “Leave it. He’s dead, sir.”
Price looks over at Makarov, lying there in a pool of his own blood. Then, he looks at Gaz, who quietly shakes his head.
Price huffs. “This,” he says, poking Ghost in the chest, “is not over, lieutenant.”
“Understood, sir,” Ghost says. Then he retakes his seat like the man he just killed in cold blood isn’t lying only metres away from him. The rest of the task force sit quietly now, looking at Makarov’s slackened features. Price growls, wiping a hand over his face. Soap’s features are set in a deep frown. Gaz’ body language is relaxed, but every now and then, there’s a pointed glance in Ghost’s direction.
Ghost sits, convinced he’s made the right decision. And isn’t that just the maddest thing of all.
Back on base, Ghost is put on immediate leave. Price discusses with Laswell and files a report on his insubordination, even if the details of the mission are hastily covered up and Makarov’s body disposed of. Ghost talks to nurses, doctors and shrinks. He tells the truth to anyone who asks. About the dreams, and the noise, and the pictures of a life he hasn’t lived.
It’s well past midnight when he’s dismissed. In his room, he packs the duffel bag he keeps around for leaves. Then, he takes a shower and lies down in bed, staring up at the ceiling. One decision. One unauthorized kill with the power to end his entire career.
He sleeps better than he has in months, and when he wakes up late the next morning, he finds he’s spent the entire night dreamless.
“Ghost,” Price says that morning. “Take a seat.”
They’re in Price’s office. Ghost sits down on the chair in front of his desk, kicking his feet out and leaning back. Whatever comes, he’s ready for it. Deserves it, even.
Price looks evenly at him before sighing and rubbing his eyes. He’s had a long twenty-four hours, Ghost knows. The shitshow he’s kicked into motion must be colossal.
“Answer me this, lieutenant,” Price says. “Why?”
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
“You killed a man against my distinct command.”
“Yes. I did.”
Price stares at him for a while longer before shaking his head and picking up a document. It’s a certificate for sick leave, signed both by Price and the doctor that treated Ghost.
“Three months,” Price says. Ghost’s blood runs cold. “Weekly sessions with a therapist. And quarterly psych evals until you’re cleared for the field again.”
It’s worse than he expected. Three months trapped in his own head is… bloody hell, he’ll go insane. He’ll start having trouble with his temper again.
Not to even mention he’ll lose Soap. For the duration of the leave, and then for however long it takes for him to make it back onto the field again.
Ghost bites his teeth. Takes a deep breath. And nods.
“Yes, sir.”
Price’s eyebrows inch toward his hairline. “Just like that? Last time I tried to put you on leave, you made a fuss. And that was for ten days.”
“Things’ve changed.”
“Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”
Ghost sighs. The document says, Relapse of major or moderate to major depression. It makes all this sound like Ghost got a little sad again, not that he killed a man because of a premonition. He supposes he owes Price for that.
“There…” Ghost clears his throat. Barely resists cringing. “There is someone.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Mm.” Ghost hopes that is it, but Price keeps looking at him. “This someone. They might be affecting my work.”
“Right.”
“They might have affected certain… decisions I’ve made.”
Price sighs, rubbing his forehead. “And how long has this been going on?”
“Not long,” Ghost says, but that is a lie. “For a while.”
“Fraternizing with your subordinates,” Price says, shaking his head. “It’s not a good look, Simon.”
“I didn’t say—”
“But it is Soap, isn’t it?” Price asks. “Come now, son. I have eyes in my head.”
It’s… that obvious? Fucking hell. He’s been careful. Hasn’t as much as looked at the bloke unless it’s been completely necessary. Soap, then again, isn’t exactly subtle.
Doesn’t mean Ghost is going to go out and say it. Price keeps looking at him for a moment longer before relenting.
“I’ll see what I can do about it. But no promises. Especially if this effect of his will make you take out targets whenever it pleases you.”
“It won’t,” Ghost says. “It’s over now, whatever it was. I just… I was convinced he was gonna kill Johnny. Maybe not then and there. But… sometime in the future.”
“I know, Simon, I’ve read the reports.” Price steeples his hands, expression stern but sympathetic. “Believe me, all I want is to keep you boys alive. But that doesn’t mean we can go around executing people because of a gut feeling.”
“Wasn’t a gut feeling. I—”
“You dreamt of him dying. You had hallucinations, chest pains. None of this explains why you had to put a knife in his neck, Simon.”
Ghost could agree. It could make or break his career, convince Price or the medical team to shorten his leave in the future. But that wouldn’t be the truth. Ghost would do anything for Soap; he knew that the day they first met, maybe even earlier. He had no other choice.
“It was the right call,” Ghost says. Price has never looked more disappointed.
“Pack up, soldier,” he says, handing over the certificate for his leave. “You’re going home.”
Ghost gets his bag and leaves. Around base, the soldiers are living their lives: running laps, returning from missions, walking side-by-side to their meetings. Ghost walks alone, skull balaclava on his face and black duffel on his shoulder. He’ll get a ride to the nearest airport where he’ll board a commercial flight back to the UK. Ghost hasn’t missed his dinghy apartment in Northern England, but it’s not like he has much choice.
He’s made it about halfway over the tarmac when a familiar voice stops him.
“L.t.!”
Ghost turns. Soap is running towards him at full speed, waving frantically. Just the sight of him alive and well makes Ghost warm all the way to his fingertips.
“L.t.,” Soap says, slowing to a stop in front of him. He’s panting, his hair mussed and eyes wild. Ghost waits while he leans on his knees, catching his breath. “L.t.. You’re leavin’?”
“Yes, Johnny. I am.”
“Fuckin’ hell, mate,” Soap says. “Bleedin’ fucking Jesus. Ye didn’t need to do that for me. Makarov was a provocative cunt, aye, but that doesn’t mean ye had to put a knife in him.”
“Wasn’t provoked,” Ghost says, but finds he can’t continue without explaining the entire debacle with his dreams. Soap’s eyes are an even more vivid blue out here in the daylight. “Here. Gimme your hand.”
Soap’s brows knit together, but he does as he’s told. Ghost uncaps the black eyeliner he keeps in the duffel’s outer pocket—emergencies only—and writes an address onto Soap’s palm. When he’s done, he covers it again with the edge of Soap’s glove. To keep it out of sight of others.
“What was that?” Soap asks. He’s still frowning. “Yer address?”
“Maybe,” Ghost smirks. Soap’s mouth is hanging just the slightest bit open. Before Ghost knows the word for it, he’s crashed into Ghost’s chest, hugging both arms around his waist. Ghost links an arm around his shoulders, laying his free hand on Soap’s head where it presses against his chest.
“I’ll miss ye, L.t.,” Soap whispers.
“Three months, Johnny,” Ghost says, but his voice is unstable. “And you have my address.”
“I’ll come by,” Soap says, leaning back. He’s got his determined face on. “I swear. I’ll talk to Price.”
Ghost hums, stroking a thumb over Soap’s jawline. I did it for you, he wants to say. I killed him for you. And I’d do it again, if it meant I could have you like this one more time.
“Ghost,” Soap says. “I…”
But Ghost shushes him, puts a finger to his lips. “Save it, Johnny. No need to rush anything. This isn’t the end.”
No, indeed. This is only the beginning.