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The beauty of Southern Italy feels like a cruel joke.
Sunlight glints off the sea, the breeze is warm and heavy with salt—but to John "Soap" Mactavish, nothing feels peaceful. Nothing feels pretty.
Below their temporary base, waves slam against the jagged cliffs. The old fortress they’ve repurposed groans with age, steeped in damp and decay. The locals keep their distance. The enemy is a spectre, always near, never seen.
Each day blurs into the next—a slow, suffocating rhythm of waiting, tension, and the sudden crack of violence.
Soap throws himself into the work.
Recon. Extra patrols. Gear checks.
Anything to keep his hands busy, his thoughts at bay.
The others notice, but no one says anything.
The exhaustion creeps in anyway.
Mistakes start piling up—fumbling his kit, zoning out during briefings. His hands shake when they shouldn’t.
And at night, when the adrenaline fades, the thoughts come crawling in.
The silence is the worst part.
His room is as spartan as every other barracks he’s called home. A cot, a desk, a duffel shoved under the bed. Sea air seeps through the stone walls—warm, but not comforting.
The routine helps.
Wake. Train. Prep. Patrol. Repeat.
It keeps him moving, but lately, it’s not enough.
He sits on the edge of his cot, rolling the corner of a bandage between his fingers.
Fresh wrappings cover his forearms—large, methodical lines hidden beneath sleeves and tape.
The pain is quiet; constant. A distant echo compared to the storm in his head.
His journal lies open. A new page, messily scrawled:
“At a certain point, the pain outweighs any and all joy.
I'm never going to get better, am I?
She broke me completely—before I even had the chance to form.
I feel so terrifyingly unwell. Sick.
I wish someone would fight for me. Care enough to get me help.
I hate myself so entirely.
Every day I consider suicide. I’m in so much pain.”
A knock at the door jolts him. He drops the bandage like it burns.
“Soap, you alive in there?”
Gaz’s voice is light, teasing. “Price wants us downstairs in ten.”
“Aye,” Soap calls back, tone too steady to be real. “Be right there.”
He pulls his sleeves down. Flexes his fingers. Shakes off the sting.
No time for this.
There’s work to do.
The briefing room is dim, the silence filled only by the rustle of paper and the distant crash the sea. Ghost sits across from him, mask lifted just enough to sip tea.
He looks like hell, exhausted and annoyed.
Soap talks to fill the space, running on autopilot.
“—so I tell him, ‘Mate, if you’re gonna sneak up on me, at least don’t sound like a herd of bloody elephants.’ What does he do? Trips over his own feet and nearly takes me out. I swear, the new recruits—”
“Don’t be fuckin' stupid, Johnny.”
Ghost’s voice cuts him off—sharp, colder than he means.
Soap freezes. Mid-sentence, mid-breath.
His eyes go wide, then drop.
The colour drains from his face so fast Ghost thinks he might pass out.
The room stills.
Soap’s fists curl in his lap. His posture shrinks.
“Johnny,” Ghost says, softer now. “What—”
“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”
Soap cuts him off. His voice is flat, brittle. The warmth gone.
“Don’t give me that,” Ghost snaps, but there’s hesitation now. Uncertainty.
Soap doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look up.
Not defiance—Ghost realises that too late.
Fear.
Genuine, gut-punching fear.
Ghost has seen Soap walk through gunfire without flinching. This is different. Something deeper, something settled in his soul.
Soap stands abruptly. The chair screeches across the floor.
His eyes meet Ghost’s—strained, guilty, panicked.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, already turning. “Sorry.”
He’s gone before anyone can stop him.
A shocked silence falls upon the remaining three men.
“What the fuck was that?” Price asks, baffled.
Ghost barely whispers, “I don’t… I don’t know.”
Gaz, ever the emotionally intelligent one, glances between them. “Do we check on him, or give him space?”
Price sighs heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “Go and apologise, Simon. He looked bloody terrified.”
Soap stumbles down the hallway, barely seeing.
His breath stutters—shallow, rapid.
Hands trembling, he presses them to the stone walls. Tries to ground himself.
It doesn’t help.
Ghost’s words echo, as sharp as a slap.
“Don’t be fuckin' stupid, Johnny.”
Too loud. Too close.
The words drag him somewhere else—somewhere old and cruel.
A house that reeked of hopelessness. A voice just like that.
He can’t breathe.
His knees hit the floor before he even realises he’s falling.
Fingers tangled in his hair, nails biting his scalp.
He curls in on himself. Needs to move. Needs to get out of his skin—
Footsteps.
Steady. Heavy.
A familiar voice, careful, pushes through the panic.
“Johnny.”
Soap flinches.
“Hey. It’s alright.”
Ghost crouches nearby. Not close enough to trap him.
His voice is softer. The edge is gone. “I didn’t mean—” He stops, exhales. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
Soap tries. Fails.
“Can’t—fuck—can’t breathe—”
“You can.” Ghost stays grounded, hands visible. “In for four. Out for four.”
Soap stares at the ground, chest heaving.
Pain flares in his arms as he digs his nails into the bandages beneath his sleeves. It helps. Keeps him tethered.
Ghost watches, helpless. Furious—at himself.
He’s seen panic. But this isn’t battlefield fear.
This is personal.
This is Soap, cracking at the seams.
“Focus on my voice,” Ghost says again. “You’re here. With me. We're friends, Johnny. You’re safe.”
Time passes.
Eventually, Soap’s breathing slows. Shaky, but steady enough.
He still won’t look up.
“I shouldn’t have snapped,” Ghost admits. “Didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”
“Not your fault,” Soap rasps. “Just… dumb brain.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t brush it off.”
Soap lets out a broken laugh, finally glancing up. Eyes red. Shoulders sagging.
“Didn’t expect you to be such a mother hen.”
Ghost huffs. “Don’t get used to it.”
Soap shifts, rubbing at his arms. Ghost sees it—too-long sleeves, too-tight grip.
“We could talk about it,” Ghost offers, awkward but sincere. “If you want.”
Soap shakes his head fast. “No thanks.” His voice is too quick, too desperate.
Ghost clears his throat. “Okay. Are you alright to go back?”
Soap sighs, wearing a tired smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Yeah. I need the distraction.”
Later that night, Soap sits alone in his room. The fortress breathes with the sea—soft creaks, distant waves, the occasional cry of gulls that sound like someone screaming through clenched teeth. The air is thick with salt and damp, a heavy, persistent presence that settles into the stone walls and presses down on his chest.
He doesn’t mind it. It’s the only thing that feels constant.
He picks up his journal again. The leather is worn where his thumb always rests, the pages warped from the dampness of his skin. The weight of the pen in his hand feels familiar, grounding, but it does nothing to quell the hurricane inside him. His fingers curl around the pages, a knot in his stomach tightening. The familiar words, the ones he writes like a prayer, start to spill out.
He writes:
"Was I raised without love?
Or was I born unloveable?"
"The cage is open. You can walk out anytime you want.
Why are you still in there?"
"Grieving, grieving, constantly grieving.
I mourn what I could have been.
What will not be.
What I can’t save."
"I am the shape you made me.
Filth teaches filth."
He stares at the black ink as it sinks into the page, words bleeding at the edges like they’re trying to escape. His chest feels tight, his throat dry. The silence in the room is crushing. The pages blur before his eyes, the ink a dark smear on the paper.
His pen hovers. Hesitates.
"I want to be touched without flinching.
I want someone to look at me and know.
Not ask, not guess—know.
And stay anyway."
He keeps quotes like these to write down when that deep sadness consumes him, drives him mad. But there’s something deeper, a place he’s not willing to go. Not tonight. Not ever, really. The ache in his chest is dull but constant—like a bruise that never fades, only deepens.
He closes the journal slowly. Sets it down like it might shatter. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, as though the journal itself has absorbed the truth of what’s been written inside it. The truth that no one knows, not even his team. He pulls his knees up to his chest on the cot. Wraps his arms around them, and for a brief moment, he’s a child again. A boy trying to shield himself from the world. From the things that happened behind closed doors. The blankets smell like dust. The room is too quiet again.
He doesn’t cry. He’s past that. He learned long ago that tears don’t solve anything. They don’t take away the suffocating weight of the past, the relentless cycle of memories that claw at him from the inside.
It’s something colder now. A grief with nowhere left to go.
He used to sit like this… afterwards. After the screaming stopped. After the storm inside that house quieted just enough to feel dangerous again. He can still hear it. The relentless, gnashing roar of his mother’s voice, shrill and scathing. The way she could tear him down with just a look, a word. He remembers the silence that followed, the kind of silence that felt like it was drowning them all. And then, the quiet crying of his sister. Soft, stifled, as though even her sobs might set something off. He always wanted to reach out. To comfort her. But the fear had already set in. They were both trapped in that cage of their mother’s making.
He curls in tighter, arms locking around himself like armour. The coldness of the room presses in, but it’s nothing compared to the chill in his bones. He’s never been able to escape it, no matter how far he runs, how much blood he spills on the battlefield.
But she’s not here. And he’s not in that house anymore.
His mother can’t hurt them anymore.
And yet…
The house still lives inside him. The memories, the weight, the fear. It clings to him like a second skin, one he can’t peel off no matter how hard he tries. The rules, the unspoken expectations, the constant threat of her shifting moods. He could never predict her. Some days she would be almost loving, as though nothing had ever happened. Others, she would be a monster. And it always came without warning. The violence. The way she would lash out, like a beast backed into a corner, screaming in tongues no one could understand.
But all the while, no one came. No one stepped in. No one intervened. His father was too lost in his own depression to help. Too broken to stand up, to say anything. It wasn’t just their house that was broken. It was everything. The town, the people. Mental illness wasn’t something you talked about. It was a whisper. A secret. A curse. And it wasn’t treated. It was endured. It was survived.
Soap learned to survive. He learned to make himself useful. Or invisible. He learned to soothe her when he could, to survive her when he couldn’t.
He learned to read the air like weather. The weight of the house, the weight of his mother’s mood. He learned to soften his voice. To hold his sister's hand under the table and smile when neighbours asked if everything was alright at home.
It was never alright. And somehow, it never would be.
He sits there now, in the dark, his breath shaking, barely held together by sheer force of will. It takes everything not to crumble into the abyss, to let the weight of the past swallow him whole.
A knock at the door startles him. It's soft, hesitant.
“Johnny?”
Ghost.
The sound of his voice—low, familiar—strikes something in Soap’s chest, a soft ache that flares up before he can suppress it. He doesn’t answer. He’s not sure he can. Not yet. Not when his own breath feels like a betrayal, fragile and shallow.
There’s a longer pause, and then:
“I brought tea.”
A quiet clink—ceramic on wood. Ghost has set it down on the desk. No demands. No expectations. Just presence. Soap doesn’t look up, doesn’t move. But the weight of the moment presses in, a tension that sits between them, thick and unspoken. Soap’s heart beats harder now, like it knows something he doesn’t want to admit.
Ghost shifts, moving slowly, carefully, as though giving Soap space. Soap can feel him lingering in the doorway, waiting, but he doesn’t know what for. He hears him take a step closer, and his breath hitches just slightly.
“Johnny,” Ghost says again, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready. But I’m here.”
Soap's chest tightens, and for a second, it feels like the walls around him are closing in. The suffocating loneliness. The darkness. The silence. He should say something, anything. But the words get stuck, choked on the bitterness he hasn’t yet been able to swallow.
Finally, he shifts, his hands gripping the edges of the cot, the motion hesitant and shaky. He doesn’t speak, but he can feel Ghost watching him—waiting. There’s no judgment in that gaze, just… concern. But it’s more than that. It’s care, and it makes Soap’s throat tighten in a way that leaves him speechless.
Ghost, sensing the shift, moves closer, still cautious. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, Johnny. But I need you to know that you’re not alone. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Soap’s hand curls into a fist. He wants to speak, to tell him everything that’s eating away at him, to voice the thoughts that have been clawing at his mind for days. But he can’t. Not now. Not like this.
“You…” Soap’s voice cracks, weak and hoarse. He tries again, swallowing thickly. “You don’t know. You don’t understand.”
“I don’t have to understand to be here,” Ghost says, his tone steady, reassuring. “And I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to leave you alone in this.”
Soap’s eyes sting. He wants to fight it. Wants to push him away because letting someone this close—letting someone care—feels like a weakness he can’t afford. But Ghost’s voice is warm, his presence solid, and Soap finds himself shaking his head, as though trying to push away something he needs more than he’s willing to admit.
But Ghost is relentless in his calm. He sits next to Soap, close but not too close. Just enough to feel the warmth between them, to let Soap know he’s there. The silence hangs in the air between them, but this time it feels different. Not like the suffocating silence of solitude. No, this is something softer.
“I’m…” Soap starts, but the words fall apart before they reach his mouth. He can’t explain. Not now. Not with the weight of everything pressing down on him, making every word feel like a burden too heavy to bear.
Ghost doesn’t press. He just waits.
For a long moment, neither of them speak. Soap feels like he might implode, the space between them full of all the things he can’t say. All the things he hasn’t let anyone see. But there’s something in Ghost’s stillness—his unwavering patience—that keeps Soap tethered to the present.
Soap takes a shuddering breath, his chest tight. “I don’t know how to… how to be okay anymore.”
Ghost nods, his voice gentle. “I know. But you don’t have to figure it all out right now. Not tonight. Just… let me be here. Let me be the one you lean on. You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”
Soap looks down at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap. The tension in his chest makes it hard to breathe, hard to think. He doesn’t know if he can keep holding on much longer. But then he feels Ghost shift, closer still, the warmth of his presence almost too much to bear.
And then, Ghost speaks again, his voice low and steady, “I won’t push you. I won’t force you to talk, Johnny. But… you don’t have to keep everything locked away. You can lean on me. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
“I don’t…” Soap starts, but the words get stuck again. He closes his eyes, fighting the tears that threaten to rise, and finally, his voice cracks, a whisper more to himself than anyone else. “I don’t know how to let go of it.”
“You don’t have to let go of it all at once,” Ghost says softly. “You just have to let someone help carry it. Even if it’s just a little.”
Soap’s heart races in his chest. He doesn’t know how to handle this. How to handle the tenderness in Ghost’s voice, the promise in the quiet of his words. But he doesn’t want to be alone anymore. He doesn’t want to face this darkness on his own. Not when Ghost is here.
He slowly turns, his body moving of its own accord, and before he even realises what he’s doing, he reaches out.
And Ghost is there, arms open, wrapping him in the kind of embrace Soap didn’t know he could still need. It’s not forceful or rushed. It’s just steady, and Soap allows himself to sink into it, his face buried against Ghost’s chest. His hands grip onto the fabric of Ghost’s shirt, as though trying to anchor himself to something real, something solid.
“Thank you,” Soap whispers, his voice trembling.
“No need to thank me,” Ghost says, his voice soft in his ear. “I’m not going anywhere, Johnny.”
They sit there together, wrapped in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence, the only sound between them the steady rhythm of their breaths. And for the first time, Soap lets himself believe—just for tonight—that he might be able to hold on.
Ghost holds him there, close, his arms strong but gentle, and Soap lets himself sink into the embrace, feeling the tension in his body melt away with each second. Ghost’s warmth presses against him, and Soap realises he’s never felt this safe—this unconditionally cared for.
Time slips by, the silence wrapping around them like a blanket. They don’t speak. There’s nothing left to say.
And so they stay like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, until the quiet of the night shifts to the soft light of the morning. Neither of them moves, neither of them speaks. Soap’s body is heavy with exhaustion, but it’s a peaceful weight. His head rests against Ghost’s chest, and he can hear the steady beat of Ghost’s heart beneath his ear, a constant reassurance.
But after that, nothing feels like relief anymore. Everything feels too terrifying.
Soap wakes, eats, patrols, trains, and sleeps—or pretends to. One day bleeds into the next with the same grey static. The same empty weight in his chest that no amount of gunfire or mission prep can chase out. The hollow feeling never goes away. It only grows stronger.
He doesn’t journal anymore. The words feel pointless. Too heavy. Like dragging his thoughts through molasses. He can’t even bring himself to write them down, because it would only make them more real. The pain. The grief. The weight of everything he’s lost.
He’s stopped trying to convince himself that he’s okay. Even pretending feels exhausting now. The lie wears him out. The mask slips, cracks, and every time it does, a little more of him is exposed.
But he keeps moving. Keeps volunteering. Keeps his smile tucked in the corners of his mouth like an old photo—faded, bent, not quite real. He can’t stop. It’s all he knows. All he’s ever known. Just keep going. Keep pretending. It’s easier than facing what’s inside.
The others still don’t push. Ghost watches him with quiet worry, but says nothing. Kyle checks in with subtle jokes and light touches on the arm. Price keeps him busy with the work.
Soap keeps going. That’s what he’s good at. But the sea… The sea is different. It’s the only thing that feels real anymore.
It’s constant. Always just below the base, crashing against the cliffs with a rhythm like a pulse—one that doesn’t falter, doesn’t ask anything of him.
At first, he just listens to it. Sits on the stone ledge at night and lets the sound wash over him. He can hear the roar of the waves crashing against the cliffs, the relentless pulse of the ocean. It’s like the beating of his own heart. It calms him, in a way. Soothes the parts of him that feel like they’re constantly falling apart.
Then he starts walking down. Past the fence, down the slope, to the narrow beach cove the others don’t bother with.
He stands at the edge with his boots off, letting the waves lap at his feet. Cold, then colder. He watches the moonlight ripple across the black surface, and for the first time in days, weeks, maybe longer, he feels a sense of quiet. A calm that settles into his bones. He thinks about silence. About weightlessness. About disappearing without violence. Not running. Not even dying. Just stopping.
It becomes a routine.
He goes every night now. Quiet. Careful. He times it so no one will follow. The others don’t notice. They think he’s just out on another patrol. Just another mission, just another moment of quiet.
The sea starts to talk back, in its way. In the pull of the tide. The hush of waves pulling sand from beneath his toes. The stillness it offers.
It would be easy, he thinks. Just keep walking.
Some nights, he tests it. He walks in up to his knees. Then his thighs. Lets the tide push against him, drag a little harder. Wonders how far he’d have to go before he stopped feeling cold. Before the water swallowed him whole.
It’s a mission that pushes him past the edge.
Nothing goes wrong. Not technically. No one dies. But there’s a building—too familiar. A woman screaming in another language that sounds close enough to his mother’s voice that his knees lock up. The fear grips him again, tight around his chest, and he can’t breathe. Not really.
He finishes the mission. Debriefs. Laughs at a joke Gaz makes. He goes through the motions. But that night, when the lights go out, he doesn’t even pretend to sleep.
He gets up. Dresses slowly. Leaves the journal open on his desk, a blank page facing up.
He doesn’t leave a note.
The sand is cool beneath his feet. The tide is low, the water still.
There’s no moon tonight. Just starlight and the endless, yawning black ahead.
Soap steps into the surf.
No shoes. No armour. No weight but his own.
The coolness of the water is immediate, biting at his skin, but it's nothing compared to the weight that has been pressing on him, crushing him from the inside for as long as he can remember. He doesn’t flinch as the waves lap at his bare feet, but they feel foreign, like they belong to someone else, somewhere else. The rhythm of the sea is calming, a slow pulse he thinks he can lose himself in.
He walks slowly, each step careful, each one a small release. The sand shifts beneath him, damp from the tide, clinging to his feet, but he doesn’t feel it. He’s lost to the sound of the waves, the steady crash against the rocks in the distance, the pull of the ocean beckoning him closer.
The water reaches his ankles. Cold. But still, he doesn’t stop. He steps forward.
The water surges over his shins. The bite of the cold is sharper now, the sea creeping higher, pulling at his legs like it’s trying to claim him. But the pain is a dull hum, a small thing. He keeps walking. Each step a tiny surrender, like he's laying down every piece of himself, one by one.
His thighs are next, the water lapping at his skin like a thousand cold fingers wrapping around him, pressing into him. The waves hit harder now, the current pulling with a growing force. But he doesn't hesitate. Not once.
The only sound is the rush of the sea, growing louder, wrapping around him, filling his ears and drowning out the noise in his head. Each wave pulls at him, beckoning him to keep moving forward, deeper, further away from everything. Away from the fortress. Away from the team. Away from the pain.
His breath catches at the cold as the water reaches his waist, but he doesn’t turn back. He won’t. He can’t. His chest tightens, but it isn’t the cold that grips him; it’s the weight of everything he’s been carrying, the years of grief and regret, of never being enough. Never being seen. Never being loved. It presses down on him harder than the waves, suffocating him with every step.
He pauses, his feet sinking into the soft, wet sand beneath the water, but it doesn’t matter. Each step drags more than the last, as if the sea itself is swallowing him whole, erasing him with each pull, with each surge of water. The world behind him fades. The fortress. The base. The noise in his head. Everything that’s ever held him in place slips away like water through his fingers. His name feels distant now, like it belongs to someone he used to be—someone he’ll never be again.
There’s no drama. No tears. Just the quiet of the sea, the peaceful rhythm of its movement. He doesn't need anything else. He doesn’t want anything else. Not anymore.
This is fine, he thinks, a whisper against the crashing waves. I’m not afraid.
He keeps walking, deeper into the water, the current growing stronger, tugging at him. The waves crash over his chest now, pulling at his breath, but he doesn’t care. His body moves like it’s on autopilot, each step toward the depths a release, a shedding of the last parts of himself he’s been holding on to for far too long.
When the water reaches his neck, he stops. He doesn’t need to go further. There’s no need to fight it. The ocean is vast, infinite, and it offers the silence he’s longed for.
No one is here to pull him back. No one will stop him. He closes his eyes and lets the water rush over him, his head submerged, his chest sinking beneath the surface.
The world becomes a blur of dark water and the faint, distant sound of his own heartbeat, the only rhythm left to him. His breath is shallow, his chest tight with the weight of what he’s doing. He feels the world slipping away from him—his mother, his failures, everything that has bound him.
For a moment, he tries to go further, steps unsure but determined, the ocean pulling him deeper. His feet leave the ground. He’s floating now, fully submerged, surrounded by nothing but dark water. He opens his eyes. All he sees is the never-ending blue, the endless stretch of the ocean, as if it could consume him completely.
It’s peaceful. It’s quiet. It’s everything he’s been searching for.
But then something shifts. The oxygen, once cool and crisp in his lungs, becomes painful. He let's it out, and automatically breathes in. His chest tightens painfully, the water pressing against him, flooding his throat. Panic rises like a shadow, thick and suffocating. His arms begin to flail, but there’s no ground beneath him. No solid surface to push off from. The water is all around him now, relentless, and he’s running out of air.
His mind starts to unravel in the silence. The peacefulness cracks, replaced by a desperate need for air. His body jerks as the panic surges within him, but he can’t find the surface. The water floods his lungs, cold and unforgiving, and the world starts to dim. The pressure on his chest is unbearable. His vision blurs, the edges darkening as he sinks deeper.
The pull of the ocean is the only thing left, and it’s all-consuming. He doesn’t fight anymore. His body is too tired. Too worn out to resist. The darkness pulls him under, and he lets it. The quiet is so absolute now, the silence so deep.
And then, just when the world is slipping away completely, he feels it.
A hand. Firm, pulling him, steady against the weight of the water. The presence is overwhelming, the warmth of it like a lifeline. A rope thrown into the depths. He doesn't hear Ghost's voice, but he feels it—the solid grip, the sudden pressure, life pulling him back from the brink.
Soap’s body goes limp, the fight gone, but the hand doesn’t let him fall.
Ghost pulls him up, his grip tight, fingers digging into Soap’s wet, cold skin. His movements are frantic, panicked, desperate. Soap is weightless, his limbs heavy. The waves crash around them, an unforgiving reminder of how close he came to being lost in the dark abyss. But Ghost won’t let him go. He drags him to the shore, every movement shaking with urgency.
Soap chokes, splutters, his lungs burning as saltwater mingles with the blood in his throat. He coughs up the briny, metallic mixture, gasping for air as his body fights against the tremors that have taken over him.
“Come on, Johnny, don’t fuckin’ die on me,” Ghost’s voice is sharp, frantic, but there’s a crack in it—something raw and fragile that doesn’t belong with the usual unshakable confidence he carries. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t let go. Not once.
Soap’s head lolls to the side, his vision blurred by the salt in his eyes, the burn in his chest. He’s not sure if he’s still alive, or if he’s in some kind of limbo between the world he left behind and whatever comes next.
But Ghost doesn’t give him the luxury of drifting off.
"Johnny," Ghost whispers his name again, voice lower, strained. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.” There’s a tremor in his voice now, unsteady, like he's barely holding it together. His gloved hands press against Soap’s ribs, trying to steady him, to anchor him back to the land, back to reality. “I didn’t… I didn’t notice how bad it was. I should’ve seen it.”
Soap’s body is so heavy now. Every breath feels like it could be his last, and yet Ghost’s hand, warm against his skin, keeps him tethered. Keeps him anchored in the present, even as his own mind tries to slip away again.
Ghost’s face is close, hovering just above him. Soap’s vision clears for a second, just enough to catch a glimpse of him. His mask is off, revealing the exhaustion that has settled in his features. His brows are furrowed, eyes wide with an emotion Soap doesn’t know how to place. Guilt. Fear. Something else that’s buried so deep it can’t be expressed in words. The veins in his neck are tight with strain, and Soap realises that Ghost’s breath is just as shaky as his own.
“I should’ve been there,” Ghost mutters, his voice tight with the weight of his own self-loathing. “I should’ve known you were drowning inside. I should’ve seen the signs. I should’ve fucking been there for you.”
Soap barely manages a breath, but he turns his head just enough to meet Ghost’s eyes, blurry as they are.
“Don’t… don’t blame yourself,” Soap croaks, his voice barely audible. He forces out a laugh, weak and hoarse. “I didn’t… I didn’t want anyone to see.”
Ghost's face crumples for a second, like he’s holding something back—something more than guilt. His fingers grip Soap’s shoulder, tightening in a desperate attempt to keep him grounded.
“I should’ve noticed, Johnny. I—” He stops himself, the words breaking off before they can form properly. His voice cracks, and for a moment, Ghost doesn’t seem like the same man who faces down enemies with cold calculation. He’s just… human. Fragile, in this moment, like Soap. Like they both are.
Soap doesn’t have the strength to comfort him, but he tries anyway. He reaches up with trembling fingers, brushing against Ghost’s cheek weakly, his hand cold and shaking.
“Ghost, it’s… not your fault. You didn’t—" His words die in his throat as he gasps for air again. His chest is too tight, lungs too rough.
Ghost’s hands move to Soap’s face then, wiping away the water and blood from his mouth, his touch so careful it almost feels like a prayer. Ghost leans in, just close enough that their foreheads touch, their breath mingling in the damp air. Soap feels the warmth of his presence like a shield, a shield that has saved him, even if it’s only for now.
“You think I’m letting you go after this?” Ghost’s voice is rough, but there’s a quiet certainty in it now. "You’re stuck with me, Johnny. I’m not leaving you. Not ever."