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Near this spot are deposited the remains of one
Who possessed beauty without vanity
Strength without insolence
Courage without ferocity
And all the virtues of man with none of his vices.
- Introduction to Lord Byron's Epitaph to a Dog, by John Hobhouse
There’s an animal somewhere, making a horrible sound. A horrible hoarse whining cry, like it’s been going on for hours. It’s awful - Soap doesn’t know why no one’s doing anything about it. He tries to say so- LT, that poor beast, you hear it? And instead he opens his mouth and hacks out a gout of hot arterial blood, and his teeth are too long and his mouth is the wrong shape, and there’s blood matting down his hair and he can’t see and that animal sound is him, oh fuck oh fuck.
Soap wakes up inside an old maintenance tunnel under the Channel, whining and pawing frantically at his skull as a bullet works its way out, slowly, excruciatingly. Ghost, he tries to scrape out, and then his skull explodes in white-hot pain and Soap howls and blacks out.
***
The thing is, Soap wasn’t keeping a secret from the service, his team, his LT. He wasn’t.
Soap’s got at best seven fucking percent of the relevant DNA, because his family had to keep track of those things. Soap’s doesn't remember exactly, but he's pretty sure he’s four generations diluted. He should not be able to do this.
Well, there might have been his great-grandfather, who disappeared in the war and then his unit got a K9 who won the Dickin Medal. Soap might be starting to connect some dots there.
***
He can't change back.
Soap wakes up in a cramped, dripping space. He thinks he might have crawled behind the tunnel wall and his ribs are heaving, and he's panting fast, can't get enough air. Turns out a panic attack feels like a panic attack whether he's a dog or a person, and right now Soap is losing it.
I want to turn back, I have to turn back, he thinks, but he can't see past his own nose and he can hear his claws scratching at the concrete under him as he thrashes, and he can't catch his breath and it is genuinely possible that Soap's going to die here, trapped in a wall under the Channel, in this cold and lonely place and no one is going to know what happened to him.
Breathe , Johnny.
It's some baseline wiring in Soap's brain, clearly, starved for oxygen and trying to save his life, but it sounds so much like Ghost, Ghost’s throaty rasp coming calm and unflappable on a radio frequency Soap’s brain only picks up when he’s dying, and then Soap's whole, stingingly tight rib cage suddenly unlocks and he can finally breathe in.
It takes him a long time to breathe himself back to something like composure. He can hear himself panting, coming down from a terrifying pace to something closer to normal. Ah, fuck me, he wants to say, emphatically, and all that he manages is a high-pitched whine.
Soap's in pain, he’s fucked up, he doesn’t know where he is or where his team is, he’s pretty sure Markarov shot him in the head and he's a dog. He doesn't know how to fix this. He wants out of here, he wants his dinner, a drink of whiskey and Ghost, in that order. He doesn’t have any of those things, and he’s so far from getting any of them that Soap doesn’t even want to think about it.
Well if that’s what ye want, Soap thinks, ye’d better get started on what ye can do.
***
It’s not easy to get from the Channel back to Credenhill. He’s still in pretty bad shape. All that time spent holed up, licking his wounds. He’s weaker than he likes, and hungry, and he makes his way across half the country based on smell.
It’s dizzying, hard to process, so much sensory information he’s not used to, and it’s hard to see. Soap knew, in general, that dogs have about half the visual acuity of humans, and could only see a couple of colours, but it’s so hard to adjust. He keeps trying to focus, but everything is shades of burning yellows and foreboding bluish-greys, and his distance vision is shot.
But the smells, Christ it’s a lot to process. And the sensitivity - it was days before he hauled himself out of his hiding spot, and he could still smell Ghost, the salt, leather, blood and gun oil smell of him. Just the barest edge of him, of home, still hanging in the air.
And somehow, that was enough to ground him, because it was Ghost. His LT, his friend. Everything that's true on paper and Soap will go to his grave swearing is the truth.
And it is, but it's not the whole truth. Honestly, Las Almas was where it really got out of hand for Soap. Soap remembers waking up in the jostling truck, miles outside the city in the dark, exhausted and banged up, the gunshot wound in his arm throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Ghost had been driving like a maniac, but he'd flickered his gaze towards him, burning brown eyes in the dark. Good lad, Johnny, he'd murmured, and Soap, caught in that floating fuzziness between total exhaustion and blood loss, had the real bad feeling that the absolute blinding loyalty that he'd felt towards his LT might, just possibly, be shading into the sort of feelings Soap wasn’t ever gonna recover from.
Soap might have been embarrassed about the intensity of it all, if he'd ever bothered having any dignity about Ghost, which he hadn't. What would have been the point? It was always Ghost, right from the jump. He watches Soap's back and saves his life and he tells stupid, awful jokes when Soap desperately needs to hear his stupid raspy voice on the radio. He can hit a target at two miles in high winds and he'll hop in the sparring ring to play rough together whenever Soap asks, and often when he doesn’t. He's beautiful, his big body, his long, capable fingers, his easy competent strength- Soap didn't even need to see his face because it didn't matter. He's Ghost. Christ, Soap never stood a fucken chance. Ghost could whistle, and Soap would come running.
They're basically a call-and-answer anyway. You with me, Johnny? says Ghost, and Johnny says, on the beat, You know it , LT. And what he means is always, Ghost, and also, from now until the day I catch a bullet.
He just didn't expect to ever be here after catching said bullet.
***
How do you tell a dog from an SAS sergeant?
Soap's been trying to think of a punchline, but so far, all he's got is a dog’s gotta shit in the woods and bury it slightly more often than an SAS Sergeant.
Ghost, he thinks, would be able to come up with a better one.
***
There's a column of recruits going by at a slow jog.
“Look, it’s the dog,” says Private Murphy, and, because no one is riding herd on the children, they literally all turn to look at once. “It’s fucking smart, it hides when the brass call the RSPCA in. They dunno how it keeps getting in.”
Soap had been loping along the trail trying to flush a rabbit, and hadn’t been expecting this.
Private McKenna swipes at the back of Murphy’s head. “You think it’s funny, they got us doubled up on patrols? Aye, because the best and the brightest of Britain can’t keep a dog out of a supposedly secure military base?”
No one can quite figure him out. As far as Soap can tell with his limited visibility but surprisingly good flexibility, he looks something like a bulked-out deerhound, with a wiry coat and thick chest and strong haunches. He's got big teeth. He knows he’s fast. And he’s not sure how high he can jump, but it’s at least high enough to scramble up and over the fence by the east gate, because that's how he keeps getting in.
And because he’s annoyed at being perceived, he barks, and breaks into a fast trot along the field’s edge. Then he circles behind them and starts herding them, just for a moment. The way it makes the recruits break back into a brisk jog is honestly pretty gratifying.
“Christ, look at the size of him,” and “we're supposed to report it if we see him,” and, “if you want to tell Sergeant Garrick we didn't finish the run because the dog was too scary, by all fucking means go ahead, Murph. Lemme know when he finishes ripping your cock out through your arsehole.”
That last one makes his ears perk up and his tail twitch. Gaz.
***
Soap doesn't really have a plan here. He made it back to Credenhill more or less riding the tight line of panic, but now that he's here, he really isn't sure what to do.
Seriously, what's he supposed to do? Start barking in Morse code? Hey it's Soap not dead just dog? He’ll get run out of here for the noise in five minutes flat. Christ, if anyone gets even a little bit wise to him- anyone could get their hands on him and, what if all they know is that something isn't right about him? Soap’s got a horrifying feeling he might end up sedated in some medical lab. Anything could happen to him.
Soap sits on his haunches and scratches his ear morosely. His claws catch in a knot of fur and it startles a fucken whimper out of him. He doesn't know what to do. Getting back to his team, to Ghost, that had been the extent of the plan. But now what?
He's tired. He's been hungry for long enough that it's settled into a distant ache low in his gut. He’s been alone for weeks and he's still no closer to figuring out how to fix any of this.
Fuck! It comes out a frustrated yelp, but it does flush a fucking pheasant, so there is that.
***
It takes days to finally catch Gaz, and this time he’s finally managed it.
Gaz is sitting on the back steps of one of the outbuildings, his head resting in one hand. Gaz smells like argan oil and black coffee and comfort, and he blinks, eyes exhausted and wet-rimmed, as Soap bounds towards him. Gaz, holy shit, he wants to say, and fuck, Gaz looks so run down. Soap barks anxiously, getting tangled in his own legs, tail wagging frantically out of control.
“Holy shit,” says Gaz, like he read Soap's mind, and catches Soap's head as it collides with his chest. “Shit,” says Gaz. “The kids weren't lying, you're a big son of a bitch, huh?”
Gaz, he thinks, oh Christ mate I'm so happy to see you, you would not fucken believe this absolute shite. This translates to shimmying his whole body practically into Gaz’s lap, paws on his shoulders, nosing frantically at his face. Gaz almost topples backwards at the weight of him.
“Jesus!” But Gaz starts to laugh, a rusty chuckle. “Friendly fucker. You're skinny,” running a hand along his ribs. “What have you been eating out here?”
The answer is rabbits and garbage, mostly, but Gaz is touching him. It's the first time anyone's touched him in weeks, and it's Gaz. He starts panting and his tail starts wagging furiously, entirely outside his control. Gaz says, “Murphy’s full of shit,” and then, under his breath, “chased em’ on their run.” He picks at the fine matted hair under Soap's left ear, and frowns. “Good on you if you did, mate, they’re gonna have to learn to pick their fucking feet up.” His hand moves to Soap's head, behind his ears, and he scratches hard at the base of Soap's skull, and Soap's legs just collapse under him because it feels so good.
He flails for a second, getting up, and Gaz laughs again. “Look at those fucking mitts! How's a big fucker like you so good at sneaking around?”
Well Gaz, Soap thinks, a bit morosely, I learned it from the same big motherfuckers who taught you, and if I wasn't good I'd be dead already.
Gaz, he thinks. I think I was dead already.
***
The next night, Gaz reappears with one of the chafing dishes from the mess. Pretty sure it's the same nutritional profile as dog food anyway, Gaz tells him, bleakly humourous, as Soap wolfs down leftover shepherd’s pie so fast he nearly pukes.
***
The next night, Gaz comes out with dinner and with a metal comb and brush. “Hey mate,” says Gaz, and laughs when Soap inhales his dinner and then just lets himself topple over into Gaz’s side.
Carefully, Gaz puts the teeth of the comb into the worst of the mats, under his ear, and Soap thinks, oh Christ Gaz, thank you, because that's been starting to pull, that slow pressure that was going to turn into pain real soon, and when he doesn't go for the throat, Gaz keeps going, slowly picking away at the matting, working his way along. It hurts, but it's the kind of hurt that's going to feel good later. Gaz starts at the neck and works down, keeps working him over with the comb and the brush, and it literally takes him hours, but Gaz keeps at it, almost meditative.
It's honestly incredibly calming. Gaz doesn't say much- Ah, sorry ‘bout that mate, instinctively gentling when he pulls at a bad knot, and, Christ, you're literally green under here, the fuck you been rolling in?
The answer to that question is that, every so often, Soap finds something dead on the ground and then, abruptly, he discovers that he's rolling in it for absolutely no reason he can fathom.
“Mate, you're a good dog,” says Gaz, using the comb to pick at a knot sitting right at the back of his skull, where his mohawk would be tapering into the soft scruff of his neck. “Why the hell's someone letting you run around loose?”
Garrick, he thinks, a little bleakly, if I'd known this could happen I'da had ‘please return me to the 141’ tattooed inside my fucken ear, okay?”
After, he rolls onto his back in the grass next to Gaz, feeling like things are almost okay. He's had his dinner, he’s got Gaz here, now all he needs is that drink of whiskey and Ghost as well, and maybe not to be a fucken dog anymore but Soap's full for the first time in weeks and his coat feels great and he's feeling magnanimous.
And also it's Gaz. He's not expecting any threat from Gaz, which is why it's a shock when Gaz hooks him around the throat.
He thrashes, instinctively, for a second, but Gaz soothes, “Hey, it's okay! You’re okay, look mate, you're fine.”
It’s a collar. Gaz has rigged it out of one of their spare nylon drop straps with a flat buckle. He’s carefully fixing it around Soap's neck, sliding his fingers through to make sure there's enough slack. There's a tag hanging just below, with something scratched into the metal. He can’t read it, and Soap has got to stop trying to read things with his stupid dog vision, and this distracts him long enough that Gaz gets the collar fastened and adjusted.
Gaz pauses for a long moment and looks at it, and says, “Looking good, mate,” but it's quiet, unhappy. And okay, Gaz caught him a little flat-footed but Gaz is his best mate and he trusts Gaz, and he sounds officially too sad, so Soap tackles him, and makes him wrestle until Gaz is laughing again.
***
Gaz has clearly set a fucken precedent and Soap is well-versed at taking a mile when he gets an inch, which is how Gaz starts feeding him twice a day. Legitimately not like the kitchen has to change anything on the menu, Gaz tells him, but Soap has never in his fucken life been happier to eat mess scrambled eggs.
***
So he's feeling so much better, is the thing. Coat worked out all over, not desperate for his dinner, so it seems like it's a natural continuation of things going better that the next night, he finally spots Ghost.
Out in the dark, on the edge of the motor pool garage, well past where the recruits usually sneak away to smoke, it's Ghost. The unmistakable silhouette of him, big shoulders and the broken-off edges of his mask against the profile of his face. He's wearing the full hardshell, and the eyeblack, which isn't like him when they're on their own home turf.
He can't see Ghost properly like this. Soap had been probably as good as anyone alive at reading Ghost's moods and tells by his eyes, the minute ways his face holds tension. Soap's worked at getting good at it, and now he's lost it. But Christ, he can smell him.
Ghost’s scent swirls in the air and trails behind him, oversteeped black tea and gun oil and the salty brine of his sweat caught under his arms and between his shoulder blades and in the hollow of his back-
-and oh bleeding Jesus, he doesn't know how he smells this, but it's misery. It's coming off Ghost so hard that Soap nearly flinches away. Between that and the full skull, something is wrong.
So he's distracted, and it's his own fault, when he comes up on Ghost out of the dark and Ghost nearly kills him.
Ghost swings into him, big arm flashing out suddenly, so fast, all the murderous weight and muscle Ghost can put behind a blow. Soap slams on the brakes with all four paws and dodges back by the skin of his fucken pointed canine teeth. Bleeding hell, that would have broken bone if his centre of gravity wasn't lower than Ghost had been expecting.
Oh, Ghost is not okay. He's wound so tight, all that potential energy twisted up under pressure, that whatever sets him off, Soap is genuinely afraid someone's going to get hurt. Mother of Jesus, how'd Price let him get this bad? Soap whimpers, involuntary, and slinks closer.
From this angle, Ghost looks about ten feet tall. “Fuck off,” roars Ghost, and it takes everything Soap's got not to skitter away reflexively. This is Ghost. Ghost would never hurt him.
Ghost is glaring down at him, eyes glittering- he's as sleep-deprived as Soap's ever seen him. He smells like home and he's hanging on by his fucking fingernails, and Soap doesn't even think about it. He drops to his belly and crawls towards Ghost's boots. Not a threat, he thinks, thoughts tumbling out of control, a high whine climbing out of his throat. Ghost, it's me, please, it's safe. And then he lays his head, slowly and carefully, on Ghost's boot.
“What the fuck,” Ghost grinds out, mostly under his breath, but he doesn't kick Soap off.
“Hey,” barks Gaz, and Ghost's head swivels. Gaz is coming down the gravel grade at a fast clip and Ghost turns and fucken squares up.
Gaz and Ghost both look like they've been awake too long, pissed off, and are genuinely looking like they're about to fight each other. Soap feels like he's being crucified. He winds his long body between them, a barrier, a shield. Will both of you fuckers stop.
Okay, so that bark came out with his whole fucken chest. Soap is honestly impressed.
Both Gaz and Ghost freeze. Soap circles between them to maintain the space, but he does it once too often and his tail flashes across his vision and something completely, embarrassingly animal takes control over his brain because now Soap’s chasing his own tail.
Gaz cracks up. It's a horrible, wheezing cackle but it's a thousand times better than looking ready to murder Ghost. Ghost says, “What the fuck,” again, but he doesn't look like he's fully ready to murder Gaz or Soap anymore, so Soap is one hundred percent taking this for a fucken win and you can fight him about it.
***
So it's not a good situation. Soap is not going to bullshit himself about any of this.
But at the same time, it's also the first morning that Soap wakes up where his first thought isn't fucken bleeding crown of Christ I'm a dog. His whole plan’s done a one-eighty flip on its axis and Soap barely notices, because it's so instinctive. Forget about getting Ghost's help, Gaz’s help - his team needs his help.
Fortunately for him, this is when he somehow seamlessly transitions to being an indoor dog, because apparently no one wants to fight Gaz about it.
***
It's late, and Soap’s restless. He's been trotting along and has just politely accepted one quarter of a buttered carrot muffin from Sergeant Tapper, who's on the night shift and an absolute soft touch when it comes to dogs, when he sees the line of light under Price’s office door.
Soap eels his way through the door, which Price shouldn't have left open if he didn't want a big fucken dog to come in. Price looks up from his desk, the glow of computer monitors making his face ghostly and washed out in the dark.
Price sighs. It comes long and exhausted, from the depths of his chest. “Ah fuck,” he says. “The fuck did you come from, you great muppet?”
The answer is, from where he'd previously been lurking outside Ghost’s room like a fucken creeper, but Soap couldn't tell his captain that even if he wanted to, so instead he does a quick circuit of Price’s office, because Price's office smells incredibly interesting. And then he parks himself by Price's boots and because he's exhausted of everything and he can, he puts his big head on Price's knee.
Cap, he thinks. I'm sorta broken. It comes out as a pretty fucken pathetic whine, if he does say for himself.
“Christ, pooch,” says Price, like he can read Soap’s mind, and digs his thumbs into the grooves of Soap's skull. It feels great. “Dunno who's more pathetic.”
Soap would take that personally, ordinarily, because Price looks rough, like he's been getting as much sleep as Gaz and Ghost have. Honestly, apparently everyone on his team has just collectively lost their shit. Bad goddamn timing, to have it happen all at once. Maybe that's why Price is in his office in the deepest part of the night, surrounded by reports and files. Avoiding his bed, because he won't get any sleep. Soap knows the feeling.
But this looks like Price has settled in for the duration and that's no good, so Soap gives him a hard nudge with his snout, and then goes to the door meaningfully.
Price snorts. “You're supposed to be Garrick's responsibility, you know,” but he shoulders into his field jacket and tugs his beanie over his head, and follows Soap out.
Outside, the sky is just turning that deepest, darkest blue, stretching out the last of the night before dawn. It's cold, the ground prickling and sparkling with frost. Their breath smokes out behind them. Soap lopes along, circling back to Price every so often.
Price stops on the edge of the training field, staring up. He pulls a cigar out of the aluminum case in his pocket and strikes a match. The scent of burning Cuban tobacco, a reassuringly Price smell, floods the cold clear air. Price exhales a long smooth stream. “Too old for this, pooch,” he says, softly.
Well, now Price is just talking fucken nonsense, so Soap finishes his excavation work and lopes back with a deer’s thighbone in his mouth. It's gross but simultaneously compelling. Soap has decided that rich fucks eat bone marrow on toast, so this is at least sort of similar.
Price grins when he sees the bone. “The fuck you get that from?” The answer is, buried it here last week, Cap’n, but that’s not very big on dignity. Then Price's smile fades. “You know,” he says. “They can tell what you did, when you were alive, from looking at your bones.” Price isn't talking to him, not really, but Soap rolls over to give him his full attention anyway.
“My ancestors pulled a longbow, you know” says Price, distantly. His gaze is fixed on something in the distance. “What the fuck are they ever gonna see, you think? When the day comes they dig up my bones?”
***
He's been sleeping outside Ghost’s door.
It's just- it's practical. The 141 have their quarters in a hallway housed in an older section of the base. The tradeoff for the shit water pressure is privacy. It still feels safe to Soap. They haven't reassigned his room- every day, it's still closed up. He's never seen anyone go inside.
He’s been sleeping here because it's the only place that feels close to safe. Close to Ghost. So he can hear him if he needs him.
***
Soap's honestly been digging his significantly upgraded hearing because he can also hear anytime Gaz’s breathing hitches in the night, which makes it easy to scratch on his door and bully his way inside, and then make himself at home so ostentatiously on Gaz's bed that Gaz laughs at him. It makes him feel better and it makes Gaz feel better, fight him on it.
But he doesn't need dog hearing to hear the screaming fight that Price and Ghost are currently having in Price's office. Half the base can probably hear them.
“The topic’s not up for discussion, Ghost.”
“The recovery team never found his body, John! What the fuck, why the fuck, it doesn't make sense!”
“Son. You were there when-”
“Fuck!”
There's the sound of a lot of shit hitting the floor at the same time, and Soap does a very good impression of a big dog that's not in a hurry, and he makes it to Price's office just as Ghost storms out.
Ghost skewers him with a glare, and Soap can hear his teeth grinding. But Ghost doesn't run him off, and Soap sticks to his heels like glue the whole way back to Ghost's quarters. He darts inside before Ghost can slam the door.
“Son of a bitch,” says Ghost, and Soap thinks, fuck ye, LT, thas not even accurate, but his heart isn't in it. Then Ghost sits down on the bed, so hard that it creaks. He rips off his mask and balaclava in one abrupt violent motion, and then buries his head in his hands.
Christ almighty. The closest he's ever been to Ghost like this and he can't see his face.
Soap is barely keeping it together, sitting still beside Ghost. Ghost is sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. Soap can still hear his teeth grinding. He's so tense, and this could go so wrong, so Soap goes slow. He noses at Ghost’s hands, gently, carefully, letting Ghost acclimate to the proximity.
And then Ghost just- folds in over Soap. He digs his fingers into Soap’s wiry fur, and he buries his face in the thick ruff of hair at Soap's neck instead.
“I’m so cold,” says Ghost. He says it so quietly.
And Christ, Soap feels his heart crack. He can’t bear this. But if he moves too fast, he’s going to spook Ghost.
So he slowly, carefully climbs onto the bed. Stretches his long canine body out and whines. LT, he thinks. For God's sake, just lie down. And then Soap realizes that this is Ghost's bed and it’s just saturated in the smell of him, his woodsy shampoo and the clean salt smell of his skin, and something deliriously animal takes over his brain as he rolls around in it until Ghost fucken laughs. It's raw and cracked, but Ghost laughs.
“Yeah, all right, Dog,” he says. “Don’t tell anyone.” Ghost settles himself down at his side, close enough that their bodies are touching, all along down the long heavy line of Ghost’s thighs, along his belly and ribs and chest. He buries his face against Soap’s fur again, and then he finally, finally goes to sleep.
Oh Christ, he thinks, misery sitting thick in his chest as Ghost sleeps, exhausted, heavy as a corpse with both arms wrapped around him. I'm the literal fucken black dog haunting you. I'm sorry, Ghost. I'm so fucken sorry.
He's getting fucked in the head about this. He wants to be Ghost's good dog. He wants to punch him in the fucking face for taking such shit care of himself. And then maybe he wants Ghost to pin him down and take him apart, until he finds the piece of Soap's heart that makes him want to belong to Ghost.
He wants a lot of things he can't have.
***
He's in the rec room, lying on the couch with Gaz.
“That's a big fucking sigh for a dog with no problems,” says Gaz, and Soap thinks, if you only knew, Garrick, and the look he gives Gaz must look unimpressed because it makes Gaz laugh.
Gaz has got plastic film wrapped tight around his left bicep, just peeking out from under his sleeve. Soap was a nosy motherfucker even before he became a fucken dog, and when you're a dog you can literally just poke people with your nose until they get the hint. “Oh yeah,” says Gaz. “Lookit this.”
He rolls up his sleeve, and there, fresh and weeping under the wrapping, are two brand new tattoos.
In a clear stencil font that even Soap can see, there’s three letters and a year. Tav 2023.
Below that, there's a silhouette of a big dog, long legs, thick chest, done in simple lines.
“Look mate,” says Gaz, and smacks a kiss on his head, right between his ears. “It’s you.”
***
So Soap has been going through it, is the thing, and that's what's to blame for what happens that day out on the live weapons field.
Soap's been reclining in the grass behind Gaz, staying out of the way. Ghost is here somewhere, but Soap’s lost track of him. Being on the range without anything like ear protection isn't Soap's smartest play, but he followed Gaz and Ghost out here, and Soap's damned if he's gonna start flinching at gunfire now, dog ears or not.
He's not even paying attention, is the thing. One of the rookies swings around, live ammo, and brings his weapon around to bear on Soap, and Soap just reacts.
The next thing he knows, the recruit’s on the ground screaming and Soap’s flattened on top of him, snarling right in his face. Don't ye point that fucken thing at me ye little piss streak, Soap tries to say. He can't get it past his teeth, obviously. He's pretty sure he's drooling like he's rabid.
It takes three rookies to haul him off. Gaz is bellowing, “Trigger discipline, Daniels, what the hell did you think you were doing,” and Soap's frozen, torn between bolting, because there's a difference between funny dog that sneaks into rooms and mad dog that attacks rookies, and tucking himself behind Gaz like that's going to help. He just saw the muzzle of the gun pointing at his face and all he could think was Markarov, under the Channel, the agonizing white-hot pain of a bullet to the brain. He’s frozen, and he doesn't know what to do, and then suddenly Ghost strides up and says, sharply, “Heel.”
Soap's flat on his belly at Ghost's two o’clock, before his brain catches up with his body.
He doesn't have much time to process that, because between the two of them, Ghost and Gaz rip Daniels to shreds. Metaphorically, that is, but Soap has wondered before what Ghost could do with his teeth if he put his mind to it.
They're both quiet walking back. Soap trots on their six, ears back, tail down, his whole body hugging the ground. He can't even control it.
“You saw that too,” says Gaz, and Ghost nods, sharp, and says, “Yeah, I saw.”
Soap wants more than anything to slink off somewhere to hide, because that was awful, he feels fucken awful. But Ghost fixes him with a look, and says, “Go lie down,” in a tone that doesn't brook argument. So Soap curls up on the couch and tries to get his heart rate back down to normal while Ghost and Gaz have a rumbling, whispered conversation somewhere behind him, their tones too low for Soap to hear them.
Christ, he's exhausted. The worst fucken day, Soap thinks bleakly.
And then he's waking up as Gaz is shifting him. “Budge up, mate,” says Gaz, tucking in next to him on the couch. And just for a moment, it's exactly like something Gaz’s said to him a hundred nights before this one, shifting him from the couch where he's fallen asleep, that Soap thinks, Gaz, mate, I've been having the wildest dream.
***
The next morning, Ghost comes out of his room early. Soap's head pops up, and Ghost says, “C’mon, Dog.”
Soap would honestly like his breakfast first, or another hour of sleep. I miss coffee so fucken much, he yawns at Ghost, which comes out a petulant yelp. And then he hauls himself to his feet and trots after Ghost.
It's a mystery where they're going, and it's still a mystery what Ghost wants, when he leads him along the edge of the field to the obstacle course. Soap looks up at Ghost expectantly, because he's awake now, and there's that little electric shiver he gets when he's Ghost's attention on him, regardless of what shape he's in.
Ghost looks a little lost, for a moment, and then he looks deliberately at the climbing wall, and then flicks his gaze to Soap. “Up,” he says.
There's the slightest rise of inflection, questioning? Ghost is clearly not sure on what he's doing here, but Soap gets it, instantly sees where Ghost's going with this, and he launches off his big haunches so fast he catches a brief and gratifying flash of surprise on Ghost's face. And then he's scrabbling over the top of the twenty foot wall faster than he's ever managed when he had two legs and fucking opposable thumbs.
He has a moment where he catches himself almost fucken preening, sitting at the top of the wall grinning down at Ghost, fucken hell LT didya see that. Ghost, who's moving past surprise and towards assessing, flicks his eyes and says, “get down.”
Soap resists the urge to make Ghost catch him- it would be funny as hell but twenty feet is a hell of a drop and Soap’s genuinely fucking heavy. Plus, Ghost’s barely coming around on him as it is.
The lines around Ghost’s eyes soften, just a little when Soap leaps down and, well, sits at attention, his gaze fixed on Ghost. What’ve you got for me, LT, he wants to say, and his tongue lols out of his mouth in a wide canine grin.
Ghost's expression twitches just a fraction and that's a smile Soap knows it is because he can somehow fucking smell it, and then Ghost pulls a dummy grenade out of his gear, and winds up his arm for the throw.
“Fetch,” says Ghost, and Soap's already gone.
***
Soap, to his neverending consternation, misses the proposal that Gaz and Ghost corner Price with, because he's napping in a sunbeam. In his defense, though, Soap would like to see anyone else tear up the obstacle course with Ghost for three quarters of the day and not need a nap.
He wakes up to Price scratching his head, looking incredibly put upon. “You know, pooch, the paperwork to get you classed as an emotional support dog is right fucking here, but no, those muppets have got fucking ideas.”
***
Price brings in a trainer to sign off on the paperwork. She looks incredibly dubious, but after Soap spends an hour in the field watching Ghost’s eyes and hand signals, every muscle in his body tense and quivering, she comes around fast. He’s so dialed in on Ghost that he barely even hears the trainer.
She's talking to Ghost. “Well, I don’t know exactly how, Lieutenant,” she says. “But someone's done a lot of work with that dog and I don't understand how it wasn't you.” And then she signs a whole bunch of papers.
Clearly she’s of the Price school of making it work. Soap loves her right now.
“Good dog,” says Ghost, and it makes Soap want to whine, roll over and show his belly.
***
They get him fitted out with a custom harness and plate carriers. Apparently according to Gaz, he's a thicc boy and he's too big to fit the standard-issue canine gear. He even lets Gaz put the goggles over his eyes, but if Gaz calls them doggles again Soap is gonna chomp him good.
***
NATO Archival mission transcript
Location: REDACTED, date: REDACTED, time 10:42 PM
Alpha-2: Did you see what those motherfucking British maniacs have got now?
Alpha-1: Affirmative, REDACTED, we all saw the fucking dog.
Alpha-4: *static* that's a fucking dire wolf.
Alpha-2: I hate that show.
Alpha-1: yes, REDACTED, we are all real clear on your opinion of sexual violence commodified as mass entertainment.
Alpha-2: Oh fuck yourself you fucking hoser, you know I'm right.
Alpha-3: Hey we're all fucking hicks here, don't be calling REDACTED names.
Alpha-5: I feel like we've gotten away from the point that REDACTED has a fucking werewolf now.
Bravo-1: Alpha Team, this is REDACTED, be advised you're broadcasting to our comm frequency.
Alpha-1: *static*
Alpha-1: Copy that Bravo-1. *static* We all think your new operator is really nice sir.
Alpha-6: *static*
Alpha-6: Can I pet him?
***
Anytime the recruits piss Gaz off, which is not infrequent even given Gaz's reasonably even keel- when he's not in the field, that is- he runs a drill called Field Environmental Evasion Practices. Gaz made a PowerPoint about it.
In practice, It involves Soap and Ghost running recruits down through the forest on the edge of the training field. Ghost literally picked him up to throw him so he could get Daniels out of a tree. Soap has the time of his life and all the rookies sprint until they puke.
***
Soap’s sitting up on the rattling floor of the plane, all four paws planted sturdy and solid, while Ghost and Gaz run over the battle plan in low voices. Small team, just the three of them. They’re going in quiet, he and Ghost. Stealth in, collect intel, set the place to blow, and then out. Gaz is gonna jump a moment behind them and set up with his sniper to provide their overwatch.
It's a high-altitude, low-elevation drop. Gaz triple-checks Soap’s straps and gives him a hard scratch on the jaw. Ghost gives Gaz a nod, and then he wraps his arms around Soap and jumps.
Black night, no clouds, no moon. They're falling through the dark together. The elation of freefall isn't any less when he's like this, even if he's gotta make the jump strapped to Ghost. Soap, eyes shut, feeling the slipstream screaming past his long ears, recognizes that this is one of those cases where opposable thumbs are probably pretty mission-critical.
The fall always feels like forever, but then it's always over so fast. There's the breathless yank of the chute, and Soap curls himself tight against Ghost. Ghost hits the ground running and cuts his chute lines in one fast motion. Then Ghost unclips him and Soap’s rolling to his feet, shaking off the jump and locking eyes with his LT, because this is a mission and Soap, no matter what kind of mutt he is, is a god damn professional. He locks in on Ghost's eyes, the dark black-on-white contrast that means he can see which direction Ghost flicks his gaze. Ghost doesn't have to say anything. They can do this in total silence.
I'm with ye, LT, he thinks, and adrenaline floods his bloodstream. And then they move.
Soap never realized before this exactly how quietly Ghost could move, because even with these ears, he can barely hear them as they both pad quick and quiet, low to the ground as they reach the first building. Soap crouches low as Ghost swings that monster breaching hammer hard. It's the loudest sound Soap’s heard for a hot second, but he’s already shooting forward through the door. Gets his jaws around the guard’s arm and brings him down, then Ghost shoots him silenced and moves in to sweep behind him.
Ghost's got to move quiet through this whole compound to get all the charges planted. Gaz is murmuring over his radio, set up on overwatch a mile or so out, but there's parts of this maze where Gaz doesn't have eyes and that's all down to Ghost and Soap. Maybe more Soap than Ghost realizes because Soap is wired on every sound and smell, the adrenaline making his whole brain light up. Nobody's getting anywhere near Ghost without Soap knowing.
It's perfect. Being on the job with Ghost, being so in sync, and Soap is just fucken absorbing all this with all his senses in all directions. Ghost plants the last charge and their line of exit is right there, but suddenly up there, up on the roof almost totally out of sight, there’s a guard blocking their quick exit. Soap’s not sure if he fucking heard or smelled him or if it was probably both, but he plants his feet hard, whuffs at Ghost very quietly, and points like a hunting dog. Ghost pivots and checks his line of sight, and then he hears Gaz murmuring over the radio. “Ghost, I got one gunman on the roof but he hasn't moved out of cover, I can't quite get him.”
Ghost huffs a breath. “Affirmative, Garrick. Dog spotted him before you did.”
Gaz makes an aggrieved noise, but Ghost is already crouching towards him. “Go,” whispers Ghost, and hauls all 180-odd pounds of Soap up on his back.
Soap leaps up off his shoulders just as Ghost simultaneously heaves him up, a brutal full body lift, and Soap clears the edge of the roof and the last thing the gunman ever sees is Soap coming at him at forty-five miles an hour. He doesn’t even have time to yell. Soap leaps off the building, blood dripping from his jaws, and Ghost grabs him in midair, swinging around hard to balance Soap's momentum and Soap hits the ground running again.
Ghost's right next to him, those long legs, his mile-eating strides and Soap's always known that Ghost's stamina is buggering insane, the way he can sprint in full gear and keep that absolutely brutal pace. For a long moment there's nothing but the sound of Ghost's sprinting footfalls, the tight, controlled bellowing of his big chest.
And then the explosives start detonating in sequence behind them, a huge, air-sucking roar.
And bleeding Christ, it feels so good to be racing along beside Ghost, the compound behind them blowing to fucken kingdom come. Soap wants to slow down to look back, just for a second, just to see how beautiful it is, but he can't, because Ghost is actually laughing, bitten-off wheezes in between his big bellows-chested breathing, like Soap's only heard when missions have gone so right, and it just feeds absolute joy directly into Soap's bloodstream. He puts on a burst of speed, just so he can run a fucken loop around Ghost, dancing through his line of sight with cocky spring in his step, which makes Ghost laugh harder, even though he really can't spare the breath.
They make it to the RV point. Soap leaps straight into Gaz's arms and sends them both tumbling arse over teakettle. Gaz manages to land them properly though, manages to roll them and he says, severely, “Dog, you're a fucking maniac,” as Soap rolls around ecstatically on his back.
***
Soap snaps awake. It's Ghost, his breathing gone harsh and erratic.
They're out in the field, gone to ground in a quiet safehouse somewhere in the remote countryside of Lithuania. Soap had gone to sleep by the front door, lulled by the quiet churr of night insects and the wind in the trees. Price is out on the treeline, on watch with his NVGs, the tobacco-sweat smell of him hanging just upwind, so Soap scrambles up and bounds into the house.
Upstairs, Ghost abruptly rockets up out of sleep. He's sitting up on the bare mattress. Then his long arms are reaching out, and Soap lets himself get pulled into an embrace. Ghost buries his face against the ruff of his neck.
“I dream about things that've never happened to me,” says Ghost, almost inaudible. Ghost's low rumble of a voice is almost pitched too low for Soap to hear like this, but Ghost's holding him close enough that it's just clear enough to register.
“I dream that someone’s shot me in the head. I dream someone dumps my body and lights me on fire, and I'm still alive enough to feel it. I dream about getting buried alive, and I can't get out.”
And bleeding Christ, Ghost's never talked about his nightmares before- Soap knows he has them, and they're awful, because no one in their line of work sleeps quiet at night. God knows Soap's spent hours sitting up with Ghost, on watch in the field, on base in the gym or the kitchen and keeping up a steady stream of chatter. Talking shit, talking shop, just being present, because Ghost never told him to stop and on nights like that, Ghost's silence felt like it had knives in it.
And then Ghost says, “I used to have. Johnny-” Ghost makes a quiet, absolutely heartbreaking sound. “Now he's not even there.”
Misery hits Soap like a hammer blow to the solar plexus. It leaves him breathless, panting. This isn't fair. Ghost never told him any of this, and it isn't fair to only learn it now, when he can't do anything to fix it. Soap whimpers and leans his whole body weight on Ghost's thighs and chest until Ghost sighs and digs his fingers in. “I used to think they couldn't get worse.”
Ghost presses their foreheads together. This is the closest Ghost’s ever touched him.
Shit, thinks Soap bleakly, and like a fucking echo, Ghost says, “Shit.” His voice is so fucking dull that Soap has to nose at his neck and thump his tail against the bare mattress, just to try to get Ghost to sound like anything but that.
“Christ, Dog,” says Ghost, after a few moments of full-body affection. But he doesn't sound like he wants to fucken die anymore, which Soap is absolutely counting as a win. “Don't tell anyone.”
***
Soap doesn't know exactly how this mission went sideways.
He's been relying on pre-drop rundowns in the red light of the helo, because not even his team of chronic over-preparers sit down and read the whole brief out word-for-word where Soap can listen in. So he doesn't know exactly what went wrong.
But there's obviously some critical intel failure because this is heavy resistance that was clearly not expected. He's pinned down with Ghost behind a cement divider, bullets flying. “Stay down,” Ghost tells him, vehemently, like Soap's got any inclination at all to pop up and catch a bullet. Ghost curses, and toggles his radio, “Price, Gaz, we're pinned down at the south end of the compound, taking effective fire. Requesting backup,” and Soap doesn't hear what Price answers because there's a flash of movement in his peripheral. His body clocks it and he's already moving before his brain catches up. Grenade, coming right at them. It's gonna hit the ground between them in about three seconds and Ghost, pinned down as he is, isn't going to have enough space to kick it clear.
All this flashes through his brain in an instant. Then Soap launches out from cover and he leaps for it.
He manages to time it perfectly, the interception. Catches the grenade hard between his teeth, clamps down around it, and he's thinking, calm as a rock in the tide of adrenaline, I got about two and three-quarters of a second before she blows me apart. And then he hits the ground and rolls hard. Drops the grenade, and then throws himself back up to his feet, digs all four paws deep into the dirt and he launches himself away, as fast as he's ever run in his fucken life.
The shockwave hits, a deafening roar, and Soap collides violently with the ground.
Everything is swimming around him and he can’t hear right, everything’s just an atonal ringing. He smells a whole lot of dirt and blood. He tries to shake his head to clear it, but somehow he can't lift his head. Soap has a long, blurry period when he knows everything is wrong, but he can't seem to finish the thought. He doesn't know how long he's been down. He tries to sit up, shake the ringing out of his ears, but he can't lift his head.
The next thing he realizes, someone's lifting him, all 180-odd pounds of him, and he recognizes Ghost’s scent and goes limp. Ghost is lifting him, so fucken carefully. He's got Soap gathered under the legs, cradling his body close to his chest. The shock’s starting to bleed away, and this is starting to hurt badly. “Good dog,” Ghost is saying. He's saying the same thing, over and over. “Good dog, shh. C’mere, I got you.” He keeps talking like that, low-voiced, crooning, sweet. Soap doesn't know what's going on but he’s going to be okay, he must be, because Ghost is here.
When Soap blinks himself awake again, his gear’s stripped off, and he's on the rattling floor of the helo. He's going to be sick, and Ghost isn't holding him anymore.
No, he thinks. I gotta get to Ghost, he’ll be cold without me. He whines and tries to struggle loose, his claws scratching frantically against the helo floor, but someone's steady hands are holding him down. Gaz’s voice, fading in and out. Come on, it’s okay, just lie still, okay? You’re all right, Dog, I’m here, we’re all right here.
***
It turns out whatever magic fucken realism pushed the bullet out of his skull also works on broken ribs and a concussion. The vet they bring in to check him out says he's fine.
The vet has some followup points, which are first, where the hell did you find this guy, and second, what the hell are you feeding him, and if Gaz mentions the mess chow, Soap is gonna kill him.
Price is talking, somewhere over Soap's head. He was in bad shape during exfil.
The vet, also somewhere above Soap's head, launches into the list of shock symptoms that they're all already intimately familiar with, and ends with, And also sometimes, even these really well-trained guys, they're just being a little dramatic.
Ghost lifts him down off the exam table and gets him out of there immediately thereafter, thank Christ, because Soap is about to play rough. Soap falls into step beside him sullenly, thinking, break a few o’ your ribs, doc, see how dramatic you get. Ghost keeps flicking his gaze back to him. Honestly Soap has gotta be a lot more careful. Shock can explain a lot of symptoms in the field but Soap's pretty sure he remembers Ghost's hands, working him all over. Ghost must have felt his ribs, his skull. Ghost must have known Soap was bleeding.
Gaz comes flying down the hall that leads from the armory. He drops down to Soap's level and sighs, hard and relieved.
“Jesus, that was too close,” says Gaz, and throws both arms around Soap’s big neck. “Next time, Ghost takes the hit and you do emotional support, okay?”
Soap would do it again, though, in a second. He'd jump on a grenade to save any of them.
He'd carry Ghost's heart in his mouth if he could, soft enough to never hurt him.
***
They're on stand down, the next few days.
Soap very patiently sits through the debrief and he doesn't even fall asleep once which is harder than you'd think because Price's couch is comfortable, and he lets Gaz scrub him down in the gym showers because as Gaz says, if anyone here has a problem with dog hair in the drain I guaran-fucking-tee this is the most innocuous smell you'll ever experience as a fucking operator, because lemme tell you about the time I had to climb through the drainage system of a fucking fish hatchery and maybe then you'll shut the fuck up.
After, when he's brushing him out, Gaz says, “Dog, I'll get this green out of your hair if it's the last thing I do.” Soap’s got a bad feeling that's a lost cause, because he keeps rolling in dead stuff. But it's good of him to try, so he licks Gaz commiseratingly on the ear.
After, clean and brushed and having left Gaz sacked out asleep in his bed, he trots off to sniff out Ghost.
Ghost's in his room but the door's open a crack, which is as clear an invitation as Soap's ever seen in his life. He noses in, and Ghost looks up from where he's sitting on the bed. He's holding something in his hands.
It's Soap’s journal.
Soap gives a low, involuntary whine when he sees it. Price must have given it to him, back when they packed up his personal effects, because Soap didn't have any family left to send it to. He’d wondered, bleakly, where his stuff ended up - packed in a sad cardboard box on some storage room shelf, his name and rank and date KIA, alongside all the other poor fuckers who didn't beat the clock?
But now there's another possibility - did Ghost take it?
Because then Ghost sighs, gets up, and locks the door behind him. He sits back down, and pulls off his mask. His whole face is heavy with exhaustion, but he's looking at Soap's journal with an expression Soap can't quite see.
Go ahead and look, thinks Soap. I’m an idiot, I should have told you when I had the chance. It's all for you. It was always all for you.
Soap jumps up on the bed and curls up against Ghost’s thigh, a warm reassuring weight. He doesn't look at Ghost's face- he feels like Ghost deserves privacy for this, even if he can't bear to leave. So he lies still, and the only sound is the occasional rustle of pages and Ghost's breathing, which is getting a little unsteady.
Ghost's hand comes down on Soap's scruff and grips it. Soap relaxes against him. It's all right, he thinks. Ghost, I'm here.
Ghost sets the open journal down, carefully. A the two-page vertical drawing of the musculature of Ghost's naked back, starting at his illiac crests, following up the long graceful curve of his spine, the deep vee cut of his trapezius meeting his thick deltoids, up to where the corded lines of muscle disappear under his balaclava. It's beautiful, and it's accurate. Soap spent a long time in his memory when he drew this, shading the pull of the scars on Ghost's bare skin, the ink-dark tattoos, and the way the light had caught on the hard blade of Ghost's right shoulder.
There's a line from a poem Soap had heard once, written under it. It's his handwriting, but it's from so long ago now that it feels like another life.
It says, I have a longing that's killing me.
“Christ,” says Ghost, a horrible, punched-out sound. He sounds like someone's stuck him up through the ribs. Then he closes the journal carefully, sets it down on the bed next to him. He digs in with both hands and he buries his face in Soap's fur.
Ghost cries in furious, almost-absolute silence. Enormous, chest-wracking sobs that still somehow barely ruffle Soap's fur. It's awful. Soap loves him so much, and all he can do is lean in with all his warmth and strength and patience, everything he's got to try to absorb Ghost's grief.
Ghost eventually starts breathing his way out of it. It takes him a long time, but Soap’s going to stay as long as this takes. Ghost digs his fingers into the thick ruff around Soap's neck, and exhales wetly. “Christ,” he says again, and then he tugs Soap around so he's half in Ghost's lap, his head in Ghost's big hands, Ghost's forehead pressed into the long line of his muzzle.
“Someone must have loved you,” says Ghost, almost inaudible. “How could they have let you go?”
You loved me, thinks Soap. He's pretty sure about it now. And I'm here, I'm still here, I love you, I'll love you until I'm dead and even after that.
***
Once, back before all this happened, Ghost had checked him for a head injury, big careful hands supporting Soap's skull and neck, the pads of his strong fingers ruffling through his mohawk and softly over his close-buzzed hair. Soap had blamed it on the close call, the adrenaline, how good it made him feel.
But now he knows better. He'd been lying to himself, but only to protect himself from a truth he wasn’t ready for. He couldn't have handled it before, but now he knows that it's all right.
If he stays like this forever, it would have been worth it. To have Ghost touch him, to have Ghost's back any way Ghost needs him. To know Ghost had loved him, and loves him still.
It's enough. It's everything Soap has ever wanted, really.
***
It's early. The first light is just starting to brighten Ghost's room, falling on his tidy desk, his gear stacked neatly, his boots by the door. Soap blinks awake. Ghost's lying behind him, his arms wrapped around him.
“Johnny,” says Ghost against his neck. He's curled up around Soap's bare back, not a breath of space between them. Soap wakes up all the way and then he nearly flinches out of his skin.
Ghost pulls him back in. Buries his face in the space between Soap’s shoulders, Soap’s naked human shoulder blades, and his own human hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists, his blunt human teeth biting back a howl-
Ghost sighs, exhausted and sleep-gritty. “Don't leave,” he says, nearly inaudible. “Please don't leave, Johnny.”
He's so clearly asleep, or most of the way there, and this is going to hurt so badly. Soap flexes his hands- fingers, palms, thumbs- takes a deep breath, draws up every bit of courage he has, and he says, “Ghost.”
It's the first word he's said out loud in six months. It scrapes out along his throat like a garotte wire.
Behind him, Ghost just goes instantly tense, sleep to wakefulness in a quarter-second. Then he shoves Soap, a full-body blow. It's like getting kicked by a fucking draft horse. Soap falls so hard off the edge of the bed that he nearly cracks his skull off the tile floor.
And then he's scrambling backwards, uncoordinated because his arms and legs feel like they’re all pointing in the wrong direction, and Ghost is coming at him.
“Ghost,” he says again, and this time he manages to put a little more bark into it, thank Christ, because Ghost’s got a knife and that just stops him cold.
There's an absolutely frozen moment where Ghost just stares at him.
And then Ghost just makes- a completely inarticulate roar, an absolutely animal sound that makes Soap’s mohawk literally try to stand up off his skull. It's so loud that Soap instinctively flattens himself into the floor. “LT,” he says, his throat still raw. “Ghost,” he says, “Simon, it's me.”
Ghost’s door slams inward, suddenly yawning half off its fucking hinges. Then Gaz kicks it a second time. He charges in, nothing but his boxer briefs and his bare feet shoved into his boots, but his Glock is very steady. It swings down to point at Soap about three quarters of a second after Gaz clears the door.
“Hey Garrick,” Soap croaks, sitting up on his elbows.
Gaz's eyes snap towards him. His mouth works for a second. “Tav?” He says. His voice is small, and scared.
Price kicks the door in so hard it echoes. Then he stops and his face seamlessly transitions to absolutely blank shock.
“Cap,” says Soap, a bark of urgency. “Ye asked me what your bones would look like, on the day they dug you up.” Soap swallows back his fear and says, “Ye’d look like my captain, sir.”
“Jesus Christ,” says Price.
***
The rumor mill does its work and so does Station Chief Kate Laswell, who Soap owes a kiss on the cheek, his immortal soul, and a bottle of something expensive.
MPC ‘Dog’, KIA in the mission that recovered 141 Operator Sergeant John ‘Soap’ MacTavish, previously, and erroneously, reported KIA. Three-quarters of the recruits show up for drills the next morning red-eyed and puking, because apparently there’d been an unsanctioned wake off-base last night for Dog where his virtues had been celebrated with an alarming combination of bottles. Murphy had stood on the bar and recited Inscription on the Monument to a Newfoundland Dog, and Private McKenna had cried so hard he threw up on the pool table.
It's weirdly touching.
Gaz locks them in the equipment shed and scream-whispers at him so the recruits won't hear. Tav you are the stupidest motherfucker I know, you could have barked in Morse code, anything-
Soap scream-whispers back, aye, and when I got shot at three AM for making a bloody racket, then what?
Gaz gives him a look that shows exactly how profoundly stupid Soap is. “Mate, you were my friendly dog when everything in my life was shit, that whole first month I was trying to figure out how to tell Price I was quitting and taking you to live on a fucking farm somewhere, okay? I wouldn't have let anyone do shit to you.”
“Oh,” says Soap, and Gaz’s face crumples. He's been unloading on Soap for ages but he hasn't let go of him the whole time. “You’re an idiot, Tav, an idiot, oh fuck, I'm so glad you're here.”
***
Price sits him down in his office and locks the door behind him. Puts a glass of whiskey into his hand, and says, quick, clipped, “All right lad, I recognize that this was an unprecedented situation that you found yourself in with zero training. I'm so proud that you made it this far but frankly, your comms on the issue were shit.”
Soap is a little god damn indignant, honestly, that this keeps coming up, because oh, everyone's hindsight is suddenly twenty-twenty and they all definitely would have been receptive to a dog that's trying to talk. But Price’s big hand comes forward, and Soap sees it's not quite steady. Then he's gripping the back of Soap's neck, and shock of shocks, that feels real good when he's human too. He's decided he’s not going to feel weird about it. Soap's been a dog for six months, he's gonna feel however he wants about this.
“Sorry, Captain,” he says. He leans into Price’s hand until his grip tightens to the pressure Soap wants. “Dinnae know how to-” He gestures helplessly. “Was kinda fucked up, sir. Ye thought I was gone.”
“Christ, lad,” says Price. He doesn't let go. “You broken?”
Soap's eyes are stinging. “Nah sir. Not anymore.”
***
It's a bit of a mindfuck to be back in his own quarters, on his own bed, considering he's slept everywhere in the last six months except here.
He's got a glass of the contraband whiskey Gaz had confiscated from a couple of the recruits trying to kill their hangovers with a hair of the dog, and he's on his phone, looking through the pictures Gaz has sent him, because Gaz had said, stubbornly, I mean, this whole dead, not dead, actually a dog thing was a lot, and you gotta process it too, mate, and then wouldn't let it go. Gaz might be the most well-adjusted out of all of them but that's not exactly bragging material when it comes to the 141.
So Soap is looking through the pictures, but not because Gaz was right.
Gaz, in his ballcap, dusty shemagh and aviators, grinning at his phone, one arm slung around- well, Soap's neck. Soap as a dog was a big fucker, with wiry black hair tufted up in a ridge along his skull, relaxed ears, half-closed eyes just visible behind his goggles, looking blissed out, tongue lolling. The harness and plates make him look even bigger.
It's actually a little bit gratifying, that at least he was one cool motherfucker of a dog. You would have been an absolute bird magnet, Gaz had told him a little mournfully, when they had been drinking last night.
The next one, Gaz must have taken on a heli exfil, low red light, Soap curled up in a tight, tail-tucked circle between Ghost’s boots. Ghost's thighs are spread wide to make room for him, and he's looking down through the skull, gaze fixed on Soap.
And this other picture, hell, Gaz should fucken send to one of the military rags because it's cool as shit. Soap, armoured up and crouched, tense still, Ghost silhouetted above him in the shaft of light in that barn safehouse in Lebanon two months back. The shaft of early morning daylight catches every edge of Soap's big chest and flanks, Ghost above him, rifle slung under his arm like an avenging fucken angel.
Actually, scratch that. He wants to keep this one just for himself.
Besides the pictures, Gaz had given him the collar. It's been sitting next to him on the bed this whole time.
Soap runs his thumb over the smooth leather. There's two tags hanging from it. The newer one is machine-stamped, and it says MPC ‘Dog’, Stirling Lines, Credenhill, and an operator ID.
The other one is the first tag Gaz put on him, back when he'd rigged a collar out of a nylon drop strap. It's scratched out by hand. In heavy, deep-cut numerals, it reads 141.
He’s been running his thumb back and forth over the tag. 141 under his fingers. And then, before he can stop himself, he takes it off the collar, and hooks it on his ball chain with his other tags.
***
Gaz keeps coming by to check on him during the night, sometimes just standing in his door and sometimes coming in, a warm arm thrown over Soap’s shoulders, hand grabbing the scruff of his mohawk, pressing their temples together. Once upon a time, Soap would have been annoyed as hell about all the mother-henning, but then he thinks about how he would feel if Gaz had been dead six months, and then he lets Gaz do whatever the fuck he wants. Besides, all this contact feels good, he's used to getting it now, and he doesn't want it to stop.
It's just weird. He doesn't feel like he's been dead. Just- different, for a while. Hanging out in a different body. Just a dog for a bit, and it's so strange, in so many ways it hadn't felt appreciably different than normal.
Christ, Soap's life is fucken weird, none of this was in the Army brochures.
Gaz is at the door again, and Soap cackles, because this is a very stupid picture of Price and Farah, both of them sacked out on the floor at Farah’s camp. Farah’s clearly snoring, Price has his boonie yanked down and Soap is jammed into the space between them like the fucken Holy Spirit at a school dance, also clearly snoring, half on top of Price with all four paws in the air, and he says, “Gaz, I am looking at yer pictures, I am processing-” he cuts himself off because it's not Gaz in the door.
It's Ghost.
Ghost closes the door behind him and he locks it. Then he swings around and pulls his mask off, all in one smooth motion. Soap's seen his face enough in the past six months that this doesn't feel unexpected, really, but. It's different, like this. Of course it's different.
Now. Soap hadn't gone looking for Ghost, specifically. He wasn't avoiding him, but. He just- he just doesn't know how to apologize. He's been feeling a deepening pool of shame in his gut, these past two days. Because Gaz and Price sort of have a point, his comms on this issue were shit. Soap knows at least some of the bad bones of Ghost’s history, and what he did was just- a betrayal of Ghost's trust. It's the shittiest thing Soap could have done to him. All those things he wasn't meant to hear, the things Ghost whispered to him in the dark-
But. He also doesn't think he was wrong, about how Ghost feels about him. Felt. Christ.
This was easier when he was a dog. He can't smell Ghost like this. But he can see again. And this is the longest he's ever had to just look at Ghost's face, and bleeding Christ, he's beautiful. That sweet, soft vulnerability of his scarred mouth, that Roman nose flattened at the bridge and crooked from too many smacks to the face. The thick streak of eyeblack framing his hot dark eyes.
Ghost’s eyes, frankly, are looking a little insane, the dry glitter of intense emotion in them, like even Ghost isn't sure what's about to come out of his mouth. His big body is strung wire-tight, tension thrumming under his skin. “Ghost,” Soap starts to say, and then Soap sees Ghost’s gaze catch on his chest. His tags.
Ghost sees the tags. And then Ghost grabs him by his sweater, hauling him close and holding him fast. That wild, impenetrable gaze flickers back and forth across Soap's face. “Ghost,” Soap tries again, because he's got a mouth and he can use it, he can, and then Ghost slams him into the wall.
One hand catches the back of Soap's skull before it can hit, incongruously gentle for exactly how insane Ghost looks right now. “Christ,” Ghost grinds out. “You wanted me.” He shoves Soap against the wall again, holding him there with both arms and his hips and one big thigh, like Soap is even thinking about fighting him right now. All Ghost's hot attention, all of it on him. Ghost's hips bull forward to pin him harder, and it punches a sound out of both of them. Soap's eyes involuntarily roll back in his head.
“Jesus Christ,” says Ghost, and grips him by the scruff of his hair, holding him in place. “You wanted me, you wanted to be my good dog,” and then he slams Soap into the wall and kisses him.
Soap can't exactly say shit in his own defense here, but lucky for him, Ghost is kissing him like he's trying to pin Soap’s fucking soul down, so he actually can't get a word in edgewise. Soap's kissing him back just as fucking frantically though, so he's maybe gonna have to talk to Ghost about this later.
***
It's not quite morning yet. The room's just started to glow with the pink dawn. Soap’s curled up with one leg thrown over Ghost's big thigh, his cheek resting on Ghost's warm chest. Soap's not really quite awake yet. He doesn't want to move because this just feels so good. Lying here, just idly cataloguing all the mouthy little bruises he'd left on Ghost’s throat and collarbones last night. He's gently running his fingers- fingers, thumbs, fuck yeah- through Ghost's hair. It's buzzed tight to the line of his skull on the sides, and he's got a silvery patch here and there where there's a scar on Ghost's scalp and the colour’s bled away. But it's ash blond and soft, and the way it curls on top of his head is bonnie as hell. Soap could spend the rest of his life touching it.
Ghost wakes up.
For a moment, he doesn't say anything. Takes a deep, slow breath that Soap feels under his cheek. Slowly, he rolls them both over, so he's on his back and Soap's kneeling over him, wide-eyed in the pink light of the morning. Ghost pulls him down, carefully, big hands framing his jaw. His eyes flicker back and forth across Soap’s face. “You with me, Johnny?” His voice is low, almost breathless in the narrow space between their bodies.
“Always, LT,” says Soap, because it's the fucken truth. He's always known it's the sort of forever truth you usually say in front of a priest, but it turns out maybe Ghost didn't.
Then, the soft, half-awake expression on Ghost’s face slides away and he squeezes his eyes shut.
“You came back,” says Ghost, so quietly. Then he crushes Soap up against him with both big arms. He buries his face in Soap's hair and then he starts to cry.
Those awful soundless sobs again, Christ, but this time Soap's got two arms, a loud mouth and all the love overflowing in his fucked-up heart. He hugs Ghost back, just as hard. “Si,” he says, “Shh. I didn’t know. I love you, I love you.” Soap holds him close, his brutalized beat-up LT, the other half of himself, this man he loves who somehow loves him back. Ghost’s gonna leave ten bruises spaced like fingerprints on his back and he doesn’t remotely give a shit.
When Ghost finally starts breathing steady again, Soap leans in and kisses him. Ghost kisses him back, soft, tender, more gentle than Ghost’s ever touched him. Soap could get used to that, too. He noses against Ghost’s cheek, and then tucks himself back into the cradle of Ghost’s body. And then he grins a little, and says, “Hey Ghost. What’s the difference between an SAS sergeant and a dog?”
“I dunno, Johnny,” says Ghost, very dryly. “They both have too much stupid hair and take up the whole damn bed.” But he digs a hand into Soap’s mohawk, right where it feels so good, and it makes Soap shiver. Ghost tucks his big hand around the back of his skull, holding them close, skin to skin, and he doesn’t let go until the sun comes up.