Chapter Text
Art by Batnick_
Ghost parked his truck at the curb on Maple Valley Road, on the outskirts of Millbrook, engine ticking in the late-morning hush. True to its name, the street was lined with towering maple trees in between the suburban neighborhood homes, giving each property a sense of self and privacy.
Soap’s 3-bedroom suburban “home” squatted at the end of the lane, its yard overgrown to the shins and peppered with weeds where the grass lost out. The paint on the white siding peeled in long, scabby strips, like sunburned skin someone was long overdue to peel. The brick was dirty and cracked, while the roof looked like one good windstorm away from heading off to the land of Oz. Like nobody had lived inside of it for at least two decades, and the neighborhood had long since written it off.
Ghost let the engine idle an extra second and then killed it. He sat there, wrists balanced on the steering wheel, listening, as best he could. Nothing but cicadas and a dog somewhere up the block losing its mind. He ran a gloved thumb along the nub of what remained of his right ear.
He did a slow circuit of the perimeter as he approached. The roof’s awnings were lined with last year’s wasp nests, and the mailbox canted forward, barely hanging on, looking to be a victim of a baseball bat. Soap’s battered hatchback hogged the driveway, half up on the grass. There was a tarp bunched on the porch covering dozens of boxes, weighted down by three cinderblocks and two empty beer cans. Ghost didn’t bother moving it, he’d learned early to respect whatever logic ruled Soap’s brain.
At the front door, he stopped. There was no bell. The knocker hung uselessly, a corroded eagle with one bent, useless wing. Ghost set his hand to the wood, feeling the slight vibration of music inside, but nothing clear. He kept his left ear toward the door, chin down, breathing through his nose as he tried to focus the area.
He rapped knuckles twice on the wood, then waited. No answer, but movement, definitely. Heavy, methodical, accompanied by the squeal of wood under strain.
Ghost let himself in.
The living room was stripped to bone and terribly empty. A single sofa chair, brown corduroy, with the pattern scrubbed off one arm. Plastic sheeting on the floor, wrinkled and already splattered white.
On the far wall, a folding ladder, paint tray perched at the top, and Soap balanced on the second rung from the top, left leg straight, right cocked at an angle that hoped gravity wouldn’t challenge him. Soap wore cutoff camo trousers and a t-shirt that’d seen better centuries, sleeves hacked clean off. His right thigh was banded by the familiar compression sleeve, the new version with the grey honeycomb pattern. Ghost clocked every detail in a second. Old habits.
“Oi. Thought you’d never show up,” Soap said without turning. He was wielding the roller with his left, wrist taped, and his accent was thicker when he focused. “Thanks for helping out, this place has been a real bitch.”
“Lucky I was bored.” Ghost answered. He shut the door with his boot, and the slam vibrated up through the thin slab floor. “Nice technique. Pollock’d be jealous.”
Soap snorted. He set the roller into the tray with a careful thunk and twisted at the waist to get a look over his shoulder. “Better than that time ye tried to paint the comms shack in Bastion, eh? Took a bloody week to get the primer off yer boots.”
Ghost stepped into the room, eyes scanning the walls: half-done, every edge ragged, but you could see the intent. He sniffed again, and the fume buzzed in his sinuses. “Least my walls didn’t look like they’d been shotgunned with milk. Or worse.”
“Early days yet,” Soap said, and flashed a quick, wolfish grin. The kind that always made Ghost feel three steps behind, even if he’d planned the whole operation. “You’re late.”
“Traffic.” Ghost shrugged off his jacket and set it on the chair. The air was already thick, but underneath the paint and plastic, he could smell Soap, coffee and old sweat, a little bit of liniment. Ghost dropped his kit bag next to the ladder and took inventory. “What’s the plan?”
“‘Finish the wall, an’ don’t break your neck, that’s plan A. Plan B? Figure out what the hell’s livin’ behind the fridge. Made a noise at two in the mornin’ had me questionin’ my faith in God an’ the insulation.”
Soap flexed his leg and managed a smooth step down, though Ghost noted the tightness in his jaw when he landed.
Ghost watched, hands in his pockets, as Soap shook out his arms and surveyed the wall. Sunlight came in through the front window, cutting a stripe across the plastic at their feet and highlighting the dust in the air. Every time the floorboards creaked, Ghost tried not to flinch, but old nerves never quite retired.
Soap snagged a rag off the tray and wiped a glob of white off his forearm. “So. How’s the world o’ gainful employment, then? Still pretendin’ to give a toss about the office job at the base?”
“‘Pretending’ is the operative word.” Ghost smirked, then reached for the spare roller, sizing up the handle. “Job’s the same as always. Show up, do the thing, leave before anyone figures out what you did shit wrong.”
“Sounds about right.” Soap’s laugh was a dry bark. “You hear from Price lately?”
Ghost’s grip on the roller tightened, plastic flexing under his fingers. “Christmas card last year. Said he’s got a dog now. Golden Retriever. Fatter than a truck, apparently.”
“Can’t blame him,” Soap said. “If I didn’t have this place to worry about, I’d’ve a dog too. Somethin’ to keep the foxes out of the bins.” He eyed Ghost, then nudged the paint tray closer with the toe of his trainer. “You just gonna stand there and supervise? ‘Cause I’m not paying overtime.”
Ghost rolled up his sleeves. “You couldn’t afford it anyway, Sergeant.”
“Ex-Sergeant, LT.”
“Ex-LT.”
The banter was familiar, a rhythm they’d invented years ago. Ghost took up position at the edge of the wall, steadying the tray, and dipped the roller. The paint was cold and thick, bleeding into the fibers of the wallboard. He worked in short, precise strokes, the way he’d once swept rooms for threats, and found a rhythm that let him tune out the residual ache in his right shoulder. He kept his left ear angled toward Soap, just in case.
They worked in a mostly companionable silence, the only sounds the hiss of the roller, the drip of paint into the tray, and the intermittent thunder of Soap shifting the ladder. Once, the whole thing shuddered, and Ghost instinctively reached out to steady it, palm bracing the metal until the movement ceased.
“Stop looking like you expect me to fall,” Soap muttered, not looking down. “If I go, I’ll take you with me.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Soap chuckled and started humming, something off-key and Scottish. The light outside shifted, and for a minute, the whole wall glowed like a fresh wound.
When they reached a stopping point, Soap stepped off the ladder and peeled away the painter’s tape with a practiced flick. He stretched his leg, testing the weight, and then tossed the spent tape onto the plastic.
“Shite, that’ll need another coat.” He surveyed the patchwork of brushstrokes, unimpressed.
“Better than it was,” Ghost said, and meant it. The room already looked less like a crime scene. He set the roller down and wiped his hands on his jeans.
Soap watched him for a beat, then gestured toward the kitchen. “You want a drink? I’ve got water, and… well, water.”
Ghost followed him, ducking through a sagging doorway into the galley kitchen. There were more paint cans in here, and a toolkit splayed open on the counter. Soap filled two glasses from the tap and slid one across.
“Cheers,” he said, and they clinked rims.
They stood leaning against opposite counters, glasses in hand. The window above the sink looked out on a jungle of backyard, some desperate red flowers clinging to the fence line. Ghost drank, feeling the film of paint grit on his forearm, the band of his watch tight over his wrist.
“So… Ten quid for this shithole? Or is that generous?”
“Bloody hell, it’s got charm! You just can’t see past the rot an’ the draft!”
“Johnny, I’ve seen safehouses in Kandahar worth more. Hope you got yourself a tetanus shot.”
Johnny rolled his eyes, sighing. “Look, I’m just tryin’ to make the pension last, aye? Didn’t want to go blowin’ it all. Price made sure I was good after the mission, made sure I got as much as I could, an’ it’s no’ like I’ve got much else to do. Just a wee fixer-upper, that’s all. Not everything that's broken should be thrown away, ye know? Saw the place and thought, yeah, I can make that work. Too sad to just let it waste away, ye know?”
“If you say so,” Ghost said, shrugging.
Who was he to judge? Not like he’d done much after his discharge either. “Expense Reviewer” at an old base about 2 hours away. A pity hire. His coworkers did all the work. One look at the shredded remains of his right ear and they figured he’d break at any moment. A lot of people expected him to break. Even Price. Even the 141.
Their eyes. They all had the same eyes.
Pity. Fear. Regret. Sympathy.
Though he hadn’t admitted it to Soap yet, he’d just quit his job because of those stupid eyes. The Christmas Card from Price had been the only communication with the old crew because he’d been dodging their calls and requests, he couldn't stand another meet-up with them all staring. Gave up the lease in his apartment to get out of town and somewhere new, somewhere nobody knew about his injury, but in all honesty? He had nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Hadn’t planned much of anything but driving and existing.
Nothing, that was, until his Sergeant called him, needing him.
Soap wiped the sweat from his brow. He stretched, made a show of testing his leg, and then cocked his head at Ghost. “You sleeping in the spare room, or you wanna take the couch? Can’t imagine you’re driving back today, right?”
Soap didn't have those bloody eyes. No, he looked at Ghost like he'd always looked at Ghost. As a Sergeant to his LT. As one mate to another. Brothers in arms. Now and forever.
“Spare’s fine.” Ghost kept his tone neutral, not giving away relief or hesitation.
Soap nodded. “Sheets are clean. There’re extra blankets if it gets cold.” He lingered a moment, then added, “Could use a hand with the gutters tomorrow, if you’re not busy. A bit high for me, ye know? Just let me know how long you can stay, mate. This place is going to take all month to be livable and I can sure use the help, mate.”
Ghost uncrossed his arms, feeling the subtle shift in the room’s gravity. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be here. For a while. Took leave.”
“Good. I missed you, LT.”
“Ex-LT.”
Soap chuckled. “Yeah… Yeah… Still feels weird, uh… Simon.”
Simon chuckled. “Same, Johnny.”
They stood in the soft electric hum of the kitchen, the worst of the paint fumes dissipating as night came on. For a while, neither man said anything; they just existed in the silence, the day’s work and the undertow of memory settling between them like dust.
Later, Simon laid on the bed in the spare room, the ceiling fan ticking overhead. The house creaked and settled, a different kind of nocturne than the ones he’d known before. He listened to the sounds, sleeping on his right ear to try and adjust his perception of the world around him. He sorted them by threat level, creak, tick, distant thump of water heater, until eventually, even the sharpest edges blurred.
When he drifted off, the smell of paint lingered in the dark. Between it, and the memories of his and Johnny’s hard day’s hard work together, it helped him fall asleep.