Chapter Text
"Have you ever thought about death?"
Smoke curled from Simon's parted lips as they lie on the bed in Simon's quarters, blanket low on his waist, with the bright moonlight illuminating his pale, scarred torso. Another long night spent making love in haste, always ending the same way - holding each other and letting their deepest thoughts seep out
"Who didn't?" Johnny huffed, amused at the simplicity of Simon's prompt. He was passed the cigarette after a small beckoning motion, taking a deep drag and enjoying the blissful burn.
"Always knew someday, in the future, I will give out on the field... bleed out under some rubble or be blown to bits. I accepted it. I welcome it. I just..." Simon trailed off. Dark, half lidded eyes not moving their gaze from the ceiling.
"You just...?" Johnny questioned quietly.
"...Don't wanna die for nothing. Hope all this shit and pain is somehow worth it in the end and I leave behind something good."
Johnny was surprised at the vulnerable confession, but listened intently. Simon was known as the most confident and self assured man alive, steadiest in his career, no one would expect him to be afraid of dying for no good reason.
"And you?"
"Dunno... I'll be dying out on the field as well. Maybe tomorrow, maybe ten years later, so... might as well enjoy what time I have left." Johnny shrugged and passed the cigarette back.
"Then we better be dying on the same day, MacTavish. Don't want to be left without you." A smile graced his lips, unmasked, the vulnerability comfortable between them. Just one of the many nights of them sneaking around, playing soulmates, then playing teammates the next day.
Hiding. Temporary, just easy fun. Messing around, if you will.
Call it whatever you want, it doesn't matter if they know each other's souls like intricately traced maps, ink faded, the paper soft and fuzzy around the edges from the constant touching.
"Like that idea, Lt. Wouldn't want to be dying with anyone else." What he means is "you're the only one left in my life".
"Hm." And what Simon means is "you're the only good thing that has ever happened to me, Johnny".
...
The moon and the stars must've been listening to whispered confessions and romantic wishes, although she and her sisters took their sweet time making it come true.
A routine mission in Pakistan - the Task Force's assignment was neutralizing an illegal weapons dealer who ran his supply trucks through the country, to be transported to his contact in Iran. Locating his warehouse wasn't particularly difficult, although a few details deviated from their predictions for the mission.
No trucks or other vehicles were in sight at the warehouse, and everything was eerily quiet. They expected hostiles, open fire, yet none of those came to be.
Price and Gaz were scouting the garages of the settlement and preparing for a break in. Soap expressed his concern for the fact that something wasn't right - they could be stood up, or even worse, falling into a trap. If that was the case, they severely underestimated their target, who they thought to be a simple dealer looking for a quick buck, selling his stocks to underground or terrorist organizations.
Soap's grip tightened its hold on the rifle held proudly to his chest, at the ready, posture stiff. Soap could feel the band on his ring finger, hidden discreetly underneath his glove, press harder into the rifle. "If we're gonna die out there, I want your name on my gravestone, Johnny," He remembered Ghost dropping that line out of the blue a few years back, and just a few months after, they were already signing papers in the courthouse. They were deeply in love for long, long years now, "temporary" and "messing around" long forgotten. If their duty didn't take the priority in their lives, they both agreed they would've moved to a quiet place in the highlands and lived the domestic dream instead.
But alas, they were not made for that. Their hearts longed for the battlefield, for the dirt darkening their hands and soul so the world could get a little cleaner, saving people from things they weren't aware were threats. And that's exactly why they were standing in front of the warehouse in the middle of the night, rifles at the ready.
"You sure we're going for the breach, Captain?" Soap muttered into his radio, Ghost right by his side, listening intently.
"Positive. Report back immediately." Price's raspy voice was only accentuated by the cracklings of comms as he and Gaz were searching the garages a yard away.
"Copy." Soap's brows furrowed, seriously not liking the feeling in his gut. He worked in this field long enough by now to know that his gut was right about danger by now, but didn't disobey his Captain's orders. Could've become a captain himself by now, as well as everyone else in the 141, but they were too loyal to Price, and for a good reason.
Ghost moved first, already having made quick work of the lock on the door, which made a terribly loud, creaking sound while being pushed upward. The building had to be decades old by now with how much rust was eating away at the metal door, but this was just a quick stopping place for their target so it made sense it wasn't invested in.
The door slammed shut behind the two men slipping underneath it, like a loud death sentence. Soap could feel it reverberate in his body through the concrete floor while Ghost reached to turn on his helmet flashlight to illuminate the dark space.
"Got in, Cap," Ghost spoke into his radio and took a few steps ahead to begin their search.
Dark was an understatement, actually, Soap could not see a thing, could only smell the rust and the stale air and the-
A tiny, almost unnoticeable red light caught Soap's attention on the ceiling of the warehouse.
As Ghost took his steps, the light began blinking, flashing on and off faster with each step.
"Ghost, stop, it's a fuckin' motion detector!" Soap barked out, frozen in place from the realization.
And while Ghost heeded the words of his Sergeant and froze, the blinking only grew faster until-
"Fuck, take co-"
Soap could never finish his yell, the warehouse blew to smithereens in that exact moment. Bright white took over the two men's visions when they were both thrown back from the impact. A hot flash ran over Soap's body, like he was suddenly tossed in an industrial sized oven, but the pain took a while to register.
The shock was faster. Soap couldn't hear anything but a sharp ringing, his body rendered limp and useless from the impact of being blown back into the concrete wall, vision lost from the dust in his eyes. Whatever was left of the building must've fell on his body, because the second thing he registered was that he couldn't draw in a breath from the pressure.
Whatever air he could take in was hot, burningly so, and full of ash and dust, causing his lungs to convulse involuntarily. His body must've been twisted at an unnatural angle underneath the rubble, because Soap could only move his right hand after some tries to take control back over his body. No ways to move, no way to breathe properly.
"It was a trap. Fucker was two steps ahead, somehow knew we would be here..."
"Lt., how copy?" Soap managed to gasp into his radio, his hand cooperating enough to reach for the device on his vest. No answer came through. He had to focus on taking more breaths in and coughing out the dust before trying again.
"Ghost, you there...?" This time, Soap could hear something back from over the ringing in his ears, but it was no more than a pained gasp.
"Cap...?" No answer. Did Price and Gaz fell into the same trap he and Ghost did? Were they even alive still?
Something warm was beginning to soak through his uniform, slowly but steadily pooling underneath his broken body and painting the concrete, Soap could tell.
"This is it," He thought. "Always knew it would catch up to me eventually."
There was a certain calmness that began to spread through his mind while the world was slowly going dark, washing over him in cold waves. It's exactly how they planned to go; together. Would be more ideal if he could actually see his husband one last time, but Soap couldn't be greedy when they were dying together still. This is it.
Just as they hoped.
Fate finally caught up to them.
...
Soap thought, imagined, that death would be calmer. He certainly felt almost blissful underneath that pile of burning rubble when the world went dark, where did that feeling go? He was feeling... almost cold, and restless in his unconsciousness.
Light pierced through the thick veil of darkness draped over Soap's mind, prompting him to open his eyes. His body obeyed before his thoughts could even resurface, and he slowly, very careful, blinked his eyes open, squinting at the bright white light burning his irises.
The heavy scent of antiseptic and clean linen burned his sinuses, everything burning, being too much and too fast- what the hell was going on? Wasn't he dying back there?
"Steamin' Jesus..." If he ever joked around with the saying "woke up feeling like I was ran over by a truck", he must've been hit by a whole convoy to wake up this sluggish and dizzy.
The rest of the day went by in the same medicated, blurry haze. Nurses looking down at him with compassion, assuring every other minute that the doctor will be here, pushing him back down on the bed when he was frantically blabbering about where Simon Riley was. It was only when he was fully conscious that the doctor could finally sit down with him and talk things through.
Damages to the spinal cord, slightly uncoordinated limb movements, chronic pain, circulatory issues, burns all across his torso running up to his face, and...
Honorable discharge.
Of course, he had to get confirmation from his Captain first, but when Soap, panicked, asked about his military career, the doctor made it abundantly clear that he couldn't ever be back on the field.
John "Soap" MacTavish, the youngest person to ever be accepted into the SAS, who dedicated his whole life to his duty, who made peace with death if that meant he could serve his country.
Never to step onto the field again.
A grief heavier and so, so much worse than mourning the dead exists, and that is when you're grieving something that's still alive. Soap was mourning his passion, his team, the loss of his home that was his quarters, the base, the helo. All while he was trying to make sense of existing in a body that didn't listen to him, that made the simple task of just walking to the bathroom difficult.
The very next day after waking up, Soap was allowed to see Ghost, and what he saw nearly crushed him more than those pieces of rubble did.
Ghost was wheeled into his room, needing a wheelchair for his left leg that was nearly blown fully away and amputated. Looking so utterly defeated, yet crumbling so beautifully in Soap's arms as they sobbed into each other's arms.
"Resilient bastards we are," Ghost joked, but Soap could see he was still barely in the first stage of grieving his life as lieutenant, his home.
Desperate touches of broken bodies and quiet sobs of relief after, Ghost could go into detail of what happened to him. His left leg was barely pieced together and will need lots of physical therapy and time if he hoped to walk straight again. A fracture at his hip, 2nd degree burns and his right leg being broken also. Considerably lucky for both of them, considering they were blasted in the face with a bomb.
They were both supposed to be dead, and they knew it.
And obviously, also honorably discharged.
Soap could do nothing but hold Ghost's non bandaged hand tight through it, promising that they will figure this out together.
Price and Gaz came to visit shortly with the most tearful look in their eyes. They explained that the target made a trap, tipped someone off for the intel that they were coming to his warehouse. And that they were so, so sorry. For everything.
Bless him, Price promised that because of his age, the Task Force wouldn't have gone on for much longer anyway, that they won't miss anything, that they were the best men a captain could ever wish for. Once the couple was well enough to leave the hospital - with crutches and a wheelchair - the four men shared one last drink over signed documents, bitter laughs and vacant stares.
So, what now?
A long and hard talk lead them to the decision to purchase a home on the outskirts of Glasgow - not the remote highland getaway they dreamed of before, but with how frequently they'll need medical assistance and how much harder it was to get around, it was best they lived close to the hospital. The place was nothing fancy, rather cozy than spacious, with only one floor to accommodate their newfound struggles with stairs. The property sat right on the edge of a small forest, with a patio and a small garden.
Just a simple place where they could help each other heal, figure out where to go from here.
Accept to be forced to live on rather than dying an honorable death.
The universe has a funny was of pulling her strings, doesn't it? Ghost will have to wait before he can have "MacTavish" on his gravestone, contrary to his plans.
Ghost didn't mind Scotland, Manchester held no significance to him other than tragedy and bitter memories, and he was happy to follow Soap anywhere. He loved everything that's Soap, so he was eager to learn more about his homeland and have his husband show him the ropes. Hence why he also had no qualms about leaving his surname "Riley" behind; his father's name was more a curse than a surname, the choice of sharing a name with a monster and his Johnny was one too easy to make.
A few weeks worth of phone calls and a shitton of chronic pain flare ups during the long journey there, they were ready to move into their home for the being. A moving company arranged everything for them, given their poor physical state of not being able to lift a single box.
A house on their names did not feel like a home at all; there were no Price barking commands, Gaz's sassy remarks, not the comfortable weight of firearms in their palms, no team to watch their six. Both men felt utterly vulnerable and uncomfortable with civilian life, restless, though Soap hid it better. Ghost had it worse with being stuck with the wheelchair while his legs healed, so Soap tried his best to remain positive for his husband.
"Time heals all wounds," tells the infamous saying, but most people know it's utter bullshit said just for comfort. Time only teaches one to live with the pain, to coexist with the wounds until the pain doesn't bother you anymore.
...
It had almost been a year since Soap and Ghost were forced to retire. There were good days where they could enjoy the domestic bliss and each other's company, but there were bad days full of nightmares, flare ups and unpleasant physical therapy and counseling sessions. While time certainly didn't erase what happened to them, their bodies healed under each other's care and attention.
Ghost could walk short distances confidently now - a quick trip to the nearest grocery store was his current limit before his right leg gave out, but he was proud of his progress nonetheless. Being free of his wheelchair in their home was no short of a great relief, Ghost had almost forgotten the luxury of using the bathroom alone. Soap's body healed in a similar manner, burn scars settling deep into his skin. His legs still frequently buckled, his chronic pain butting its head on any day it so pleased, but the process of getting used to it was rolling along steadily.
Their home started to look a bit more lived in, a bit more theirs - Soap insisted on getting cozy home decor, to which Ghost always just grunted but let his husband do whatever he wanted. The garden facing the forest was long dried and overran with weeds, but with the spring steadily approaching and his health getting better, Soap made it his new project to start fixing up the mess on the days his back and legs were behaving.
On one of such days - with the sun peeking through the clouds but the chill of winter still lingering - Soap was eagerly pulling out the stubborn weeds from hardened soil, with the precision and strength of a man disarming a bomb. Meticulous, but fast and efficient.
"Johnny?" The Scot heard from the other side of the sliding door leading to the patio. Ghost walked down to the garden with his phone in hand, moving with a limp similar to Soap's own.
"Got a call, they're asking for you," Soap's brows furrowed with well earned caution, but reached for the device straight away. Pressing a quick peck to his husband's check and muttering a "Thank you Si", he made his way back inside their home to take the call.
"John MacTavish speaking," Soap answered. Missing his callsign from his name was still something he could hardly get used to, but Ghost had assured him countless times that they weren't Soap and Ghost anymore, but just Johnny and Simon. Perhaps he should work harder with his therapist on getting that through his thick skull.
"Good afternoon Mr. MacTavish, I'm calling on behalf of the Glasgow St. Diane hospital to inform you about the unfortunate passing of Amelia MacTavish, a relative of yours. Please, accept my condolences." An overly calm and professional woman's voice rang through the line, and Soap had to take a good moment to consider his next words.
Amelia. His step sister, the one child left from his father's first marriage. Sister is a strong word - they never got on well. Amelia was always bitter that her father built a new family and life after her mother's passing, even going as far as to blame Soap and his sisters for "stealing" her father away from her. The years of petty dispute ended when Soap's father and the rest of his family died in that unfortunate car accident over ten years ago; with no reason left to see each other Amelia cut contact, and good riddance from Soap.
Since that day, he hadn't heard a single thing from her.
"... Amelia died? How, when?" Was all Soap could muster up.
"Yesterday, she passed away due to complications from childbirth. Which is the other reason that I'm contacting you; I'm Isobel Fetcher, a resprentative for the Scotland Child Protection Program. Amelia left behind a healthy baby girl named Millie, and you're the only relative left we could contact about this matter."
Soap's face went pale, and he needed to take a deep breath before he blurted out a "What the fuck?" in an accent too thick to understand. "What exactly are you implying, ma'am?"
"That we're facing you with a choice regarding the child. Either you accept guardianship over Millie, or she'll be handed over to state care." Isobel stated with the detachment you expect from officials working with children. She might've sensed Soap's little care for Amelia and decided to skip the careful, considerate language one uses with a grieving person.
"What...? You can't just..." Soap was speechless. Utterly speechless. "This is a whole kid we're talking about, no? At least give me time to think, have a look at papers and all the other shite!"
"I apologize, but you're given seven days to decide to accept or decline before we have to get her an official placement. You may visit her in the meantime, if you wish."
"The universe should really stop with her jokes, because none of this shite is funny."
"I'll... I'll call back. Bye." Soap mutters through his teeth and ends the call more forcefully than he would've liked.
Why was he even giving this some thought? He should've just barked back a "no" and hung up. There's no way he could- they could, not now, not ever-
"What is it, Johnny? You don't look too happy about that call," Ghost arrived at his side after limping through the living room, placing a hand on his waist.
How the hell is he supposed to tell his husband what he was just told, much less that he's actually considering saying yes?