Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soap has always been too nice for his own good, at least that's what everyone tells him.

They say he's a bit too naive for the military, impulsive, always one to play heroics without even noticing. They also say that his smile is too bright for the shit he's done, say that for a man that makes a living off of killing others with his own hands his face would say otherwise.

Soap would maybe agree, laugh and shrug, say that perhaps they may have a point. However, he isn't some clueless starry eyed recruit who dreams about pinning a victoria's cross onto his uniform and coming back to a small countryside town a hero.

He knows that his hands are stained with blood, knows that he's far from innocent, he knows he's a killer and, at night when the world stills the phantom remains of his victims screams echoing in his head like weeping banshees remind him of that. Father's mother's, daughter's and son's, he's killed them all, probably wiped out part of someone's family tree.

But he also knows that what he does is what he chose to do himself, he knows that this path was of his own volition.

Soap also knows that, despite it all, despite his "naivety" and "hero complex", he can't save them all. He's seen good soldiers fall dead like flies, seen the brightness and life in their eyes fade into blank nothingness, he's seen more than his fair share of lowered coffins, all covered in flags with flowers coating the surface.

He also knows that death and dying are two completely different things.

He's witnessed dead bodies, blood splattered across the earth, flesh and bones decimated and he'd call that death in it's purest form. But he's also witnessed sunken eyes lifeless to everything around them, he's witnessed hardened gazes locked up in steel cages betraying nothing to the world, he's seen light and heavy tremors, seen bodies riddled with scars and injuries, he's seen soldiers, who were once cheerful and hopeful, cry and weep only to eventually crumble into nothing but a shell of their former selves. Soap would call that dying.

Perhaps, thinks Soap as he stares at the new batch of recruits trotting around base, eyes still wide and so full of life, there's no one more qualified to know about that than Ghost.

To Soap, Ghost is both a enigma and simultaneously the easiest person to read. He knows that Ghost shifts forwards ever so slightly whenever he's hungry, he knows that the fingers on his right hand drum a small beat whenever he's bored, he knows what Ghost's lips feel like on his own and he knows that whenever he cups Ghost's face with his hands said man leans into them like a oversized dog. He also knows that Ghost tightens up ever so slightly at the mention of someone by the name of Roach.

Soap's asked Price about Roach, one time at a quiet pub when he was slightly tipsy off of overpriced alcohol, Price had shrugged and said something along the lines of how it wasn't his story to tell which, fair enough, Soap's been in the military long enough to knows when to stop poking into more sensitive issues, he's not that much of a knob head but at the same time, Ghost's called him "Roach" three times already since their relationship began and quite frankly he's tired.

He knows, deep down, that Ghost doesn't mean any bad by it and that it's probably a painful story, he knows that Ghost never says it to intentianlly hurt him and that it just slips out without the man's knowledge, knows that there's definitely some bigger picture to this, so he never says anything and opts instead to keeps quiet and let Ghost process his emotions. It still hurts like hell nonetheless. He feels useless, like a replacement for whoever this Roach is, he feels the name curl into tiny little daggers that stab into his chest, mocking and taunting him all the way until he's broken down into a mess riddled with insecurities and hesitancy.

But Soap is too nice, they say, their heads shaking in mock pity, too naive, too hopeful, —and maybe it's actually more true than he'd like to admit— so he shuts up, gives Ghost the benefit of the doubt, let's him grieve or whatever it is he's playing at.

-

It's been 2 months, 2 months without a single "Roach" being uttered.

Soap's aware that the bar is extremely low, so extremely low (as pointed out by Price) but he can't bring himself to care, too caught up in the feeling of elation swirling in his chest.

He wakes to the sound of "Johnny" as opposed to the Roach he had grown semi used to, he wakes to Ghost seeing him instead of Roach.

He tells Price about this.

"You're setting yourself up for failure." Comes the sad reply.

He ignores this, places the metaphorical blindfold on his eyes and earmuffs on his ears. See no evil, hear no evil they say.

Soap has tried talking to Ghost about Roach, has tried to breach the subject whenever he felt too tired of living in a dead man's shadow, the answer had always been the same.

"We'll talk about this another time"

And Soap had never pushed further, never pushed because he's familiar with Ghost and he's familiar with loss, he's familiar with how some wounds never quite heal correctly, how some never even close, opting instead to be what does their bearer in. He never pushes but that doesn't mean it stings any less.

It stings that Soap will never know about this piece of Ghost's past that he so intimately guards. The unwillingness to open up Ghost displays hurts like a cunt, and sometimes, when Soap is feeling like a weaker man, when the small nagging voice in his system is louder than usual, when he stares at his ceiling at night remembering everything he should forget he wonders if their relationship should have even been a thing in the first place. In a way it feels like a crashing car, he tries and stop it, and yet everyone, himself included, know how the ending is going to play out.

Sometimes, if he's feeling particularly melancholic he akins their relationship to that of a carousel. It goes round and round and he's stuck in this endless loop of chasing behind Ghost like a lost puppy. And he knows he should probably get off, leave and never look back but he also knows that stopping this "carousel" of theirs would hurt Ghost. But Soap doesn't want to be the bad guy and so he keeps this carousel game going.

(Perhaps that's why they always say he's "too nice")

-

Lo and behold, Price was right (he somehow always is the absolute prick) and Ghost has now called him Roach four times. He's honestly just about had it.

The fourth time it happens it's in front of Price and Gaz. He still sees their shocked faces, both troubled and surprised, both a mirror of worry and hesitancy.

Soap had snapped, something inside of him breaking and shattering like a dropped glass. He excused himself from the meeting and furiously stalked out of the room, a hysterical laugh bubbling in him throat, tears stinging at the corner of his eyes as he stormed down the halls of the base, stupid voices ricocheting inside his head.

"Replacement!" They yelled, voices coated in a strange sadistic glee, distorted smiles twisted into pure evil. "A replacement is what you are"

He's now sitting in his own room, fingers digging into his forearms.

Self doubts eat him from the inside out, gnawing on him like a predator chewing it's prey, always wanting more and more until there's nothing left but a empty carcass. His thoughts are loud, all yelling atop one another like a couple that's falling apart fighting over something, they call him names, tear down into his precariously built fantasy and self esteem. They call him a murderer, call him the replacement of a long gone phantom, call him pathetic for even bothering to get a broken man to try and love him back, they scream and yell as their metaphorical throats break and tear in two, blood spilling from the rips the same way tears spill from his eyes.

A knock echoes in the sparse room before the door knob rattles and Soap whips his head up foolishly expecting to see a familiar skull mask, instead he's surprisingly met with dark skin and a concerned gaze, eyes sweeping over his (most definitely splotchy) face. Soap in all honesty had expected either Ghost or even Price but instead Gaz stands there, a bit awkward a bit concerned.

Soap smiles and waves weakly, a very pathetic attempt at appearing put together and he half expects for Gaz to make a stupid joke that he would inevitably chuckle at, instead Gaz walks over and sits beside him, silent and comforting in a way he isn't used to from the other man, it's welcoming nonetheless.

They sit in silence, a welcome silence that settles over them like a blanket. They sit for what feels like hours, the occasional random noise disrupting the quiet in the room.

There's no need for words, Gaz understands the precarious situation and Soap has no need for empty generic words of comfort.

They stay like that until he falls asleep, his heart still cracking at the seams.

Chapter Text

They talk about it, they talk about Roach and eventually they shout, and from there they scream, hurl insults at each other that are meant to sting, to rip and tear at the threads of their relationship, like a blade swaying back and forth over the fine strings holding them together.

"He's dead" Screams Soap, chest heaving and fingernails carving crescent moons into his palms.

"Let him go" He says, voice raw and pained "Remember him but move on, stop dreaming of a dead man, stop using me as a replacement for your guilt"

Ghost hurls back his own brand of pain, voice a roar of fury and frustration.

"You were just a replacement, you'll never be him, you're just a pretty fuck thing" Are some of the words he yells back.

Logically Soap knows that Ghost is frustrated, that he's hurt, that the wound left by the other mans death never healed and instead festered into a painful infection, day by day getting worse and worse, slowly taking over its hosts body like a macabre parasite. Soap knows that logically the chances of Ghost meaning that are low, he knows the bigger man struggles with expressing himself and thus lashes out like a cornered dog, however, no matter how much Soap understands, no matter how nice he is, when something hurts it hurts.

Ghosts words rip at his already fragile psyche, they tear him into shreds, into broken pieces unable to be stitched back together by pretty words of forgiveness and soft kisses.

Soap lunges forwards, fist curled as a loud 'crack' resonates around the common room.

"You fucking dare?" He says, voice ragged with emotion, salty tears prickling at his eyes. "You fucking dare?" He repeats loudly, anger boiling over.

Ghost says nothing, touching his cheek where the fist landed and scoffing loudly before stalking off, footsteps uncharacteristically heavy.

Soap wants to scream, wants to grab Ghost by the back of his shirt and drag him back into the room, wants to tell him to face him, tell him to stop running, to stop pushing away every ounce of help he's offered. Soap wants to tear at his own hair, wants to berate himself for falling for the one man he can't have, he wants to laugh and cry and gouge his heart out, wants to shove a gun into his mouth and pull the trigger, he wants to go back to Glasgow and blow his brains out if only out of spite for Ghost.

Someone clearing their throat breaks him out of his destructive train of thoughts.

Price stands there in the doorway of the common room, a few nervous looking greenies shifting around behind the captain.

"My office, now" Is all the man says.

-

He's sent on leave, a whole month leave to "cool off" and process everything.

He hadn't been allowed to bring a gun with him for leave, Price giving him a knowing look when Soap had tried to reason that it was for safety purposes.

Fucking prick.

It's been about three weeks, about three weeks since he spoke with Ghost, since he opened the door to his flat in Glasgow and cried on the floor of his hallway.

It's pathetic really, the fact that he's still holding on despite everything that's happened, despite everything that's been said and done.

Soap is no longer a catholic, his faith having died on the battlefield with countless other men, both friend and foe. Soap is no longer a catholic and yet he finds himself praying, his hands clasped together in a silent prayer, knees bent under him worshiping a dead god like a dog it's owner.

He prays and prays, prays for everything and nothing, he prays for 141, for Simon Riley, for Roach, for his family, for Laswell and her wife, he prays for himself, prays to fall out of love, for his heartbreak to heal like all his other scars.

It's useless however, his praying, wishing, worshiping, it's all useless because when he wakes in the morning the shadow memories of a masked figure linger over him, follow him like a shadow. No matter how many 'amens' he mutters or how many drinks he down, he can't forget.

His heart, broken and fragile, is held in Simon's destructive hands.

-

Soaps has been back on base for about four days and he's yet to see Ghost.

He'd asked Price but the older man had waved him off and muttered something about a appointment.

It's quiet, peaceful. The new recruits are eager and capable, Gaz still sticks cards up his sleeves and Price still smokes like someone who's end goal in life is lung cancer.

Soap is sitting on his cot, legs curled and sketchbook in hand as he sketches out random nonsensical doodles.

A knock Interrupts his session and before he can even open his mouth the door swings open to reveal a familiar, black clad hulking figure.

The "Of fuckin' course" falls out of his mouth faster than he can stop it.

Ghost stands there awkwardly, shuffling into his room before closing the door behind him like a kid that got called to the headmasters office.

It's awkward, air stifling in a way that Soap isn't exactly used to, especially with his L.T.

"Johnny"

"Ghost"

Soap watches as Ghost's shoulder slump forwards slightly, back hunched as he curls himself inwards ever so slightly.

"Sorry" Is all the man says.

Sorry? Is he fucking serious right now? Just sorry?

Soap is fuming, he's fucking pissed, wants to grab Ghost by the shirt and land a punch on his face just like that fateful day, he wants to yell and scream at him, show him the pain he's been subjected to, tell him that after everything that's happened he can't just waltz back in with a single "sorry" on his tongue and expect everything to be normal, Soap wants to shake Ghost harshly, tell him to open his eyes and to look at the consequences of his actions. Instead Soap grunts loudly and goes back to his sketchbook.

He hears Ghost shift some more. "Um Price made me see a psych, told me to pull myself together"

At that Soap looks back up, eyebrows raised to the high heavens.

How Price had managed to convince Ghost to see a psychologist was beyond him considering the man was notorious for having avoided every single persuasion attempt. Maybe their argument really set it off.

Ghost shuffles some more. "Price reckons you should also attend"

"What like couples therapy?" Snorts Soap, sketchbook long forgotten in his lap.

"No, more to sort ourselves out"

Does Soap need that? Does he need to sort himself out? He's fine as is right?

Soap is about to answer with a snide comment before stopping himself, a flash of a certain memory of him holding a gun up to his head popping up into his head, a phantom voice sounding like Price telling him to leave the gun behind before he blows his head out.

"...yeah sure"

-

It's been about three months and all Soap can say is that Dr Turner is nice.

Professional and sympathetic, to a point at least.

Therapy itself is... decent. At least he's worked out a few issues and problems. Sometimes he gets to sit down and complain about the military, and everything in between and that's nice, sometimes he's forced to sit down and confront the big 'do not open' box in his mind and thats not as nice.

"It's necessary" Is all Dr Turner says, clicking his pen against his scribble filled notebook.

Ghost and Soap share the same doctor, their appointments sometimes matching up. When Soap exits Ghost enters and when Ghost exits, Soap enters.

They'd decided to give their "relationship" a break and instead focus on healing, a suggestion made by Turner himself, Soap had agreed and so had Ghost. They brush against each other in the hallways, maintain civil conversations during the day, do drills together and go on short, easy missions.

They're professionals first and foremost.

It's fine. Gaz still makes stupid dares with him, Price still wears stupid fishing hats, Ghost is back to stalking everyone like a shadow and Soap is still in love with said man.

It's fine.

Chapter Text

The Glasgow air is frigid as always, wind cold and sharp against his face, but then again February is always cold.

It's been about a year since he left the military due to a injury that fucked over his foot, it's been about a years since he and Ghost broke things off, opting instead to focus on healing, on mending themselves back together into something better and stronger.

Soap is... happy.

He likes his life right now, the constant threat of dying that he once carried on his shoulders finally lifted. He enjoys the fact that he can draw more, spend more time with his sister and nephews, likes the fact that he can see his old friends, that he can enjoy the smaller things in life and take it slower, however, sometimes he wishes he hadn't left, feels regret and resentment at himself for the injury. Sometimes he misses the adrenaline rushes that coursed through his body right before a mission, he misses training greenies and messing around with explosives, he even misses the tedious paperwork that Price would have them doing for hours on end.

Secretly, he also misses Ghost, misses Simon in a way he never thought he would. He misses the mans scent of gunpowder, misses his deadpan jokes and his live for knives, he misses his golden eyes and the stupid masks, he misses his thick Manchester accent and every scar on the mans body.

His new therapist says that it's normal, that he's spent the better part of his life knowing only the military and that the feeling will probably never leave but that he has to understand that the injury isn't on him and that this pattern of blaming himself isn't healthy.

Soap mostly agrees, a small part of him still hell bent on blaming himself over something he couldn't control.

(He hasn't told her about Ghost)

He sinks further into his scarf and picks up the pace, feet tapping rhythmically against the sidewalk before stopping in front of his house. Fiddling with the keys he swings open the door and is met with big green eyes looking up at him.

"Hello to you too you bonnie lass" He coos.

The cat at his feet meows and rubs herself up against his legs. Soap bends down and pets her softly before straightening back up and moving to take off his coat, opting to dump it on the decorative table in the hallway.

He wanders into his living room and flops down onto the couch, eyes closing a the sound of cars occasionally passing by break the tranquil silence that settles over his house.

Soap wonders what Price is doing now, he wonders what Gaz is up to, he wonders how Laswell and her wife are, he thinks about Ale and Rudy, about his old room, about everything that he once called home.

He thinks about Ghost, about their relationship and friendship, he thinks about Las Almas and everything that came after, he thinks about Roach and quietly wonders if Ghost is still holding onto that phantom of his past, he hopes not, he hopes that Ghost healed, hopes that the man finally found peace, that he finally stitched up the metaphorical wound and set down his guilt.

(Selfishly he hopes that maybe Ghost healed for him)

A knock on his door startles him out of his thoughts, jumping ever so slightly.

Scone meows loudly and paws at him, almost as if telling him to get a move on.

Soap stands and hobbles over to the door, swinging it open only to be met by a very familiar figure.

Said figure is standing there awkwardly shifting back and forth, a bag swung over their broad shoulders. It's almost like a deja vu.

"Ghost?"

Soap can see Ghost wince from behind the ski mask hes wearing, the black hat resting on his head tilted slightly upwards allowing a clear view of his golden eyes, skin free of his regular black greasepaint.

"...hey"

Silence.

"Could I uh, come in?"

Soap startles and moves aside, signaling for Ghost to pass inside, said man shuffles in as Soap closes the door before heading into the living room.

It's awkward, extremely so.

After Soap left they hadn't really kept in contact, just a ocasional hello delivered through Gaz or Price.

"I um" Begins Ghost, his accent somehow thicker than what Soap remembers. "I've been discharged from the military"

Soap nearly has a heart attack. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, I uh fucked up my right leg" Comes the reply.

Soap blinks, once, twice, thrice. He feels like the whole world has tilted upside down because Ghost being away from the military, much less permanently gone, is, to his mind, a imposible feat.

Ghost who had given his all to the military, Ghost who had killed Simon Riley in favor of the army, Ghost who had essentially spent the better part of his life in said army.

Soap doesn't know what to say, so instead he asks the only logical question his brain can currently come up with. "What are you doing here?"

At that Ghost shrinks even more, eyes staring at everything except him. "Didn't know where to go"

Right, if all Ghost has ever known is the military he'd obviously not have anywhere else to go. The fact that his family aren't exactly breathing is another fact to consider-

"And because I missed you" Says Ghost matter of factly. "Because I still fucking love you"

What?

What?

"What?"

At this Ghost stands up from the chair he was sitting in and steps into his personal space, dropping onto his knees in front of him.

Soap is speechless, his traitorous, heart perking up at the admission.

Silence, and then, with no warning, like a bomb exploding Soap punches Ghost, almost in recreation of that fateful day.

"Ye fuckin' bawbag, ye absolute fuckin' eejit, ye absolute fuckin' dobber" He yells, hands clutched into Ghosts shirt. "How fuckin' dare ye, how fuckin' dare ye waltz back into my life with those same words of love and affection"

Ghost is standing there, unmoving and strangely, relaxed.

"Ye don't get to do this, ye don't get to pull this after everything ye 'ave done t'me" Soap is still yelling, spitting out insults, tear prickling at his eyes. "Ye have no fuckin' right to do this"

He's full on sobbing now, his hands still balled into the mans black shirt, distantly he feels arms wrap around his waist and neck.

"Listen, I know I don't deserve this and I know that you have every right to throw me out" Says Ghost, his own voice slightly shaky and Soap just can't believe this day. "But it's the truth, I still love you, I miss you, I fucking want you so much even after all this time"

Soap hiccups loudly.

"And you're in every right to deny me, to cuss me out and throw me out, but when I was attending my therapy session with Dr Turner I realized that-"

Soap presses his lips to Ghost's.

-

It isn't perfect, lingering doubts and fears clouding over them.

Soap forgives but he certainly doesn't forget.

Sometimes he wakes up and half expects Ghost to breathe out the name 'Roach', sometimes he chews on his nails half expecting Ghost to turn around, call him a idiot and tell him that he's a replacement for his guilt. However that never comes, months pass and it never comes, they live together, eat together, sleep together and never once does Roach fall from Ghost's lips.

Ghost finds a new therapist and lands himself a job as a gym trainer.

Soap tells his therapist about this, about Ghost and their turbulent history.

She doesn't accuse him of keeping secrets or of a lack of trust, instead she listens, nods and tells him to talk it out with Ghost, she tells him to properly talk it communicate.

Soap follows through and grills Ghost for three hours.

It's surprisingly insightful.

Ghost says that he still loves Roach, that he'll always carry said man with him in his heart but that he can't let that hold him back, that he can't keep holding onto the dead the same way one might with the living, he explains that he's aware that what he did was shitty, that their previous relationship was only unhealthy due to him pushing away any attempt and opportunity of recovery, explains that he did love Soap but only said and did what he did out of fear and instinct, that he didn't know how to handle himself and his emotions.

Soap nods and listens, tells Ghost that he also loves him but that he also broke him, tells Ghost that it took a long time to piece himself back together, tells him that till this day he still finds pieces of his broken psyche laying scattered around, that crumpled paper can never go back to being the same. Soap tells Ghost that he loves him but that he doesn't forgive him, not yet at least.

Ghost understands and that's all Soap can ask for.

-

It's September.

It's September and the autumn chill is in the air.

Simon is busy in the kitchen and Johnny is watching him from the dining table, mug of bitter tea held between his hands.

The sweater he wears is four sizes too big and plain black.

"Hey Simon"

"Yeah?"

"I forgive you"