Archive of Our Own

Heavy, burdened footsteps met the earth below Ghost’s feet. He’d been traipsing through woodland with slightly less precision than he’d have liked, his sense of time long since abandoned between his racing thoughts and desperately pulsating heartbeat.

Thick dusk blanketed his surroundings, turning them into nothing but the faintly recognisable shapes of trees and shrubs, as if guarding the delicate nature around him from trespass. These conditions, however, did not cause his strides to falter. Despite a deep inward unrest, Ghost remained steadfast. There was a methodical edge to every rhythmic step.

The rhythm was a lifeline. One, two. One, two. He had been matching his breathing to his pace, trying to soothe the near erratic seizing in his lungs.

A lingering, mental haze engulfed his senses. Rarely did a nightmare leave him so disoriented. So desperate to escape - to flee the base and find comfort where no-one could find him.

Typically, he’d awake with a sharp intake of air. He’d slowly sit up, paranoia sickeningly stroking the back of his neck as he’d survey his surroundings. He’d stay sitting, sweat dripping from his brow and seeping into the fabric of his mask.

Eventually, he’d shuffle backwards to rest his back against the cold walls of his room, allowing himself to find small relief in the mild shock to his nerves. For the rest of the night, he’d count his breaths, acutely aware of every little detail of his surroundings - even more so than usual. There was little comfort to be found in this routine, however the throbbing discomfort that struck with every pulse of his heartbeat served as a crucial reminder.

His presence in the lives of those around him only placed them in danger.

It haunted him every single night, an unrelenting threat promising to keep him shackled to burning buildings and buried coffins. Instilling a deep fear within him that it would only follow him and infect any new home he made for himself. Taunting him. Ensuring he carried the responsibility of never allowing such horrors to befall anyone else he thought himself capable of caring for.

No, he couldn’t allow himself to feel truly at ease; no matter how much it beckoned to him within the walls, laughter and odd homeliness of the 141’s base. He couldn’t allow his fate to ensnare them too.

No matter how inviting the idea of indulging in their serenity felt, he just couldn’t afford to risk it. History had a gruesome tendency to repeat itself at the precise moments Ghost began to let his guard down.

To risk doing so would be to risk their lives. Something was always lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce on the things Simon loved most, to destroy his chances of solitude and leave carnage in its wake. The very thought of the cycle rearing its ugly head and churning back to life was utterly horrifiying.

It’s not that he couldn’t go through it again. He could. That’s what scared him. His near inhuman resilience was both the reason he was still drawing breath, and his own personal, tailored prison. He could lose everything he had, be stripped of every ounce of his humanity and in the end glare up at the very Gods who decreed his fate, armed with nothing but a snarl and his own two hands to claw his way out of any grave they buried him in.

Ghost couldn’t survive anything. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe himself to be immortal. Neither was he foolish enough to endanger the rest of the 141.

If there was even a fraction of a chance that letting his walls down would place their lives in jeopardy, he refused. His past served as a reliable indicator that the odds were much higher than he was willing to bet on.

It was a firm line he had drawn in the sand. Yet a certain Scotsman seemed so determined to cross it - day by day, joke by ridiculous joke, one Johnny “Soap” MacTavish picked at the scabbed rust around Ghost’s heart, like a compulsion.

And Gods, it worked. Far more than Ghost would ever admit.

Perhaps that was why tonight’s nightmare had sent him reeling. His past replaying behind his eyelids was nothing new - as much as it tore at old scars, never did they threaten to carve new ones into his skin.

This time, it was different.

He didn’t dare to linger on it as he continued on his path, his body on autopilot as he silently avoided branches and mangled roots on the woodland floor.

Mangled roots, like mangled flesh, torn and scorched besides dishevelled tufts of Soap’s dark, once pristine mohawk.

Bile rose in Ghost’s throat. Finally, he staggered, clumsily reaching for a nearby tree for support as he ripped his balaclava up to his nose and gagged. In an instant, he lurched. Sharp stomach acid stung his throat as it tore its way out of his mouth, landing in an underwhelmingly small pool by his scuffed boots.

With his chest heaving, he attempted to blink away the way his vision swam, to reclaim his senses and decipher anything about where he had ended up.

The first thing he became aware of as the haze in his brain began to ease was coarse bark digging into the palm of his hand from the vice grip he held onto the tree trunk with.

Next, was the cold sweat drenching his torso, his flimsy t-shirt uncomfortably clinging to him as the colder nighttime breeze brushed against him. Goosebumps rippled over his arms. He gritted his teeth, every new sensation that emerged from the fog creeping up to overwhelm him. He suddenly became very aware of suffocating, prickling little daggers poking at every pore of his face from the balaclava that kept it hidden.

Ghost couldn’t remember the last time he’d removed his mask outside - or even the last time he’d removed it outside of necessity, besides showing the 141 and Los Vaqueros his face. The mere thought of removing his personal shield caused steady, dreadful unease to loom over his shoulder.

Decidedly, that was better than the alternative.

Begrudgingly, he lifted his hand to fully remove the skeletal balaclava. He almost stopped caring that he was temporarily giving up a great deal of personal control as the previously stifled skin on his face started to breathe. It was a damn good stroke of luck that no-one was around. Ghost would be mortified if any of the 141 saw him in this state.

Especially Johnny.

Ghost would never live it down. He’d never truly be able to slip behind his cold, calculative, safe facade ever again.

Soap would try and pretend things were normal afterwards out of respect for Ghost, but there would be a shift between them. Soap would begin to enact more careful consideration in every action that would follow such a visceral display of mess. He’d walk on eggshells. Avoid trampling on Ghost’s weaknesses like they’d break him, from the very second he clocked what they were.

Because Soap always noticed the tiniest details.

Even when Ghost was so certain he’d left no trail of Simon Riley to be followed, Soap tracked him down stubbornly. He had no idea where Soap had found the clues to piece together.

Maybe it was the way he lowered his eyes when he spoke heavy words. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, offering firm advice he’d learnt the hard way. Maybe Johnny was otherworldly in his ability to see people and their souls, to coax them into bearing their exposed backs. To stab or to caress, Ghost didn’t know.

Maybe, Ghost was fooling himself. Maybe it was the most obvious thing on Earth that he was painfully, regrettably human.

Ghost truly despised his own humanity. It left nothing but deep, jagged scarring. It made him feeble, like a foal unable to step away from its mother’s side without shaking wildly. The very crux of his identity was to shield himself from harm out of blind fear that one tiny crack in his psyche being tapped in just the right place would be all it took to finally break him. His personhood was something he wished to be rid of entirely.

Whereas with Johnny, it was that very personhood that made him so revering. To be so otherworldly, yet to take full ownership of one’s humanity was unfathomable to Ghost.

Ghost knew endurance. He knew pushing through filth and hardship and fate. What he couldn’t do was shake hands with the universe and dare it to keep throwing it’s worst his way.

Johnny could - he rose to every challenge with sheer, unrivalled courage, no matter the odds. If he got knocked down, he’d bounce back with ten times the force, finding unthinkable ways to spin those odds in his favour.

It was something Ghost admired deeply. He’d never met a spitfire quite as bright as Johnny - though he knew all he could do was treasure his spark from a distance.

To him, that was enough. How privileged he was to witness such a star burn, even from lightyears away.

Somewhere amidst the time he had taken to shelter himself within his wandering mind, Ghost’s body had begun to lay down its onslaught of attacks upon itself. He took a moment to check back in with himself - his heartbeat was still rapid, yet much calmer than before, and each breath brought only a dull ache.

Despite how unpleasant it had been, vomiting the contents of his stomach - or lack thereof - was hugely sobering. What stood out the most was that he was no longer disoriented beyond comprehending the world around him.

Taking a deep breath, he began to survey his surroundings, eyes adjusting once again to the near pitch back.

As he looked around, he caught sight of warm light peeking through the nearby treeline, casting clear silhouettes of spiked tree branches.

Cautious of the stress his body was still recovering from, Ghost began to move towards the light source. As far as he was aware, there was nothing in these woods - his best guess was that he had traversed the entire five mile stretch from the base to its closest town.

Mentally, he cursed himself. He found it hard to believe that he had made it this far, yet it seemed to be the only logical explanation. Truth be told, he thought it was foolish how he hadn’t kept track of time or distance. This kind of mistake could be lethal. The recklessness of his actions was undeniable; he’d surely get shit from Price for it later.

As he broke through the treeline, his suspicions were confirmed. He laid eyes on the back of a familiar church, the interior completely blackened. All that lit the area was a small number of caged metal sconces dotted around the exterior, with yellow bulbs that buzzed ferociously into the silent night.

As for the plot of land itself, it was neatly embraced by a waist-high cobbled wall, faintly weathered by time and the elements. The grass was evidently maintained well, freshly trimmed and scarcely littered with graves of various ages.

As visually pleasing as it was, it did nothing to fend off the freezing November wind as it whizzed past him, a cruel reminder that leaving the base in such cold conditions was something only an idiot would do.

His wrist, like the others, had grown cold to the touch. Simon didn't know how long he had been sitting there, clinging to his body. Clinging to the hope that this was some sort of cosmic mistake. That Soap would open his eyes at any given second, gasping for air.

His prayers were fruitless. Soap remained jarringly still.

The only warmth emitting from his corpse was that of slick blood, branching down the side of his head like a river on a map. Directions all pointing to the simple fact that Johnny was gone.

Ghost rubbed his eyes, sighing deeply as he willed those images to disappear.

As horrible as it was to be stuck out here, alone and fighting the climate with little protection, he wasn’t ready to go back yet. Slipping back inside the base and guarding himself in his room wasn’t exactly a difficult task. However, the thought of what he might find if he did go back was sickening.

It wasn’t real, he told himself.

Of course he knew that. But the icy fear that matched the temperature around him was real. The way his stomach churned was real. The way he felt about the risk of losing the 141 - of losing Johnny - was real.

With that, Ghost knew he had made up his mind. Despite how his skin shook under the frigid cold, he would stay out here just a little while longer. At least if he stayed by the church, he wouldn’t be completely lost.

He remembered the first time he’d come across this particular place.

It had been a rare day off, and while Ghost usually wasn’t a fan of those, he at least had Soap to keep him company. The Scotsman had dragged him on one of his outings to the town for a walk, filling the silence with anecdotes about coffee shops from home, retellings of fond memories and lively ramblings of plans to surprise his sister with little gifts from everywhere he’d travelled to while he was deployed.

Ghost had listened, humming with agreement and chiming in with odd comments where appropriate. A mighty ache settled in his chest as he did so; he couldn’t help being slightly jealous of the joy in Soap’s life. Of the family he had to go back to, the simplicity of having a place to call home when all the fighting was over.

Still, he couldn’t deny that he felt some warmth towards it. The way Soap lit up as he spoke of his home and family was absolutely enthralling - from the wide smile on his face, to how his words got faster and his accent thickened with every story. It was all so utterly Johnny that it tugged stubbornly at Ghost’s heartstrings, even if he lost half the details to Scots phrases that he didn’t understand.

As their walk took them along the outskirts of town, the pair long since falling into comfortable silence, Ghost had spotted the church. He’d paused in his stride without even realising it as his eyes trailed over the gothic architecture, memorising every little detail.

“You a’ight, L.T?” Soap had asked from beside him.

“Yeah. Just admirin’,” he responded, the gruffness to his voice softened by the focus he held.

“Didn’t picture ye as a religious man.”

“I’m not,” Ghost corrected, though the truth was more so that his faith was more ambiguous than anything else. “Just think churches look nice.”

“Aye, you’d be right about that.”

“Usually am.”

This earned him a laugh from Soap. Ghost turned to face him, eyes crinkling to reveal the slight smile that his balaclava hid.

“One day you won’t be. When that happens I’ll make sure you don’t forget about it,” Soap challenged.

“Have you got a death wish or something?” Ghost questioned, though he was curious as to how far Soap would push it.

“Aye. That or I just know you wouldnae do a thing to me.”

Ghost felt his face heat up at that. “Fucking hell, Soap, shut up,” he’d grumbled, only to be met with warm laughter in response.

That had been a nice day, Ghost recalled as he searched around the stone half-wall for some kind of entrance. Rather quickly he spotted a short black gate, marked by a naturally worn path that barely peeked out towards the treeline.

He approached it, cringing as his bare fingers met the wet, cold, metal handle. The unpleasant sensation passed as soon as it came as he opened the gate, stepping inside the church grounds.

Here, the foot-worn path was clearer. As Ghost followed the steps of every person that came before him, it became evident that the path led towards the frontside of the grounds and forked off to the right-hand side.

He’d never had the opportunity to properly look around this place, so he opted to follow the right side path. The occasional pine tree dotted beside the trail, benches placed in pleasant positions to make the experience of visiting the deceased a sweeter affair.

Death was something Ghost seldom found peaceful, but in places like this, he couldn’t help but understand how people could perceive it that way.

As he continued to wander, Ghost spotted a small creek cutting through the land to the left hand side of the church. A simple wooden bridge crossed the gap to the extended grounds beyond and just off to the side sat a lonely bench, sheltered by a sprawling oak tree.

Unlike the other benches in the area, it did not face any graves, instead overlooking the stream below; chosen to watch over the life in this place, rather than the vast death.

Ghost figured it would be a decent enough distraction.

His joints ached as he sat, practically collapsing into the bench. Every muscle in his body was rigid and bogged down by a gnawing fatigue that only grew with every minute he spent in the cold.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered to himself, leaning his head back and letting his eyes to drift shut, pointedly attempting to ignore the way he had begun to shake from his exposure to the weather.

A faint symphony of noises could be heard through the night - nothing was ever truly silent, after all. Ghost listened, allowing wind rustled leaves, trickling water and the occasional birdsong to grace his ears, gradually lulling him into a sense of security.

His restless heartbeat had finally faltered, becoming steadier than it had been for hours. Feathered reeds tickled his ankles through the fabric of his sweats - he welcomed the sensation, finding it to be grounding.

Ghost found himself wondering how long it had been since he’d awoken - what time it had been when he did, and what time it was at present. He knew it couldn’t be too far from dawn, as the presence of birdsong was beginning to form a scattered chorus.

His mind drifted to the 141 - back at base, had they awoken? Surely they hadn’t noticed his absence. Ghost frequently joined training late. After realising the extent of his nightmares, Price had ordered that on particularly rough nights, he was to take an extra couple of hours to rest, much to his dismay.

He supposed it was for the better. Taking out his frustrations on recruits or the others was the last thing Ghost wanted - the extra time gave him the necessary space to de-escalate. Typically, he’d go for a run or pace in his room so that he could at least be doing something while the time dragged by.

A far more cynical part of him believed it to be demeaning. He knew Price cared - that he had Ghost’s best interests at heart. But weakness was weakness, no matter who knew about it or what their intentions were. For that to be perceived by a living, breathing human was far too near to torturous for to him.

Fragility only meant that there was an opening to draw blood.

He had stumbled upon what could only be described as a bloodbath. Bullet holes riddled the walls of the 141’s base and light fixtures pulsated with all their might as they fought against their damage, sparks flying with every flicker.

Bodies. There were bodies strewn everywhere, each having met their demise through crude blunt force or tactical slashes that would ensure they bled out slowly. The silence was deafening.

Ghost wanted to run. To hide. To deny that his friends were likely amidst this gruesome scene, and that he was powerless to save them.

Rapid, fluttering wings wrenched Simon back to reality. He flew his eyes open, locking onto a robin perched on the armrest of the bench, curiously tilting its head and chirping as he stared, wide-eyed, fighting to keep his breathing steady.

It’s over. It wasn’t real. He repeated the phrase to himself like a mantra, desperate to claw himself away from his nightmare for good.

A distant voice cut through the air. Too far to be anyone nearby. He couldn’t quite distinguish what had been said - in all honesty, he was certain his mind was playing tricks on him.

Until it called out again, closer this time.

“Ghost!”

The bird scrambled, wings frantic as it shot off beyond the creek.

“Ghost, no- fuck,” Soap winced, his gruelling injuries battling his will to speak. “You need t’ go, they’re…”

“Easy, Johnny. Take your time, please.” If Simon didn’t know any better, he’d say his own words sounded like begging.

“For Christ’s sake, L.T- listen.”

Ghost slowly nodded. If it would stop Soap from writhing, from further agitating his fatal wounds, he’d do it.

“They’re here for you.”

The words caused his stomach to bleed from within, guilt ravishing his system. All too quickly, yet slowly enough that Simon could feel it happening in his very arms - powerless to do anything - Soap went limp, his body becoming heavy, dead weight.

It paled in comparison to the weight of knowing that this was his fault.

“-Ghost! Creepin’ bloody Jesus!”

Ghost snapped his head up to face his aggressor, instinctively reaching for a knife.

Only, he didn’t have a knife strapped to him, as his tactical vest was discarded back at the base. He felt himself caught like a deer in headlights as he stared at who had just come tearing through the church grounds to find him. It took a long, frightful moment to process that his aggressor wasn’t an aggressor at all.

Soap stood alive merely a few feet away, breathing deeply as if he had just ran a marathon. Breathing. Drawing in oxygen. Living, despite Ghost’s nightmare cautioning him to prepare for the exact opposite.

The sleeves of Soap’s jacket were rolled up, something Ghost noticed he did idly whenever he was fretting about a situation. He had snapped his head away from Ghost the second he laid eyes on him, as if ashamed to even look at him. Instinctively mirroring the other man, Ghost looked down.

“What in Christ’s name are you doing out here?” He heard Soap hiss.

Ghost shrugged, pulling his gaze back up to Soap, only to realise that he was still looking away. There was an awkward pause as he studied Soap’s face; the furrowed brow, pursing of his lips and rigid stance that held enough tension to snap bones indicated a mix of emotions Ghost couldn’t quite make sense of.

Anger? Disappointment? Worry?

“Late night walk. Obviously,” Ghost finally spoke, testing the waters.

His humour was not met well.

Something that had been scrunched up in Soap’s hands was thrown in his direction. Ghost easily caught it, though his trembling arm ached in protest, begging for relief from the cold. He recognised the balled up, wet fabric to be his balaclava.

Oh. That explained why Soap was looking away.

“You can look at me, Johnny. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

Soap huffed slightly, relenting as he turned to face Ghost. He crossed his arms over his chest, rolling his shoulders slightly to adjust the backpack securely strapped to his back as he did so.

“I was out looking for you. I found this.” He stated harshly, gesturing to the mask in Ghost’s hand.

“That’s handy.”

“Ghost. I found your mask, but not you. D’ya have any idea how that looked?”

“Careless,” came Ghost’s reply, quicker than he cared to think about.

A pause hung in the air between them. Ghost watched as Soap studied his face, wondering if he should tell him to stop looking at him with such intensity. Like he was a piece of string Soap was unravelling in his brilliant mind.

Ghost’s brow twitched. When had he lost his mask? He dug through his clouded memory - in all honesty, it was a blur. He remembered taking it off. He remembered vomiting in painful detail. However, he didn’t remember putting the mask back on or shoving it in his pocket at all.

“You didn’t notice you lost it,” Soap observed, brows pinched together. The rest of his features softened, something resembling concern immediately replacing any kind of frustration. Like he had just tugged apart a stubborn knot in the thread, placing him one step closer towards answers.

“Was a bit busy chucking up my guts,” he recalled. “Wasn’t much to be fair. Ended up painfully underwhelming.”

“Think I saw it. Thought it was bird shit,” Soap bounced back.

Ghost snorted, the joke catching him off guard. It was a complete and utter relief however that Soap seemed to be easing up - treating him how he usually would, rather than a frail, injured creature.

He watched as Johnny took a glance up at the church’s towering spire. If his guesswork was half as good as he believed it to be, he was willing to bet that Soap was reminiscing on their time in Las Almas. The church there had been their saving grace, in a way. It gave them a goal. Somewhere to strive towards as they narrowly escaped death at every turn.

“Ever get deja vu?” Ghost asked.

Soap huffed in amusement. “Aye, L.T. We’ve really got to stop meeting like this.”

“Don’t you like knowing you’ll run into me?”

“I like knowing you’re alright more.”

Soap’s gaze returned to Ghost. There was a sincere glint in his eyes, sobering the conversation once more.

“I’m alright, Johnny. Not got a scratch on me,” he replied.

Johnny stepped towards the bench. Something in his demeanour carried currently unspoken reservations; he didn’t believe Ghost. Any traces of their previous banter had vanished, replaced by something far more sombre.

He sat beside him. “You look exhausted.”

“I am,” Simon confessed quietly.

He became unable to meet Soap’s eye as he spoke, the words slipping far too quickly from his mouth. Far too honestly. He entwined his hands together in his lap as he idly stared down at the steady stream below them, listening as Soap shifted beside him.

Soap’s backpack gently thudded against the ground as it was placed down. The zipper whistled as it was undone, followed by the sound of Soap pulling out the bag's contents.

Ghost felt Johnny move closer to him. Before he could question what was happening, something heavy, warm and soft was placed around his still shivering frame. He recognised it as his own black, zip-up winter hoodie. As Johnny leant closer to secure it over his shoulders, the faint scent of his cologne met Ghost’s nose.

He shuddered. He wasn’t sure if it was from the close proximity or the relief of having something to fend off the cold.

Johnny’s hand lingered, before settling on Ghost’s back, rubbing back and forth between his shoulder blades. His breath caught in his throat.

Maybe Johnny was otherworldly in his ability to  see people and their souls, to coax them into bearing their exposed backs. To stab or to caress, Simon didn’t know.

There was no plunging of a blade. No betrayal in his touch. All that transpired was a tentative, soothing rhythm over his tensed, tired muscles.

As Ghost’s initial unease over such an intimate gesture began to subside ever so slightly, he relaxed as much as his body would allow him to, secretly basking in the feeling of Soap’s hand on his back.

After a moment, he slid his arms through the sleeves of the hoodie, raw stinging grazing his forearms and hands as they made contact with the fleece inside. The discomfort was short lived however, as he knew the relief of his body warming up would be pure bliss.

“Better?” Johnny asked, barely above a whisper.

“A bit. Thanks.”

Soap squeezed Ghost’s shoulder. It left a glow in his chest that was all too quickly left to linger as Soap removed his hand, turning to look through his bag for something else.

Simon willed it to vanish. Johnny had him pulled in like the tide itself - for one man to be able to pull those strings was something he could only see as volatile.

Against his wishes, the glow persisted.

Soap soon turned back to him, holding a pair of Ghost’s skeleton gloves. The Scotsman gestured for him to hold out his hands.

“I can do it myself, Johnny,” Ghost interjected reflexively.

“I know.”  A faint, fond smile twitched at the corners of Soap’s lips. “Just… let me help you, Simon. Can you let me help you?”

Ghost wanted nothing more than to protest. To send Johnny running back to base and leave him to wallow in peace. But there was something so earnest and kind in Soap’s eyes that left him utterly defenceless against the Scotsman’s offer.

Through his reluctance, Simon nodded, offering his hands to Soap.

Johnny placed the gloves beside them, and took Ghost’s hands in his own. His touch was razor hot compared to the icy pinpricks of his own skin.

For a moment, Soap’s mind seemed to wander. He gently glided his thumb over Ghost’s scarred hands, leaving behind a trail of ecstasy. Next, he proceeded to embrace Ghost’s hands fully with his own, delicately rubbing heat into them.

Simon’s heartbeat was deafening. He was certain Soap could hear it too as it battered against his ribcage, gleefully crashing into his bones.

Calm down, he told himself. His hands wouldn’t warm up if the gloves had no warmth to cling to in the first place. Soap was just being tactical. That was all.

A slither of him hoped that wasn’t true. Ghost ignored it.

A split second of pressure in the wrong place caused Simon’s palms to sting. He hissed, hands twitching as he fought the urge to wrench them away from Soap.

Johnny paused. He adjusted his grip, loosening it so as to not further agitate Simon’s palms.

“Can I take a look?” He asked, tone just as gentle as it had been before silence engulfed them.

Simon nodded.

Tenderly, Soap opened up Simon’s hands, revealing jagged grazing. It had bled - slight copper streaks marking his palms where the small volume of blood had dried.

“Thought you said you didn’t have a scratch, L.T,” Soap mused.

“Manhandled a tree, Sargent. You should see the other guy.”

Soap chuckled. “Aye, naturally. Or maybe didya trip ‘n’ feel too embarrassed to say?”

“No, genuinely,” Simon replied. “Held onto a tree for dear life when I threw up. I’d say I won that fight.”

“That you did, Simon.” Johnny shook his head, smiling affectionately as he studied the extent of the damage. “Its soil will never recover.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Soap hummed in agreement. “Well you on the other hand, will be just fine, L.T.”

“Thought you weren’t a medic, Johnny.”

“Och, wheesht,” Soap snorted.

“Pardon?” Simon furrowed his brow.

“Means ‘pish off,’ L.T,” he translated.

“Cheeky bastard. You came looking for me, not the other way around.”

“Aye. Y’bein’ a right tadger about it ‘n’ all.” Despite the words probably having an insulting meaning, Soap’s tone held no malice whatsoever.

The scotsman picked up the previously discarded gloves as he smiled, delicately pulling them over Ghost’s hands. Simon savoured every brush of their fingertips. It was more than likely that this would be the only time something like this happened between them.

Once they were securely in place, Soap retreated his hands; the weight of their absence was something Simon didn’t want to acknowledge. Thankfully, Soap didn’t appear to pick up on how it affected him, as he turned towards his backpack once again.

While Johnny searched his bag, Simon turned back to the view. The sky was notably beginning to brighten, a navy hue dusting the sky. As they sat there together at the cusp of dawn, neither really understanding how they’d ended up there, Simon found himself wishing he could paint, so that he may capture this moment and immortalise it in canvas and carefully replicated brushstrokes.

It may have pained him that in order to maintain his sense of safety, he could never allow this kind of thing to happen again. However, in its own bittersweet way, the mortality of it all made it all the more special.

“Why did you come looking for me?” Simon found himself asking before he could stop himself.

“Eh?” Johnny asked, a thick, cotton beanie he owned in his grasp as the pair turned in unison to face one another.

“I’d have thought if Price was worried enough to send for me, it’d have been more formal. ‘S how it usually goes with this sort of thing.”

Soap discarded the beanie, placing it in his lap. “Well why did you run?”  

Queasiness flushed Simon’s face. He really didn’t want to answer that.

“I asked first,” he deflected.

Something unreadable flashed across Johnny’s expression.

“Well I’ve spent the last hour preparing to find you dead so excuse me for wanting some bleedin’ answers, Simon,” Soap snapped, his suddenly sharp tone cutting into him deeper than any blade could.

Simon tensed, gaze hardening. Internally, his heart was constricting in his chest.

He needed to find Johnny. He hadn’t recognised him amidst the bodies in the mess hall, nor the training room.

His nerves were on fire. Everything he could process in his surroundings was both far too distant and crawling inside his skin simultaneously.

He couldn’t be dead. Ghost refused to believe it - that every next body he checked could leave him with the blood-curdling confirmation that someone else he loved was gone. That he had done nothing to save them.

A fragile, rattling cough caught his attention from across the hall. An all too familiar voice croaked out to him.

“Ghost…”

“...Simon?”

He flinched, as though he were a caged, frightened dog. The air in his lungs shakily clawed its way out of his body as he blinked away the glaze coating his eyes, dotting his sights around his immediate peripheral.

All sound hurtled back in at once - rushing water, a battering breeze, leaves scraping against the wind.

A hesitant hand hovered over his bicep. Ghost snapped his head up to face the person touching him, shuddering shallow, panicked breaths.

Soap. Johnny. Alive, breathing. Staring at him with wide eyes and a million questions burnt into his expression.

He watched, rigid as stone as Johnny seemed to backtrack on his previous statement, any traces of acerbity in his demeanour vanishing in an instant. The bite of his words lingered in the dead space between them.

“Are you alr-”

“-I’m not dead. Put that in your field report, Sargent,” Ghost cut in coldly, every better instinct in his body begging for him to not be so calloused.

He couldn’t even say he blamed Soap for snapping  - he had been fretting over that very same possibility all night. All he could reasonably do was to merely curse the fact that it was him on the receiving end of Johnny’s concern, rather than someone far more deserving. Someone far less fatefully doomed.

Fuck, he couldn’t believe he was panicking in front of Soap like this. That he had actually flinched, for the first time since his father beat that instinct out of him like it was a nasty habit. He rubbed his gloved hand over his face, pinching his brows together as if the combined actions would subdue him, waiting in trepidation for Soap to question him, humiliate him.

He could see the gears in Soap’s brain turning. He expected him to match his own barking tone, to keep things hostile. Yet he seemed to be choosing his next words with a great deal of circumspection, as if he were contemplating which thread to follow.

Like he knew the wrong one would break Simon down into nothing.

“I’m not here because Price ordered me to be.” Johnny spoke calmly. “I’m here because you’d do the same for me. Y’have done the same for me.”

“Obligation, then?” Ghost shot back.

Gods, he hoped he was right. He hoped he was wrong. He wished he’d never asked, as to never disturb the ambiguity between them that protected their lives.

“No, Simon.” Soap said firmly, voice thick with his resolve to prove the weight his words held. “Y’haven’t got a clue how worried I was.”

But he did. It was that very worry that caused him to reel at the thought of allowing Johnny to cross the line he’d long since trampled over. And Johnny felt it too.

In essence, Ghost supposed this meant they were both as screwed as each other.

A deep sense of shame entrenching him, deflating his frame as he clenched his jaw, averting his gaze. Putting Johnny in this position was the last thing he wanted - he knew how deeply it stung, how it could feel like it was tearing your insides apart.

He hated that he was responsible for it. That somewhere along the way, he had made Soap care for him. He had been so focused on keeping himself protected that he hadn’t even considered that someone could have it within them to give a shit about him in spite of his well maintained walls.

“…I’m sorry, Johnny.”

“Why?”

“You shouldn’t have to worry about me,” Ghost’s reply came quickly.

“I don’t have to,” Johnny’s response was equally as swift, equally as certain. “I just do.”

“Well you shouldn’t.”

“Can you even give me a good reason not to?”

Ghost slowly raised his head back up. He considered Soap’s words, and how to reply without telling the entirety of the filthy, wretched truth, idly pinching the inside of his cheek with his teeth as he did so.

“There’s blood on my hands, Johnny. It won’t dry anytime soon. The last thing I want is for that to have consequences for you.”

“None of us have clean hands, Simon.”

“It’s different for me.”

“So? Surely it’s my choice to decide if that changes anything for me, no?”

Ghost didn’t quite know what to say. He’d never deny Johnny the right to make his own choices, even if he believed they were outright foolish. To care for Ghost was objectively pretty stupid, in his mind, but Johnny seemed so determined to.

Maybe it was something more than that. Or, as it was far more likely to be, that wasn’t possible and Ghost was just kidding himself.

Nevertheless, it scared him. That Johnny could die for sticking by him. Or that he could end up regretting his choice and start to hate Ghost for the time that he’d inevitably waste.

If there really was anything on this earth that could kill Simon Riley for good, that would get pretty damn close.

Breaking their silent standoff, Soap picked up his previously discarded beanie from his lap.

“What are you doing?” Ghost asked, a cautious edge to his tone.

“Finishin’ what I started,” Johnny answered, holding it out as if asking for permission to continue.

Fuck. Ghost felt his heart leap, something it should not have been doing. Evidently, he was at the mercy of his feelings, powerless to prevent them from swallowing any sense of logic he prided himself on having.

Slowly, as though his barbed-wire thread was coming undone in Soap’s very hands, he nodded. “Okay.”

That was all it took for Johnny to reach over, using both hands to position the snug hat over Ghost’s head. He watched, marvelling at Soap’s gentleness. Every shift and adjustment of the beanie’s position was made with tender, affable movements.

Ghost took the opportunity to study Johnny’s face. His lips were slightly pressed into a line as he focused, eyes clouded in an emotive haze. It was utterly baffling how someone could take such care while handling him.

Once he was done, Johnny's hand moved the back of Ghost’s neck, cradling his head. Through the fabric of the beanie, he rubbed his thumb in repeated soothing back and forth motions.

Simon was so overwhelmed by the affection of it all - never had he felt something so emotionally intimate before. He longed to cling to it. To crawl inside the guts of the moment, curl up there and build a safe, warm nest, untarnished by all that he was.

“I won’t sit here and talk out of my arse, Simon. I don’t know why you ran. And you don’t have to tell me, either, but-“

“I ran because I was scared.”

Soap seemed stunned by Ghost’s answer. Simon knew he had gone too far already, said too much. Like there was some doe-eyed, newborn instinct commanding him to speak - one untrained and naive, with childlike trust in the person before him.

It wasn’t the whole truth. It felt as though he had started to rip off a bandaid, only to stop halfway through. His usual, far more mature instinct had prevented it from going too far, and had stopped him from saying too much.

A cloak fell between his interior and exterior worlds. Ghost felt himself growing distant in his mind, unconsciously numbing himself into the only true safety he knew - a complete and utter disconnect. It was a familiar place to be. Present, yet not truly there, in order to defend himself from the inevitable moment the rug would be ripped out from underneath him.

“What are you afraid of?”

There it was again. The raise of a sword, fighting the raise of a white flag - valiant, foolish vulnerability versus the ancient, wise guards posted around Simon’s psyche. His two instincts clashed and fought within him.

Yet his words continued to tumble out.

“I don’t want to lose everything. Anyone,” he confessed, the sinful words burning his throat and drying his tongue. “I can’t— I don’t sleep at night. All I see is—“

He cut himself off, swallowing thickly and averting his gaze.

Johnny’s heartbeat was feeble and listless. Fighting the inevitable. Ghost felt it dwindling under the hand he held on his chest.

A hand cupped his cheek. He snapped his widened eyes back to Johnny’s kind face.

“Can I ask you a question?” Johnny spoke cautiously, as if wondering if he was doing the right thing.

Anxiety gripped every bone in Simon’s body. He knew exactly what Johnny was going to ask - to acknowledge it out loud was something he never saw himself being confronted with outside of necessity.

The smaller, still blindly courageous part of him nodded.

“Have y’been through… that before?” Johnny asked carefully.

Ghost didn’t trust himself to answer. Deeply exhaling, he placed his gloved hand over Johnny’s, leaning into the touch and allowing himself to shut his eyes once again, willing himself to be fully immersed by the life surging through his skin where Soap’s hand laid.

“Oh, Simon…”

He felt himself being pulled into Soap, a warm embrace engulfing him. At first, he tensed, his heart beating erratically in his chest.

Johnny was so warm. He gently rubbed his hand back and forth from the nape of Simon’s neck to the base of his skull, while his other hand traced circles on his spine. Like it was art, and Simon was his canvas.

His arms were strong and secure and safe. Simon could feel his walls crumbling in defeat as he sank into the embrace, wrapping his own arms around Johnny just as tightly. He gripped onto the Scotsman's jacket, the fabric balled into fists as he clung with near desperation, burying his face into Soap’s shoulder.

Simon could’ve gotten drunk off of this. The heat radiating from Johnny’s skin, the protective yet tender grasp he was wrapped in, all of it.

“I’m so sorry, Simon. I get it now,” Soap uttered, his breath passing over the top of Simon’s ear.

A lump formed in Simon’s throat.

“No,” he protested, voice shaking against his will. “You were right to be angry. I was careless. If I had run into trouble out here it would have been my own fault. And I’d have led you right into a trap.”

“But y’didn’t. You’re alright, Si. I’m alright.”

“You weren’t,” Simon whispered. He clung to Johnny just a little tighter, warding off the haunting images of his nightmare.

“I wasn’t?” Johnny echoed, pulling away just enough to make eye contact.

His kind eyes searched Simon’s slightly teary ones for answers. And Simon was completely reduced to putty in his arms, his defences crashing and burning in the sunrise before them.

“No, you…” He bit the inside of his lip, hesitantly. “Fucking Hell, Johnny, I…”

“‘S’alright, take y’time. I’m not going anywhere,” Johnny encouraged softly.

Simon took a deep breath, blinking back the formation of tears. “I don’t sleep easy,” he started, repeating what he had already confessed earlier.

“Do y’want to tell me why?” Johnny asked. “Y’don’t have to. But if you did, I’d take it to the grave.”

Simon couldn’t help but laugh. It was a dark, teary chuckle that had Soap’s brows pinched together in confusion.

“…Why’s that funny?”

“Sorry, Johnny. Just a bit ironic is all,” he explained. The brief moment of humour made it feel easier to continue. “It’s just, I get pretty bad nightmares. Flashbacks, mostly.”

He quickly sobered up, flickers of those dreams invading his subconscious. His smile dropped. He swallowed, distress marking his face as he felt the urge to cry resurface. It was all so turbulent, so overwhelming. It made him want to grab fistfuls of his own hair and tug until he’d ripped it all out.

“Do you want to tell me what you see?” Johnny asked.

Simon shifted under the weight of Soap’s gaze. He idly messed with the fabric of Johnny’s jacket where his hands rested on the other man’s sides, just grateful that he was tangibly, undeniably alive. That his nightmare was just that - a nightmare.

“I suppose so. Sometimes I see the stuff you’ve already figured out,” he explained vaguely, unable to speak the words in their entirety.

I’ve watched people I love die turned to a treasure hunt of words, a puzzle to find the truth. Usually, Simon valued blunt, clear communication, but he found himself unable to fully elaborate. It made him feel so weak - he’d rained hellfire upon countless battlefields, scorched the souls of evil men and tarnished the plans of terrorists, yet his limits laid in just a few meagre words?

But Johnny had already unravelled enough of him to understand exactly what he meant.

“Forgive me for assuming, but tonight was different?”

A blaze was engulfing the building. Ghost didn’t move. When a rapid onslaught of enemies’ footsteps barraged towards him, he still did not flee. He stayed by Johnny’s side, numb to his surroundings. It didn’t matter what happened next - nothing could be worse than what he had just witnessed.

Ghost cleared his throat, stubbornly trying to rid himself of his emotions. It was a futile endeavour.

“Yeah, it was different,” he muttered, shame burning his face.

”How?”

Johnny didn’t deserve to be burdened by what he had seen. But he also didn’t deserve to have the truth hidden from him when he was making the choice to help Simon through this.

Simon was hesitant at first. He raised a gloved hand to Johnny’s face - it hovered for a brief moment, before he settled, cupping the side of Soap’s face.

God, he wished he had the words to explain. He wished it were easy to just explain himself, to give Johnny the answers he deserved.

“I don’t want to lose you, Johnny,” he settled on.

It was such a small phrase, yet such a large confession. Vulnerability was difficult for Simon. He knew he had a long way to go yet, but it was a start. Johnny made the danger feel slightly less significant, with his kind eyes and the unrelenting security he provided.

Something clicked in Johnny’s expression. “‘S that what you saw?” He asked, understanding with instant, deadly accuracy.

“Yeah,” Ghost admitted. “Scared the shit out of me.”

Johnny didn’t say anything at first. He pressed their foreheads together - the two closed their eyes, the weight of the situation bearing heavy on their shoulders.

Simon basked in the closeness. It had been a hard night. Johnny provided a sense of peace he couldn’t remember ever having, especially after his mind tormented him so viciously. He couldn’t put into words how thankful he was.

“…I can’t promise nothing will happen to me, Simon.”

Simon opened his eyes, pulling away to see Johnny gazing at him earnestly. He nodded in response. At the end of the day, their line of work made his fears reasonable, which fuelled them endlessly. There was very little that could logically reassure him about this, he knew that.

“But I can promise that I’ll put up one hell of a fight if it ever comes down to it.”

Simon couldn’t help but chuckle. “Stubborn bastard even in death.”

“That I will be, Si,” Johnny grinned.

Johnny’s ability to make even the darkest of moments feel light, hopeful even, was just another item on the long list of things Simon admired about him. He had this inexplicable way of just making everything feel like it would be okay - even when discussing the very real possibility of death. It had gone from feeling like it was inevitable to just a hypothetical in a mere matter of words.

Though Simon knew better. It was still a very real threat they may have had to face.

“Just… try not to die on me, yeah Johnny?”

“I’ll do my best. ‘N’ you need to realise if anything does happen to me, it won’t be your fault. Can you promise me y’wouldn’t blame yourself?”

That was something Simon couldn’t guarantee. He’d never not blamed himself for the loss of those around him. It was a vicious cycle, one that was near impossible to break. But for Johnny? He’d attempt just about anything, even if it killed him.

“…I promise I’ll try.”

“That’ll do,” Johnny smiled, squeezing Simon’s shoulder. “Let’s hope you never have to try though, yeah?”

“Yeah.” A far fainter, yet very present smile planted itself on Simon’s face. “I can do that.”