Chapter Text
It had been five years since Soap had last seen Ghost. Five years since he had seen him fall. And he was still plagued almost every night with dreams of him. Tonight was no different.
Soap awoke with a start, heart pounding wildly in his chest, soaked in sweat. He sat up, drawing his knees to his chest, burying his face against his forearms. Goddammit. Would this ever end? He slowly looked up to get his bearings. Moonlight filtering in through the window cast the room in a soft silver glow. He was at home. The salt of unshed tears burned at the back of his throat, remembering the nights he had shared with Ghost in this very flat. In this very bed. Fuck.
After giving himself a few minutes to catch his breath he made his way into the kitchen, knowing he wouldn't be getting back to sleep after that one. He had been holding Ghost's hand this time, holding on as hard as he could, but it wasn't enough. He wasn't strong enough to pull him back into the helo. And then he was gone, disappearing down, down, down into a rising cloud of dust.
The ending to the nightmares was always the same: Ghost falling and falling. But sometimes, like tonight, Soap was able to grasp his hand, to touch him one last time. It almost made it even worse. Because in the actual memory of it from all those years ago, Soap hadn't ever had a chance to grab on.
Rubbing a hand roughly over his tired face, Soap padded barefoot to the stove. A headache was already beginning to form in his left temple. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose as he started the kettle going. For a brief moment he considered something a little stronger than tea, but then thought better of it. He knew that the bottle of whisky in his cabinet only made him think of Ghost and getting black-out drunk at 3 o'clock in the fucking morning probably wasn't the best idea.
He was numbly watching a bag of Earl Grey steep in a mug of hot water and checking emails on his phone when a text came through. It was Price. "Rendezvous at the base at 0500. New intel on Makarov."
Soap's heart plummeted. Well, shit.
It was still dark out when Soap walked into the base to meet with his team. He had showered and shaved, but still felt tired way down to his fucking bones. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep. Before Ghost fell, that’s when. The headache in his temple started coming back and he groaned, digging in his pocket for the small bottle of ibuprofen he kept on hand. He tipped a couple back onto his tongue and swallowed them dry, then made his way into the conference room to find Price already there, cigar in his mouth, waiting.
The rest of the team filed in slowly and when everyone had taken a seat, Price stood. Soap watched wearily as Price loaded a military brief onto the giant flat screen on the wall. “Morning, gentlemen. Let me get right down to it. We received classified intel of an attack being planned by Makarov in downtown D.C. happening twenty-four hours from now. And we have been tasked with stopping it."
A murmur swept across the room.
Soap sat forward in his seat, unchecked anger simmering just under the surface. “I thought we bagged that Russian prick after…” he stopped mid-sentence because he knew the next words out of his mouth were about to be after I lost Ghost. He cleared his throat and started again, “after Kyrgyzstan.”
Price shook his head, not quite meeting Soap’s eyes, and looked back to the screen. “Negative. Intelligence indicates that while we did get a positive lock on his location and obliterated his base, he escaped to a hidden shelter. He’s been operating underground for the last five years, working on a new secret weapon -- a weapon he’s planning on using in D.C.” He sighed and ashed his cigar before putting it back in his mouth. “We thought we were done with him, but he apparently wasn't done with us. The details have been sent to all of you. We rendezvous at the meeting point in two hours. Let’s nail this bastard once and for all. Dismissed.”
Everyone began leaving the room. Soap stood slowly on legs that were not quite steady. Price’s news made him numb, forcing his mind to relive that day with a heartbreaking clarity. The mission, the missile making contact on Makarov's compound, the helo taking a hit, Ghost. They were never able to recover his body. Soap never even got to say goodbye . It was just so fucking unfair.
Soap was so lost in himself he hardly even processed Price saying his name.
“MacTavish, a word.”
Blinking, Soap nodded and made his way across the empty room to Price. He stood before him at parade rest.
“Soap, I know you and Ghost were close.” Soap swallowed against a lump that formed in this throat, but pushed down any other emotion trying to show on his face. Price continued, “It wasn’t easy on the 141 when we lost him, but I know it was even harder for you. Will you be able to carry out the duties assigned to you in this mission, Lieutenant?”
A tic bunched in Soap's jaw and he straightened his back. "Aye, Captain." His voice was hoarse. "There is nothing I want more than to bring this motherfucker down for what he did. And what he plans to do.” For Ghost.
Price’s mouth set in a hard line and he studied Soap for a moment. Finally he said, “All right. Let's get this done, then.”
Soap nodded sharply once and left the room. His breath left his lungs with a whoosh. He found the nearest empty office and closed himself inside. Leaning back against the door, he slid slowly to the floor, blinking back tears. A mixture of emotion battled within him. Shock, grief, sorrow, anger. The anger ultimately won, though, as it usually does. He held onto it, allowing it to simmer hotly deep in his chest, burning up everything else but the raw demand of bringing Makarov down . He owed Ghost that much.
The next two hours passed in a blur. Soap operated on instinct alone; cleaning his guns, sharpening his knives, packing a rucksack. He tried his best not to dwell on much of anything at all except to prepare himself for what was to come. It was an effective technique apparently because he soon found himself at the rendezvous point at the airfield with no real recollection of how he got there. He joined up with the task force on the tarmac as they loaded themselves into the awaiting C-130. And they were off to D.C.
Soap’s exhaustion finally caught back up to him on the three hour flight and he was actually able to sleep for most of it. He, thankfully, had no dreams at all.
********************************************************************
After touching down, the 141 wasted no time in gathering in a caravan of SUVs and heading toward the location they received from Laswell’s intelligence brief. They were just about to exit off the Roosevelt Bridge when they were ambushed by Makarov's team, who seemed to come out of fucking nowhere. Straight adrenaline took over Soap’s whole body on the first collision of the Hummer behind them that slammed them sideways into the concrete barriers on their right. Another Hummer drove the wrong way up the highway, weaving between oncoming traffic, firing out the passenger window with a high caliber rifle. The second shot took out Soap’s driver who immediately plowed into the car in front of them, bringing them to a shuddering stop.
Soap’s heart thundered in his chest, but a lethal composure doused the fear rising up inside him. This was Makarov’s doing. And that bastard was going to fucking regret doing it. Ducking down in the back seat, Soap quickly dug his AK from his bag. He waited for a break in the rapid fire then exploded out of the vehicle in a hail of bullets. He found cover behind an empty utility truck. It was all out chaos with people running and screaming, gunfire cracking from all angles, and the remaining men of the task force shouting orders.
Soap peeked around the corner of his cover, taking out three of Makarov’s soldiers in a row with perfectly placed shots. Gaz, hunkered down behind him, took out a few more. For a moment, it appeared that they were gaining the upper hand. But then a man, hulking in height, dressed in all black with a hood shrouding his face in shadow, grasping a Kastov-74u in a gloved hand, exited one of the Humvees. Soap felt a chill shoot straight down his spine.
Sweet screaming Jesus
Soap emptied the last rounds of his last clip at the man but it did not slow him down in the slightest. He was blazing a path straight at Soap, like he had a personal vendetta against him. Fuck. The hard set of his broad shoulders, his imposing gait, all seemed to light up some forgotten memory in Soap's brain that he could not quite put his finger on. He surely couldn't even try to remember with the utter fucking bedlam happening all around him
"I'm empty," Gaz shouted at him.
Soap looked back over his shoulder. "Aye, same here!" This was going fubar faster than he was ready for.
His attention returned to the enemy stalking up the highway toward him. The man popped off two rounds, drilling into the truck right next to his head.
"Fuckin' hell," Soap gasped for breath. Then he heard the click of a dry fire and knew this was his only chance to bring this fucker down.
Securing his blade in hand, Soap made a run for it, swiping at the assailant fiercely with his knife. The man blocked the incoming attack but not before Soap was able to get a couple brutal slices to his forearm. The other arm was impenetrable though, surprising Soap momentarily. It was made of some kind of metal, something Soap had never seen before.
He looked up at the man with wide eyes, then tried sweeping his feet out from under him. The man was unmoveable. A feral growl rumbled up from the man's chest and Soap knew he was well and truly fucked.
He lunged at him, ringing his hands around Soap's neck, picking him up off his feet and throwing him back against the concrete barrier behind him. Pain shot up Soap's lower back when he connected with it but it was the furthest thing from his mind. All he could think was shit shit shit.
Soap scrambled up from the ground, knife still in hand, and slammed it into the man’s metal bicep. It sparked momentarily before the man knocked the knife from his grip. It went sliding across the pavement. Soap tried for hand to hand combat but it too was quickly shut down. The man was too fast, too strong. Still, Soap gave it his all.
It just wasn't fucking enough.
Snarling, the man picked Soap up by his flack jacket and attempted to hurl him up and over the bridge. Soap grasped for something, anything, as he fell over the edge and was able to grab his assailant's vest, holding on for everything he was worth. It tipped the man enough off balance for them both to fall over the precipice.
Soap squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for impact, almost hoping for the end. But it was only about a six meter plummet onto a grassy berm that led down to the river — enough to knock the breath from his lungs as he managed to land on top of the man currently trying to kill him. He rolled onto his feet, ready to keep going, ready to fight for his fucking life. The man gained his feet too, but this time with his hood pushed back, exposing his eyes. The lower half of his face was still obscured, covered by a skull mask.
Soap straightened abruptly. Everything came crashing to a halt. He knew those eyes. He knew that face. Even if it wasn't completely visible. His heart contracted painfully in his ribcage at the realization.
"Ghost?"
The man's chest heaved, but he paused. His brows were drawn together, like he was just asked the most complicated question in the world. "Who the fuck is Ghost?"
Soap stared at him in disbelief. He took one small step forward. Was this really happening? Or was he trapped inside another nightmare?
He wanted to rush forward, to pull Ghost into his arms, to ask him how any of this was possible. “I thought I lost you…” he began, but before he could reach Ghost, an explosion rocked the bridge behind him. Soap looked back over his shoulder, but when he turned back Ghost was gone.
*****************
Later that night, Ghost was sitting in a chair in Makarov’s underground bunker while a man in a white coat repaired the gash on his robotic arm. They were surrounded by armed guards in the small room, but Ghost knew there was no point to them. He could clear the whole room of every breathing person within a matter of minutes if he was given the order to.
He was bare from the waist up, ambivalently watching the glow of the tool as it patched the defect caused by the knife held by the man on the bridge. Something gnawed at him, deep inside. Some memory that was just out of his grasp. It made him uneasy. He remembered falling, he remembered the man from the bridge, reaching, screaming for him. He remembered darkness and pain. And more pain. But the memories were fractured, hazy.
Ghost heard Makarov walk into the room that led to the one he was currently in. He was talking to the handful of men that followed him wherever he went.
“He’s unstable. Erratic,” one of Makarov’s men said.
Ghost didn’t look up when they walked in, only continued staring at the man working on his arm. He was trying to dredge up long forgotten memories, but it was so hard to focus.
“Mission report,” Makarov barked, coming to a stop before Ghost.
Ghost looked up at him slowly. The barest hint of a memory sparked in his mind of the man from the bridge. They were laying in a bed together. He was holding the man’s face. The man had his eyes closed and he was smiling.
A confusing emotion knotted up his stomach and he only stared at Makarov, not really seeing him, trying to pull more of that memory out of the jumbled mess of his brain.
“Mission report, now!” Makarov ordered, bending closer to Ghost’s face.
Ghost didn’t hear him. He blinked owlishly. A bed. The man on the bridge. Smiling so softly.
He was suddenly pulled out of his trance by a swift backhand across his face. The pain of it stung across his cheek, but he barely registered it. He looked up at Makarov slowly, his brows drawing together as he tried so hard to remember.
“That man on the bridge. Who was he?”
Makarov was quiet for a moment. “You met him earlier on another assignment.”
Ghost shook his head. He knew that was a lie, but his memories were so clouded, he didn’t know if he could trust his own mind. “I knew him,” he said softly.
Makarov sighed and pulled up a stool to sit at Ghost’s eye level. “Your work has been a gift to mankind,” he began, but Ghost immediately tuned him out. The memory was just out of reach. If he could just remember the man’s name.
Makarov finally stopped talking. He looked at Ghost expectantly. Ghost felt a wave of sadness crash over him for the life he couldn’t remember. “But I knew him,” he said again with a shaky voice.
Makarov frowned and stood abruptly. He began walking away. “Prep him.”
One of the white coat men stopped him. “We can’t do that, sir. He’s been out too long.”
Makarov turned toward Ghost, looking him up and down with a disapproving glare. “Then wipe him and start over.”
Ghost’s heart rate jumped at those words, even if he didn’t really understand what it meant. In the back of his mind, deep, deep down, he knew he had been through this many times before.
The white coat men pushed Ghost back into the chair while Makarov’s soldiers all watched. And then a rubber dental guard was being shoved in his mouth. Fear flooded his senses as he was locked into the chair and he fought to drag in oxygen. The man on the bridge. His soft smile. The tender press of his lips on mine. Ghost replayed the only memories he had, holding on to them, trying not to forget this time. Please, don’t forget this time!
The plates came down over his face. They were cold against his skin and had an electrical scent to them. Terror swept through him. Don’t forget don’t forget don’t forget. And then there was only pain and the echo of Ghost’s scream as he fell and fell and fell.