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The room was grimy, air heavy from the many half-alive corpses breathing. Moonlight filtered through old, dirty windows as their only light source. Pained moans, and sleepless breathing echoed quietly throughout. There John «Soap» MacTavish sat quietly against the wall in a makeshift bed. It had been four weeks since Shepherd betrayed them and the 141 was disavowed. Three weeks since he’d been stabbed. Three weeks since he killed that backstabbing bastard. Four weeks since Ghost died.
The pain of Ghost’s death was raw and fresh like his aching stab wound. He hadn’t had time to process it, too busy trying to survive. The knife was still buried deep in him, twisting each time he thought about Ghost, thought about Simon.
Simon had already died years before Soap met him. Ghost was the shell that remained of him. A brutal coping mechanism that did the surviving for them. But he’d come back. Simon had come back from the dead for John. Around him all the masks were off, a privilege only for him. John loved Simon, loved him so much it hurt to think about. Simon loved John, loved him like a clingy cat that had just realised he was safe to love. They had been inseparable, always close and never out of sight of each other. Even the other members of the 141 had picked up on it. A stream of never-ending rumors and gossip over their closeness. It wasn’t a surprise Shepherd also saw it.
His mission had been their death sentence. Loose ends left to be tied up and discarded. They weren’t even given the mercy to die together.
Without Simon he felt like a shell, a ghost of who he was. Like a part of him was lost that day, burned away and buried far from home. He felt lost, scared, helpless and hurt. God he hurt so much. The bloody knife twisting deeper and deeper into his shattered heart. Cutting through any remnants of love it could reach. It hurt so fucking much.
Soap closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. He still had his journal. It was the only thing that knew Ghost as intimately as he did. The only thing that held proof that Simon had existed, had lived. A part of John wanted to believe he was still alive. Survived against the odds and hiding like a hurt animal, waiting for John to come and find him again. But Soap knew better. He had heard him die. Roach’s coms were still on as they were shot. It stayed on until the flames consumed that too. The sound of their deaths would haunt John until he met his own end.
The knife twisted deeper. He wondered half-heartedly if his wound had reopened. Opening his eyes again, Soap reached for his journal. It was in the breast pocket of his shirt, close to his heart. Ghost had laughed and called it cliche when he found out. John opened the journal quietly. He didn’t want to remember Ghost’s death. He wanted to remember Simon. How alive he had been when it was just the two of them. He wanted to remember his ugly smile and lazy eye. His strong body that was always grounding when John was overwhelmed. He wanted to remember the shitty jokes and horrendous pickup-lines that he told to make John laugh. He wanted to remember his dry lips and calloused hands that felt like the softest thing in the world when he held them. He wanted to remember Simon, the man he loved and wanted to die with, wanted to live with for the rest of their lives.
They planned it all out. Killing Makarov would be the last of their military career. After that they’d retire and move to somewhere in the UK that was close to Scotland yet not too far from Manchester. They would get a remote cabin where they could act like civvies and try to heal. They were supposed to get their happy ending. It’s what they deserved, what Simon deserved.
Anger welled up inside him. He was angry at the world, at himself, at Shepherd, at Makarov. John didn’t have much to live for. Simon had been his anchor, his lifeline. Without him he was only Captain «Soap» MacTavish. Another name that would be lost to war, buried with only coworkers to miss him. He wouldn’t even be buried next to the love of his life.
Painfully the anger spread. Eating and burning through everything inside him. An uncontainable inferno burning through him, burning through John. It left nothing but ashes and a charred corpse. From the ashes rose something else. Only a vengeful spirit remained. It wasn’t pretty or poetic. All he was, was anger and hatred. Another pissed off bastard with a score to settle against Makarov. Eye for an eye, life for a life. He was going to kill Makarov if it was the last thing he did. Only then could he rest, buried in a no-name grave with Simon «Ghost» Riley.