Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s gotten out of hand. Simon doesn't know when the change happened between casual jokes between friends turned to almost exclusively flirting, to the point that people have started noticing, but he knows it can’t continue. As fun as it is to tease Johnny mercilessly about all topics, maybe they shouldn’t have breached professionalism. That only breeds a disregard for rules and of due process, you see. He cannot imagine speaking to his superior officers with the same flirty candour that Johnny speaks to him with. It became evident fairly quickly that, if left unattended, the blossoming flower of friendship would soon grow thorns in one way or another. Either it’ll hurt to move away from him, or shit will become increasingly horny to the point that they can’t function. That’s not a very practical predicament to get oneself into in the field, is it? If they were the same rank, they could work it out so easily . But, alas, for now, they aren’t. And Simon doesn’t think he can wait that long. Therefore, the only rational thing he can do is to pull apart. 

A month of distance brings absolutely no relief. The old adage of distance makes the heart grow stronger is, unfortunately, true. Johnny has been on his mind, day in, day out. He’s become like a mission in his head, just as important as every other thought which he actually wants to think about. Where is he? What is he up to? What would he be saying right now? It’s fucking pathetic and it’s fucking dangerous. God help him, Simon has done everything in his power to forget about his little crush. Shore leave for two weeks: half spent alone in his cabin in the woods, the other half spent in London where he hooked up with strangers a few times. Strip clubs, drinking, and sex with strangers. Turns out, people don’t care if you’re wearing a mask. It’s not his balaclava, which would be an insane thing to wear in public, but a black medical mask. It shows off the scar on his left temple, and the ones on his neck. It’s a talking point. Hey, big boy, where’d you get that scar? Simon knows how to turn it on. But neither social extreme worked. In the cabin, though he fished and he read and he hunted, Johnny still bounced around his mind. And do not ask if the mohawk on the last guy he hooked up with had anything to do with his choice. Because it did, and it had been deliberate. Find someone who looks enough like him, picture it’s him, and job done. Probably Mohawk Guy (Simon didn’t ask his name) was only mediocre at best, but that had been the best night. For unfortunate reasons. Rough as all hell, though. He (also unfortunately) decided Johnny probably wouldn’t have done it quite like that.

Once back at work, Simon did everything to distance from his emotions. All emotions, as it turned out, and he worked long days and longer nights. After he had come back from shore leave, they had two weeks stationed on different bases. Ghost ghosted Soap. Sorry, how else to describe it? There’s nothing to say outside of work, that is how Ghost is picturing it. There’s nothing that they have to say to each other that they couldn’t say in front of some respectable officer who doesn’t fuck around with subordinates. It’s a damn shame that he can’t shake this growing obsession, because they work so well together. If you want something done, you can count on the pair of them to be an unstoppable team. There are few people Ghost has allowed himself to trust. Soap is one of those people. But now, it’s different. Worse.

Today is their first mission together. It will highlight every reason why fraternisation is so frowned upon in the military. It’s not because they hate fun, but it’s for practical reasons. That’s what he tells himself. Favouritism doesn’t work out in the field, it’s not safe. Worrying about another person above the others is also unfair and unsafe for everyone involved, himself included. It’s fucking messy.

The briefing room is grey and dark, located somewhere in England’s least sunny of landscapes. Light snow falls from stormy skies. Any minute, the snow should turn to rain. Ghost arrives to the room exactly on time, and stands near the conference monitor with all the authority his rank permits. He doesn’t look at Soap. Laswell calls in on time via video feed and provides the mission parameters. There is reason to believe that Makarov is occupying a safehouse deep in the Germany Alps, with two possible locations. The squad comprises of two teams, one lead by Ghost and the other, by Soap, who will hit each location simultaneously and search for any sign of him or useful intel. At this point, any intel is useful intel. They’re going to need climbing gear and an unbelievable amount of thermal undergarments. There will be buildings at both sites, but it is unlikely that both will lead on to larger bases underground. This is what they’re looking for. They’ll take planes to Germany and from there, helicopters into the mountains.

Laswell signs off. Ghost takes over.

“Alright, people. Target is likely to be armed and dangerous. If he’s there, he won’t be alone. You do not have execute authority. We want him alive. Any questions?”

“Do we know when he was last seen at either of these bases, Lt.?”

“Within the last month is all we got.”

A couple of the others had some logistical questions which were answered, and the meeting ended. It’s easy! It’s so easy to pretend he doesn’t care about anybody any more than he should. He goes to follow the troops outside to load into the planes but, with too many witnesses, he’s called back.s

“Ghost? A word before we leave, sir?”

He could just walk out, but that would be worse in the long run. They’re a team. They work well together. They are perfectly cohesive. That’s the word the articles like. Yeah, maybe Ghost read up a little on the precise definitions of fraternisation. It gets in the way of squad cohesion. Causes tension. Should not, under any circumstances, involve rank difference. Especially not when they work closely together. Basically, Ghost is fucked.

Or not, as the case may be.

Soap waits until the last person has left before talking.

“Haven’t seen you around much, sir,” Soap unfolds his arms, but remains as serious as before.

Ghost tries to remain vacant as he blinks his silent response. And ?

“So. Makarov, huh? Think we’ll find him?”

“Hopefully.”

“Germany’s a little random, no?”

“Not my place to think about it, Soap.”

Soap exhales. “ Okay … Am I missing something, here? Did I piss you off? Say something wrong…?”

“ This is you saying something wrong, Sergeant.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not kidding. I don’t even remember the last thing I said to you, but if I crossed the line or something, I’m sorry.”

He’s apologising and he doesn’t even know what the problem is? Fuck’s sake. Why is he so good ? Can’t he do something shitty and make all this easier?

“I know you went on shore leave,” Soap continues, “makes sense you’d wanna distance yourself from work. But I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”

“I dunno what to tell you.”

“Simon . Are we cool or are we not? ‘Cause you need to just tell me.”

“Okay, first . It’s sir, lieutenant, or Ghost . We’re not cool , we’re colleagues. Second, I don’t know why you wanted to drag this up now when we’re about to head out, but--” he exhales, calming himself down, “I went away, I realised some things. I gave you too much leeway before. I’m putting that to a stop.”

Soap doesn’t mask the surprised pain this puts him in, but whatever he wants to say is swallowed. “Sir, yes sir. You want to be the big tough guy with no friends, that’s fine with me. Doesn’t matter if it’s fine with me, sir.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Ghost watches him suspiciously. Is he joking? He doesn’t look like he’s joking, but it sounds like bullshit.

“Fine. Not friends, then. Fuck, this feels like preschool shit, sir. I’m ready to put it behind us. Glad we talked.”

That makes one of them. No, maybe this is better. He couldn’t just go on pretending that he’d never allowed himself close to Soap, not after everything they’ve been through. Soap leaves. Ghost leaves. They get on different planes, then on different helicopters, to different bases, and all comms are strictly tactical. It’s fine. He sounds normal. For the record, it doesn’t matter if Ghost is fine with this, either. This is bigger than them. It’s their careers. He’s just covering their backs. It’s not like it’s serious. Better to nip these kinds of crushes on the bud, right?

Chapter Text

Upon arrival to the location, it’s immediately clear which base has the underground facility. At least that intel had been useful. Everything inside is covered in dust and the electricity isn’t turned on. Soap confirms that it’s just as abandoned over on his side, too, and that the room is empty. Honestly, it doesn’t look like anyone has been here for months.

“No secret panels,” he says, “buttons, trap doors. Looks like it’s just meant to be a decoy.”

“Or a holiday home,” Ghost suggests.

“I’m not in any rush to come back here, don’t know about you, sir.”

“Nah, not so much.”

“Knew you were more of a beach house kinda guy, sir.”

“What’s black and white and red all over?”

“Here we go.”

“Penguin with sunburn.”

“At least it’s not half a penguin.”

“Nah, too much respect for ‘em. You seen Madagascar ?”

Soap laughs over comms, and Ghost realises how little they are keeping it tactical at all . Damn it. It’s like they don’t know how to talk normally anymore. They’re friends. That’s-- that’s fine . Friendly, that’s just fine. He shouldn’t have made such a big deal about it earlier. Soap, that is. What, Soap hasn’t gone a month between last speaking to a friend before? Clingy. Should be a turn off. Should very much be a turn off. Would have been for literally anyone else. Shit.

They find an elevator and beside it, stairs going down. Ghost peers into the stale pit that is the stairway: endless, dusty, isolated. It sends a chill down his spine. The stairs don’t have railings, and are made of concrete. As inhuman and unsettling as they could possibly be.

“Fuck me,” he hears one of the soldiers mutter.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark,” replies another, who had not yet seen it. She enters and her smile fades.

“Someone wanna be proactive and drop a flare down?” Ghost sighs.

“Sorry, sir,” the second soldier, Matthews, clicks a flare into action and drops it right over the edge. The red glow just keeps going. One storey. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Someone shudders audibly. How did he get stuck with the scaredy cats?? They buck up when they realise their lieutenant is unimpressed and switch on personal torches. The lights are almost too weak to penetrate the dark.

“Soap, Ghost. We’ve located stairs and are heading down. What’s your situation?”

“Nothing here, sir.”

“Radio Charlie 0-1 for pickup and meet us downstairs. Something’s wrong, Johnny.” Whoops. Something’s wrong, Sergeant MacTavish. Oh. Yeah, this sucks. Bad call to try to distance them that much. He’d overthought it in his solitude and now it’s all shit.

“Roger. Be careful, sir. Makarov’s a slippery bastard.”

“Agreed. Send Laswell an update en route, she’ll wanna hear about this. Ghost out.” He turns to his team, “on me, stay close. Keep your eyes peeled.”

He should have explained further. He should have said to them , not near them, that he had a bad feeling about this stairwell. Look out for trip wires, look out for motion sensors, and not just evidence Makarov had been here. He should have listened to his gut. He should have waited for backup. He should have stared into the depths of that stairwell and known he would not leave Hell the same man.

At least he went in first.

Alpha Team’s descent is careful and quiet. Their footsteps create hollow echoes on the freezing walls, sending eerie ripples further into the darkness as if they were at the bottom of a great chasm. The movement kicks up a lot of dust, and concrete drops from the set of stairs they had now come underneath. This place has been cleaned out, there’s no way in Hell there’s anything useful under all this fucking dust. But then, what if they usually use the elevator and they find god knows inside one of the rooms? It doesn’t matter. That’s an issue, he thought , for later.

There are no rooms on the way down. They’re at the last floor, about to descend the final steps which lead out to a hallway, he can see it carving its way in the darkness. The flare fades and the same soldier cracks another one at precisely the right time. With the flare now in his peripheral vision, its glow hits the dust at just the right angle, at just the right time, to show a laserbeam across the way in-front of them. Ghost raises his fist and tells them to hold , but it’s too late. Or there was another one, further up, that they missed. It doesn’t matter. 

BOOM. 

Half a second later, the floor is giving way beneath them and all he can think about is not landing badly. It’s not far to have fallen, but he’s tumbling down sharp stairs and sharper shards of concrete. At worst, a broken bone. Best, every inch of him will be covered in bruises. But he smacks his head on the ground and it’s lights out, helmet and all.

Ghost opens his eyes and he’s disorientated as fuck . It’s so dark that even blinking doesn’t make it immediately obvious if his eyes are open or shut. There is something bindingly heavy on his chest and stomach preventing him from taking full breaths in. He has never felt so suffocated in his balaclava. His hands are pinned to his sides-- no. One arm is pressing against his chest and if he moves it even a centimetre, breathing becomes even harder. He can’t reach his radio, and he can’t hear anything coming from it, either. His team would be trying to reach him. Fuck. For good measure, he wiggles all fingers and toes. Movement. Feeling. Good. Besides being constricted, which is problem enough, he can’t tell if anything is broken, but it doesn’t feel like it initially. Could be shock or adrenaline covering it, though. He can’t move his head, it’s stuck facing right. Ghost listens to himself taking deep breaths, in through the nose, and out through the mouth, until he realises that it doesn’t match up with his limited capacity or the rhythm. Someone else is down here. Alive.

“Hey,” he croaks, and immediately the breathing he heard is replaced by choked gasps.

“Who is that?” He only has one female soldier on the team, it’s not hard to guess who it is. Matthews.

“Ghost. Sitrep?”

“A mine triggered the cave in, sir,” she sniffs, “I’m-- I’m wounded. Iron bar through the shoulder. Can’t move. Are you okay, sir?”

Talking is making it worse. He keeps trying to take in more air but the impossible weight on his chest is stopping him. He closes his eyes and tries desperately to remain calm. Outwardly, it’s imperative he keeps his cool. She’s injured. The last thing she needs is him in hysterics. This feels unnervingly similar to one of his sleep paralysis episodes. He tries not to think about it.

“Sir?”

“Mmm,” he grunts, “stuck. How long-- we been-- here?”

“I don’t know, I keep blacking out. I thought I was alone,”

“Nope,”

“They can’t hear us, sir,” she sounds like she’s either been crying, is crying, or is about to cry. Any one of these options is bad. “Radio’s broken. I shouted earlier ‘til my voice gave-- agh, fuck !” She must have jolted her shoulder. “Never heard--- never…”

She fades out. Ghost can’t cry out, can’t draw breath enough to say anything. Tears prick his eyes. Do not. Panic. Do not panic . Soap is coming. Help is on its way. They wouldn’t leave them here. They’d retrieve the bodies, at least. But what if they don’t ? And what does it matter if they retrieve the bodies, you will have died down here . Matthews may have passed out again, maybe she’s dead. He’ll die freezing and alone, on a failed mission. How long can he really last on maybe quarter capacity breaths? Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Slowly . Happy thoughts. Finding Makarov. Shoving his blade deep into his neck. Twisting. Slowly . Slashing. He feels himself starting to drop out of consciousness and he fights it. Don’t go to sleep. Do not go to sleep. Happy thoughts. His cabin in the woods. Fishing. Fuck, this is a bad way to go. He swallows, shutting his eyes again. Happy thoughts. Why doesn’t he ever have happy thoughts?! This is not the first time he’s needed them, holy shit! Taking huge lungfuls of air all at once. Stretching. He is going to do so much yoga when he gets out of here. Yes, that’s what he needs. He will do yoga when he gets out of here. Immediately . He’ll breathe and he’ll stretch and it will all be okay. Things could be a lot worse. He could have lost feeling in some part of his body, and the cavity he’s in right now could not be a cavity at all. He could so easily have been squashed. No-- too close to the situation. Happy thoughts.

He blacks out again. 

Chapter Text

Battling unconsciousness like this is awful . It feels like he’s falling and he can’t grip the ledge. There’s no way of knowing how long he is out for, it could have anything between seconds and minutes. He chokes himself awake and immediately, his body turns against him. He starts hyperventilating, then he hears himself scream. Then cry. No, he’s not crying. It’s a woman.

“I don’t wanna die, sir,” she whimpers, “I have a daughter.”

Ghost closes his eyes and focuses on his breaths. They come in shudders now, but he’s able to soothe them back into the slower pace he had earlier. Ghost hasn’t got any phobias, not really. He’s crawled through too-tight spaces, swam in pitch black waters, and regularly finds himself atop impossible buildings. Hell, the cliff jumping with Alejandro had been as dynamic as it was scary. Fear doesn’t usually interact with him like it used to, these days. He pushes through it. Recognises that he’s in a bad position, and works to get past it. Always fight, never flight or freeze. He knows that about himself. He is proud of it, to an extent, and it’s this that he clings to so desperately now. He has never been as fucking scared as he is now. “Tell me--,” he wheezes, pauses, and slows down again, “--about her.”

It’s a slow start, with Matthews hesitant at first. She doesn’t seem to know where to begin, and once she finds a track, she keeps talking until she doesn’t know when to stop. Ghost uses this time to focus on his breaths, and he listens in the background so that he can’t hear his own thoughts. Baby Debbie, as the child refers to herself, is four years old and as fiery as her mother (who admits that she’s got a temper, then she remembers who she’s talking to at this point and tries to back herself out of being a hothead - Ghost doesn’t say anything so she continues). Debbie is so proud of her mother. She talks about her at preschool, apparently. Sometimes she draws pictures. For a while, Matthews had been a tank driver so Debbie drew a picture of her mother in a tank. Children have no concept of war, but her mother is her hero. They’re getting out of here. They will . For Baby Debbie.

Ghost tries to move, hoping to lift the slab off of himself, but he can’t do anything. He can’t shift his grip enough to create the space needed to get leverage. He becomes acutely aware of the sweat forming on his skin, and cooling it down further. Almost as soon as he thinks about it, his shoulders tense and shivering sets in. Shit. Shit . 

“Flare,” he says, and he doesn’t know where that idea comes from.

“Sir?”

“ Matthews ,” he grits his teeth, “can’t breathe . Can you-- see… me?”

“Can you move, sir?”

“ No ,”

He hears a flare crackle into life. Oh, to have that kind of enthusiasm. That flair . 

“Can you move your hand?”

Ghost can move the fingers of his right hand. Suddenly, he feels something close around it and he jolts.

“It’s me, sir. I found you. I can’t-- fuck , I can’t-- I’m sorry, sir, I can’t help you,”

“Don’t,” Ghost softens. No, he’s not softening. Fucking hell, he’s blacking out again.

“Lieutenant, sir?”

He feels contact on his hand and, once again, he jolts. But she holds firm.

“Stay with me, sir. You don’t need to say anything, just hum if you’re alive.”

It’s more of a groan.

“You-- your family. Do you have one?”

Negative (not really, anyway).

“A partner, sir?”

Negative.

“That’s okay, sir. You got us.”

Fucking hell. Soap, please , rescue him right now so that she can stop making him feel extremely miserable? It’s bad enough that he’s suffocating to death, with possible onset hypothermia or shock. Now he’s lonely .

“What can…” there’s a long pause before he’s able to find the breath to speak again, “you see?”

“Not much, sir. A lot of concrete. There’s a gap up top where dust is coming in and out. A draft. We won’t suffocate, sir, I don’t think.”

Speak for yourself. Holy shit, just sitting there with an iron rod in her arm, talking all day long. Just as well about that gap, he should’ve considered a potentially limited air supply earlier. Matthews passes out again and her hand slips out of his. He can’t reach anything. He can’t raises his knees or move his feet more than a few centimetres. Ghost checks again that he can feel his toes. He can. His shivers, alongside the moving, remind him how confined he is. It makes his breathing quicken again. Don’t panic. Do not panic. Soap is on his way. He’s probably doing everything and more to get them out of here. Whether Ghost was a dick to him before they left or not.

Dying by enemy fire is one thing. Being buried alive is something totally different and there is absolutely no preparing yourself for how it feels. He squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can, taps his fingers on the ground. Anything to stop himself from passing out again. If he’s going to die, let it be now, and get it the fuck over with. Ghost considers what Matthews had said. You’ve got us . He pictures the bar. Price, Laswell, Gaz, Soap. Colleagues, not family. They’ll recover when he goes. They’re soldiers, people die, it’s only natural. It’s shit that it only took a little mine and a bit of concrete to take him out, but people have died from less. That’s okay. Maybe he’ll sleep after all. Just a few minutes, to shake off his shivers. His neck cramps. The pain doesn’t liven him up. If anything, he passes out faster .

His grip on himself is lost.

Chapter Text

Soap has always been the kind of guy who gets along with everyone. He’s a team player. He likes being around people and finds friendships rewarding. If he flirts with people, it’s just a bit of fun. As sociable as he is, he doesn’t really do relationships. Certainly nothing outside the military has ever lasted particularly long, and it can be complicated from within, so it’s been a while. Hookups happen fairly often, though. He’s a man with needs. In any case, not at all recently, and there’s only been one target for his flirtatious jibes. The guy who invented playing hard to get, go figure. He won’t even admit to them being friends . And, after that weird outburst at base, he’s pretty sure certain feelings might just be returned. He thinks back to that fake tussle they’d had. He can’t even remember what was going on, but what’s a play fight between friends? And if it got a little rough, a little charged , who’s to say? There wasn’t anyone around! Maybe Soap had made a face when Ghost had ended up on top, something that very clearly displayed the raunchiest thoughts he would never, ever voice. That’s it. Ghost had pinned his wrists and was sitting on top of him. Listen, be fair . You’ve seen the man. You’re telling Soap, right now, that if Ghost pinned your horny ass to the ground, that you wouldn’t make dirty come hither eyes? Yeah. Exactly. Anyone would. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. His impression of Ghost’s reputation is that everyone is super hot for him, and anyone who isn’t, is scared of him. In fact, he’s mostly left alone to his own devices because he’s not what anyone would describe as a team player, and he’s scary. There are only a few people who think about him leaving that mask on, and only that mask on. Soap is very much of this mindset. Even now, when Ghost’s told him to fuck off. It didn’t feel like he was actually telling him, up front, that he’s crossed the line. Or rather, that Ghost minds that they’ve crossed the line. Obviously, Soap is not an asshole. He’ll respect the boundaries, wherever Ghost wants to lay them. 

What other reason could a lieutenant have for marking the line between them so intently, if not the threat of something more? Come on, Simon. Loosen up. Nobody would know . All anybody ever sees is them roasting the shit out of each other, anyway. They don’t speak Simon. They don’t know what his stares mean, how there are several very different but almost identical kinds of death glare given by the lieutenant. He’s getting better at translating them now, and even better at spotting them. He knows where not to push him about, and where, conversely, Simon could fuck around for days. Soap doesn’t blame him for closing up, and though he does suspect that some of those death glares could have been Simon’s version of tender glances , this makes sense. Simon is as open about how much the military means to him as he could be. It’s no secret that he prefers to go by Ghost because his name is much too personal. He runs away from himself, keeps everything very close to his chest. Anything that risks his hard earned and perfectly suited position is not worth it. Including Soap. And that’s just the way it is. Thinking he could go on forever, endlessly teasing his lieutenant with romantic witticisms, was stupid. He was stupid. He pushed it a little too far, and this is what he gets. He’s glad that they’d talked it through, even if it hurts like a bitch to be shut down like that. So he gives Ghost his space, and puts his heart on the backburner. And, hey, if Ghost wants to mess around over comms, who is Soap to refuse? He even gets himself a joke and the mental image of Simon watching Madagascar , and immediately loving the little spy penguins. Whatever they are. That’s a bona fide treat .

Bravo team clear the mountainous holiday home from the rafters to the ground. There’s nothing here. Knowing Makarov as a skeevy kind of terrorist, Soap practically tears the place up, looking for any clues he’d even been here. Decoy is right. This place doesn’t even have any furniture. Perhaps it did, and he thought the weather could possibly be colder on another patch of the mountain, and moved somewhere else. In any case, he’s satisfied that they’ve done all they can, and Charlie has the helicopter pick them up. There’s a landing pad on the roof fit for purpose.

Soap is in the air when there’s commotion over the radio from Alpha team.

“Bravo, this is Alpha 1-4. Four down in stairwell collapse. Requesting evac for two wounded. How copy?”

“Alpha 1-4, this is Bravo 0-1,” Soap replies immediately, “say again. Did you say stairwell collapse?”

“Affirm. Two missing beneath the rubble, two topside with broken bones. We are getting no signs of life from below, sir. Repeat, no signs of life. Alpha 0-1 and 1-3 currently missing.”

No . He’s not missing. He’s fine. He’s down there. Simon barely presents signs of life in his everyday mannerisms. He’s fine.

“How copy, Bravo-1?”

Uh, fuck. “Loud and clear, Alpha 1-4. Are the injured stable?”

“Affirm, for now.”

“Sit tight, Alpha. We’re heading to you. ETA five minutes. Keep ‘em warm. Bravo-1 out.”

Soap keys in Ghost’s point-to-point number and, before pressing transmit, he asks someone else to check Alpha 1-3’s radio too. They will have tried this on the ground, of course, but it does no harm to see for himself.

“Ghost, this is Soap. How copy?” Silence. “Alpha 0-1. What’s your status?” Silent as the dead. He swallows and looks at the soldier who had taken it upon himself to contact Alpha 1-3. He shakes his head. “Shit. Makarov’s fucking booby-trapped the place, we should’ve thought about this.” Nobody replies, he wasn’t clearly talking to anyone in the first place, anyway. Maybe he’s talking to Ghost, though. Aren’t you supposed to be switched onto these things? Why hadn’t you spotted a trap when it was right under your nose? Why didn’t you, he doesn’t know, thrown something down to test the waters? Fuck, this is bad. Soap tries the radio again. Nothing. While in the air, he organises which members of his team will be focused on recovering the two wounded soldiers and providing medical aid to whoever needs it, and two are reserved for keeping a lookout on their escape. It’s possible Makarov has alerts set on whatever traps he laid to tell him when they’re activated. It’s not impossible to imagine that he’d send a patrol in to make a nuisance of itself. The last soldier is instructed to help him bring in anything of use. Climbing equipment, ladders, ropes, the works. The second heli, involved in bringing Alpha team, report via comms that they’ve landed and are going to load in the two wounded soldiers for immediate evacuation. They’re gone when Soap arrives.

He’s first off the chopper when they land. He brings all manner of climbing equipment and ropes with him, and he’s first in the door.

“What happened?” He asks, forgoing anything else. Soap places the equipment on the floor.

“Sergeant, I’m Private O’Connelly, Alpha 1-4.” He salutes and immediately stands down. “There were laserbeam triggers at the bottom of the stairs, sir, that’s the only way I can explain it. Through here,” he leads Soap through the hallway and into the door beside the elevator. It’s pitch black.

Soap takes one look at it and points to one of the soldiers doing fuck all from Alpha team. “You, I want torches, flares, anything you can think of to light every single inch of this stairwell. The heli will have spotlights. See if we can pinch one of those.”

“Sir,” he runs out.

“What did you see, O’Connelly?”

“The explosion came from above, sir. It took out the third floor stairs and we had to climb our way back out. Matthews, Alpha 1-3, had the front flare. When she went down, it was like she’d never been standing there. Ghost fell too, sir. Careful, sir, but if you see here,” he points off the side of the edge and Soap follows his finger. A dying flare looks to be about twenty feet down. “There were five storeys, sir. We were at the top of the lowest when it happened. That isn’t the floor.”

“They’re under there?” Soap pales.

“Affirmative, sir.”

Soap turns on his torch and points it at the ceiling. He’s imagining a pulley system to help them left larger pieces of concrete. The roof doesn’t look all that strong, but he’ll keep it in mind.

“Show me where you came up.”

The ropes and grips are still left on the ledge from when they hoisted their injured teammates up. It’s not as bad as it looks. In theory, knowing that Ghost and Matthews are buried under two separate sets of concrete stairs sounds pretty dire. But as he climbs down to make his own assumptions, it appears that the fake floor they’d seen from above is wedged at an angle and is sheltering what may or may not be alive below. Those stairs are almost wholly intact and almost look as though they’re inviting you to walk up them again, into a solid wall. He thinks of the movie Labyrinth , then he drops more flares down and conjures a plan. The flares are tossed at different corners of the collapse. He’s hoping they’ll be spotted by those tripped within.

There is no element of this disaster, besides the truth that it happened at all, which isn’t now under his complete control. Soap delegates tasks like no other, playing to people’s strengths and taking into consideration the fact that Alpha team are still visibly shaken up from what happened. It’s not easy to see a commanding officer go down like that. He is a fond climber, so tying off the ropes and working with pulleys and the like all comes naturally to him. But all the same, Soap calls for guidance from experts in search and rescue to advise on the best route for this particular breed of cave in. All the while, of course, his hands are busy preparing what they will need to take with them into the pit. He is acting as if the two currently MIA are definitely alive, but in a bad state. That’s the best possible mentality for him to take. Assuming they’re dead would slow him down, assuming that they’re fine , they’re probably safe under shielding slabs of concrete, also risks the same nonchalance. If they’re alive, they’re likely in a lot of pain. Not for long. Not for fucking long .

Four super powerful torches are lowered carefully into the pit. One is sent into the hallway at the base level, which is now partially obstructed. As it lowers to the ground, he hears something very faint. At first, he thought it was the thud of the torch falling over, but Soap listens to his instincts and immediately orders all personnel to hold position.

What is that? Humming? Fuck-- no, that’s screaming. A woman screaming.

“Matthews!” O’Connelly lurches forwards, dropping to his knees at the edge of the pit. He calls her name again and there’s silence. He calls once more, and the faint screaming starts up again. Life . “We couldn’t-- that’s new , we didn’t hear that earlier,”

“She might not have been able to earlier,” Soap pats his shoulder and hands him the rope he’d dropped. “We’ll get her out.”

He tries the radio again. Even if he isn’t heard, Soap transmits updates to Ghost and Matthews as if they can. He retains communication even when he doubts they're receiving it. He can't bear the idea that they don't know if he's looking for them. He is. He's doing all that he can. Please be alright.

Chapter Text

As soon as possible, Soap and two others lower themselves into the (now brightly lit) pit. Expertly placed grapples work alongside expertly placed pulleys, reaffirmed by the confidence the rescue team were able to give him that this is what they’d do, too. Soap would almost be proud of himself for thinking this up if not for his total inability to think about anything outside the task at hand. Partly relying on a hook they shoot into the opposite concrete wall, just above the door, and an iron bar poking out of the wall, they are able to slowly cross the cave in without having to touch any of the concrete. They are hyper conscious to the threat of further traps or triggers. O’Connelly, a smaller man, goes in first, then Soap, while the last soldier stays put to signal to the rest of the team at the top when they need to pull. There is constant communication between the team, and to Matthews’ radio. From the bottom, Soap can just about make out her words.

“Matthews? Matthews, it’s Soap. You’re gonna be okay, we’ll get you out of here. Is Ghost with you?”

“Yes,” she cries, still extremely muffled by the layers of concrete above her. She says something else, and then says distinctly, “nonresponsive.”

“Do your radios work?”

“No! No, I’ve been screaming-- can’t hear-- he can’t breathe.”

“Say again?”

“Ghost is crushed, can’t breathe, sir! I’m impaled on-- on a bar.”

Steaming bloody hell. O’Connelly kicks into gear. He’s a field medic and Soap can see the difference between him not being able to do anything, and now being in a position to help. O’Connelly is switched on, pressing onto his chest to see if he can see anything from a different angle. O’Connelly is able to ascertain that there are gaps in the rubble which have protected them from the larger debris. While O’Connelly searches for initial signs of them, Soap performs a quick and careful sweep through the other rooms. Smoke grenades will show any lasers for what they are, but, naturally, he’s not about to set those off with known breathing difficulties as it is. There is no movement, and he triggers no more mines. The rooms are clear for them to perform the evacuation, at the very least. He returns to the rubble. Through the use of shining torches into the cracks, they can even find out roughly where they are. They’re not too late. They’re not too late.

The cave rescue experts are called again and Soap tells them all he knows. He describes everything to the tiniest detail, explaining the injuries as he knows them, too.

It takes more planning than Soap is comfortable doing, knowing that Simon is under there and unable to breathe. The consultation team is streamed live, if low quality, footage of the mound and devise that the rubble to their right is free to move with little risk of causing further collapse. Soap and O’Connelly tie rope around pieces they can, and these are lifted carefully upwards by the ‘surface’ team. Smaller pieces are laboriously lifted off by themselves on the ground. They are so careful about where they put the unwanted rubble, in case of more traps. As they clear more of it away, the talking is heard much more clearly. It’s Matthews. They pause, check on her.

“Sarg., it’s the lieutenant!”

“What? What is it?”

“He’s alive, he’s-- he’s moving his hand. Say again, sir?”

Silence. Soap clutches the cement in his hands as he hangs on her words.

“Sarg?”

“Matthews,”

“He-- he says any day now . Sir.”

Fuck. Fucking hell . Soap laughs shakily, relief overwhelming all else. “Matthews?”

“Sir?”

“You have my permission to tell him to go fuck himself.”

“He heard you, sir.” She sounds so much closer now. They’re able to communicate better now, she walks him through what she can see and if anything chances. But she’s impaled, he keeps that in mind, and he soon tells her to conserve her energy.

“Are you cold, Matthews?” He asks.

“Yes, sir. Ghost is shivering. He can’t move, I think he’s under the large piece to your-- ahead of you, I think, sir. I have his hand.”

He’s holding her hand? This shit really is dire. A few minutes later, she informs them that Ghost’s hand is limp again. He’s been dipping in and out of consciousness, just as she has. Soap gets her to keep slapping his hand to try to keep him present.

Soap is a nervous talker. He’s an uncomfortable talker. He’s an I’m in a good mood, so I’m going to have a bit of a chat talker. Everyone has always said that he could talk until the cows come home. Earlier, that had looked like efficient lines of questioning and sustainable orders for the whole team. It looked like him checking on the shaken up Alpha team while he tied ropes, while he counted pulleys, while he designed the systems required to get the lift they’ll need. Now, especially now that he knows that Matthews and Ghost can hear him, he starts up about how close they are to getting out of here. His plan, though he won’t tell them this, is to get them out of the pit as top priority, then scout further down the hallway with either Bravo 1-2 or 1-5 for backup (as the others will be involved in the medical eval). Soap lifts as stably as he can, but his arms and back soon ache with the continuous effort and he works up a sweat. 

Within ten excruciating minutes, they can see Matthews. A final slab is lifted up and away, carefully being lowered onto another area of rubble under the stairs by the surface team. Matthews is propped up against a mound and has a large iron rod sticking up out of her left shoulder. She looks very, very weak, but she’s breathing and lifts her head when she sees Soap and O’Connelly in the gap above her.

“Hold on, we’re nearly there. Where’s Ghost?” Soap is able to wriggle into the gap and as soon as he speaks, he realises that Matthews is holding onto a gloved hand. Fucking Wicked Witch of the East style, like it should not be attached to a person under this huge slab of concrete. To be clear, he has triaged the scene. Breathing, bleeding, bones. He doesn’t really know where impalement comes in, but he does know that Simon can’t breathe and it is to him that he diverts his attention. Carefully, so as not to disturb how Matthews is laying, Soap presses himself against the floor. His hand covers Simon’s, and his fingers curl around, too. Thank god, he’s alive. He flattens himself still lower, hand holding hand. “I gotcha, Simon. Where--”

Again, he answers his own question. Soap shines his light into the tiny crevice he can just about see into, and is immediately met with Simon’s wincing face. In fact, the skull mask scared the fucking shit out of him for a second. He doesn’t stop to think about the logic of it, but when he’d tucked himself against the floor, hoping to find where Simon was laying, he had forgotten that he’d see the mask. So when he did, he almost thought it was his actual skull. For the level he nearly jumped out of his own skin, his fondness for that mask has now completely ended. Friendship with the ghost mask over, new best friend: the heavy duty helmet currently giving his head some space. Simon blinks slowly, staring silently. He doesn’t need to Speak Ghost to know relief when he sees it. He listens for his breathing pattern. Very shallow breaths. By the nearly horizontal way that the slab is laying, he imagines that it’s laying fairly flat on him. Soap doesn’t bother asking if he thinks there’s a chance he’s impaled by anything, he might not feel it yet anyway, but he does ask if he can feel his feet. Simon nods fractionally, which is another good sign. (It’s actually not a proper nod, and is another example of the minute shift in his expression that Soap has learnt by exposure how to read. Anybody else would have repeated their question, afraid that it hadn’t been heard.) The tiny head movement shows that there’s an element of wiggle room, too.

“We’ll have you out in a jiffy, sir,” Soap releases his hand and radios for further supplies. They’ll want some kind of saw to bring Matthews up, iron rod and all. She’s not lost a lot of blood, and he credits that to the rod. O’Connelly confirms the status of both Ghost and Matthews as currently living, and makes orders of his own to prepare for getting them out of here. Bravo 1-2/Zhang, is a big, burly guy, and is called down to held lift the concrete off of Ghost. They assess the damage if the piece falls backwards. Could be bad, could create another cave in from the in-tact Labyrinth stairs if they’re knocked. Zhang suggests wedging more concrete under the corners while they try to pull him out. It’s a good idea, they go with it. O’Connelly sets to work sawing Matthews free. God, what a fucking trooper she is. Soap is 100% sure he’d be crying his eyes out in her situation. There’s a very real risk of spinal injuries and dragging him out from underneath may do more harm than-- no. Currently, he could stop breathing. Breathing, bleeding, bones.

Chapter Text

“Sir,” Soap takes Ghost’s hand again, kneeling beside the gap where his head is. Ghost’s hand is limp. “ Sir ,” he tries slapping it to revive him but it doesn’t work. “Fuck. We’re moving now .” He radios topside, “Secure for pull?”

“Affirm,” someone immediately replies, “awaiting your go.”

“Hold until I give the all clear to release. Ghost is under this one, so hold tight. How copy?”

“Good copy, hold until you give the all clear. Ghost is under this one.”

The soldier on the stairs, midway between the two groups, acts as coordinator. On his go, the topside troops pull one corner of the slab, attached with enough rope to make any bondage enthusiast blush. Soap and Zhang lift from the ground, with Matthews all the while sawing. Though thick, the slab is not heavy and Zhang confidently confirms that he can hold it alone while Soap checks on Ghost. Soap shoves large cement pieces as quickly as he can beneath the slab before falling to Ghost’s side.

Ghost’s arm had been pinned flat on his chest, fingers half closed in a squashed fist. It doesn’t move despite its new freedom. Soap drops to his knees, immediately checking for breathing and pulse, and then performing a very speedy assessment for broken bones. 

“Simon? Sir, it’s me,” no response, Ghost’s eyes are shut. His chest moves, he’s breathing , but not by a lot. “I’m gonna check you for breaks, then I’m gonna pull you outta here.”

His neck feels fine under the balaclava, but it’s so hard to know what the damage is when he’s wearing a tac vest. There’s no time to remove it, but Soap carefully manoeuvres his hands beneath Ghost’s lower back, between vest and belt. Between each area, he checks his hands for blood, and he constantly communicates what he’s doing and why, in case Ghost can hear him but is disorientated. Everything feels fine, and he notes that there are no rocks underneath his body. Soap checks legs briefly, before he orders Matthews to help pull him out of danger. In a matter of seconds, they went from not knowing if Ghost is more pancake than man, to sliding him across the floor on a thick sheet of plastic, laid for purpose. Soap gives the all clear to lower the slab down again, and with that, Ghost is free. The slab is replaced, and now it is just another piece of rubble on the stairwell’s floor. He is immediately put very carefully into the recovery position.

Zhang assists with Matthews, strapping her to a stretcher as soon as it’s lowered.

Soap, meanwhile, is on his knees beside Ghost again. He’s shivering, so gets covered in a space blanket. He can’t remove the tac vest in case it’s holding him together and the same goes for removing the helmet, but Soap loosens his collar, unlatches the chin strap, and pulls his balaclava off his nose and mouth. Maybe it’s the light, but his lips look blueish. No, safer to assume it’s shock when combined with his shaking. With the space blanket retaining some warmth, and Soap here to monitor any changes, there’s nothing to be done for him until the second stretcher is lowered. You can stake your life on Soap being personally responsible for ensuring that he lives that long.

“Come on , Ghost, hold on. You said any day now, well, what about your side of the bargain?” His breathing is consistent, and a little deeper now that his clothing has been loosened, but he’s still unconscious. Soap takes his hand again, the same one as earlier in case the other has any broken fingers. “Come on, Lt., you’re gonna be alright. Please be alright.”

Ghost inhales one, huge gulp of air. His eyes flash open. He looks like a robot toy who had just had its batteries replaced. His breathing increases in capacity but not frequency, which is another good sign. From nothing, he’s now looking around himself in alarm.

“It’s okay, sir, it’s okay,” Soap says, “don’t move. We got you out, now we’re waiting for a stretcher for you.”

“Matthews,”

“She’s going up now, sir. She’s fine.”

For a second, it looks like he’s going to stay put. He rolls onto his back and raises his left hand, the one previously crushed, pulling it out of the space blanket. It opens and closes as normal. Soap watches carefully. Watches for flinches, watches for anything out of the ordinary, and watches in case Ghost’s shivering stop. The blanket moves like he’s kicking it, which gives mixed messages. On the one hand, great, looks like he can move his legs, and Soap didn’t feel anything broken. On the other hand, is he trying to kick it off? Does he think he’s too hot?

“Steady, Lt.. Easy.”

“ Fuckin’ hell ,”

“Couldn’t agree more, sir.”

“Johnny?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“You know I’ve got your back, sir.”

“Yeah,” he closes his eyes and sighs. The moment of serenity doesn’t last long. “What about the others? Did anyone else--” he hurts himself talking, “--get hurt?”

“Two injured but stable. Zhang and I are gonna go further inside, check if there was anything worth defending.”

“I’m coming with,” Ghost starts to sit up, curling forwards as effortlessly as normal.

“Negative,” Soap doesn’t want to lay his hands on him in case anything is sore. It’s this point that he realises he’s actually only got one free hand. The other is still holding onto Ghost’s beneath the blanket. He lets go. “You could’ve broken something, sir.”

He doesn’t say anything as he pauses, bent forwards, with his head over his knees.

“You’re in shock , Simon.”

“Bullshit,” he starts patting his arms, chest, neck, head. It’s out of order, usually they cover each quadron separately, starting from head. If there’s a head injury, the foot one wouldn’t matter. That’s the way he thinks of it, anyway. Ghost is rough in his self assessment. Alarmed, Soap grabs Ghost’s wrist.

“ Jesus wept , man, be a little careful. I’m sure glad you didn’t have to pat me down.”

Ghost doesn’t reply with anything intellectual. He just groans and takes off his helmet. He shouldn’t have done this, of course, given the circumstances. In normal Ghost fashion, he pulls his balaclava down his face again. At least there’s that.

“This was stupid, Johnny,” he says quietly, glancing up into the light as Zhang hoists Matthews up. His shoulders are still shaking, so Soap pulls the space blanket off, just to readjust it around him better.

“It’s a trap, sir, they’re s’posed to take you by surprise.”

“Other people. Not me.”

“Don’t worry about it, Lt..”

Ghost grunts. He’s on the move again, drawing his knees beneath him as he starts to stand. Soap, once again, takes gentle hold of his shoulder.

“Stay put, sir, we’re bringing out the stretcher. You could’ve broken a rib.”

“I’m fine, Johnny,”

“No, I’m serious, Simon.”

“I’ll keep this,” he shakes the space blanket.

“ Yes you will ,” Soap isn’t fast enough. He had tried to move in-front, maybe block him from standing, but it doesn’t happen. Ghost does whatever the fuck he wants to, apparently, and fuck anybody else who suggests otherwise! Soap sighs and waits for the colossal toddler to get out of his way so that he can get the hell out of this cramped space. “This is going straight into my report, just letting you know.”

Another unintelligible huff. He wears the blanket like a cape, using one hand to hold it closed, and the other to help steady him as he pokes his head out of the rubble. Soap collects Ghost’s helmet, the torch, and the saw, attaching them to his gear in darkness.

“Fucking cold, Johnny.”

“Fucking shock , sir.”

“We’re in the Alps. It’s fucking cold.”

“Then how come you’re the one shaking like a leaf in the breeze?”

As soon as Ghost tries to climb out, Soap is right behind him, making sure he doesn’t fall and hit his stupid fucking head on anything. It would be-- actually, he’ll say this. “ Be careful , Lt.,” full attitude in his voice, “shame if you slipped and killed yourself right after my heroic rescue.”

“Where’s my gun?”

Good question, to be fair. “I’d say it’s probably buried somewhere around here.”

“Where’s your gun?”

“Fat chance, sir.” Soap climbs out after him, and as soon as they’re on stable land, he catches Ghost by the shoulders. He holds both arms, more precisely, and stares at him seriously and sincerely. “Ghost, I’m trying to help you. Please will you take it easy? You were just lying under that ,” he points to the slab. He almost continues his plea, but this seems effectual and Soap doesn't want to push it. 

Chapter Text

Ghost looks around himself, a little dazed, and sinks to the floor. Good that he isn’t trying to fight him on whether or not he should recover . He sits with his back against the wall at first, then leans forwards and takes deep breaths. Soap squats to sit on his heels. Honestly, looking at him, Ghost looks pretty shit. Possibly the worst he has ever seen him. Better than a 2D version of himself, peeled off of concrete like in Looney Tunes , but not all that hot either. God, if there was anything else he could do, Soap would do it. If he knew there was something that would, without fail, calm him down. Make all of this easier to process. It’s not the same as the stress of enemy fire. If he has to make a guess, Ghost is probably feeling that he’d been totally helpless, and he resents that. He is the big, tough guy, after all. And, what, he hadn’t been able to lift a 200 kg slab of concrete by himself? Someone lock him in the stocks and pass the rotten tomatoes. Soap watches for any changes, and he notices that his breathing pattern speeds up. Then slows down again. Then he can’t seem to inhale deep enough. Please be careful with yourself , he thinks but doesn’t say again. Agitated suddenly, Ghost tugs his mask off completely. He drops it between his legs and stares at it.

“Johnny,”

“Yeah?” He clears his throat. “Yes, sir?”

“I’m in shock,”

“Makes sense, sir,” Soap exhales. He tilts his head lower, hoping to see what expression Ghost is wearing. He sounds so flat . Almost normal, but emptier. No Ghost he knows would admit to that kind of thing. He’s wide-eyed and distant when Soap finds him. Anyone else, and Soap would immediately set his hand on his back. Little motions, soothingly. But he doesn’t think Ghost would find that soothing. He’d get worked up again, and that’s the last thing he needs to be doing right now.

“I don’t go into shock.”

“Simon, you were a pancake a few minutes ago. I don’t wanna upset you, but that’s a lot of people’s worst nightmare.”

“Fuckin’ hell,”

“Go easy on yourself, is all I’m saying.”

He groans again. It’s really hard not to rub his back. Soap keeps picturing his angriest face. How he’d looked in the briefing room. The huge death machine out on missions. Yeah , but huge death machines deserve a little tenderness too. Ghost speaks first and Soap tries to remember the last person in shock who talked this fucking much. “Check out the rooms, see if there’s anything you can find.”

Not happening. He’d have said it just like that once upon a time, but he doesn’t feel like that’ll work right now. As much as he’s been bossing the guy around, giving medical advice and disobeying direct orders (to enact medical advice!) are two different things. “Look,” he replies softly, “I can give you some space, but I’m not gonna leave you alone like this.”

“We came here for a reason,”

“The files can wait, if there even are any.”

They sit in silence for a minute.

“Soap?”

“Ghost,”

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up and be stuck between the slabs again.”

“Yeah,” he doesn’t know what to say. “But you’re awake, alive, and outta there.”

“Don’t feel it,” he sighs and holds his face in one hand. At this point, it hurts not to not a hand on Ghost’s back. So he does. Probably against his better reasoning.

“You can, uh,” Soap keeps his hand still. Baby steps. Honestly, he feels like he’s set his hand upon a tiger’s back. (A panther? Given the all black thing he’s got going on.) “You can tell me to fuck off if, y’know-- if I make you feel worse.”

“Nah. That’s the problem, right?”

Oh, no, he knows for a fact that Ghost doesn’t actually want to be talking about this kind of stuff right now. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Sorry for being a twat to you earlier, Sergeant. There’s pulling rank and then there’s being a dickhead.”

“ Nah , it’s all good.”

“ That makes me feel worse.”

“You were just-- drawing a line in the sand. That’s totally fine. What the hell kind of guy would I be if I didn’t respect your boundaries?”

“They aren’t my boundaries, Johnny.”

Soap feels himself getting nervous. “I think we should talk about this later, Lt.. When you’re rested.”

“Thinking straight, you mean.”

“That’s it.”

He chuckles. This man is ill . “We both know I’m not gonna do that.”

“You don’t throw useless words around, Lt.,” Soap rubs his palm across Ghost’s back, creating rustling as he does. “It’s what we love about you.”

“ Sure . We.” Yeah. Not a bad point. But, hey, the people who do love him, are 150% on his side. They have his back ‘til the end. They would dig him out of anything, no matter the odds. The silence doesn’t last, Simon’s up and talking again. “I just wanted you to know---”

“Simon,” John interrupts him gently, “don’t say something you’ll regret later. You need to rest.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. The shaking seems to have eased now, at least, and his breathing is almost normal. It’s a little deeper than normal, a little more grateful for the space to breathe. “If shit was different, though… I dunno, Johnny, maybe I misread it all along. Forget it.”

John treads very carefully. He has to assume that Simon will remember everything, of course, because otherwise it feels icky and wrong to even entertain this conversation.

“Off the record, sir?” John glances up to where he can hear people approaching. Just as well, felt like they were here forever. Simon looks over at him. “This backrub was strictly no homo, I’d do it for anyone.”

It must have taken him by surprise to hear the old no homo in the year 2023, because Simon cracks a smile. It even turns to a little laugh, and suddenly John is smiling too.

“But not a whole lot else is, ” no homo, that is. Their smiles fade. “And maybe I’m not like this with just anyone . I got the message earlier, though, loud and clear, and it’s okay. But if you think I’m gonna stop being the annoying piece of shit you hate being partnered with, then you’ve got another thing coming. Lt.. Now get your mask on before Zhang gets down here and has the fright of his life.”

“Bloody hell,” Simon shakes his head, pulling on his mask. He raises slowly, pushing against the wall to eventually get to his feet. “Tell ‘em I don’t need the stretcher.”

“You’re not climbing,”

“They can hoist me. I’m not getting in the stretcher, Johnny.”

John is about to crack a joke, something about being tied up and kinky, but Simon’s gaze is wide again and he’s deadly serious . His shoulders are hunched like he’s got his arms folded, but his body language doesn’t read obstinate. It reads as scared. He puts his hand on Simon’s back again.

“Over my dead body,” John says instead. “Come on. And, sir?”

Simon looks down at him.

“I’ll say it ‘til your ears bleed, on the record, in front of all the brass. I’m really fuckin’ glad you got outta this alive. You’ve been through Hell, and things could’ve ended a lot different, but you're alive. That's amazing, sir. And I hope you don’t beat yourself up about any of this shit, or anything we said. It’s good, it’s all good.”

Simon doesn’t say anything. His dark eyes look a little less haggard, and not at all piercing. He's usually got a deliberately harsh way of looking at people, and even by accident. That sort of thing must be hard to turn off, or maybe it's just emphasized by his use of the mask. But John didn't expect him to reply, either. The look is enough. He hopes that Simon hadn't just been blabbering mindlessly earlier, and that he'll remember John saying this. But he will say it again when he's safe and warm, as well. Just to be sure. Until then, they turn to watch the eager young Zhang demonstrate effortless abseiling. He lands with a thud and is visibly surprised to see Simon up and at 'em. Simon doesn’t seek help crossing the rubble.

“This is Bravo 0-1 to all units topside. Don’t send the stretcher down,” John says into his radio, taking the shock blanket when Simon hands it to him. “Ghost is stable enough to rely on the harness. How copy?”

“Bravo-1, this is Bravo 1-4. Good copy, don’t send the stretcher down. Glad to hear the lieutenant is alright, sir.”

John smiles up at Simon, who looks at him cluelessly. Oh, fuck, the radio is busted. He points to his own ear. “They say they’re glad you’re alright.”

“Give me strength ,” Simon mutters, tying himself deftly onto the rope. “Sappiest bunch of arseholes I’ve ever worked with.”

John checks the knots before radioing up to start hoisting him up. He glances at Zhang, who looks like he’s still a little surprised by what Simon had just said.

“That’s actually really affectionate for him,” John smirks. Come on! He’s kidding around. Even if, to everyone else, he’s this big, scary officer with a skull mask he (almost) never removes. They say nobody knows what he looks like. Yep, only a select few, he’d say. 

John watches Simon ascend. Is he swaying more than he should? Is he staying upright? Should John have let him go up by himself? He wasn't going to subject him to the stress of a stretcher if he didn't want to be in a stretcher, for a start. There would be no forcing Simon into doing anything, in a weakened state or not. As Ghost reaches the top and disappears from view, John considers that perhaps he didn't want to feel the stretcher's constriction around himself after what he had just been through. That's fair enough. If that is the reason, he really could have just said. After he's sure that the lieutenant is safe and sound up there, he and Zhang head into the rooms to check for any intel. They use smoke grenades to check for lasers but there aren’t any. There are some Ultranationalist documents -- it looks like it’s old correspondence. Forgive him, but his Russian is just a little rusty to know what the subject matter is. They bring it up with them anyway. By the time they’ve cleared everything up, the third helicopter has returned for the remaining few who didn’t go back with Simon and Matthews. Laswell is updated en route back, but John won’t see Simon again for a few days. He’ll reply to the text John sends him, though. Just as normal.