Chapter Text
Just like that the mission had gone to shit. Roach couldn’t exactly remember at what point everything had gone wrong, but it did. Roach and Ghost were now left sprinting into a clearing, a supposed safe rendezvous that was now infiltrated by hundreds of men trying to kill them. Their lungs were burning, legs aching, and hearts pounding as bullets whistled past them, dangerously close. He was following Ghost mindlessly, trying to just survive the raining bullets than watch where he was stepping. Such a rookie mistake, one wrong step was all it took. One wrong step, too close to a mine. The explosion caught him off guard, he didn’t even have time to react. He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face as he was thrown back. His ears began ringing as he fell and then he hit the ground hard, hard enough that the impact rendered him unconscious.
Then suddenly he awoke, the metallic taste of blood sharp in his throat and a searing pain coursing through his suffering body. It was almost torturous. His mind slipped into and out of unconsciousness as he fought with his own failing mind to cling to what little life still resided in him. Nothing was clear to him as he was hauled across a field. The explosion had taken his hearing, replacing it with a high-pitched ringing that muted most of the world but even so he heard his voice over it.
“I’ve got you, Roach, hang on!” Ghost’s voice was so loud and clear in his ear. It grounded him, gave him the strength and focus to force his tired body into dragging the gun from his side and using it to hold off those entering the field from the treeline, giving Ghost the chance to move them away. He watched with a darkening vision as a helicopter descended before him, blocking the enemy while others jumped out and began to shoot at them instead. Heaving, ragged breaths escaped him, and he struggled to keep himself awake, letting the gun fall away.
“Hang on Roach!” Ghost’s voice pleaded above him, despair wrenched in his stomach as he succumbed to temporary darkness.
But then once again he awoke, his body being heaved onto leaning against his friend.
“Come on get up!” Ghost demanded as his eyes slowly opened. He could see him, but not really, just a mask and sunglasses that were hiding him away, he was going to die without ever seeing Simon Riley.
“Get up. Get up! We’re almost there!” Ghost ordered him through gritted. The words echoed painfully in his mind but they kept him awake. Something to keep himself from disappearing once again. Another helicopter was lowering, painfully slow, before them. Roach figured that that was what Ghost was referring to, that they were nearly at. He knew that he should probably know for definite but it was taking all his focus just to keep himself awake so he had to forgive himself for struggling to form coherent thoughts. Shepherd stumbled, without grace, from the helicopter and he vaguely heard the conversation between him and Ghost.
“Have you got the DSM?” Shepherd questioned quickly. Ghost glanced at Roach wanting to get him some medical help.
“We got it, Sir,” Ghost reported dutifully despite his concern. Shepherd gave a short nod, patting Roach’s shoulder, sending stabbing pain through his whole body and drawing an aching groan from him.
“Good, that’s one less loose end,” Shepherd replied.
It felt as if the world became even quieter and his heart pounded in his ears. Roach watched wordlessly as he pulled a gun from its holster, unable to warn Ghost of the danger. He shot him in the stomach without an ounce of hesitation. Ghost screamed in anguish as Roach’s body fell backwards, stolen from his grasp. Ghost tried to react, tried to shoot Shepherd for hurting Roach but in his pain, he was too angry, and anger makes him slow, the amount of adrenaline more debilitating than anything. A dull ache of agony throbbed in his chest, he had already accepted his death, yes, but seeing Ghost’s utter despair and being murdered right before him was too much. It broke him. A single sad tear rolled down his cheek, it was all his body could manage.
He tried to move. Tried to roll away or do something. His body wouldn’t let him. All he could do now was watch with weary eyes as Shepherd walked over, not looking him in the eye as he reached down, tearing the god-forsaken DSM that they had gone through so much to obtain away from him. The heartless bastard. One last time. One last time Roach tried to change the course of this mission, he clutched Shepherd’s wrist, although one firm shake dislodged his hand with how weak he was after everything that he had endured. There wasn’t anything he could do. He had done everything he could and now there was nothing left to do but just accept whatever else was to come.
Two soldiers came over after Shepherd had sauntered off. Once upon a time, before the start of this mission, the people around him would laugh and joke with him, despite the fact he never spoke or reacted too much. These people that grabbed him under the armpits and by the ankles, heaving him up were the same people that he had once drunk with and played poker with. Each movement they forced from him as they carelessly carried him drew a new level of pain from his aching body but they didn’t care. For one moment did they not stop and think that this was wrong, no, they mercilessly kept a hold on him, grip searing into his flesh. He let himself fade away.
But he was still alive. Still alive as they swung him once, then twice and then let him fall into a shallow grave without consideration; he went rolling across the harsh ground agonisingly. Burning pain stabbed through his body but he couldn’t even bring himself to make more than a small grunt of discomfort. Still alive. He was still alive as they threw Ghost beside him. Ghost, who tumbled unwillingly closer. His lifeless hand fell onto his chest. The thick feeling of misery swelled in his throat as he let a sob wrack through his body as he stared up at the sky, trying to ignore the weight of his partner's hand on his chest.
To his utter sorrow, he was still alive as gasoline splashed over him and Ghost and filled his senses with the pungent stench. Price was screaming in his ear over the comms, warning him much too late not to trust Shepherd. He wanted to cry but he couldn’t even do that anymore.
Still alive as Shepherd’s sadistic face hovered over him, took a deep inhale of his cigar and threw it down onto his body. Fire erupted all around him. Burning flames scorched through his clothes and tore at his skin. The agony stole all his ability to function, his only thought was excruciating pain. The fire seared his skin but he couldn’t scream, he couldn’t cry, he couldn’t move. His mouth fell open in a silent plea for mercy. All he could do was endure as black dots robbed his vision. Finally, he was able to let go; he was able to slip into blissful unconsciousness.
Ghost coughed, it was a rough, painful cough that felt like a knife being plunged into his chest, drawing a groan from him. He grimaced at the taste of blood that pooled in his mouth and the way in which the action pulled at his aching muscles, the way it tore at the wound in his gut. It was hard to say how long he had laid there. The sun had begun to set and the darkness of night crept into the sky, stealing the daylight and replacing it with a black void peppered with gleaming stars. The memories of the day slowly snuck back into his mind. He swallowed back a sob. Surely, he reasoned, if he had lived, Roach would have too, but he didn’t want to look. Looking confirmed his worst fears. If he turned his head and allowed himself to see Roach's corpse laid limp beside him then he wouldn’t be able to take that back. Instead, he lifted a shaking hand to his earpiece and listened as it crackled to life, it was a miracle it had survived.
“I’m alive,” he said simply, not bothering with formalities. He waited for a response.
“Ghost? You’re fucking alive?” Price’s voice asked, tone laced with the same concern a father would have for his son. Ghost hummed.
“Affirmative,” Ghost confirmed, looking everywhere but where Roach’s lifeless body lay.
“And Roach?” Price pressed. Shit. He took a deep, shuddering breath. Hesitantly, he dragged his head to the side, his eyes fell upon Roach. Soot and grime hid most of the damage but there was no rise or fall in his chest. His eyes were closed and his face was slack underneath the charred remnants of his mask. Sorrow punched him in the stomach and his breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t get any air as he hunched over. He wanted to cry. Needed to cry but he couldn’t. It just wouldn’t escape him.
“We’re coming, Ghost,” Soap’s voice came in his ear, gentle and calm. Ghost clutched his stomach with one hand and pressed his other hand to his mouth, eyes squeezed shut, refusing to respond, he didn’t want to cry.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Price added. Stupid? Stupid. Stupid was sitting here and crying. Stupid wasn’t getting up and hunting that bastard down and slaughtering him and his men for what they had done to someone he held so close to his heart. Someone he cared so deeply for was dead beside him and Price was telling him not to do anything stupid. Not doing anything was stupid, Price of all people should have known that.
Even so, Ghost knew he couldn’t. Perhaps the shot hadn’t killed him, perhaps the fire hadn’t consumed his last drop of life but it had taken a lot out of him. The amount of blood he had lost and the sharp pain from the burns were too much, even for him. His body protested at him for even keeping his eyes open, the thought of standing and moving made him want to vomit. So he waited, waited and watched as the light of stars shone through the inky blackness of night, holding back the tears and sobs that waited deep in his chest. Watched as the moon moved into view. Watched as time marched on as if this had never happened. As if the carnage of battle didn’t plague the forest around him. As if the military and government institutions weren’t corrupt. As if… as if someone hadn’t stopped breathing.
A strong pair of arms embraced him. It was sudden, snapping him out of the trance that he had been in. He breathed in, processing what the person smelled like.
“Three in one,” he said softly, allowing his arms to wrap around the other. There was a short noise of confusion before he pulled back.
“What?” he asked, staring at Ghost. He waved his hand in front of his face. “Did you get brain damaged?”
“Three in one, you use three in one,” Ghost informed the man knelt before him. “Hi, Johnny,”
“What the fuck,” Soap whispered, shaking his head and pulling him in for another hug. Ghost didn’t reply, just sitting in the comfort of Soap’s presence. He could hear others moving around. The ashy smell of Price’s cigar wafted past him. He felt the man touch his arm as he sat down. All the contact made him wince but he didn’t complain, it kept him from thinking about Roach but also let him know he was alive. Price gently moved Soap back so he could have Ghost look at him as he spoke.
“Simon,” Price addressed him, the use of his name rattling him. Price held something in his hand. Gently, he took Ghost’s hand and pressed it into his palm before looking at Soap, nodding and moving away. Ghost closed his hand around the object Price out there. He recognised the shape and the bumps from the ingrained text. The feeling of a metal chain rubbing its links against the skin of his fingers. Then, the feeling of the small chip on the upper right side marked the small plate. Ghost swallowed hard, blinking furiously to wash away tears but they started falling, much to his dismay and he couldn’t keep up. He uncurled his fingers, turning the plate over in his palm. He looked blearily at the text; Gary “Roach” Sanderson. The dog tag, though held no weight, felt heavy in his palm. Almost like dead weight.
It was too much. It was all too much. Ghost let go, he let the tears roll down his face, let himself shake and let himself fall into Soap’s arms. Soap held him and didn’t say a word. They stayed like that for a while. Ghost finally letting himself feel emotions and Soap silently observing everything going on around them. Price crouched beside Roach, murmuring something to himself.
“What are we doing with him, Captain?” Gaz’s voice was quiet, mournful. Price looked up at Gaz and sighed. As much as they wanted to give him a proper burial, they had no way to get him home. He took off his jacket and placed it over Roach’s chest and head, respectfully giving him privacy in his death without responding to Gaz’s question. He dug each end into the ground a little, shifting only to let Gaz do the same with his jacket on his torso and upper legs. They didn’t speak. It wasn’t needed to cover him up so much but if they couldn’t bury him and couldn’t take him back then it was the least that they could do.
Then they were ready to leave. Price steadily strode over to Ghost and Soap, gesturing that it was time to go. Soap nodded and turned his head toward Ghost, moving him back a little so he could see his face. He wiped a thumb across his tear-stained cheek, smudging the dark grease paint there. Ghost couldn’t even see his face even as Soap pressed their foreheads together. Hot breath fanned across his face.
“It’s time to go,” Soap told him in a whisper. Ghost immediately shook his head, beginning to cry again. Soap frowned sympathetically.
“More time,” he stuttered out between ragged breaths. Soap shook his head gently.
“No, Ghost, no,” Soap replied, he was firm but understanding as he slowly moved them to their feet. Ghost was hysterical, unable to control his breathing or the sobs that wracked through him. Price took a moment to put pressure around the wound in his gut using a crappy bandage, tying it off behind his back. Not ideal, but enough. Soap soothed him, talking him through his breathing and whispering softly into his ear as he led him past Roach’s now-covered body. Gaz jogged to Ghost’s other side, pushing his head carefully into Soap so he didn’t look, keeping it there. Price patted his shoulder in approval.
They herded Ghost to the car they had. It was cramped, with Gaz and Price in the front seats and Soap and Ghost squashed into the back. Ghost huddled into Soap’s shoulder. He wasn’t crying anymore. Just letting the pain of his injuries numb his mind. Soap tried to ease that pain, but for a while, Ghost shoved his hands away. Soap kept pestering him., trying to use a first aid kit found underneath the seat to clean his wounds. He protested it for a while, repetitively moving away and pushing his hands before Ghost, annoyed, grabbed Soap’s hand and bit it. Soap yelped and smacked his shoulder. Price and Gaz’s heads snapped to the back seat to see what was going on. Upon seeing them huddled in the backseat they slowly looked away to allow them some privacy. Ghost and soap stared at each other in stunned silence until Ghost finally let Soap look after him a little. He would still need to go to the hospital but it was enough to provide a little comfort for now.
They didn’t bother going back to base. They just took Ghost straight to a hospital that they trusted not to contact anyone. They were ushered to a private area of the hospital. Ghost’s wounds were evaluated and they took care of him, soothing the burns and stitching up some smaller wounds after applying numbing. He needed surgery for the gunshot wound though, so Price and Gaz got back to work picking up the pieces of Shepherd’s betrayal while Soap waited in Ghost’s designated room. One of the nurses that knew him from his countless visits there brought him a sketchbook which he thanked her for gratefully. He curled up in a chair awkwardly, resting the book on his lap. A deep breath calmed him and he picked up a pencil. Then he began to draw.
“Johnny,” a gruff voice came from the doorway. Soap’s head whipped up toward the source. Ghost was sat in a wheelchair, arms folded and being wheeled in by a doctor.
“He wanted to walk but he can’t do that without hurting himself so we compromised,” the doctor explained, “He’s grumpy about it,” He then moved Ghost further into the room, opposite Soap and left. Soap stared at him for a few moments before he resumed drawing. Ghost watched him and they sat in comfortable silence for a little while longer. Soap sat back and observed the drawing for a little while before he pushed it over to Ghost. He took the paper carefully, being cautious not to smudge the graphite. It was a little crinkled and rustled gently as he turned it over. The drawing took up the entire sheet. He couldn’t quite catch the tear that fell onto the paper, darkening the graphite. He shoved it quickly away, pressing his palm to his mouth to prevent the sobs from escaping him. Tears began to roll down his cheeks faster and faster. Soap quickly scrambled up and rushed over to him, wrapping him in a tight hug. The discarded paper blew across the table at the quick action.
Soap had drawn a memory. Ghost sat down with Roach resting between his legs making a flower crown while Soap himself pestered Gaz, shoving daisies to him while Price stood in the background taking a picture on an old, polaroid camera. The freeze frame from their life was something they’d never see again and that broke Ghost but at least he could have it there beside him forever.
Then the door burst open and two men barged in, Price and Gaz. Price threw some gear and clothes onto the bed. It hadn’t been any more than thirty minutes.
“We have to go back,” he demanded, without room for question.
“Ghost just got out of surgery-” Soap began, Ghost shook his head and gestured for Soap to help him stand, which he did so reluctantly.
“Meet us outside, I’m going to get painkillers and bandages, be quick,” Price ordered and then strode out, Gaz following close and quickly behind. Soap helped Ghost get dressed, wincing at the wounds that were pulled at with every move.
“Why are you so determined? You need rest,” Soap insisted as he assisted him nonetheless. Ghost looked at him as he pulled his mask on.
“I never checked for a pulse,”