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It’s hot. Unbelievably hot. The sun beats down on the safe house roof with intense rays that reflect off the building’s white plaster, heatwaves wriggling up from every surface.
The taskforce holed themselves up in a small town tucked away in the desert plateaus forming a crescent around Al Mazrah. The abandoned home they chose is at a mid-range elevation as the roads climb a cliff face, high enough to offer a view of the airport and fortress, yet not so much so that they are easily spotted. The urban fabric below is a patchwork quilt of historic structures and modern infrastructure as the waterfront town infills and updates for its growing population. A marketplace bustles at the heart of it all, patrons buzzing through shops and stalls like bees. While the town is colorful, no amount of paint can outcompete the orange sand at this distance, nor the brown haze of car exhaust, which clashes harshly against the sapphire sea.
The door slams behind Soap as he exits into the blinding light. Once his eyes adjust he storms over to the roof’s edge, growling and collapsing onto the half wall. His armpits catch his weight, letting his limbs dangle out into the air, and his knees buckle as his body sinks. They press into the bottom corner where wall meets floor, shins flat as he kneels in a bastardized prayer pose, tops of his thighs feeling the cool plaster through his tactical pants. It’s textured, grabbing onto the polyester like Velcro.
The rooftop is the only place he can get away from the other members of his team in such a small safe house. No one else seems willing to chance the rickety ladder leading up to it, meaning he might as well be on his own private island—save for any neighbors who could overhear, but most houses on this street lay empty, anyway; too dry to rot quickly but sanded smooth in the gritty, salty wind. Plus, if anyone were around, chances are they couldn’t understand English, let alone a Scottish accent.
He grumbles to himself. It crescendos as he speaks, from an angry whisper to a roar that cracks his voice. “Fookin’ bullshit, I swear. How the fook can ye be so stupid… Yer wastin’ yer life halfway across the world from anything that matters!”
A breeze blows in from the coast. The sun will set soon, relieving the heat, reversing the air current as the water releases energy it stored during the day. Until then, it travels up the cliff face as light cooks everything in its path, already baking Soap’s skin.
“She told ye not tae come! She asked ye tae stay! She begged ye tae stay!” He screams and falls back away from the wall to lean his forehead into it and grip his hair like reigns. “Yer a fookin’ idiot, John. How could ye be so selfish?”
Selfish.
The word rips his ribs open and bites straight into his heart. Soap throws himself to his feet in a furious huff, now yanking his hair as if to tear it out. He yells in frustration, “Why didn’t ye see it comin,’ ye fool‽ She can’t be here forever! Ye knew she couldn’t!”
His steel-toe boot protects him as he kicks the wall. It chips the plaster and sends flakes falling in an avalanche. Hot tears threaten to roll down his cheeks, beading in his eyes.
Whispering, Soap whimpers, “Yer her only boy. She’s missin’ her baby boy and she’ll ne’er see you again.”
He kicks the wall again, then, unsatisfied with the destruction, whips around in search of something more damageable.
Ghost perches silently on a crate behind him, cross-legged in desert camo fatigues, leaning back against the side of the entrance onto the rooftop. He pays Soap no mind, balaclava hoisted up over his nose as he holds an apple in one hand and a pocket knife in the other.
Stunned, Soap halts in his tracks. The wind leaves his sail and he scrambles to fix himself, to regain composure in front of his superior.
Ghost doesn’t even blink. There comes the crisp sound of a blade piercing apple skin into the fruit’s refreshing flesh and cutting up along its core. The Lieutenant’s hand follows the curve of its body, pushing the sharp knife-edge up until it comes to a stop against his thumb, separating a slice from the whole. Juice trickles down his palm to his wrist, dripping into his lap before it can roll any further up his forearm where he cuffed his sleeve.
“Sorry. Didn’t know ye were up here,” MacTavish says.
Fresh food is a rarity on missions, especially produce. Acquiring it entails venturing down to the market in plain clothes, going undetected, finding a merchant willing to sell to someone they know is military—British military—likely at a steep price hike. That explains why Ghost ventured up to the roof, daring to take the rickety ladder with his bulk. He doesn’t want to share his prize.
Ghost pauses, opens his mouth as if to consider gracing Soap with a reply, then raises the apple slice to his lips, pressed between his thumb and the blade. It produces a sharp snap as he shoves it in and his incisors sever it in half. Then he chews, each crunch increasingly quiet until he swallows.
Soap remembers sitting with his mother on the porch as a kid, on the steps between her feet. She’d do the same, slicing apple chunks with a paring knife, passing him sweet slivers while they watched birds peck away at suet.
He can’t hold back the tears any longer, choking on a sob that he only prays his Lieutenant can’t hear.
Of course Ghost hears. He hears everything. But, other than a blink of an eye and the quick raise of a brow, the man gives no indication he’s even aware of Soap’s presence.
Soap shuffles his feet. There’s a breakdown building in his chest that needs to tear its way out, but he no longer has anywhere safe to release it. There’s nowhere he can go to escape his teammates and let loose this pent up tension. But he certainly can’t stay.
Frustrated, he struggles to rip his gloves from his sweaty hands and chuck them at the ground. Their cloth flops quietly, but the pebbles they send scattering click-clack across the surface until they ricochet off Ghost’s boot, who watches them with disinterest.
Soap feels the need to fill the silence, mumbling, “I… figured I’d be alone up here. Good spot for that, aye?”
Nothing. Not a word in response. Maybe if Soap drops enough hints Ghost will take his snack elsewhere.
“It’s, uh, it’s really the only place tae get some privacy, huh? That’s why I climbed up here… I guess you were lookin’ fer some, too.”
Ghost cuts a second slice, chews it, and swallows, then scoots over on the crate and pats the empty spot next to him, still unwilling to look anywhere in the Sergeant’s direction.
Soap doesn’t know what to do. He watches Ghost eat a third. Mid-bite, realizing Soap hasn’t moved yet, the Lieutenant snaps his fingers and points at the crate by his side.
MacTavish joins him. The moment his butt touches wood he breaks down, mumbling into his hands while his chest quivers. Hot tears flow down to his jawline, snot following close behind, until the goop drips from his chin.
Ghost lets Soap cry. Says nothing. Lets his hands rest in his own lap, apple and knife cradled by large palms. Then, as the minutes pass and Soap wears himself out, he asks, “Girl trouble?”
“Huh?” Soap sniffs.
“Got a girl back home beggin’ you to stay? Sounds like a bad break up. But what do I know?”
He stares at the space between his boots. “Naw, it’s no burd. It’s me mum. She’s… my old lady's gettin’ old. Dunno how much longer I’ve got her fer.”
Ghost cuts another apple slice, the sound interrupting Soap’s lamentations. As he awaits the crunch of it in his Lieutenant's teeth, he suddenly sees it dangling between his eyes. There, pressed between Ghost’s thumb and blade, is an offering. It’s sliced thin so such a rare treat lasts long enough to savor, thin enough that it curves slightly under gravity’s will. Up close, Soap can see just how juicy it really is, soaked to the point that little dribbles splatter on the plaster floor and bead up in the dust rather than spreading.
Little Johnny MacTavish reached up above his head as they sat on the porch together, tiny hands freshly washed after walking home from Nursery because he was picking worms off the pavement. He reached up, up into the heavens, and grasped a thick apple slice like a crown jewel, bringing it down in front of his nose to watch the juice bead on its waxy skin.
“What do we say, love?” asked Mum.
Little Johnny looked up at her. She had no wrinkles yet, her hair still chestnut brown as it draped down on either side of her baby boy’s face. She had life in her eyes that only now Soap recognizes as pure devotion.
“Thanks!” He chirped.
Mum smiled so wide, so unbelievably wide that her eyes scrunched shut, and she wiggled her head to make her soft, thin, pin-straight locks tickle his tiny nose.
Soap says, “Oh, you don’t need tae—”
“Take it.”
The Lieutenant wiggles the sliver. Soap takes it in his massive, calloused hands, feeling a second wave of sobs as he slides it into his mouth. It’s as sweet and refreshing as ever.
Ghost eats a slice.
Soap's shoulders shake.
Ghost passes him another.
“Ghost, r-really, I—"
“Just take it,” the man huffs.
“I ne’er imagined her not around,” Soap sighs as he swipes it. “She's bedridden now. I got a call this morning that they’re thinkin’ hospice is right ‘round the corner. I asked the doc if he thought I’d have until the end of this mission; he said he dunno if I'd have a month. Said it’s her schedule, not mine.”
As much as MacTavish wants to be on his mom’s schedule, he has no choice but to adhere to that of the taskforce. The mission is a matter of international security. It’s more important in the grand scheme of things, no matter how insidious of a thought that is. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been warned; he accepted these risks when he took the job, stupid and ignorant and unable to understand just how quickly the future ran at him. Now the risks are real, the consequences here, and the next time he sees his mother there will be six feet of soil between them.
“I get it,” the Lieutenant mumbles.
Right. Mrs. Riley. Murdered.
“I took her for granted,” Soap wails.
“So did I,” Ghost says. “My mum was so… constant. And good. Stable. And even though life was turbulent and I didn’t see her much, she was always there when I came back. I didn’t realize that we hadn’t had enough time together.”
“It would never be enough. She could be here fer a million years and I’d beg fer a million more.”
Ghost continues to hand Soap every other apple slice until he gets to the final one. It’s Ghost’s turn to have one, yet he thrusts it at Soap anyway.
Soap refuses. “Naw, it’s yers. It’s the last.”
“MacTavish.”
He feels the man’s intense side eye. He states, “Lieutenant.”
“Just take the bloody thing. Please.”
Soap falters, then takes it in his fingers. Once the apple is gone…
Once the apple was gone, the pair headed inside. Mum got ready for her usual night shift. Dad took over supper; helped with homework, story time, and bedtime. The neighbor would be over in the morning to collect Johnny for Nursery while Mum slept and Dad was long gone for his own day at work. Johnny would get a quick kiss goodbye if he was able to wake her from her slumber. Otherwise, he had to wait until the evening to see her again.
He had to wait so long to see her again. So unbelievably long.
Soap nibbles the sliver as slowly as possible, still crying to himself. Then it’s gone.
“What do we say, love?” asked Mum.
“…Thanks,” he says, itching his nose.
Ghost nods. Emotions aren’t the man’s forte, and yet, despite his efforts being a swing and miss, he swings regardless. Every time Soap needs a batter on his team Ghost is there, waiting for a baseball pitch with a wiffle ball bat.
He wipes his hands on his thighs and goes to stand. “I guess that’s the end of this, aye?”
Ghost shakes his head and bends to his far side.
“Oh?” Soap asks.
The man sits upright with two ice-cold glass bottles of coke. Droplets of condensation coat the outside, which collect sand from the wind. “Wasn’t planning to share,” he says, “but I think this is worth it. I usually don’t get two, either, but for some reason I felt like I needed an extra today.”
Ghost pops the caps with his pocket knife and passes one over. It’s frigid in Soap’s palm.
“Thanks,” Soap says and wipes his eyes.
“Don’t get used to it,” the Lieutenant sighs as he takes a swig. “Now, Sergeant, finish your coke, then call your mum. She needs it. You need it. Just ‘cause you’re not there doesn’t mean you can’t tell her you love her.”
“Yes, sir.”