Chapter Text
At the end of the mess hall, there's some open rooms, often used for meetings and assembly and what-have-you. Most were bare and empty, just doors you'd pass by on your way to breakfast, back to bed, to brief information, etcetera. But one of them was stationed as a sanctuary for the parts left behind. The dog tags, handprints and photographs of their fallen and lost. There was this wall just covered in photographs, Polaroids, all blue-tacked on, a pin board covered in small hooks with tags hanging off of them. There was a ball of tac, thumb tacks and a bunch of hooks in a drawer to add more, as upsetting of a prospect that was.
There were candles around the room as well. There was a line as to how close to the wall they could get, just because people were afraid of accidentally burning the photos, not wanting to do their fallen or the comrades they've left behind any disrespect. Nobody lit the candles unless it was some anniversary, and whenever the candles were lit, you'd stay quiet when passing. Someone was in there saying hello, writing to the deceased's family and friends, or the deceased themselves. The drawer under the stationary drawer was filled with letters for the dead. Just small notes. It helped some. They usually went in and gathered dust, but it helped.
One night, middle of November, the sergeant passed the room coming back from the mess when he shouldn't have really been there, saw the candles lit and respectfully passed in silence. But in the quiet, he could hear murmuring. Familiar murmuring. Deep and gut-wrenching. Croaky with stress. Maybe they'd been crying. Soap didn't want to walk in, and the door creaked, so there was no way of being quiet and subtle. He just looked either direction in the call before pressing his ear somewhat to the door. He was almost certain that was Ghost, but, he wanted to be su-
"-it's so fucking hard without you. It's been 4 years and it hurts like day 1." Definitely LT croaked. Soap had to restrain a gasp from escaping. He didn't know Ghost had lost anyone in particular, and he'd certainly never heard him sound so pained. Emotionally as well. He reacted less to getting shot or stabbed. Who died? "Just wish you were here. 141 would love you, you know that?" He adds. Soap brings a hand to his mouth. Is definitely shouldn't be hearing this. The Scot new he had to walk away, if Ghost knew he was there- Doesn't Ghost have superhuman hearing? He's never been crept up on. It sets a pit in John's stomach about this whole thing, but with how little Ghost had ever said about himself, he was desperate to know more. Ghost never really let anyone around him die to Soaps knowledge. Certainly not the 141. Who the hell was this mystery person??
"I think Johnny would like you a lot" Soap almost jumped to hearing his name. It was strange to hear Ghost talk about him like this. "You two are both out of your minds and love blowing stuff up" he says, and Soap can almost hear a smile in his voice. A warm and endearing kindness. It was unfamiliar. Made him sound more human. Not his commanding officer. Just his friend. His friend who is currently listening in on something private and definitely not for prying ears. Get out of here MacTavish. "I wouldn't have traded time with you for anything, but having him has made it a little easier." The catch 22 of not wanting to feel guilty for overhearing, but still wanting to hear this even if his is the only way was killer. John felt his heart pang and his eyes prick. It felt good to know he was helping, awful to know he was also an eavesdropping bastard as well. "Nothing can replace you though. Even now, I still think about you every day. It's-" he gasped in a breath. "It's getting unbearable again" Ghost choked out, a hand coming over his mouth.
It's now that Soap realises Ghost isn't wearing his mask. It's only now with a hand over his mouth that his voice has become muffled. Ghost is baring his face to the dead and them alone. Whoever it was for. Ghost who never showed his face to anyone, who once threw a recruit into a wall for reaching at it in his panic. It was easy to imagine. Ghost sitting here, probably cross legged, mask beside him on the floor, looking at the wall, lit only by candles. "I've kept all of your clothes that you left, but none of them smell like you anymore-!" He growled out, frustrated. "I keep trying to write to you, but my hands just get shaky and I can't get a word down anymore-" he continues in his ramble, voice desperately wobbling angrily. "-And every fucking day around this time, Price won't stop giving me that fucking- look!" He whisper shouts, sounding like he's pulling his hair out. "I want you here. I want you home. I want you-" Soap is desperate to burst in and make sure he's okay, but he'd be a dead man. Ghost needed this to be private, it was what the room was for, but good god, he sounded wounded. Like he was suffering and begging to be put out of it. Like-
Creak.
Johns stomach tightened. He was subconsciously changing which foot his weight was under, and it caused the floorboards to creek. His eyes widened and he could hear shifting. Ghost was coming to the door. Of course the right thing to do would be face Ghost directly and apologise, say he was just worried, promise not to do it again, to say nothing- but of course at the last minute he dashes as light on his feet as he could manage, around a corner and held his breath, just in time to hear the door swing open. Soap could hear his heart in his mouth, and willed it to he quiet, so he didn't die in the next few seconds. He waited, so did Ghost. He begged to God he'd hear the door shut, he was heard. The shrine room door closed and the Scot let out the breath he was holding. He panted like he'd climbed a mountain and held a hand to his chest. He wanted to feel guilty, but the relief he hadn't been choked out in the last few seconds was too great for any other feeling to top in that moment. Soap was ready to retire for the night, life still intact and not willing to risk it again. He waited a few seconds, just to be certain, before turning the cor-
Soap almost jumped out of his skin. Silhouetted in the hall stood a tall, mask less and still, familiar figure, staring him down. It was dark so he couldn't be sure, but he was sure Ghosts shoulders dropped and his brows changed position. His whole demeanour dropped. He looked a little shocked and disappointed, and Soap could feel it in his- everything? Yeah, everything. Like he'd taken a bullet into every inch of himself in that moment. He looked Soap up and down, looking like he wanted to say something, he seemed so vulnerable. But he squared his shoulders and reached for the door, opening it, and oh- as if Soap couldn't feel any worse.
The candlelight poured through and his face was blotchy and wet, eyes rimmed in a blush, brown irises surrounded by lines of red. Like he'd been bawling his eyes out for the past few hours. Come to think of it, Soap hadn't really seen Ghost a lot that day, certainly hadn't spoken much. "Get to bed Sargent. Not meant to be up and about at this hour." The way his voice croaked and his brows knitted in such a way it seemed like agony. Soap wanted to speak, desperately willed himself to do so, but nothing came out. All he could do was watch Ghost wipe his face with a sniffle and and shut the door behind himself. Leaving Soap in the hallway with his deservingly shattered heart.
Way to fuck up your relationship with your lieutenant and the man you'd been pining for, for the past 8 months, gone like that. Would Ghost even speak to him again? Would he request Soap be transferred out of the 141? Could he? He could request to be moved himself. The thought almost had Soap on his knees. He couldn't. He didn't know what to do. Should he go to Price? Or would he just be even more mad? He could definitely send him away. He wasn't expecting Ghost to talk to him tomorrow. Possibly ever. The spiral Ghost had sent him in was agonising. No, Ghost didn't do this to John. He did it to himself. And he deserved it for being such a prick. Now he'd hurt Ghost. Certainly broken his trust beyond repair.
Soap started walking, not wanting to further upset Ghost who had been eerily silent. He wasn't going to his room, he passed that hall quickly and kept going. He couldn't sleep. Not now. Maybe not ever. Fitting punishment really. No, he needed advice. And fortunately there would be one man up at this hour who thankfully knew Simon best.