Chapter Text
will I walk away in shame of who I've become?
the person staring back, will they look at me too?
maybe with more love than most?
- Soap
Monday, August 17th: 1 day into retirement
7:33 A.M.
Soap shuts his journal with a huff, the pocket-sized book weighing him down as he thumbs the burnt and rough edges of leather. Each tear, scrape, and burn reminds him of the countless memories and emotions contained inside each entry.
A memorial, sealed up tight like a vault. His magnum opus.
He looks over it once more. The front, back, and spine before tucking it snugly in between all the other useless trinkets and junk in his box.
Would he consider them useless though? They’ve gotten him through tough times in his career. He scans through the box again, seeing a Polaroid of him, Ghost, Alejandro, and Rudy. He reminisces about his time in Las Almas, with the good memories outweighing the bad, and he remembers the amount of pleading he did for Ghost to agree to be in the picture.
Right next to it was a Polaroid of him and the 141; it was him in the passenger seat as Price drove, Ghost and Gaz in the back, Gaz drooling all over himself in his slumber. It was right after defeating Hassan, and Soap remembers the first time the aching feeling in his chest bloomed, the cause being the gruff Manchester accent crackling through his headset.
He resists the urge to run his fingers over it, knowing that if he did, he’d have to fight the urge to pull it out and look over it once more, and maybe a thousand times over if he could.
Soap shuts the box and pushes it towards the other two on the bed with more force than needed. He gives a huff of annoyance as he plops himself down in his swivel seat, spinning around to look at the boxes on his bed. Their labels hastily scrawled out ‘SOAP’ in unsteady writing and the cardboard was already fraying at the corners.
He sinks deeper into the uncomfy swivel seat, it makes his back ache, and never in his life did he think he’d find the feeling so comforting.
The emotional weight of everything made him more tired than he had ever been. Hell, he’d barely slept these past few weeks, with all the shit he’d gone through he’d never guessed that this would be the thing to break him.
Fifteen years of memories and mementos of his favorite missions stowed away in three small boxes.
If he wasn’t drowning in his own self-pity he’d find it humorous.
There are three knocks on his door and Soap looks towards it. He watched as Gaz stepped in, dismissing the fact that Soap hadn’t given his permission. In his arms are two pudding cups and a small packet of saltines. Soap's stomach churns and rumbles and he remembers that he had missed lunch. He pushes his depression episode aside in favor of the snacks.
“Got your favorites, you done packing yet?”
“Aye,” Soap murmured, giving Gaz a tired nod.
Gaz scans the room, eyes stilling on the trio of boxes sitting on Soap’s bed.
“Took 30 minutes to pack 3 boxes, if you needed help you could’ve just asked me..”
Gaz gave a teasing smile as he set the pudding cups down on what used to be Soap’s desk, the clutter and mess of unfinished documents, miniature collectibles, and bobbleheads of Soap's favorite soccer players gone. Stowed away to collect dust for years to come.
Gaz digs through his jean pocket, fishing out a plastic spoon, he unwraps it and hands it to Soap, gesturing towards the pudding cups.
Soap thanks him and takes the spoon, immediately tearing into the pudding cups with newfound hunger. Gaz watches him eat for a few seconds before he wanders around the room curiously, stopping to run his hands along the now empty windowsill as if he remembered the Polaroid pictures and several potted plants Soap had collected through the years.
Gaz chuckled, his fingers stopping on top of chipped paint “Never seen your room this clean since you got here mate, surprised Price didn’t kick you out sooner”
Soap rolls his eyes at the comment, too focused on the sweet chocolate pudding instead of Gaz’s futile attempt at teasing, he chooses to ignore the second meaning behind it.
“He wouldnae, we all know I'm tha’ favorite.”
Gaz turns to Soap, a cheeky grin on his lips “Lying is a dishonorable offense Soap.”
Soap shakes his head with a chuckle, “Yer aff yer heid..”
Then his eyes rake over Soap, landing on the plain white cast on his arm, he raises his eyebrow in question as he points at Soap's cast.
“You didn’t choose any other color?”
Soap finishes the last of his pudding cup, the thing practically licked clean as he placed it onto the table, starting to open up the second one before putting it back down.
“Nae, dinnae want to” Soap replied shrugging, not finding the issue at hand.
“Huh,” Gaz pauses, then with a quick mumble, “thought for sure you would’ve chosen blue..” He says as he sits down on the bed, facing Soap.
Soap doesn’t say anything, instead looking away, Gaz seems to notice his quietness and gives him a sympathetic look before rubbing his hands onto his cargo.
He hears shuffling from Gaz and Soap lifts his head back up only to see the Brit digging through the boxes he had just organized. A twinge of annoyance flicking him in the head.
“What’re ya’ doin—” his question is cut short when Gaz places a quick finger onto his lips. Soap gives him a glare and fights himself on whether or not he should bite it off, but his thinking is quickly interrupted as he watches Gaz dig through the box once more pulling out a blue marker, Soap’s favorite color.
He motions for Soap’s casted arm which Soap obediently puts onto Gaz’s leg, curiously watching his every move. There’s the pop of the cap then Gaz is scribbling on the rough plaster.
“So, you need help loading up your car or what?” Gaz questioned, not looking up from the cast.
“Ehh, ah think I’ve go’ it”
“Stubborn as ever…” Gaz chuckled. “You’ll be making three trips..”
Soap shrugs and Gaz glares at him for moving before immediately going back to scribbling.
“Ah kno’, need the exercise anyways, been stuck in medical fer too long my legs are practically useless to me now.”
Gaz gives a hum in response and Soap watches as he scribbles out his name in bold scratchy writing. He couldn’t help but give a warm smile towards it, watching fondly as he drew little stick figures of what seemed to be him and Gaz high-fiving each other in a blue flower field.
“What’re those?” He questions as he points at the flowers in the background.
“Explosions.”
“What? Those aren’t explosions—” Soap cuts himself short with a snicker, trying to stifle his laughter as Gaz chides him for moving again.
“Those are! Look,” Gaz’s grin is prominent in his voice as he points at the square box that Doodle Soap was holding. “you’re even holding the remote for them!”
Soap snorts. “Yer a dogshite artist, Gaz.”
He then watched Gaz scribble something next to his name, covering it from Soap’s view with his left hand. He tried to peek over, but every time he did Gaz would give him a sly grin before covering it with his palm.
He quickly gave up, though his suspicion grew as he had a feeling that he already knew what it was.
Finally, after a few seconds of silence with the occasional squeak of the sharpie, Gaz pulls away, admiring his work proudly as Soap turns his cast around to see a crudely drawn dick.
“That's what you get for doubting my amazing artistic skills.” Gaz grins, waiting for a reaction from him.
Soap gives a huff of fondness before playfully shoving Gaz down onto the sheets. He puts up no fight, instead, the Brit breaks out into a hearty laugh, covering his eyes with his forearm as he cackles.
Soap grins, shaking his head at Gaz’s immaturity. Soon enough their chuckles faded into a comfortable silence, the dread of retirement dulling down. Then, Soap spoke up, the smile prominent in his words.
“Ya do kno’ I'm crossing tha’ out when ya leave..”
Gaz rolls his eyes and throws the marker at Soap with a smirk. Soap flinches as it hits his forehead, leaning over to pick it up as he glares at Gaz in the process.
“Bastard.”
Soap watches as Gaz sighs, giving one last chuckle before propping himself up on his forearms and looking at him. It seemed that he still had something on his mind, something that was bothering him.
“What?” Soap questions.
“Have you talked to Price at all?”
Soap sighs and smooths a hand through his hair. “Nae, I haven’t, Dinnae even think th’ old man would want tae talk ta’ me.”
“You don't know that”
Gaz was right, He didn't know. But his words did little to soothe Soap's contrasting belief.
“What about Ghost? Haven’t seen you guys talk since the mission”
Soap scoffs, “ He’s even worse, prob’ly hates my guts, Gaz”
“Are you serious ?”
“Deadly”
Gaz raises his eyebrow at Soap but upon seeing the Scot not react, he huffs and stands up giving Soap a pat on the shoulder.
“Well,” He stretches, back popping as he groans.
“It wouldn’t hurt to try, you know.”
“Ah kno’”
He looks Soap in the eyes “Talk to them, yeah?”
There's a beat of silence before Soap nods, and then Gaz is on his way. Leaving Soap to dwell on whether or not he should find Price and Ghost. Or, where they could be.
Monday, August 17th: 1 day into retirement
8:56 A.M.
Funny enough it was Price who had found Soap first.
Soap had just been out for a quick smoke, Gaz’s words still swimming around his head.
What am I supposed to say when I see them? Soap thought as he took a long drag of his cigarette.
Do I apologize? Beg for forgiveness?
He lets out a small groan, eyes screwed shut as he leans back to rest his forehead on the railing. The cold metal soothed the headache threatening to manifest later.
Why is this so difficult? Soap sighs as he considers slamming his head against the railing to knock himself out cold. He decides against it, instead lifting his head with an inhale, closing his eyes, and taking a few moments to mentally prepare himself.
“Got a light?”
A gruff voice asks from beside him and Soap flinches, almost dropping his cigarette. Price stares at him expectantly, his cigar perched between his fingers.
Soap nods and without a word, he fishes the lighter from his pocket, lighting Price’s cigar. Then he went back to smoking his own.
The silence between them made Soap want to claw his skin off, he wasn’t ready and he didn’t think that he would ever be. Talking was his thing, yeah, but talking after a fight? Especially one that he had started? He would rather choke on glass and die.
“How’re you holding up?” Price questions as he looks off into the horizon. Soap puffs out the cig smoke with a shrug, “Doing good, better.”
Then, for a moment, there's silence between the two, and Soap wonders if Price can feel the same amount of awkwardness that he does.
“You talk to Simon?”
“No sir.”
“Why not?”
Soap tries to find a reason, something to deflect, but he doesn’t have an answer to Price’s question, so instead he gives a half-assed mumble. In response Price just grins and lets out a huff akin to a low chuckle and Soap questions if he had said something wrong.
“Think he’s still mad at you?” Price asks as he looks at Soap. “... It's not your fault Soap, could’ve happened to anybody. S’to be expected in this line of work” Price pauses, finishing off his cig before smothering it with his boot.
“Now, your job is over, and you did a hell of a job, son.” He pats Soap on the arm, the warmth lingering even after Price had pulled back.
The two stare at each other for a moment, Soap refusing to look away in fear that the wetness brimming his waterline would fall. Then Price's eyes graze over Soap’s cast, landing on Gaz’s small drawings.
He points at the blue scribbles with a half smile and concerned eyebrow “Gaz did this then?”
Soap also looks down at his cast, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He could feel the tears that threatened to spill slowly disappear.
Soap looks up at Price with a small smile. “Aye, was gonnae look fer ya ta’ see if ya wanted tae sign it as well.”
“Well, I’m here now,” Price says with a huff, holding out his hand.
Soap shakes his head, letting out a quick laugh before digging through his pocket, pulling out a green marker, and handing it over to Price.
He watches as Price writes ‘Stay frosty, soldier’ on his cast, then signs his name right next to it before handing the marker back to Soap.
“Find Simon before you leave, alright?” Price pats him on the back with a warm smile before parting ways. Leaving the Scot with a lot less weight on his shoulders.
Monday, August 17th: 1 day into retirement
9:24 A.M.
Soap had meant to find Ghost, he really had, but the man was nowhere to be seen.
His cast was slowly starting to fill up with names, So much so that he was worried that he’d
Run out of the room before finding Ghost. He’d spent the past hour saying his goodbyes while ‘farewells’ and ‘best of luck’ were signed by rookies and friends.
But still no Ghost.
The absence of the man did not help Price’s argument, ‘it's not your fault’ my ass. Ghost probably still does hate him and Soap wouldn’t blame him. If he thought about it, he’d hate himself too for all the damage he’d caused.
The mission was supposed to be a quick intel grab, ‘nothing they couldn’t handle’ as Price put it. That's what it was supposed to be and God, did Soap wish that was the case, what he would have given for anything else.
He wouldn't be stuck in this situation if their intel had been correct, if he hadn’t been so stupid, if only he had just listened.
“What?” Soap’s brow furrowed in disbelief, anger starting to pool in his gut. He pushes the talk button on his radio, and with a shaky breath he growls “Yer crazy if ye think a’m leaving you in there L.T!”
His ears were still ringing from the explosion and his adrenaline was so high that he paid no mind to the huge gash on his head. His brow furrowed anxiously as he waited for a response, but nothing came.
Then, the left tower of the building collapsed in on itself, joining the rest of the debris in flame. Ash from the building curled into embers, lighting the night sky.
“Simon!—” He shouts frantically before being cut off, the voice on the other end doing little to help settle his anxiety.
“I'm ser--ous John--y, lea--e. Meet with Pr-ice and Gaz at exf-l” There's a grunt from Ghost before the comms cut off, and all rationality left Soap as he ran back into the burning building, uncaring if he got in trouble on account of insubordination.
He spends a few minutes searching through ash and smoke, his lungs burning as he tries to cough it all up. There were a few remaining enemy soldiers which Soap took down before continuing to run up the stairs.
As soon as he stepped foot onto the third floor he was bombarded with bullets, a stray one hitting him right in the knee before he dove behind a discarded table with a groan. He crashes onto his side, pain roaring through his wrist and arm as he tries to hold his gun up to shoot, his aim is shaky. He cups a hand over his mouth as he hears footsteps approaching.
The person quickly grabs the back of his vest, dragging him behind a wall and shouting at him. Soap can't make out the words as he feels his consciousness slip. He hears a British lilt begging him to stay conscious.
It's the last thing he remembers before shooting up in a hospital bed. Heart racing as a nurse urges him to lay back down before she yells at another nurse to call Price in.
Price arrives minutes later and Soap remembers the conversation clearly. How Price gave him a pitying look as he handed him his release papers, and how Soap's throat became hoarse after minutes of arguing and shouting.
He remembers being isolated in that small grey room, bleach-scented hell. His only escape was the window next to his bed, watching the recruits run circles around the track like they were lab rats.
The emptiness he felt when Price and Gaz were the only ones to visit him, even then their schedules made it difficult.
The sleepless nights he had, wondering if Ghost was okay, wondering if he made it out safely before Price told him that Ghost would also be discharged.
Soap spent months swimming in his isolation and guilt.
He was the reason for this mess in the first place.
He almost dropped the last two boxes just thinking about it, wobbling a bit before catching his footing. He didn’t know why he was carrying two, it seemed a part of himself wanted to prove Gaz wrong, that he wasn’t weak and could help himself. No cast, broken bone, or bad knee could stop him.
His car was just a few steps away, but his leg and arm were already starting to give up on him. He contemplated putting the boxes down and resting for a moment, but he was almost there. Just a few more steps.
Soap realizes that it was a mistake when the top box he had been balancing starts to slide off, his arms too full to catch it.
Then, the weight is lifted, and Soap could see in front of him.
It's Ghost, bare-faced and holding one of Soap’s boxes.
Soap didn’t mean to, but he was staring. Mapping out every scar tissue, every blemish, every wrinkle, every strand of loose blonde hair. He wished that his brain came with a camera feature so he could store it in his brain forever.
“You’re gonna hurt yourself, Johnny.” Ghost grumbles, and oh does Soap's heart swoop.
Christ, did he miss hearing that, finally after months of no talking, no interactions, not even sightings of this man, here he was whispering Soap's name like a sin.
“What? Looking at you?” Soap said cheekily, he swore he saw Ghost's cheeks tint pink but the man had already turned away before Soap could confirm.
“Settle down Sergeant” Ghost commented as he followed Soap to his car, helping him place the boxes into his trunk.
“Thanks, L.T.”
Ghost gives a hum of acknowledgment and Soap expects to turn around to find Ghost gone, that maybe he was just a part of his imagination. But the man is still there, still staring at Soap with his big brown eyes.
“Everything good here then?”
“Peachy” all thanks to you, Soap wished he could say.
Soap watched as Ghost walked to the car parked right next to him, just a couple of feet away. The trunk open with what Soap could only assume was all of Ghost's things as well. Ironic enough, everything people said about ‘the Ghost’ was true. Only one box for all of his belongings, living up to the reputation of leaving no trace.
It was silent between the two, the only sounds were the shuffling of boxes. They both had all of their stuff accounted for, but it seemed that neither wanted to be the first to leave.
“Price said something, about you” Ghost started, leaning against the back of his car as he watched Soap look through his stuff.
“Yeah? Good things ah would hope..” Soap grumbles, a little upset that Price was going around telling others his business, especially Ghost.
“...It's not your fault Johnny, never was”
Soap pauses his shuffling for a bit, before going back to looking through his boxes as he silently urged Ghost to continue.
“You couldn’t have seen it coming, no one did” Ghost sighs “was just a minor bump in the road, nothing you couldn’t handle I hope.”
“Ah can handle it perfectly, more worried about ye’.” Soap grunts as he looks towards Ghost.
“Can ye’ handle it, Simon?”
Ghost sucks in a breath, thinking about Soaps question.
“I think I’ll manage”
Soap hums at that, a smile painting his face “Then ah think I’ll be fine as well.”
Ghost gives a small smile at Soap and the two stare at each other. This moment is too much for Soap, too soft, too little yet not enough. He needed to fix this.
“So then —” Soap tilts his head looking away as he points to the open box in Ghost's trunk. The first thing on top is his signature, iconic, hardshell skull mask, “all this up for donation?” He jokes trying to relieve the tension.
Ghost stares at the inside of the box before picking up the balaclava inside.
“Was thinking of it” He runs his finger along the stitching, “who knows, maybe some kid could be the next Ghost.”
Soap huffs a laugh and shakes his head “Who could ever beat the original one?” He leans against his car as he watches Ghost look over the balaclava.
Then there's a thump from right next to him and he sees the mask dropped in his trunk next to his boxes.
“Maybe you.”
Soap slowly picks up the mask, the fabric rough and torn towards the edges from its usage, it smells like gunpowder and iron, but the scent of Ghost's aftershave still lingers, He must’ve worn it today.
As much as he would love to have it, he knows he can’t, he shakes his head and holds it back out to Ghost.
“No—No I cannae take this…”
“Keep it, I’ve got plenty anyways..” Ghost gestures to the rest of the soft balaclavas in the box.
Soap just shakes his head again, this time physically pushing the mask back into Ghost's hands. He looks at Soap in confusion.
“Why not?”
“It's your favorite one, I'm not taking it.”
Ghost looks at the mask, then back at Soap before shrugging with a small ‘okay’.
“ah wid be happy if you’d sign mah cast though—” Soap interrupts, holding out a red marker for Ghost.
Ghost chuckles and plucks the marker from Soap’s fingers
“alright, Johnny.”
He leans in and Soap watches as Ghost signs his cast, gently holding his arm still. He was so close he could smell his cologne, count every eyelash, and feel the warmth radiating off of him in huffs of air.
“Not my best work but it’ll do.”
Ghost pulls away and Soap is snapped out of his stupor, he turns his cast to a better view and sees his signature with a wobbly-looking skull next to it. He smiles, “It’s perfect.” almost bursting at the seams with satisfaction as Ghost hands him his marker back.
“Well then, I’ll be on my way.” He pats Soap on the shoulder, letting it linger longer than necessary. “You should too, Glasgow‘s a far way from here”
Soap gives a tight-lipped smile, not yet ready to part from this moment.
“Drive safe L.T.” He holds his hand up and Ghost immediately connects them, pulling Soap in for a quick side hug.
“You too, Johnny.” Ghost whispers before letting go.
Soap wished he could’ve stayed longer, wished that he could’ve melted into the hug.
There's so much more that he wants to say, so much he shouldn’t say. His mind reels with questions, Come to Glasgow with me? I’m sorry? I love you?
But he doesn’t say anything, instead, he shuts his trunk and sits in the driver's seat, watching as Ghost drives off through the front view mirror.
Realizing that he wasn’t just leaving his career, but something much more valuable behind.
Monday, August 17th: 1 day into retirement
5:43 P.M.
7-hour drive.
A 7-hour drive with pitstops and horrible traffic here and there.
A 7-excruciatingly-long-hour drive and Soap is finally back home.
Home at his empty, cold flat.
Sure, It had everything Soap loved. Potted plants, an endless amount of art supplies, his motorcycle, and a house that surrounded him with colorful paintings he had made throughout the years.
But it didn’t feel like home.
Maybe all he needed to do was sleep, Maybe he was just exhausted after a long day of sad goodbyes and sitting on his ass, or Maybe all he needed was to see his family again.
When Soap steps out of his car he stretches and groans as his back pops like it hadn't been popped in decades.
He’ll sleep once he gets his stuff back in the house, It surprisingly doesn’t take too long.
He finishes in a few minutes and sits down in his living room going to unpack all of the Polaroids and bobbleheads, hoping that maybe something familiar would help ease his discomfort.
He pauses when he opens the first box.
There, staring back at him is Ghost's signature mask.
It doesn’t take a genius for Soap to figure out that Ghost had snuck it in despite his reluctance. He thinks of asking for Ghost’s address to mail it back, but as he picks it up to inspect it, the smell of gunpowder, iron, and aftershave hits him.
Then he’s warm and safe, and right next to Ghost’s side, where he belongs.
Maybe he ended up falling asleep on the floor, cuddled up to his superior officer's scent. But that was between him and god.
He thinks he’ll keep it for a few more days.