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John ‘Soap’ Mactavish found himself in the place he typically finds himself when he dreams.
A camping spot, utilized frequently in his childhood, was bordered by a river with fresh spring that filled the air with a melodic trickle. Moonlight and starlight coalesced and cascaded its light down a vast rock face mere minutes walk away.
This was peace to John. His mind wandered here when he needed calm or reflect.
When Price was presumed dead, all those years ago, and Soap was acting captain of the 141, he came here a lot in his mind. He hoped to bring Roach, Ghost and Price here once the hunt for Makarov was done. Share the peace that he coveted in his mind with the people he would give his life for.
Now, it was impossible. Gary and Simon were dead.
And Soap was dying.
The chest wound he got from when Shepherd had stabbed him in the chest, never got the chance to heal. There was too much that needed to be done, and few that could be trusted. Even fewer than what Price and himself had assumed.
Makarov knew Yuri. Yuri knew Makarov.
Soap recalled his last words to Price “You need to know, Makarov knows Yuri”. He hoped that would be enough for the captain to save himself and finish the mission. If not…
Don’t think about that.
Soap moved to occupy his mind, and while it was not necessary, as it was a dream, he worked his way through the familiar actions to start a fire. He gathered wood and kindling, stacking them in a small pile before pulling a matchbook he most definitely did not have earlier, out to strike a flame. A spark of satisfaction grew in his chest with the fire. He watched the flame grow, and the light expand into a small perimeter. It wasn’t warm, in fact it felt no different to the world around him. Soap didn’t think he could feel warmth in a dream, especially if this was the last one he’d have.
It was lonely here in his mind. He wished and wished for his team to be beside him here. But he only had himself for company.
“Johnny..?”
The shadows shifted to Soaps left, and a figure stepped out of the shadows. Barely lit by the light of night, wide and intimidating exacerbated by the tactical gear he wore. Cautiously, the figure slunk towards the fire. His mask all but glowed as it bobbed in the black, the light casting shadows across every crack and sharp angle.
It was as if Death itself had come for him.
Soap turned to look directly at the figure. Leading his eyes, a pale blue, up to the voids that the mask provided for its wearer.
The man in black, stopped and stared. “Do you know who I am?”
“Well, I’d imagine ye’d be Death here to finish meh off fer good,” Soap said dryly. “Hell o’ a night for it. Glad mah last mind brought meh here ‘stead o’ leavin’ meh in Prauge.”
Briefly, Soap remembered looking up into Price’s eyes. He wondered if the fear in the captain’s eyes had reflected his own.
There was silence for a moment. “I’m not Death,” the figure moved to sit next to him, hesitant and slow as if Soap would startle and run. “But you aren’t the first to think that.”
“Who are ye then?”
A beat passed. “They call me Ghost.”
“Ah…” John looked at the man again. He was much too broad, much too tall to be Ghost as John remembered him. In the light of the fire, Soap could see that this Ghost’s eyes were a deep brown. His eyes swirling with the void of the Earth, known only to the things deep and dark in the soil.
But they held the same numbness that he remembers seeing in his Ghost’s eyes. His Ghost had seemed to hold the weight of a drowning man, and contain the same desperation for air. They contained watery depths that were boiled down to nothing in that damn fire.
“Y’ere different then how I remember ye,” It bugged him that he could remember someone so wrong. But his brain was failing. This was going to happen. “I like yer new mask, Sergeant, if ye didn’t scare ‘em before, ye will now.”
Ghost chuckled. “It’s Lieutenant, MacTavish. Forget that easily, do you?”
Apparently he did. How could he have forgotten so much? He was starting to hate himself for forgetting so much about the man that had meant so much to him.
“Lieutenant, huh?” Soap mused, “You’d think mah brain’d be leakin’ out mah ears with how much I’ve been forgettin’.”
Ghost flinched, moving his gaze to the fire. “Don’t say that, Johnny.”
“About mah brai-”
“Don’t.” This time it was more firm, an order. Soap recognized the tone. “I don’t want to think about that now.”
There was silence once more. It seemed to stretch for hours before Ghost broke the silence once again. “Why did you do it, Johnny?”
“Do what?”
Ghost sighed then leaned back in an attempt to loosen stiffened muscles. “Die. Why did you have to die before me?”
Die before Ghost? Ghost had died before him. Soap remembered the desperation of trying to reach Ghost and Roach before Shepherd got to them. He was too late. Later, Price and Nikolai had went to recover the bodies. Soap had seen them briefly before they were buried under markers nobody would see. Melted plastic had sunk into both Ghost’s and Roach’s eyes as a result of their eye protection still being equipped when the bodies were burnt. He remembered talking to the man who had examined the corpses. Ghost was shot in the head, dead almost instantly. Roach was shot in the gut, and was still alive when the fire overtook them. This John knew for certain. This John knew he wouldn’t forget. How can you forget when your greatest fears come true?
“Ghost, ye died before me. Don’t ye remember? Ye were shot an’ burned with Roach.” The last sentence dried his mouth and filled him with nausea brought on by guilt. “We- we couldn’ get to ye in time. Ye died before me, Simon. I know I remember that. The memory is as clear as ye in front of meh now.” He wasn’t really sure how much that was worth at the moment.
After a beat of silence, Soap sat forward, bringing his face further into the light in an attempt to bring Ghost’s gaze back to rest on his own. He mustered the soft tone he’d only ever used on Simon-his Simon and said, “Look at meh love, let meh see yer face. One last time so I know I won’ forget.”
Ghost stiffened and turned his head slightly towards John, not quite mustering enough courage to meet his eyes, his face, for fear of what he’d see. Would it be the dead face that had haunted his dreams since that day? He didn’t want to find out.
“Simon,” John said softly, reaching his hand out to cup the far side of Ghost’s mask, and gently turned Simon's face to look at him. Ghost let him take off the mask, but he kept his eyes low, not letting Simon’s eyes meet John’s. He couldn’t bear it.
Soap was shocked. When he took off the mask of Ghost to reveal Simon, he wasn’t how he remembered him. He was blonde, and his face was longer than his Simon. He wasn’t his. Maybe he did forget his face after all. His last look at Simon’s face and it wasn’t his face. John teared up, anguished, but smiled anyway.
After all, it may not have been his Simon, but it was still Simon. His last moments would still be with him, and John would not use them to hurt him.
“Y’ere still as beautiful as the day I lost ye” Soap was crying now, tears racing down his cheeks, and he barely contained a sob.
Simon looked up at the change of breathing, finally meeting his eyes. His eyebrows creased in a way that was oh so familiar but at the same time as foreign to him as a stranger. Concern flooded Simon’s eyes, and he slowly shifted his weight towards an embrace.
Unlike the fire that John had started, Simon’s embrace was warm. They held each other until the sun rose. Simon held John until he died and vanished in his arms, and the sun filled the valley. Simon rose, then fell to his knees and wept.