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Simon is gone. Somewhere, in the blink of an eye, when Price had lowered his head as he reported back to Laswell, Simon had disappeared. Price isn't stupid. He knows where Ghost has gone. He's on the hunt, intent on snuffing out anyone who's ever heard Makarov's name in passing if he has to. Price wants to do the same, but there's a way these things need to be handled. And this isn't it.
"Captain," Gaz says, voice watery, "Captain, look. He's--Soap's breathing. He's alive."
That can't be right, but when Price looks, he can just barely make out the shallow rise and fall of Soap's chest. He's moving in an instant, fingers searching desperately for a pulse as he radios Laswell to get medical to him yesterday. At first he can't find one, his fingers pressing into the skin of Soap's neck and finding nothing. But then he takes his wrist and it's there, thready and weak, but his heart is beating. He and Gaz work together to get pressure on the wound and at the same time wrestle Soap to exfil. This would be so much easier if Ghost were here. Price is cursing him, quietly. But he doesn't mean it. Not really. He's more worried than anything. Simon has already dealt with so much loss in his life, and Price can't help but worry that this will be a tipping point for him. Whatever tiny thread Simon has been holding onto will snap and he'll do something he can't come back from. But he can't do anything about that right now. Right now he has to get Soap to medical. After that he can go searching for his errant Lieutenant.
Thankfully medical meets them halfway, loading Soap onto a stretcher and that makes the remaining distance between them and the waiting chopper so much easier to cross. None of them are even strapped in when they take off, time too precious, and Price wobbles as he falls into a seat to watch the medical team work. It's a flurry of action, hushed words and frantic gestures as they fight to keep him alive long enough to get proper medical care. One of them attaches a heart monitor and the too slow beeping is the only thing keeping Price from going out of his mind during the flight. Beside him Gaz squeezes his eyes shut tight and Price knows he's feeling the same.
They end up in a civilian hospital. Soap hadn't had time to make it back to base to be treated there. The biggest threat, of course, had been the internal bleeding. It could have been hours or days by the time the doctor's come to find him. And he's nearly brought to his knees with relief when they tell him that, against all odds, he should be just fine. They'd had to release the pressure from the bleeding and put a metal plate in, but scans were looking good. The news is better than Price had dared to hope. By some miracle, the bullet had lodged itself into Soap's skull and gone no further. It must have been the perfect angle, a misfired shot, or just plain dumb luck. There's a joke about Soap having a thick head in there somewhere but Price doesn't have the heart to make it right now. It would be a matter of waiting and seeing, they tell him, if any long-term damage had been done. But they expect it to be minimal if there is any. He'd had his brain severely rattled, but he would live.
They're not supposed to let him in. He's not family. But he uses the fact that he is Soap's superior officer to worm his way into the room anyway. It's strangely comforting to see they'd left the mohawk in place. That little piece of normalcy soothing the last of the panic. They'd had to shave the side of his head, of course, where the incision was, but Soap's non-regulation hair style had survived the surgery. It makes Price chuckle wryly The beeping of the monitor is far more regular than the one in the helicopter had been, a steady rhythm promising Soap’s survival. Price pats him on the hand. The nurse is at the door already, urging him out so Soap can rest. He goes, having seen his sergeant safe it's time to worry about Ghost. He leaves Gaz at the hospital, with orders to stay there until Soap was cleared to leave. He knows Soap will need at least one familiar face when he wakes.
Laswell is nearly in tears when he calls her to give her the update. But her voice is grave when she asks about Ghost.
"They said he wasn't at exfil with you." She says. The stern tone tells Price she knows, just needs confirmation.
"He took off before we realized Soap was alive." Price says, "He's out for blood."
"He's gone rogue." Laswell swears under her breath, "What now?"
"Can you run interference while I look for him?" Price knows it's a big ask, but as much as Price is the 141s father figure, she is the matriarch of the strange little family.
"You have to ask?" She says, "Find him quickly John, I'll do what I can from here."
It's easier to fool the higher ups than it is to find Ghost. They accept Laswell's excuses easily. The hunt for Makarov is still a top priority. And for all appearances, Ghost and Price were working together to flush him out. But that's not the case. In realty Ghost is blazing a bloody trail through Makarov's contacts, and Price is always one step behind him. No one has survived Ghost's wrath so far, he’s leaving nothing behind but a trail of cold bodies The worry is eating at Price. While Simon is being efficient, he is also being reckless. Taking on whomever he has to, wherever they are, without hesitation or backup. He's tried the radio but Ghost hasn't answered. Likely out of range. Or maybe he turned it off. Who knows.
The fifth time Price arrives to a scene to find everyone dead and Ghost in the wind once more, he nearly shouts in frustration. This time, at least, the bodies have yet to go cold. He was so close this time.
When Soap wakes up he's fuzzy headed, the world around him is spinning. Something is beeping. Something else is pinching his arm uncomfortably. And he's hot. He tries to shrug off his blankets, frustrated when he finds he can't. His limbs aren't cooperating. The beeping sound intensifies. Something about all this feels familiar, like he should know where he is, but he can't put the pieces of the puzzle together. Until someone steps into view, and they're wearing scrubs. Then it clicks. Hospital. He's in a hospital.
The person, a nurse presumably, is carefully removing something from his throat. He hadn't even noticed the tube, and he gags uncomfortably as she takes it out. She pats him on the cheek, a motherly gesture, and continues about her work. He's eternally grateful when she turns down the blanket, the suffocating heat easing some. Slowly, but surely, the rest of the world filters in and he realizes she's been talking this whole time.
"Really, it is a miracle. One-in-a-million odds." She's saying, "You're very lucky."
"What happened?" He asks his voice scratchy.
"You came in with a gunshot wound to the head." She tells him, "I’ll let the doctor give you all the details, but against the odds you will be just fine.”
She's kind, an older matronly lady who reminds him of his mother. She dotes on him, fussing over everything. When his hands won't work, she holds a tiny cup of water for him so he can easy the scratchy feeling in his throat. When he shifts around uncomfortably, unable to settle with all the wires and machinery still hooked up to him, she gently eases the bed up until he can lean back and relax more easily. And when he asks, she ushers Gaz in to see him. At first he's delighted to see his friend, but after a few moments a cold realization settles in. Where are Ghost and Price?
Soap is released from the hospital three weeks later. The miracles have been piling up. It had been a miracle that the bullet hadn't penetrated his brain. A miracle that he hadn't suffered a fatal blood clot. A miracle that he hadn't died of blood loss. A miracle that the shockwave from the bullet hadn't caused any long term damage at all. Honestly, if he never hears the word miracle again it'll be too soon. It only serves to drive home the point of how close he'd come to dying. The tunnel is a vague memory. He doesn't remember the shot, the impact. But he does remember Ghost's voice calling his name, sounding broken beyond repair. He hadn't been able to answer. And now Ghost has gone rogue, on some misguided attempt to avenge him. Apparently his pulse had been so weak, Ghost hadn't been able to find it, had believed Soap to be dead. And now, three weeks and a handful of days later, he's still missing. The only sign he's still alive, the bodies he's leaving behind. And Price can't find him. Which is why Soap and Laswell are having it out, voices raised and frantic.
"Ya need ta let me go out there." He insists, but she's shaking her head.
"No. Soap, you just go released from the hospital." She says, "You're not cleared for duty."
"But it won't be active duty, will it?" He pushes, "It's not like I'm goin into battle, I'll just be lookin' fer Ghost."
"If Price can't find him, what makes him think you can?" She asks.
"He knows Price will be looking for him. Will be trying to stop him." Soap says, "He'll be avoiding him like the plague. But he won't have any idea I'm comin'. Won't know ta run from me."
"I really hate to say this," She hisses reluctantly, "But you make a solid point. If I agree to this, it's on one condition, you do not engage. One shot fired, by you or at you, and I pull you."
"Deal." He says, eager, "Where do I start?"
She shows him a map, all the places Ghost's handiwork has been spotted, and any potential targets they've managed to find out about. He chews on the inside of his lip as he thinks. It's pointless trying to predict which targets he'll go for next. Instead, he thinks, they need to find wherever Ghost has been using as a base of operations. He's been taking them out in clusters, clearly staying somewhere nearby while he picks out and takes down targets in the area. Laswell and Price agree, mostly because if Soap is busy checking out hotels and the underneaths of bridges he'll be out of harm's way while Price continues his work trailing Ghost's targets. Laswell books him a room in a nice hotel. She's spoiling him, but he can't really bring himself to enjoy it. There's been a pit in his stomach ever since Gaz had told him that Ghost was gone.
There'd been something between them, since they met. It had only grown stronger, especially since Las Almas. Since they'd spent the night flirting and joking over comms all while Simon waited for him. They hadn't addressed it. Too shy. Too busy. Johnny had intended to, once they'd finished Makarov off. Maybe Simon had intended the same. He won't ever know unless he finds Simon, preferably before he gets himself killed.
He searches the hotels in the area first, asking around to see if Simon has rented a room in any of them. All of them say no, and Soap is inclined to believe that they would remember Ghost if he'd checked in. He hadn't expected Ghost to be in a hotel anyway. He's off the grid, he won't be anywhere that can leave a paper trail. When he talks to Price that night he learns that Simon had taken out a small group of Makarov's former contacts, but had been gone by the time Price had gotten there. But at least it confirms he's still in the area.
So the next day he takes to the streets. He steers himself out of the busier areas of town, down into the quieter less inhabited areas where the buildings are run down and many of them abandoned. It's here that he strikes pay dirt. In the office of an abandoned warehouse he finds maps, pictures, a cache of weapons. If Soap just put up a bunch of colorful strings and a tin foil hat it would look like the crazy person’s hotel room you see in movies. Clearly this is where Simon has been planning his attacks. He's not here, and there's no evidence pointing to which target he's striking today. But he calls it in anyway, letting them know what he's found and that he'll wait here to see if Ghost will come back. He relays what information he can on additional targets in the area, and sits down against a wall to wait. He hopes Ghost will come back.
It's dark and cold by the time Soap sees any movement. And even then it takes him by surprise. Someone grabs him by his shirt, throws him to the ground. He almost strikes out at them, but then he sees the stark white of Ghost's mask in the dark.
"Ghost," He says, keeping his voice low and even, "Ghost it's me. It's Soap. Wanna let me up?"
Ghost drops him like he was a hot coal, shuffling back a few feet. He says nothing. Soap clambers to his feet, careful to keep his movements slow. He really doesn't want to be thrown around again, or worse, and Ghost is very clearly not in his right mind. He's still just standing there, a few feet away from Johnny, silent and still as a statue. Soap pulls his phone out and turns on the flashlight so he can get a look at Ghost. He does not like what he sees. Ghost looks rough. His balaclava is torn, revealing patches of blonde hair sticking up at all angles through the tears. In the dim light Johnny can make out various injuries, hastily bandaged up with whatever Ghost had had on hand. What skin Soap can see is grimy, and there is blood all over him, hopefully not all his, but then that might be worse if he hasn't even paused long enough to wash his enemies blood off himself. But it's his eyes that really drive home just how far gone he is. There's a look in his eyes that Johnny has never seen before, wild and nearly feral, like a cornered predator. Soap holds his hands out, placatingly, showing Ghost that the only thing he has is his phone.
"Simon," He's not sure what to say, what the right words are, "Simon it's OK. It's only me. Can you look at me, please?"
Simon's distant gaze finally focuses on Johnny's, and he smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way. He reaches out, slowly, to touch, to reassure, but Simon steps back out of his range.
"Can't be you." Ghost says, his voice rougher than Soap has ever heard it. Raspy with pain, sorrow, and probably exhaustion.
"It can." Johnny says, "It is."
"You're dead." Ghost insists, shaking his head.
"Didn't take." Johnny tries for humor, but it clearly falls flat.
"Fuck." Ghost is practically whispering now, his voice so quiet, "Fuck, I'm seeing things now."
"Yer not seeing things." Johnny says, "I'm real. Alive and in person, LT."
"Can't be." Simon says and Soap can't help but snort.
"We're going in circles here." He says.
And they are. This clearly isn't working, so he stops respecting Ghost's space. Steps forward, does it again when Ghost steps back until he's got Ghost's back against his wall. It's a bad idea. Cornering Ghost is likely a bad idea at the best of times, but he does it anyway. He needs Ghost to understand, needs to get him to come back to the hotel with him so he can get him clean and bandaged properly. So he can walk him back from the edge he's very clearly teetering on. So he steps forward again, into Ghost's striking distance, yes, but also close enough to reach up and touch Ghost's cheek through the mask. Ghost freezes, stilled by the contact, but it's still not enough. So Johnny takes a chance and takes hold of the mask, pulling it off, surprised when he meets no resistance.
Simon's face is a mask of pain and anguish. He looks fragile in a way Soap hadn't thought he could. Tired. And when Johnny curls a hand around his jaw he sucks in a harsh breath, leaning into the touch. But he still won't look at Johnny, he's still holding his breath. Holding perfectly still as if one wrong move will shatter the illusion and he'll be alone again. Johnny takes hold of Simon's hand, tugs off his glove and brings it up to his neck, presses it into his pulse point so that Simon can feel his heart beating. As he feels the steady beating under his fingers, Simon slowly comes to life. He looks up at Johnny, a mixture of hope and apprehension in his eyes as he presses his fingers even further against Johnny's pulse. He lets out a shuddering breath.
"Johnny." Simon sounds wrecked, "How?"
"Bullet didn't make it through my skull." Soap says, "Got real fuckin' lucky."
"I couldn't," Simon swallows hard, fingers digging painfully into Soap's neck by now, "I couldn't feel a pulse."
"Aye." Johnny says, "Gaz says it was so weak they almost missed it too."
"You're really here then?" Simon asks, as if the feel of him under his finger tips isn't enough.
"I'm really here." Johnny confirms. And Simon just collapses forward, as if he were a marionette and someone had cut his strings. He stumbles to his knees, and Soap tries to catch him, to keep him up but he just can't. He goes down too fast, hitting his knees with a thud that Johnny knows Simon is going to feel tomorrow. Simon clings to him, buries his face in Soap's shirt and lets out a desperate sob. It hurts to hear. Johnny has never once seen Ghost cry, never seen him break like this. And to think that Johnny has enough of Simon to break him like this, he had no idea he had such a hold on Simon. Johnny bends down so he can thread his fingers through Simon's dirty hair, pulling a broken sound from him that he thinks is supposed to be Johnny's name, but doesn't quite manage to form all the syllables. His hands tremble as they knot themselves in the fabric of Johnny's shirt.
"That's it." Johnny murmurs, "That's right, Si. I'm here. I'm right here. I have ye."
"I didn't know how to go on without you." Simon admits, voice muffled where his face is hidden against Soap's stomach. He nudges the shirt up just a bit so he can feel the warmth of Johnny's skin under his cheek.
"Good thing ye don't have to, aye?" Johnny says, stroking through Simon's hair and down the back of his neck, "Cause I'm not leaving ye, LT. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."
Simon absolutely wails at that, and at first Johnny is scared he's said the wrong thing. But as Simon keeps clinging to him, keeps sobbing out Johnny's name, he begins to think that maybe this is just was Simon needs. Needs to let it out, the hurricane of emotion he's likely been channeling into nothing but rage and bloodlust, rather than dealing with the grief. His mouth is moving against Soap's skin, like he's trying to say something, but all that comes out are hiccups as he gasps for air and tries to get himself back under control.
"Just breathe, Si," Johnny says, "Ye can cry if ye need to, scream, yell, whatever will help, yeah."
Johnny keeps talking, offering up praise and platitudes until Simon finally cries himself dry. Sniffling, he tips his head back until he can look at Soap, but doesn't make any effort to get up off his knees. His eyes are puffy and red, and there are tear streaks through the grime and eye black on his face. But there's the slightest spark of life in his eyes, and that makes all the difference. Simon isn't OK right now, but he will be.
"Ye wanna come with me, Si?" He asks, drawing Simon up and onto his feet, "Laswell rented me a room. Posh, comfy bed. Big shower. We could get ye clean, yeah? Maybe order up something to eat?"
"What about," Simon doesn't finish his question, just gestures to the room around them.
"Price'll take care of it. He's pretty close. He can take it from here." Soap says.
"OK," Simon agrees shakily, with one last look around the dingy room, "OK."
They'd had to walk back to the hotel, no cab would pick Simon up the way he looked. But the walk seems to have done Simon some good. He put the mask back on, much to Soap's disappointment, but he'd kept contact with Johnny the whole walk. Bumping their shoulders, pressing a hand to the flat of Soap's back, curling his own fingers around Soap's wrist, probably checking for his pulse yet again. And by the time they make it back to the room, he looks more alive, at least.
Johnny only pauses briefly, finally remember to text Laswell and Price to tell him he has Simon and they're back at the hotel for the night. He sends Price the location of Simon's makeshift base and then sets his phone aside. Simon is looking around the room disinterestedly, gaze miles away, but he comes back to himself quickly when Soap takes his hand to drag him into the bathroom. He's coming down now, from whatever adrenaline high has kept him going this long, and his fingers shake as he tries to get himself out of his clothes. Soap pushes his hands aside and takes over.
"Let me take care of you." He says softly, and Simon just hums and nods in response. All the permission Johnny needs to ease Simon out of his ruined clothes and mask. He's coming undone, tension draining from his more and more the longer Johnny's with him. It leaves him trembling, slightly, but Soap doesn't say anything, just lets Simon lean on him when it starts to get too hard to stand on his own. He carefully unwraps the wounds, relieved to find it's nothing that needs immediate attention, the med kit he'd brought would do the trick just fine. He undresses himself as well, nudging Simon into the shower and guiding him so he's standing right under the spray. Simon closes his eyes as the hot water hits him, letting his head fall back into the stream. Johnny takes the opportunity to start on his hair.
Simon sighs when Soap’s hands scratch over his scalp, working in the shampoo. His eyelids flutter as Johnny washes his hair, carefully working out any knots and tangles he finds as he goes. He's swaying on his feet, exhaustion taking over as the last of the stress washes away. But Johnny's in no hurry, takes more of Simon's weight against himself, working methodically to get him clean, cautious around the bruises and cuts. It takes forever for the water to finally run clear.
Simon's still wobbly when he steps out of the shower, so Johnny sits him down on the toilet so he can dry his hair. Simon smiles up at him, a tired dopey expression, as he rubs the plush towel through his hair. It's terribly endearing. Once he's dry Johnny grabs a fresh washcloth and gets to work wiping away the last of the eye black. It's stubborn, pressed into Simon's skin as it is, and it takes two cloths to finally get it all off. Simon's face is a little red from the force it took, but he doesn't seem to care much, drifting a little under Johnny's hands.
Johnny leads him out of the bathroom, Simon willingly following wherever Johnny wants to lead him. He's thankful he’d thought to grab a set of Simon's clothes to pack along with his own. He hands him the boxers but before he can get into his sweats and t-shirt he sits him down on the edge of the bed and drags the medical kit over. He kneels in front of Simon as he works, inspecting each injury he finds carefully. None of them are deep enough to need stitches, but they're red and inflamed, clearly not cleaned properly. The alcohol wipes he swipes over them make Simon flinch, but he doesn't protest, just sits perfectly still as Johnny works. As he cleans the cuts and cracks on Simon's knuckles he takes a chance and presses a gentle kiss to each one as he gets them clean. Simon doesn't say anything, but he does offer up his other hand before Johnny can even ask for it.
"Should we order some food?" He asks, once they're done and he's helping Simon into his clothes.
"Don't want to eat." Simon says, "Can't."
"When was the last time you ate, Si?" Johnny asks, and Simon's refusal to meet his gaze is answer enough.
"Please." Is all he says, and it breaks Soap's heart.
"Alright, I'll make ye a deal," He says, digging in his bag for a bottle of water and a protein bar, "Ye finish these now and ye promise to eat a proper breakfast in the morning, and I let it go for the night."
Simon sighs, but nods, accepting the offerings. He nibbles on the protein bar slowly, almost reluctantly. Soap wonders if he's nauseous, if that's the problem. Johnny checks the locks on the doors and windows as Simon eats, drawing the curtains as well. He can feel Simon's eyes boring into him as he moves about the room, unwilling to let Johnny out of his sight. By the time he's sure the room is secure, Simon has finished his water and protein bar, and has flopped back onto the bed, still watching Soap carefully. Soap hesitates only briefly before climbing in next to him. He checks his phone, chuckling when he realizes that Price and Laswell have texted him the same thing. Take care of him. As if he needs to be told.
"Ready for bed?" He asks Simon, who just nods wordlessly. So Johnny reaches over to flick off the light beside the bed and lies down close to, but not touching Simon. He expects Simon to drop off immediately. He's so tired. Exhausted down to the bone. It should be easy for him to fall asleep. But he doesn't. He shifts this way and that, movements small as if trying not to disturb Johnny.
"C'mere Si." Johnny says, after several long minutes, suspecting he knows what the problem might be. Simon shuffles closer, still not touching, so Johnny huffs and drags him in the rest of the way, until his head is resting right over Johnny's heart.
"Hear that?" He asks, "Still alive. Still right here with you. I'll still be here in the morning too, promise. Ye can sleep now, Si. Please, sleep."
Simon tucks himself into Johnny's side and does just that, breaths finally evening out as his fingers curl into the material of Johnny's shirt. He wakes several times during the night, chest heaving as he whisper's Johnny's name into the dark. Still here. Johnny assures him every time, gentle hands running up and down his spine to coax him back to sleep Soap realizes they still haven't talked about it, whatever this is. But he dismisses the thought and closes his eyes as Simon drifts off again. They'll talk about it tomorrow. They have tomorrow.