Chapter Text
*
"Johnny, how copy?"
"Solid. don't miss me too much, Lt."
Ghost was silent for a moment, sighing. MacTavish liked to hear him sigh when he heard his own jokes, and this sigh, coming from beyond the earpiece, was as deep and harsh as Simon's voice. His breathing was usually so quiet, like a whale swimming against the current in the deep ocean, sinking silently, fading into the shadows in the darkness, that sometimes Soap would try to talk to him, to ask if he was really there, if he was alive. It was a purely obligatory response, to make sure that he was there, that he was alive, that he wasn't sick or injured, and for no other reason than as a colleague. ...maybe.
"Two unarmed approaching at 8 o'clock."
"affirmative."
"Want to hear a joke?"
"oh no, Ghost."
The throaty laugh was reminiscent of the guttural, pleasurable rumble of cave-dwelling beasts of prey. It was the kind of response MacTavish liked. It's a shameless giggle that he keeps adding to because he likes the rawness of it, the way he knows the other person will be annoyed, but he always reacts without thinking. Sometimes, as if in revenge for John's lame jokes, Simon seems intent on smothering him in his own creepy humour. Other times, the cold laugh and black jokes that seemed to prove he was still running, the kind that came from a legendary soldier with no photographs to prove it and rumours of his death always hovering like ghosts, made MacTavish's heart tingle. He really liked the man. The way people usually did, with respect and affection.
"Go ahead, Lt."
"Don't be too eager, Johnny. It's a good boy who knows how to wait, isn't it?"
Soap liked his casual but embarrassing jokes, which were obviously sometimes infused with Soap. A bad boy. He murmured in his native tongue, so that Ghost would not know; then English, MacTavish. He heard his superior's voice, sharply pointed, but judging by the smirk at the end of the words, he must have seen the flush on Soap's face through the scope. Rubbing his heated cheeks unnecessarily, John jerked his head away. Hearing the calm, soft voice, MacTavish felt a strange flutter in his stomach. Another lousy joke went on, and he spat out a string of expletives at Ghost, as he always did. Simon had always been like a ghost, always making these terrible jokes.
**
It was a month later that Johnny saw the Ghost's notebook. He had seen Simon shove the small brown leather-bound notebook deep in his vest pocket before. Johnny wondered if it was his diary, but then shook his head. He wouldn't write something so sentimental, and even if he did, would there be photos in there? MacTavish could still claim to know the Ghost better than anyone else in 141, second only to Captain Price, and to be one of his closest friends. But the only human who called him by the familiar name of 'Johnny' was still wrapped in secrecy. He knew Johnny's name, knew about his family, knew his favourite foods, his worst jokes, what he was best at and worst at, his military background, his attachment to explosives, what he feared and what he despised. He knew what drawings were in his diary and how good he was at drawing. Whether Soap showed them to me or not.
But Soap, the man who made him laugh, who laughed with him, who flirted with him, who choked on the occasional joke he threw at him, knew little about the Ghost. The haphazard name he'd picked up on a mission, the face he'd given him as a sign of trust, had flashed across his mind, imprinted in his memory, but nothing more, not even the different expressions, would ever come back. It made his heart sink to think of it. Was it unfortunate or fortunate that he craved a side of his mate that he thought he was best friends with, but could never ask for it, or even be in a position to give it? MacTavish glanced over his shoulder at Ghost as he pulled out a notebook and began to write furiously, as if something had occurred to him. He couldn't make out the writing, but at least he knew it was short letters, or at least fragments of letters, like a poem or a paragraph. Soap wondered if Simon was keeping a diary, perhaps his impressions or feedback from each battle. But the soft curve of his eyes at the Lt's side dismissed that idea; they were clearly, perhaps, precious words, reminders of something secret and joyful. Like a foolishly jealous child, he coveted the lieutenant's revealing glance at the notebook.
And the moment he realised the thought, John knew he shouldn't, for that would be crossing a line. He might not be as cold as the Ghost, but he was a master at cutting through emotion. Even without the mask, MacTavish knew what those feelings and affections could do. In war, you could have friends, but you couldn't have someone you loved as much as family. It was a taboo that applied not only to John, but to Gaz, Price, and Ghost, the frozen human. But...
"You seem in a good mood, Ghost?"
Did you get a love letter? He grinned, boldly stepping over the line. He was smiling, but he couldn't hide the grin that broke out like a cheating lover's back. No, damn it, stop, MacTavish! He hoped his superior would scowl and snort, or at least shout at him to get lost in his displeasure. Acting like a clown on a tightrope, he was about to dig into something precious to someone. Simon glanced down at John. Those soft brown eyes, reminiscent of reedbeds despite the heavy coat of black camouflage cream, had a surprisingly amused look in them.
"Well, at least charming."
For a moment, MacTavish was silent; he didn't chastise John for being rude and cocky, didn't reprimand him, didn't give him a nervous, reproving glance that told me to keep my distance, to ask no questions. He just stared straight ahead, tinged with rare amusement.
That was it.
After that, Soap would often find Riley deep in thought with the notebook, the pen in his hand an ordinary ballpoint pen that he'd found rolling around the common room. Sometimes it was the captain's fountain pen-something that looked like it had been stolen, not borrowed-and sometimes it was a lump of charcoal so thick you wondered if he could actually write with it. MacTavish never asked or said anything more to Ghost, who scribbled away, sometimes in a jovial mood, sometimes in a serious mood, sometimes in a very nervous way. He didn't want to know what it was, and want to see it, but he held back. At least, relieved that it wasn't interacting with someone.
***
When the notebook was in his hands, Soap wanted to scream out loud that he hadn't meant for it to look like this. The blood-stained cover was half torn off, as if to reflect the urgency of the situation. And unfortunately-no, it was clear that it was luck. Definitely. But Soap liked to think so - in one corner, a flesh-coloured, jagged bullet had pierced the notebook halfway through, barely hanging on. Would it have been any more reassuring to see the notebook's owner fall before his eyes? No. Soap knows he wouldn't have, but somehow, as he watched their back, during his stealthy break-in to the lab, he could picture the ambush of the ghostly intruders as vividly as if it were happening right in front of him. He was probably only narrowly escaping being cut, and they were firing at him, relentlessly, for his life. His clever, alert lieutenant, who was able to keep his cool even as he went down, surely took advantage of the opening and killed a few... Thanks to his silenced gun, he didn't attract more enemies. But his wounds loosened him up, and someone who wasn't still breathing lunged at him and stabbed him. The notebook was found tattered, as if to record the event with his whole body, and he joined the bloodied man being hastily loaded into a helicopter. Soap tried to soothe his loudly pounding heart by picturing the scene, but his body seemed to freeze.
The mission was successful, Simon was wheeled into the operating theatre, and Johnny eventually picked up the notebook that had been protruding during the emergency treatment. That was the end of it, and I swear to you, I never expected, thought, or wanted to get it this way. His Lt was more important to John than this damned notebook. In his trembling hands, the notebook absorbed and spat out less-dried blood, staining Johnny's hands red.
Approaching from behind, Gaz saw his friend's pale face and placed a hand on his shoulder, whispering, "Hey, Soap.. You can't do this. Ghost will come back, you know that. You should go and get some rest.
"...Are you sure, Gaz?"
The question came out sharply, pointed as an accusation, directed not at Gaz but at himself, and then the pungent scent of tobacco tickled the tip of his nose. It was Price, stalking toward Soap, who stood dazedly in the doorway of the operating theatre, exhaling the stench of cheap cigarettes instead of cigars. The trusty lieutenant, who glanced at Gaz's startled, water-filled face before answering, spoke in a gravelly voice.
"No one can be sure of that, Soap."
He took another drag from his cigarette, out of habit, looked up at the red-lit operating theatre, and tossed it into the bin.
"But He'll try to come back."
Johnny looked at the captain, his eyes only moving at the words. He'd try, he'd want to come back...really? Soap hesitated, not knowing whether Ghost really had a life to live or not, not even daring to open the notebook with its cryptic writings, but Price assured him, as if he knew, that he would. He would want to come back.
So Soap carefully sat down in the waiting chair in front of the operating theatre and prepared to open the notebook. Gathering his courage, he hoped it might contain a reason for Simon "Ghost" Riley behind the ghost he didn't know, to want to come back. Whatever was written there, MacTavish would give everything to Simon, if it meant he wouldn't lose him. If he said he wanted peace, even if it meant cutting off the heads of his pursuers and wetting his hands with their blood.
For a moment, even after Gaz looked worriedly at him for a moment, then turned and walked away, and Price patted him on the back a couple of times and then strode out again, cigarette in hand, he trembled with fear. What if it wasn't, what if it was just Simon's suicide note? What if it was full of affection for someone? What if it was just love he couldn't give? But John couldn't back down; he was Soap. A mate, A friend, A familer who should have Ghost's back. It was time to break the taboo and admit it: Simon, the man who would forever remain an unknown to him, had already taken over Soap's heart. He flipped the cover and carefully opened the first page, using two hands to avoid damaging the blood-soaked, sticky paper.
3. 22. 2022.
Why did the scarecrow win an award?
Because he was outstanding in his field.
On the second page, there was a list of shrimp-related jokes he'd told. At the bottom was a self-comment, Not bad. It felt so far away that MacTavish suppressed a long sigh. The next page was another short note.
4. 24. 2023.
Why don't seagulls fly by the bay?
Because then they'd be bay-gulls.
The next chapter was the same.
And the next, and the next....
He flipped through a few more pages and found nothing but a series of short sentences with dates. Some were things Soap had told him, sometimes things he had said to Soap. Some were written down and then crossed out, and others were simply the result of trying them on Gaz and getting a sour look. Some were clearly attributed names-Price or Alejandro. Johnny bit his lip when he realised the identity of the notebook. He carefully flipped through the pages, stopping at one that read.
5. 29. 2023.
Why don't skeletons fight each other?
Cuz They don't have the guts.
It's same as ghost, Johnny.
Soap could not take his eyes off the sentence; he had never heard the Ghost tell this joke before. Nor had he ever read the sentence on the previous page, where it seemed to whisper to him. As always, Simon tightened Johnny's heart in an unexpected place. Why does it always have to be this way, Lt? If he could, he wanted to scold Ghost in a resentful voice right now, lying in the operating theatre, but he couldn't. The problem wasn't Simon, it was John MacTavish. It always was. Like he couldn't protest or get angry enough to tell him to stop, not with those sparkling eyes that enjoyed coming up to him with the sound muffled and surprising him. For it was in these moments-the low throaty rumblings of amusement in a playful voice, the amused snorts, the dark brown eyes that cast him a glance of affection, the caresses that cautiously but unmistakably yearned for him-that Simon stood, not as a wraith, but as a human being. MacTavish closed his eyes, running his fingers over the horrible jokes he'd made in self-help and the confessional sentences of self-appraisal he'd added underneath.
Fuck, Simon, your notebook...it was a fucking joke book?
He wasn't supposed to be that kind of person, the kind of person who didn't give in easily, who didn't break down; the kind of person who would take pleasure in annoying someone, but who would also put in the effort to build up a record of giggly moments to share. But neither Ghost nor Simon was that kind of person, after all. This, Soap thought, barely swallowing the hot sob that rose to the back of his throat, was the Ghost's joke book for John Mactavish.
It makes my heart tingle when Simon frowns at his own jokes, but like Soap, addicted to the faintest hint of affection, he is too.
Soap struggled to open his eyes, unable to wipe away the tears that rolled down his cheeks. Through his blurred vision, he could see his notebook getting wet, but he couldn't stop himself. He didn't know how long Ghost had been watching Soap like this, whether he wanted to make him laugh or see certain emotions in him. MacTavish could only guess that it had been long before the first time he'd written in this notebook. He doesn't know how long it took him to acknowledge his feelings. But as guess, it had been a long time, before Simon felt the ache in his chest and burst into tears as if screaming at a barrier. If only he'd come back alive, if only he'd come back alive. because now Mactavish understand how much he want to come back. Soap whispered to someone who couldn't hear him. I'll try, Si. Soap whispered to the inaudible. I'd try, I'd do it, Simon. That he wanted to see Simon the way Simon saw him, to love him, and that he thought he could do it, so please,
"Please, Simon, please..."
Stay with me. Johnny clutched his notebook and held it to his chest.
It was a confession from Ghost, a book of jokes that he keep because if Johnny don't like them, he want to torment them more, and it was for Johnny.