Chapter Text
“Oy, you sick L.t? Maybe you should stay on base.”
Ghost cleared his throat and leveled a withering glare at Soap. “Don’t give me that bullshit. I’m fine.” His rough voice was even lower than usual, like he’d been gargling sawdust.
Soap didn’t even flinch under the dangerous side-eye. “What if ye sneeze in yer mask?” He stuck his tongue out and made a face. “Hope ye got bleach or something for that thing, hahah!”
Ghost resorted to rolling his eyes. He didn’t trust his voice to hold up long enough to call Soap the insults he wanted. He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t. This happened to him sometimes. He’d get a cough but it would clear up after spending a few hours in the new climate. The steady thudding behind his eyes was the lack of sleep. He was always restless before missions.
Ghost put his head back on the wall of the plane and tried not to make it too obvious how good the cold metal felt on his skull.
He’d be fine. The mission was only a few days of recon. He could manage.
The pristine white landscape was silent save for unsteady footsteps and a grating cough that a mask couldn’t muffle.
Elsewhere in that same landscape stood a building about the size of a minivan that was home to two men and their gear for the past four days.
Soap surveyed the area from the treeline. “Ghost, I just got back to the safehouse. What’s your ETA?”
No response. Soap put his hand to his headphones. “Ghost, do you copy?”
The other line connected just long enough to let Soap hear a weak gasp. Cold air suddenly punched straight through into Soap’s stomach. “Ghost! Ghost?!”
Ghost had stopped walking. His hands were shaking and not from the cold. He tried turning his radio on again but his fingers were too weak to press the button.
He coughed again. The radio dropped to the snow at his feet.
What was a glaringly bright landscape became a greyish, blurry tunnel. His ears rang loud enough to drown out more weakening coughs.
“Shit. I’m… really f-... fuh…” He knew the words he wanted to say. He could hear them in his head but once they got to his tongue, his mouth didn’t work. The words didn’t sound right.
He made the mistake of closing his eyes to try to focus on his words.
When did he end up on his knees and elbows? The snow wasn’t that close before. Now the snow was seeping into his mask. Cold. Burning cold. At least he didn’t feel as tired anymore, lying down.
What a waste. Fitting for him, maybe. Belly down in the snow, his black gear getting covered up until you could only see that shiny white mask. Gone like a breath in the wind. Or a ghost in the grave.
At least his view was relatively pretty. Tall pines, some birds flying in the distance, rolling snowy hills on the horizon.
He tried to cough again but only managed a weak wheeze that didn’t even warm the fabric over his mouth. His head felt like something was trying to break out of it from inside. His limbs felt tense but far too heavy.
Maybe he should let Johnny take first watch this time. He needed the sleep.
His eyes burned from the effort it took to close them. Just a few hours. Then Johnny would wake him with all those muttered Scots words that somehow got even more incomprehensible whenever the idiot was vying for some shut-eye.
If he tried, Ghost was sure he could hear some of that angry Scots right that moment. Just his luck he wasn’t even able to know what was being said while he turned into an icicle in the Yukon.
“English, MacTavish.”
“Enh… t….hhv…” Ghost slurred.
Soap adjusted his fireman’s grip. “Steady there, L.t. We’re almost there. Then I’ll get you warmed up and you’ll finally admit you were fucking ill this whole time. Dammit, Ghost!”
Soap didn’t bother trying to hide his trail or his noise level on his way back to the safehouse. Even through the layers of gear he could feel Ghost shaking.
Soap kicked the door open and dropped Ghost onto the tiny cot that served as their only sleeping spot. He took off Ghost’s helmet and tried to get the man to look at him. “Ghost! Ghost can ye hear me?”
Ghost’s eyes opened a little but stared blankly ahead. At least they weren’t rolled back. Soap sandwiched Ghost’s face between his hands. “Ghost, I’m gannae take yer mask off.”
He took Ghost’s slow blink as some form of acknowledgment and worked the damp fabric off his head.
Ghost’s skin was almost as pale as the skull on his mask. His lips were grey and his eyes had slipped closed again. Soap pulled his gloves off and felt Ghost’s forehead. “Yer fokin’ blootered, mate,” he said tensely. His fingers found Ghost’s pulse point next, which didn’t ease his worries at all. The man was burning up and his heart was erratic.
Soap worked quickly, stripping off Ghost’s gear until he was in his thermals and cotton long sleeve plus jeans. Ghost had started to come back around and his eyes were tracking Soap as he moved to get a fire going in the little wood stove.
Soap kept checking over his shoulder while he cursed at the kindling in the stove. Of course when he was in a hurry the sticks wouldn’t catch. His finger slipped off the lighter trigger and he had half a mind to throw the damn thing.
Ghost wheezing on the cot redirected Soap’s anger. He wanted to go to Ghost but he had to get the cabin warm before they both froze.
Soap gripped the lighter and took a breath. In. Line up the sights. Hold. Squeeze the trigger. Release. Target down.
The kindling caught. Soap didn’t have time to cheer his little victory, leaving the fire to its devices and going back to Ghost.
Ghost’s eyes were wide open now and easily focusing on Soap. Soap took a knee beside the cot and started taking Ghost’s pulse again. “You with me, L.t?”
“Joh—” Ghost’s effort to talk was interrupted by harsh, wet coughing.
“Shit!” Soap grabbed Ghost’s shoulders and tried to turn him. “Get on your side, Ghost. Can’t have you choking on anything.”
Ghost groaned but didn’t fight Soap’s hands. His arm dangled off the side of the cot as he tried to catch his breath. “I… ‘m f-fi—”
Soap interrupted. “Get tae fuck wi’—! Simon, if you dare fuckin’ say ‘I’m fine’ I swear to god I will rip open your spleen.”
Ghost gave him a look. Soap kept his face solid. “That in enough English for you? You damn fokin’ ned?”
The only reply Soap got was more coughing. Ghost’s body shuddered with each effort, shaking the cot below him. He tasted blood but choked it back down.
“Here. Can you drink?” Soap brought his canteen to Ghost’s lips. Ghost leaned into the container and Soap helped tip the liquid into Ghost’s mouth.
Ghost managed a few sips before he started coughing again.
Soap grimaced with each harsh sound. “Christ. Ye shouldn’t have come on this mission. Price wouldae understood.”
Ghost didn’t dignify his stupidity with any justification; the groan that came out of him was pitiful enough already. He had a reputation to uphold. He couldn’t be benched from a simple recon mission for the sniffles.
Full-body shivers and coughing blood, though….
Ghost didn’t realize he’d nodded off until he felt more water in his mouth.
“Come on, L.t, stay awake for a bit more.”
Just opening his eyes felt like a mission in and of itself.
Soap kept making Ghost drink until the canteen was empty. Ghost was limp on the cot, with only shivers to break up his sickly stillness. His breathing was shallow and wheezy, air rattling through his throat like ice cubes down a chute.
Soap figured it safe enough to try to heat up some food. Or maybe call for exfil first? It was technically their last day of the mission; they were set to be picked up early the next morning, nearly twelve hours from now.
He looked at Ghost. He went for the radio first.
“Spectre-1 to Watcher, come in.” He waited a few beats. “This is Spectre-1 to Watcher, requesting immediate exfil. Operator is down, repeat, operator is down.”
Ghost listened to Soap’s radio call and irritation prickled at him. Operator down? Come on. He wasn’t down. Just… just uh… what’s the word.
Regardless, he wasn’t wounded. No, Soap, shut up, he didn’t need medevac. Too much urgency over what could just be a flu. He could sleep it off, be ready for exfil in the morning.
He just… needed to sleep a little. He knew he could. He was in the safehouse and Johnny was keeping an eye out.
Johnny had a good eye. Two good eyes, really. Like a couple of ice chips in his face. Ice chips from the bottom half of a glacier. Glaciers were bluer on the bottom where they were underwater.
Yeah. That blue. Underwater glacier blue. Blue ice chips for eyes.
Eyes that were… awfully close. And wide.
Why wide? Were they worried? Why were the ice chips worried?
God he was so tired.
He wanted to keep looking at those ice chips, though.
Bluer ice chips. Like from the bottom of a glacier.
It was a good blue. He wouldn’t mind that blue being around him all the time. Maybe if he was buried alive with glacier blue ice chips he’d actually enjoy sleeping.
Or would that be too cold to sleep?
He wanted to sleep. But the ice chips kept… not letting him.
He scowled at the ice chips. They were getting annoying, so wide and worried and shouty. He couldn’t figure out what the shouting was. Was it words? Was it even English?
English, ice chips. Speak English.
Heh heh. Why was that funny? Funny ice chips.
And such a beautiful blue.