Chapter Text
And I'm tired of lying to myself just to get through each day
My head says I shoulda never left
Sam Barber — Indigo
"It'll pass."
His heart skips a beat—feels like he hasn't been breathing this whole time. It’s like someone dunked him in cold water, yanked him back to reality with those words. The eyes across from him show nothing but coldness.
Time loses its meaning as the man in front turns his back to him and walks away without so much as a glance.
And if someone asked him to describe this feeling, he wouldn't be able to find the right words. His hands are sweaty, yet freezing cold. There’s a buzzing in his head, thoughts bouncing around, but he can’t hold on to a single one. He keeps replaying what happened, analyzing where and how he went wrong. His stomach twists into knots, pulling painfully like his insides are about to spill out. On a regular day, he could’ve blamed it on mess hall food, but he knows that’s not it. This is panic. This is self-disgust.
He stands there, what feels like an eternity, digging into himself. People walk around him, some glance sideways at the always-cheerful Sergeant Soap. No one could ever guess what kind of storm is raging inside him right now. The soldier in him demands he pull himself together and end this once and for all—forget his love for the Lieutenant. But another part, the one still alive, quietly cradles that cursed love.
A soldier calls his name, says something about Price. Here, he buried his love—then went back to work.
Years of missions together made them a real team. Almost a family.
On assignments, everyone did their part, and in the end, it all came together. Of course, not every mission went smoothly, but even the worst ones made them stronger. Each one of them was unique—not just in specialty, but in something simple like how they fought. Price never said it out loud, but he was proud of them. Proud that he’d managed to hold on to such valuable soldiers.
Gaz could balance the field and the base like no one else. On base, he was more open—smiling, joking. On the field? Not a trace of a grin, composed and cold, following orders to the letter. He was the soul of the group; people always came to him for help or advice, and he was always glad to offer it.
Soap was open everywhere, which surprised not only Price. His jokes had their place, never stepping over the line during missions. Not to mention how many times he saved them—disarming or assembling bombs, spotting most of the traps ahead of time. Everyone loved him. No point denying it.
Ghost… was his callsign personified.
Despite all the years he’d worked with Price, he was still a mystery to him. But Price didn’t blame him. The job was always done flawlessly. His experience worked in his favor. Sometimes it was Ghost who made the battle plan, crafted the exit routes, and thought up emergency backups. Price was grateful for that. Ghost may have scared most other soldiers, but everyone knew how good he was at his job. They respected him and wanted to be like him.
Now and then, Price remembers how it all started: clashes, sometimes even fistfights—though they always disguised it as training. The shouting. Mostly between Soap and Ghost, unsurprisingly. People usually avoided Ghost to stay off his bad side. Soap did the opposite—joked, teased, annoyed him. God only knows why. But in the end, it forged an unbreakable bond between Soap and Ghost. If you needed to find one, look for the other—they’d be together. On the battlefield, they were unmatched, no matter who played what role—they outperformed everyone. Gaz and Soap became close friends too—if you heard loud laughter or a string of curses, it was probably those two. Ghost and Gaz had more reserved interactions, out of respect for the former, but even they sometimes slipped in a truly awful joke.
And that’s how the unshakable, tightly-knit Task Force 141 was formed.
Their work was hard—physically and mentally—but each of them found comfort in this small family. That’s what made them feel alive.
Soap was stuck on base.
He’d only been shot in the leg on their last mission—just the leg—but all three men pushed back and made him stay behind to recover. The wound wasn’t life-threatening. They treated and stitched it, pumped him with vitamins, and sent him to his quarters for a week. He knew the guys could handle the mission without him, but he hated being left behind—especially for something this important. To calm him down, Price made a bet: two weeks on base, no sneaking off, and he’d let him leave on the first day after. Otherwise? A month with no missions. Soap had to take the deal.
The first week was bearable. He was healing in the infirmary, sleeping, eating, watching TV, trying not to dwell on how useless he felt. His leg throbbed sometimes, but he ignored it—kept going to therapy or just wandered the halls to annoy everyone enough to get discharged early. Turned out to be a pretty solid plan.
Freedom of movement was a breath of fresh air.
First thing he did? Restart his training schedule. Honestly, he was pushing himself harder than he should—because being stuck on base while his friends were out there was driving him crazy. His thoughts snuck in at the worst moments, scratching under his skin, begging to be let out. Best cure? Exhaustion. He pushed himself until the world blurred. He never told anyone. Didn’t see the point. A couple of soldiers noticed, tried to help—he just growled that he’d handle it. And then passed out the moment his head hit the pillow.
Second, he started training the new recruits.
Soap honestly wondered where all these fresh faces were coming from nearly every day, but didn’t bother digging into it. He was just glad he wasn’t stuck alone in his room, going insane. And he liked working with them. They reminded him of himself—loud, energetic, bright. If Gaz or Ghost had been in charge, they might’ve complained about it. But Soap thrived in that atmosphere. Sure, there were tough moments—someone twisted an ankle or got bruised during a spar—but that’s when the professional Soap kicked in. It scared the rookies a bit. But they were valuable lessons.
Third task: paperwork. Reports.
Easily his least favorite part, but it was still work. Since he always put it off, he’d built up quite a pile. Guilt finally pushed him to tackle it. Bonus? It gave him an excuse to drop by Price’s office, bombard him with questions about the mission and the guys, get a brief update, and leave—until next time.
Despite all the productivity, the boredom sometimes hit hard. If he couldn’t burn off his energy, it turned into nervous tics, pacing, and even self-harm without realizing it. He tried to stop it when he caught himself, but it didn’t always work. Sometimes he only realized when he tasted blood in his mouth.
Drawing and cooking helped—unexpectedly.
The latter became a new hobby by accident. One night, the mess hall was closed, but he was starving. He rummaged through the communal kitchen and found the basics for a simple bacon pasta. At nearly eleven p.m., the whole floor smelled like fresh food. Turns out, following a recipe gave him a sense of control.
That night, he fed himself, Price—who was still buried in paperwork—and a few hungry soldiers who missed dinner. Everyone left full and happy. And Soap got a break from his spiraling thoughts. He didn’t even pester Price with a hundred questions.
It was the last night of his confinement.
He’d just finished the final batch of reports for the new recruits. All that was left was to head to the captain’s office.
The past couple of days had been especially rough. His anxiety clung to him like something sticky and foul, wrapping around his insides, squeezing so tight he could barely breathe. If it affected him, he did his best not to show it. Damn it, he was an elite SAS sergeant. He had no business giving power to intrusive thoughts. He was stronger than that.
A knock pulls him out of his spiral—he scrambles to pull himself together after the bombshell of recent news. It’s not hard to guess who’s at the door.
“Come in.”
The door creaks open. Soap steps inside. Price is ready to launch into his usual responses, but gets cut off.
“This is the final report for Group M5,” Soap hands over a fairly thick folder. “Also wanted to put in a good word for a couple of the lads, if you’ll allow it, sir.”
His tone is calm and composed. It makes Price uneasy. Something’s not right. They’re not exactly a regulation-following team, especially off-mission. So this formal talk from Soap catches his attention, especially after how informally he’d acted the past two weeks. He nods, granting permission—but his brows knit together.
“Private Nathan’s doing great with assembling explosives and long-range shooting. I think he deserves a chance with the 22nd—they’re recruiting now. Privates Oscar and Sam performed well on the obstacle course, too. I'd recommend moving them forward. You’ll find more in the report, sir.”
Price flips through the report, noting the names Soap mentioned. If Soap says they’re worth it, they must be. He sets the folder aside, looks him over—trying to understand this shift in behavior.
“I’ll look them over, Soap,” he says, getting a nod in return. “By the way, your next mission’s ready. Briefing’s at 1100 tomorrow. You in?”
At the mention of a mission, Soap lights up. That wide, satisfied grin is back. He relaxes, completely transformed. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging.
Seeing him like this, Price relaxes too.
“Can I go, Captain?”
“For God’s sake, MacTavish, stop acting like a bloody idiot,” he waves him off. “You’re free. Just.. try not to get into trouble tonight.”
A nod, the door creaks shut. Price is alone again. He leans back, eyes closed. He desperately needs rest after these heavy two weeks. In two hours, his men will return—every last one of them. But he doesn’t know how to feel about it. How others will react to the return of one of his former soldiers.
“You’re building a team of ghosts, Price,” he thinks bitterly. All he can do now is wait—and hope for the best.
He lights a cigarette and gets back to the paperwork.
After Price’s news, he couldn’t sit still. Two weeks stuck on base, and he was already losing it.
Soap will never admit it, but during times like these—left behind while others were on assignment—he felt useless. No matter how much he did, he believed he only had real value out in the field. Everyone said otherwise—he was helping the recruits, the reports, fiddling with bombs. They told him to be more careful, to avoid extremes, to stay useful.
One part of him wanted to believe them. The other pushed him to do more, to never disappoint.
The arguments inside his head never stopped.
To get through the evening and stay out of trouble (as Price had asked), he turned to cooking.
Soap had seen how tired the captain looked, how exhausted the other soldiers came back. He decided to cheer them up with something sweet. His choice? Chocolate chip muffins.
His mom used to bake them when he was a kid. There was nothing little Johnny loved more than coming home late with a scraped knee and split lip, only to be gently scolded, patched up, and handed a warm muffin with a glass of milk.
A soft smile crept across his face as the memory warmed him.
Now he’d bake those same muffins—to heal the visible and invisible wounds of his brothers-in-arms.
Someone might say there’s no place for tenderness in the military—but he’d argue otherwise. You don’t have to be close to everyone. But when you’re saving each other’s lives, watching each other’s backs, trusting someone else with your own—it makes you close.
In your darkest moment, it might be someone whose name you barely knew who saves you. That means something. And if they never meet again—he wants to show he’s thankful for the time they shared.
Cooking calms him, just like all week. He doesn’t need a recipe—he’s seen those muffins made enough to do it by heart. But when the batter is ready, he notices the sweets shelf is empty. Weird—there’s always something there. He sighs. He’ll have to spend on chocolate from the vending machine—the most overpriced thing in the building, if you ask him. He wraps the bowl, sneaks through the kitchen, leaving no trace, heading toward the vending machine. His hands itch to finish and serve them already, so the walk is short.
Choosing the chocolate takes him a few minutes. He settles on simple milk—doesn’t want to mess up the classic flavor.
As soon as he grabs two chocolate bars and turns to go back to the kitchen, he crashes into something very large, so large it even recoils from the impact. Something very firm lands on his shoulder, keeping him from slamming into the vending machine.
Soap has to blink a few times, trying to make out the person he’s bumped into as quickly as possible. He quietly murmurs apologies—until he looks up and sees the familiar skull mask.
— Oh, Ghost... — he scans his lieutenant with a glance. The man looks, to put it mildly, like hell: the face paint has noticeably run, his eyes show nothing but sheer exhaustion; he’s covered head to toe in layers of dirt and blood. MacTavish can only hope it’s someone else’s blood. — You look like shit, LT...
— Not now.
Said like a knife cut. Soap can understand his state — all in all, he and Gaz had been on assignment for nearly a month, while Soap was pretending to be useful and trying not to lose his mind within the safe walls of the base. The thoughts about his uselessness start getting louder.
He doesn’t even have time to say anything before Ghost’s silhouette simply vanishes — as if he’d never been there at all.