Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You probably want to ask where we're going.” Soap broke the silence and slowed down when he saw a sign that said ‘Lennoxtown’.

The drive from the MacTavish house to this town took about forty minutes. The final destination was a little further away, but Soap decided to stop for a coffee before continuing on their way. Only now, with the traffic jams of Glasgow behind them and the almost random route he had chosen proving to be the right one, did the sergeant decide to break the silence.

The lieutenant hadn't said a word since he got into the passenger seat of Mr. MacTavish's Wrangler. He didn't like talking in the car at all, but when he heard Johnny's words, he took his eyes off the road.

“Where are we going?” He asked, watching the sergeant park near a cozy bakery and coffee shop on the town's main street.

“I want to show you a place where I used to hang out with my friends when I was a kid.” Johnny turned off the engine and smiled. “At first we rode our bikes there, and then we took car of one of us who had it first. Of course, our parents didn't know anything about it.”

“Why?” Ghost asked without prompting this time.

“Oh, you'll understand when you see it.” Soap replied mysteriously and got out of the Wrangler to go buy coffee and pastries.

Soon they continued on their way. The sergeant turned off the main street, leaving Lennoxtown behind. They drove through fields and a farm, and then the road went through a forest. At one point, a soccer field and some buildings could be seen through the trees, after which the forest became denser. Soap slowed down, looking around, and then turned off the road, hoping that his father's Wrangler wouldn't get stuck in the mud. However, with Ghost, it wasn't so scary, because the demon was able to pull the car out with his superpowers.

When the sergeant turned off the engine, silence enveloped him and the lieutenant. They sat quietly for a few seconds. Then Johnny took the keys out of the ignition and was the first to get out of the car. When Ghost joined him, he locked Wrangler and turned on the alarm. He took the demon by his hand and pulled him toward a clearly very old corrugated fence that was visible through the trees. Walking along it, they found a gap large enough for not only Soap but also Ghost to squeeze through.

“This is going to sound strange.” Johnny smiled slightly. “But tell me, Lt., do you believe in ghosts?”

The lieutenant didn't have time to answer because at that moment they passed the bushes and trees, and a huge old Baroque-style building appeared before them.

It had once been a magnificent castle, but time had not been kind to it. The massive corner towers, once crowned with pointed roofs, were now just hollow stone cylinders staring up at the gloomy gray sky. The empty openings of the elegant elongated windows were framed with carved stone. Above them, just below the ridges of the walls, were crenellated parapets and battlements, more commonly seen on defensive fortresses than on the luxurious estates that this building had once been.

The entrance portal attracted particular attention. Once, a wide ceremonial road led to it, along which luxurious carriages used to drive up; now there was no trace of it. Carefully carved, once elegant stones were now covered with moss and ivy, which concealed the destructive effects of time. Above the vault, where the family crest once stood, there was now emptiness.

The stone walls had darkened from the rain and now had the hue of wet ash; here and there, inscriptions left by irresponsible visitors could be seen. The castle had no roof, and most of its interior floors were gone, and Soap remembered that, but there was something new about its appearance. The central part had been reduced to a skeleton; the walls were charred, and the sky could be seen through them. It looked like there had been a fire here that Johnny didn't know about.

“It looked better when I was here with my friends.” He said a little sadly, looking guiltily at the lieutenant. “As children, we hoped to see ghosts here. And as teenagers, we had parties.”

Soap and Ghost slowly walked along the castle and went inside, if you could say that about a roofless ruin. They tried to make their way through the rubble of stone blocks and charred beams, but it was difficult and pointless. Finding a more or less clear area, Johnny leaned against the wall and took out a pack of cigarettes.

“I don't know what about ghosts.” The demon said slowly, looking around. “But this place is filled with pain and suffering. I can feel their echoes. I can hear them screaming.”

“This castle was built as the private residence of the Kincaid-Lennox family, which it was for almost a century.” Soap began. "But then it was sold to the Glasgow city authorities, and a psychiatric hospital was set up here. Back then, the treatment methods were more like torture, so you're right, many people really did suffer and die here. Some of them weren't even sick."

Ghost slowly looked around again, as if listening to the echoes of centuries that only he could hear—the cheerful bustle of the grand balls hosted by the Kincaid-Lennoxes, the eerie silence of the psychiatric hospital corridors, and the desperate cries of the suffering patients. The gloomy atmosphere, intensified by thick dark clouds and gusts of harsh cold wind, created an almost physical pressure on a person and evoked conflicting feelings in the demon. On the one hand, he felt uncomfortable, but on the other, the echoes of fear, despair, and death filled and nourished his dark nature. When he looked at Soap again, his eyes burned dimly like red-hot crimson coals.

“Looks like you're comfy here, huh?” The sergeant smiled slightly and, throwing down his cigarette butt, ground it out with his foot.

“I can't say I’m comfy.” Ghost replied thoughtfully. “But this place definitely replenishes my energy.”

The demon didn't know that such a thing was even possible; he was sure that only human souls could restore his hellish strength. But it seemed that places like this, where many people had suffered and died in agony, were also capable of doing so, albeit not to the full extent.

“So, theoretically, you could live without devouring souls by visiting such places?” Soap asked, trying to understand what this could give Ghost on his path to liberation.

“I don't know.” The demon shook his head. “I don't even know what exactly affects me here.”

“Maybe we should visit similar places and find out?” Johnny suggested. “Somewhere where people suffered and died en masse, like Auschwitz, or New York, where the Twin Towers stood. Unfortunately, there are many such places in the world.”

“Yes, but their essence is different.” Ghost said. “Perhaps the mere fact of humans suffering and dying is not enough. Perhaps other humans must cause it.”

“Directly or indirectly?” Soap asked, pushing himself away from the wall and pacing back and forth to keep warm.

“How is it indirectly?” The lieutenant tilted his head slightly to one side.

The sergeant didn’t answer immediately. He continued to pace around, kicking small stones with the toe of his boot, trying, first, to formulate his thoughts and, second, to recall a suitable example. The lieutenant didn’t rush him, considering other possible criteria. For example, would he feel the same way as he did here if the disaster had happened not a hundred but, say, five hundred years ago? Would there be a difference between a place where many people died in a single day and a place where they had to suffer and die over years or decades?

“Take Chornobyl, for example.” Finally, Soap spoke up. “Officially, it was a technological disaster, and people suffered from radiation. But in fact, it happened because of human negligence and the cover-up by the criminal Soviet authorities.”

“Copy that.” Ghost nodded. “We probably won't know until we check it out.”

They talked about it a little more, or rather, the sergeant talked, recalling various tragic pages of history. Then he and the lieutenant wandered around the ruins for a while longer. Ghost took his camera out of his jacket pocket and took a few pictures, while Soap watched with interest, trying to understand what exactly he saw in this or that place. Only when it started to drizzle did the sergeant reluctantly say that they should return to the car and drive home. He said this while looking in the direction where he had left his father's Wrangler, not noticing that the lieutenant had taken another photo—a profile portrait of him against the backdrop of ancient walls with his hair blowing in the wind.

Despite the rain, which was only getting heavier, Soap still drove to the car wash. While the workers washed the Wrangler of the mud from the countryside, he bought two coffees from the vending machine and went with Ghost to the smoking area under a short canvas awning. The wind blew cold drops under it, and the bench was wet. The demon looked around, making sure they were alone, and then froze, staring at it. A minute later, with a slight hiss, all the wet spots evaporated, and a satisfied Johnny sat down, stretching out his legs. Ghost took a seat next to him and picked up one of the coffee cups from his hands. Usually in such cases, he would simply hold his portion of food or drink and then give it to his person, but not this time. With his usual composure, the lieutenant took a straw from the inside pocket of his jacket, dipped it into the paper cup, and, sliding the other end under his mask, began to drink. For a few seconds, Soap stared at him in surprise, then smiled and took out his cigarettes.

“Next time I'll get you tea.” He said.

“It makes no difference.” Ghost replied. “I can hardly taste anything when it's ordinary human drinks.”

“There's nothing ordinary about this coffee.” Soap said, trying his drink. “It's so fucking bad that I can hardly taste it either.”

A hot lunch awaited the sergeant and the lieutenant at home. Food at the MacTavish house had become a real problem because Johnny's mother cooked it, so it couldn't just be thrown away. Also, Kyle, Gary, and the captain, with whom Ghost could share his portion, were not there. However, Soap found a way out of the situation by telling his parents that both he and the lieutenant were currently on a cutting phase, so they needed a calorie deficit and couldn't eat much. Isla was upset, but she tried to serve both of them small portions, and the sergeant ate his first at the family table and then Ghost's in his room. To avoid gaining overweight from eating so much, he would go running either in the morning around the district with the lieutenant, who was happy to keep him company, or during the day on the treadmill in the basement of the house.

 Soap stayed to have lunch with his parents, and Ghost, having received a tray with plates, went to his room. Usually, he would just put everything on the table by the window and wait for the sergeant, but not today. As he rearranged the plates from the tray, he saw that Isla had made fish-and-chips and shepherd's pie, and she had done it the English way, not the Scottish way.

Even after his death, Lieutenant Riley retained his distinctive Mancunian accent. That is why, when creating the legend for Lieutenant Ryan, Captain Price suggested Manchester as his place of birth and registration. Now, remembering most of his human life, Ghost found this ironic.

Of course, Johnny told his parents where his lieutenant was from. So Isla prepared these dishes and in this particular way not just for any reason, but specifically for Ghost. This realization pierced the demon's chest with a familiar pain. He didn't want to think about the reasons for its appearance this time, so he sat down at the table, picked up a fork, and began to eat. Physically, the food was almost tasteless to him, but he felt the warmth, care, and love with which it had been prepared. It was a completely new sensation—a little painful, but overall pleasant and multifaceted. Ghost enjoyed it and didn't even notice how he had eaten everything on his plate. Sensing the pleasant aftertaste of good human feelings, he could say with complete sincerity that it was very tasty.

When the lieutenant came out of his room with a tray, the MacTavish family was still sitting at the table drinking coffee. Seeing the empty plates, Soap struggled to keep his mouth from gaping in surprise, while Ghost stopped completely unperturbed, looking not at him but at his mother.

“Thank you, Mrs. MacTavish.” He said. “That was very tasty. Like at home.”

“You're welcome, Lieutenant.” The woman smiled gently. “And please, call me Isla.”

Ghost was confused, not knowing what to say, but Soap, as always, covered for him, speaking as if he had interrupted him again, not giving him a chance to respond.

“Would you like to have some tea with us, Lt.?” He asked, looking at his father and then at his mother. “No one minds, right? No? Great! No, Mom, don't get up; I'll make him some tea myself. I know how he likes it, right, Lt.?”

Without stopping his chatter, Soap walked over to Ghost, took him by the shoulder, and gently pulled him toward the kitchen. Mr. and Mrs. MacTavish watched them go and then looked at each other.

“That Lieutenant Ryan is a good guy.” Douglas said thoughtfully. “Weird, but good.”

“Yes, dear.” Isla nodded. “He seems very lonely. It's good that John brought him to us.”

The retired colonel nodded as well and took a sip of his coffee with cream and a generous dash of whiskey.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Soap was making tea for Ghost. He didn't ask any questions, realizing that now wasn't the best time, but the lieutenant spoke first.

“I know I should have told your mother that she could call me by my name too.” He said. “But I don't want to be called by my brother's name.”

The demon chose to be called Thomas when he remembered nothing about his human life, and only because the name seemed vaguely familiar to him. Now he simply couldn't associate himself with it. “Lieutenant Ryan” was something neutral to him, similar to his real surname, so he preferred that or his call sign. Douglas might understand the suggestion to call him Ghost, but Isla wouldn't.

“You can say that Simon is your middle name, which for certain reasons is not listed in your documents.” Soap quickly found a solution, putting five tea bags in a cup. “They won't tell anyone, and there are many Simons in the world.”

It sounded plausible and, at the same time, very simple. Perhaps if Ghost were human and thought like a human, he could have come up with it himself. However, Soap believed that his beloved demon was already making great strides in becoming human, which he immediately pointed out.

“You've gotten much better at understanding how to communicate.” He praised, pouring in five or even six spoonfuls of sugar; before that, he carefully squeezed and discarded the tea bags, pushing them deeper into the trash can. “I'm very proud of you, luv. Well, shall we go?”

Ghost took his cup, into which Soap had placed a straw, and they returned to the room. The lieutenant sat down at the table next to his sergeant, took a couple of sips of tea, and put down his cup, glancing at Mr. and Mrs. MacTavish.

“I'd like you to call me Simon.” He said, trying not to stare at Johnny's parents as he always did when talking to anyone. “It's my middle name, and it's not on my documents now, but a long time ago, that's what my mother and friends called me.”

“Is it classified?” Johnny's father asked, and Ghost nodded. “Well, then we'll call you Simon when it's just the three of us and Lieutenant Ryan in other cases. And you can call me Douglas.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ghost said, and then corrected himself a second later. “Douglas.”

The retired colonel nodded with satisfaction, and Isla smiled gently.

After lunch, Mr. MacTavish asked Ghost to help him fix the lighting in the attic. It was located high up, and apart from a few burnt-out bulbs in one or even several places, mice had chewed through the wires. An ordinary person would need a chair to reach the wiring, so the damaged areas would have to be searched for by gradually moving it around. The house was large, as was the attic, and Mr. MacTavish was no longer at an age where he could climb up and down an old stool so many times among piles of old things and outright junk. Ghost, with his impressive height, would be able to see the wires without any aids, except perhaps a flashlight.

The demon knew nothing about electricity, but Douglas assured him that there was nothing complicated about it. He disconnected the attic from the power supply and, while Ghost searched for damaged areas with a headlamp he didn't need, explained in detail how to make a temporary repair with a knife and electrical tape.

“Isla has long wanted to convert the attic into a loft with several rooms.” Douglas said, following the lieutenant and carrying tools. "First of all, I need to sort through all this junk, and for that I need light. Well, calling an electrician and replacing this wiring doesn't make sense, because we'll have to do different wiring for the rooms anyway."

Ghost nodded, pretending to understand, and continued to look for signs of mouse sabotage. He had already found and repaired one such place, but Mr. MacTavish decided it was better to look everywhere than to go downstairs after each one and turn on the electricity to check.

“I can help you sort through these things and take out the unnecessary ones.” The lieutenant offered, without taking his eyes off the wires. “I think Johnny will be happy to join in too.”

“Look how much there is here.” The retired colonel shook his head. “You two came here to rest, and I don't want to make you rummage through all this shit.”

“You're not making me; I offered.” Ghost replied and stopped when he found another break. “Give me a knife and electrical tape again, Douglas.”

Taking everything he needed from Mr. MacTavish, the demon, who generally hated technology, began to clean up the ends of the broken wires, twist them together, and carefully insulate the connection with electrical tape.

Meanwhile, the rain had stopped, and Isla called her son to help her in the garden behind the house. She pruned the apple, pear, and cherry trees, while Johnny raked up last year's leaves, branches, and other debris that had accumulated over the winter, trying not to damage the newly planted flowers. They talked a little about Aileen's studies, as she had already begun preparing for her summer exams while still finding time for her hobbies and meeting friends. Then the conversation turned to Marion and her family, especially her two children, who were always up to something and reminded Soap in that age very much. This amused all the MacTavishes, because both the mother and father of these little rascals had been very obedient, calm, and responsible from an early age.

“Does Marion still hate Simon?” Johnny asked, wielding a rake.

“She never hated him, dear.” Isla shook her head. “She was just nervous about the change of plans for Christmas, and she didn't have time to get to know him better, like Dad and I did. Maybe we should invite her to dinner so they can talk. What do you think?”

“Better ask Lt. about it.” Soap replied. “He has a hard time getting along with new people, especially civilians. Because of all the secrecy, he doesn't leave the service very often. I heard that before he was transferred to our unit, he never left the base, even during leaves.”

“That's terrible!” Isla frowned. “You said before Christmas that he had no one, but is that true? He mentioned his mother today...”

“She's gone.” Soap shook his head. “Please don't ask him about it.”

“Okay, okay.” The woman's gaze changed from indignant to sympathetic. “I'm very sorry to hear that. It's always sad when a good person is left alone.”

“Well, now he's in 141, and he's not alone anymore.” Johnny tried to change the tone of the conversation to a more positive one.

Mrs. MacTavish was personally acquainted only with Gaz, whom Soap had also invited to their home a couple of times, but her son had told her so much about the rest of his comrades-in-arms that she felt she knew them all. They were good people, a friendly team where everyone cared for each other. Perhaps Isla would have changed her opinion of them if she had known what they did, but she never wanted to know the details. It was enough for her that her son, and previously her husband, were working for peace and security, doing everything possible they could to achieve them. She wasn't naive and understood perfectly well that 'everything possible' often went beyond the bounds of generally accepted morality, but the end justified the means. There is a lot of evil in the world, and someone has to protect peaceful people from it. Isla was very proud that her son was one of those defenders.

Soap moved away from his mother for a moment, raking another batch of leaves and branches into a large pile by the fence. Then he would have to stuff all this rubbish into large black garbage bags so that they could be quickly taken out when the truck specializing in waste of this type and volume arrived. The sergeant hoped that by the time he had cleaned up the entire backyard, the lieutenant would have finished helping his father and would be able to help him.

“You like Simon, don't you, dear?” Isla asked when Johnny was back beside her.

This caught him off guard, and although he immediately began to say that of course he liked him, because he and the lieutenant were friends, his mother was not buying it at all. She said nothing but looked so skeptical that Johnny broke off his tirade and sighed heavily.

“Yes, Mom, I like Simon.” He admitted meekly.

You can be the youngest soldier to pass the SAS selection process, you can serve in the most elite unit, perform the most difficult tasks undercover, and withstand the toughest interrogations, but it is absolutely impossible to hide anything from Isla MacTavish. She saw right through each of her children, and there was nothing to do but accept it.

“The feelings are mutual.” Soap continued, leaning on his rake, without waiting for any further questions. “But Mom, this could cause big problems, because Simon is my superior officer.”

“I won't tell anyone, not even Dad.” Isla promised and then smiled gently. “But I'm happy for you, dear. Simon seems like a good person, and you get along well with him.”

“Yes.” Johnny nodded, smiling back, and began raking the leaves again.

If only his mother knew how right and wrong she was at the same time. If only.

It rained again in the evening, but that didn't stop Soap from calling Ghost for a late-night smoke break. They sat under the patio cover, and Johnny smiled happily as he felt the familiar pleasant warmth envelop him.

“You never answered whether you believe in ghosts.” He said, lighting a cigarette.

“I've never met one.” The demon shrugged, staring into the darkness.

“That's not what I asked.” Soap snorted good-naturedly.

“Then it depends on what you consider to be a ghost.” The lieutenant replied.

The sergeant wanted to say something but then thought better of it. These incorporeal beings existed in almost every culture in the world—they had different names, different properties, origins, and appearances. Relatively recently, a separate branch of science, albeit a dubious one, had even emerged to study such phenomena. And even among its followers, there is no consensus. Maybe, in fact, a ghost is not a personality, not a lost soul that has not found its way to heaven or hell, but an echo that the demon felt in the ruins of an ancient castle? Perhaps they appear to preserve the memory of deceased people, which the living have lost or never had?

“I don't know.” Soap finally admitted, wrapping his arms around his shoulders as if he had suddenly become cold. “Do you think anyone could possibly know?”

“Maybe Mr. Schneider.” The demon replied; making sure that the door to the house was closed and no one was approaching, he embraced his beloved, pressing him close. “Maybe those weirdos from ‘Malleus Maleficarum’. Or maybe Sword.”

Johnny sighed and rested his head on Ghost's shoulder. There were far more secrets in the world than he could have imagined, and he wasn't at all sure he wanted to know them all.