Chapter Text
The cold winter was approaching, and that meant the day he would die was drawing near.
Simon was truly sick of experiencing death.
While he couldn't escape it, he wasn't. He wasn't used to it either.
That was all.
So Ghost pondered when his sergeant asked about the future. The answer was too obvious. He had faced death in the past, death in the present, and death in the future. As the silence stretched, the sergeant pouted.
"Please, don't mention death."
With a sigh, he washed his face dry. The arrogant subordinate, who had been clinging to his side, naturally rested his chin on his superior's stomach and murmured.
"I think you will retire safely, L.T."
With your hands limping and your back aching, you'll groan, return home with a bunch of star candy strapped to your chest, take a nap, and then go for a run the next day as if nothing happened. And you'll probably read a cheap romance novel at a quiet neighborhood bookstore. The sergeant, chuckling, whispered in Ghost's ear the title of a book he'd been reading a few days ago. What was it? "The Night an Angel Comes, Beside You," "The Heart's Prayer in the Language of Love"? Ghost pinched his cheek irritably, and the prankster smiled faintly. "I like that kind of taste, LT."
"Anyway, this is where it all starts. You'll probably get bored soon and come looking for me."
"No way."
"Really?"
"I guess the quiet is nice."
"Are you sure?"
The soldier, resting his cheek against Ghost's bare chest and looking up, snorted. And then you'll knock awkwardly on my door. He deliberately lowered his voice, imitating Ghost, and answered. 'It's me, Soap.'
"Then I won't open the door."
"...Why?"
Ghost asked curtly at his firm answer, secretly feeling a pang of disappointment. Then, after a brief pause, the sergeant replied:
"Well, I wonder if I'll actually be alive in that future?"
Something felt tight in his throat, pressing down on him. Soap spoke, speaking of a distant future, a future Ghost himself wouldn't dream of. Just like the joke they'd made before they'd slept together—"Will I live that long?" "Probably not."—the casually shared thought of his death seemed to suffocate Ghost. A spooky ghost who treats death like a joke, deaths thrown out like a gruesome joke that makes anyone frown, traps laid out everywhere, like landmines planted everywhere, to prevent anyone from being lost to death. And in the end, it was Ghost himself who fell for it. He shouldn't have said such things. He knew it. So the lieutenant acted like a marathon runner who had been comically handed the baton.
"I'm sure you'll open the door, Johnny."
You live in Scotland, of course. You're damn Scottish. And you'll limp along, muttering in a language I can't understand. You'll have a retired blind military dog like yourself on your lap. You're good at picking up things like that, Soap. You can't just leave it like that, and you'll take him in the next day after being introduced to Price or Gaz. And, maybe, you have a kid. He'll definitely be noisy, just like you.
"Wait a minute, Am I having a child?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure it's mine? Not yours, the one you brought home?"
Soap chuckled playfully. Only then, his nerves somewhat relieved, Ghost said solemnly. 'It's not mine. It's definitely yours. And the yard will probably be overgrown with weeds and grass, not flowers, but you won't care.'
"Then you should come and tend to my yard, Ghost."
"Are you asking me to be your personal gardener?"
"And if you're going to do it, you can raise the child too."
"There's no need for a housekeeper."
"I can take care of it too. That's what most people call a husband. Isn't that better?"
Ghost fell silent. How pathetic it was to tell each other the future while contemplating his own death. The moment his sergeant inserted promises and responsibilities he could never keep into his future, he couldn't say anything more. Ghost closed his eyes silently and hugged Soap tightly, and his sergeant whispered softly, 'Yes, maybe that child is mine, Lieutenant. I have a nephew, so...'
"...What I just said was just a joke."
I just thought the future you described was good, and I thought if we protected each other, we could endure whatever happened. Don't worry about it, LT. The adjutant's words faded, almost inaudible. At that moment, the phone began to ring frantically. It was MacTavish, and the familiar name of his sister, Aila, flashed on the screen. The adjutant, free from his embrace, began to speak in a subdued voice, and soon he was gone.
That was it.
When Ghost woke up, he's side was cold. Instead of the warmth of someone who had vanished without a trace, only a crumpled sheet barely hinted that someone had been with him the night before. Because that was the relationship he'd always had, the lieutenant tried not to pay attention. He had clearly created the moment when the future he'd envisioned like a midnight dream was suddenly utterly crushed to the ground, but Soap had the strength to endure such frustration. That was the promise they'd made when they'd first given each other their side. They'd never ask questions they shouldn't ask, never answer questions they shouldn't answer, and never know that any undefined relationship doesn't belong to them. Even though Ghost knew something was wrong, he knew he shouldn't think about it, so he tried to shake it off. Nothing was wrong.
Soon after, Ghost, wearing his mask, began walking down the hallway, passing the soldiers, their faces visibly tense and worn with fatigue. As he passed the cafeteria and reached the captain's office, the door suddenly swung open, and he met the sergeant's gaze, his mouth tight and his eyes dark and clenched, clutching his phone tightly. Ghost had never seen the adjutant's eyes so sunken, as if dead, and for a moment, he wanted to grab Soap's wrist and ask what was going on. But Ghost had no right to do so. They had come and gone, and then came and went, and then came again, and then left again.
With no time to speak, the captain followed, and with a look that demanded pity and a desperate silence, he said, "Bring Gaz. 05:55 AM, we'll leave to find Makarov, Ghost."
So Ghost nodded silently, packed his things, and headed out.
But before he jumped into the mission, he just wanted to make sure. In the silence and darkness of the helicopter, he placed his hand on the sergeant's thigh and locked eyes with him.
"Are you okay, Johnny?"
A long silence stretched on as blue eyes stared at him. A sense of unease, like the hairs on his body standing on end, washed over Ghost, but the lieutenant clung to his subordinate, desperately waiting for a response, trying to dispel the ominous aura. He met his subordinate's gaze, barely able to breathe, as if vowing to endure any sentence.
Then, in a voice unusually fragile, like a sigh, he whispered:
"Promise me you'll try not to die, Lieutenant."
"What?"
"Just that. I think it'll make me feel safer."
Soap chuckled playfully, but his eyes trembled as he spoke. So Ghost nodded silently, breaking his promise never to do so again, never to promise a future. He wanted to ask what was wrong, but couldn't bring himself to. So instead, Ghost broke his taboo and encouraged the other man to share the burden. "You'll try too, Johnny." His Johnny smiled brightly. "Always, Simon."
Simon stood in the hallway, quietly gazing out the window. The weather had suddenly become so cold that the snow was falling heavily. He hated the cold on days like this the most. It brought back memories he dreaded most. Instead of missing fingernails, his delicate skin had torn and oozing, frozen. He couldn't quite remember what he saw when he struggled to open the door, dragging his twisted feet and his battered, tattered body to his house. What he did remember was that in that quiet, ruined house, no one looked out. In his scattered memories, he was drenched in blood, just like today. A thick, sticky smell, more than he had lost. Why was that indelible red, the color that signified death, the loss of everything, so warm? Standing before the cold operating room, Simon silently watched the snow flurrying against the window, blanketing the world in white.
The blood Johnny shed today was just as warm. Simon held his breath for a moment at such a chilling truth. Still, the warmth of the blood that filled his hands didn't disappear, nor did death. What he had lost was clear. Nothing had changed. He couldn't figure out what was wrong. Desiring the warm laughter that prickled his heart, allowing himself to be by his side despite the loneliness and sadness that stung him, making him talk about his future, yet making him joke about it, keeping everything in his mouth, unable to grasp or ask, making him want nothing and not wanting anything himself, promising a future... and yet not hearing the answer.
He stood still, aware that his mask and shirt were soaking wet, and yet he brooded over it. Death was truly tedious. But the more tedious it was, the less painful it was. Even when he thought he had nothing left to lose, he always knew there was something deeper. It hurt more than his own death, more than anything.
Just then, something warm touched his large hand. Simon looked down, his hand trembling with surprise at the sensation. Then he saw a child wrapped around his little finger like a lollipop, staring at him. With beautiful blue eyes and a clean face, the child resembled Johnny so much that Simon couldn't help but stare. The child seemed a little frightened, but perhaps unable to control his curiosity, he mumbled and asked in a small voice.
"I see... Are you Ghost?"
The child spoke calmly and slowly, and Simon swallowed, feeling a familiarity that made him swallow. It had been several years since he had last encountered the child. Back then, Simon Riley had carried a child, at least slightly smaller than him, in one hand, and he would occasionally laugh. Such a soft, warm, tiny thing. When he described its babbling as the whisper of an angel, Beth smiled silently. Simon answered, mumbling over the memory as if looking at an old, faded photograph.
"...Yes."
"Are you Johnny's Ghost?"
"Yes, that's right."
Simon Riley was certain the child was talking about him. The eyes, so reminiscent of Johnny's, the small face that seemed to pop out of his childhood, could only be his blood. Hearing the answer, the child smiled shyly and squeezed his hand, saying,
"then... You're Johnny's favorite ghost!"
Simon couldn't bring himself to answer, so he nodded with difficulty. Then the child babbled softly. 'Johnny always talks about you! He said he'd come pick you up today—the man in the hat said Johnny was sleeping. So—so—he said we had to wait.'
"Are you waiting for Johnny, too?"
The child lowered his head from Simon's feet, sucking his thumb as he pulled at his hand. Simon cleared his throat and replied.
"...Yes, I'm waiting for Johnny, too."
Simon Riley answered, more earnestly than anyone else, his voice trembling instead of screaming. While he was talking to the boy, his captain, the familiar scent of cigars, appeared. He gazed at the lieutenant with the boy, then silently handed him a few papers. Among them was a reference to the death that had struck his sister the day before, the moment he and Johnny were together. Then, attached to the certificate was a signed discharge request from John McTavish. Beneath "John McTavish" was the name of his nephew, who had appeared like a gift.
Joseph McTavish.
Like the gift he'd been given at this very moment, today Johnny had been taken from him, and yet, as if life, cruelly, was determined to offer him another gift, he engraved the name in his heart. Simon Riley clutched his papers and gazed at the child, finding it ironically amusing that it was now that he felt he no longer wanted to experience death. Seeing Joseph, a sweet gift finally won at the edge of despair, and Johnny, reaching out through the times he had given up, Simon finally began to sob. Feeling the bewildered child cling tightly to his leg, as if to hide the unstoppable flow of tears, the gentle voices of children rehearsing for the birth of baby Jesus rang in his ears from the nearby cathedral.