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Mother’s Day had always been off-limits around Ghost.
Nobody made it an official rule. There wasn’t a laminated notice pinned to the briefing board or anything stupid like that. It was just…understood. The same way everyone knew not to grab at his mask or stand behind him unexpectedly. You learned quickly what subjects made Lieutenant Simon Riley go cold and sharp around the edges.
Mother’s Day.
Father’s Day.
Christmas.
Anything family-shaped.
The first year Soap had been in the 141, he’d made the mistake of asking if Ghost was doing anything for Christmas leave.
Ghost had stared at him for a long second before saying, “Classified.”
Price nearly choked on his tea trying not to laugh.
A few months later, Soap asked if he had plans for Mother’s Day.
Ghost threw a knife at his head.
Not to kill him. If Ghost wanted him dead, he’d be dead. The blade buried itself in the wall beside Soap’s ear with a solid thunk.
Soap blinked once, slowly. “Right. So that’s a no, then.”
Ghost grunted.
And because John MacTavish lacked both fear and self-preservation, he leaned back in his chair and said, “Well. Ma says nobody should spend Mother’s Day alone, so you’re comin’ with me.”
Ghost had almost refused.
Almost.
But somehow he found himself in Scotland two days later, standing awkwardly in the doorway of the MacTavish family home while what felt like forty people shouted over each other inside.
He’d never seen a family like this before. Loud. Warm. Chaotic.
Safe.
Johnny’s mum took one look at him — massive, masked, silent — and simply said, “Och, there ye are,” before patting his cheek like he was a skittish rescue dog.
No questions.
Not about the mask.
Not about why he barely spoke.
Not about why he ate facing the wall or disappeared during crowded dinners to stand outside in the cold for twenty minutes at a time.
She just let him exist.
It unsettled him more than interrogation ever had.
Mrs. Ruth MacTavish would hand him another helping of food and tell Johnny to stop bothering him when Ghost got overloaded. Sometimes she’d sit beside him on the porch in silence while the noise of the house spilled through the windows behind them.
She treated him like he belonged there.
Like there wasn’t anything strange about him at all.
And maybe that was why it hurt so badly the first time Ghost took Soap to meet his own mum.
Two years into whatever this thing between them had become, Ghost had quietly said, “Need t’go somewhere tomorrow.”
Johnny went without asking questions.
The church sat near Simon’s childhood home, old stone blackened by rain and time. Ghost kept his hood up the entire drive. Barely spoke. His hands stayed clenched hard enough to ache.
Johnny followed him through the cemetery without complaint.
Then Ghost stopped in front of a gravestone and stared at it for so long Soap thought maybe he’d forgotten he was there.
Finally, rough and quiet beneath the mask, Ghost muttered, “Mam. This is Johnny.”
Soap looked down.
Mary Riley.
Something in his chest twisted painfully.
Ghost crouched first, setting down a small bouquet of white lilies with awkward care. Like he was afraid he’d break them.
“She liked flowers,” he said after a while. “Could never keep ‘em alive, though.”
Johnny smiled softly. “Aye?”
“Overwatered everythin’.”
That got the smallest huff of amusement out of him.
They sat there for hours.
Soap had packed lunch without telling Ghost beforehand. Just sandwiches, fruit, tea in a thermos. Nothing fancy. They ate beside Mary Riley’s grave while Simon slowly, haltingly, talked about her.
Not the bad parts.
Not the screaming house or the bruises or the father who made Simon afraid to breathe too loudly.
Just his mum.
The woman who sang while cooking.
The woman who slipped him extra biscuits when his father wasn’t looking.
The woman who once stayed up all night with him after a nightmare even though she had a black eye blooming purple across her cheek.
“I think,” Ghost had said quietly, staring at the gravestone, “she tried.”
Johnny reached over and squeezed his hand.
“Aye,” he said. “Sounds like she did.”
The next year, Soap suggested celebrating with the MacTavishes the day before Mother’s Day instead.
He explained it to his mum in fragmented pieces over the phone, dancing carefully around details that weren’t his to share.
Ruth MacTavish had simply hummed thoughtfully and said, “Then we’ll celebrate early, won’t we?”
Easy as that.
No guilt.
No pressure.
Just understanding.
So it became tradition.
The Saturday before Mother’s Day belonged to the MacTavishes — loud dinners, too many people stuffed into one house, Johnny getting shouted at by his sisters, Ghost sitting quietly at Ruth’s side while she patted his arm every now and then.
And Sunday belonged to Simon’s mum.
Every year, they drove to the church together.
Every year, Ghost brought flowers.
Every year, they sat beside Mary Riley’s grave and had lunch together while Johnny talked enough for both of them.
Ghost never said thank you.
Not out loud, anyway.
But Johnny knew.
He knew from the way Simon’s shoulders loosened once they settled into the grass beside the grave. From the way he’d silently hand Soap the better half of his sandwich. From the rare moments he’d lean into Johnny’s side while they sat there in the quiet.
He knew from the fact Ghost kept coming back.
For a man who spent most of his life surviving alone, that meant more than words ever could.
Ghost talked to his mum more now than he ever had when she’d been alive.
That thought used to make something ugly twist in his chest.
Now it just made him ache in quieter ways.
It started accidentally.
After that first visit with Johnny, after sandwiches beside the grave and stories dragged carefully out from behind years of barbed wire silence, Soap had started treating Mary Riley like she was still part of their lives. Not in some dramatic or strange way — just naturally.
Like she still mattered because she did.
The first time it happened, Ghost had stared at him like he’d grown another head.
They’d only been dating a few months then. Young enough in the relationship that Ghost still half expected Johnny to wake up one morning and realise he was too much work.
Soap had been packing for leave while Ghost sat cleaning his sidearm nearby.
Then casually, like he was suggesting they grab takeaway, Johnny said, “We should go see your mum before we head to mine.”
Ghost looked up slowly. “What?”
Johnny shrugged. “Tell her we’re together.”
Silence.
Soap kept folding shirts.
“You tell your ma things,” he said simply. “Feels rude not tae tell yours.”
Ghost didn’t know what to say to that.
Nobody had ever spoken about his mother like she was still his. Like that connection hadn’t been severed the second they lowered her into the ground.
But they drove to the church anyway.
Ghost remembered standing there awkwardly while rain soaked through the shoulders of his hoodie. Johnny stood beside him holding a grocery-store bouquet and looking entirely unbothered by the weather.
For nearly five full minutes, Ghost said nothing.
Then finally, gruff and painfully awkward beneath the mask, “Mam. Got somethin’ t’tell you.”
Johnny bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t smile too hard.
Ghost shifted his weight.
“This is Johnny. We’re…together.”
It sounded absurdly formal.
Like he was requesting approval.
Soap reached down and squeezed his hand once before crouching to set the flowers down.
“Nice tae officially meet ye, Mrs. Riley,” he said warmly. “Your son’s a grumpy bastard, but I’m keepin’ him anyway.”
Ghost had actually elbowed him for that.
Hard.
After that, it just…became part of their life.
Every major moment led back to the church eventually.
When Ghost proposed — awkward and tense and visibly horrified by the concept of romance — Soap had laughed himself breathless for ten straight minutes because Simon had spent twenty minutes rehearsing beforehand.
“You practiced askin’ me tae marry you?”
“Shut up.”
“You practiced.”
Ghost had nearly called the whole thing off out of embarrassment.
But after Johnny finally stopped laughing and kissed him breathless in their kitchen, the first thing he asked was, “We drivin’ tae your mum’s tomorrow, then?”
Like there’d never been another option.
So they went.
Ghost stood in front of the gravestone with his hands shoved into his pockets while Soap proudly flashed the engagement ring at the polished marble.
“He finally asked,” Johnny informed her. “Took him long enough.”
Ghost muttered, “Nearly didn’t.”
“Aye, because ye were panickin’ like a wee teenager.”
“Johnny.”
Soap grinned at the grave. “He was sweatin’, Mrs. Riley. Proper terrified.”
Ghost kicked his shin for that one.
Then they got married, and afterwards — still in their suits, still wearing their rings — they drove to the church before the reception dinner.
Soap loosened his tie while Ghost quietly replaced old flowers with fresh ones.
“We did it, Mam,” he said softly.
Johnny stood beside him shoulder-to-shoulder.
There was no big speech after that.
Ghost just stood there in silence for a while before reaching out to brush his thumb over the top of the gravestone.
Soap saw the exact moment Simon’s breathing steadied again.
Like coming here grounded him.
Like every good thing in his life felt more real once he shared it with her.
Years later, Mother’s Day no longer felt like a knife between the ribs.
It still hurt sometimes. Ghost thought it probably always would. Grief didn’t vanish just because life got softer around the edges.
But now the day carried warmth too.
Saturday at the MacTavishes’ loud overcrowded house, Ruth pulling Ghost into hugs he pretended to tolerate while Johnny’s siblings argued over dessert.
Sunday at the church with flowers and lunch and stories.
Their routine.
Their family.
Ghost sat beside Mary Riley’s grave now with Johnny leaning against his shoulder and a half-finished thermos of tea between them.
The spring air smelled like rain and cut grass.
Soap was talking — he was always talking — rambling about something one of his sisters had done the night before.
Ghost let the sound wash over him comfortably before glancing toward the gravestone.
“Think she would’ve liked him,” he said quietly.
Johnny snorted. “Liked me? Simon, your ma would’ve adopted me.”
Ghost huffed softly beneath the mask because he wasn’t wrong.
After a moment, Ghost rested his head lightly against Soap’s temple.
He thought about that first invitation all those years ago. About a reckless sergeant deciding nobody should spend Mother’s Day alone.
Ghost genuinely couldn’t imagine these days any differently now.
Didn’t want to.
So instead, he looked at the gravestone and murmured, low enough that only two people in the world could hear it,
“Happy Mother’s Day, Mam.”