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Soap sank onto the rickety cot with a groan he didn't bother to suppress. Now that he could finally fucking breathe—now that he was warm and dry and somehow still in one piece—nothing stood between him and the adrenaline dump waiting to crash over him like the floodwaters that had tossed him about like a ragdoll only a couple hours ago.
His hands still shook. What had started as a tremor at first had intensified, growing and ballooning until he had to press them flat against his thighs just to make them stop.
Christ.
He'd almost fucking died. And yeah, he'd come close to death plenty of times before—being part of a spec ops unit would do that—but this… god. God. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, like he was still in that tunnel, Shadows still firing at him from all sides as he fought to stay afloat and alive—
He'd never felt more alone.
Soap's fingers found the edge of the cot, gripping hard enough that the metal frame bit into the still wrinkled skin. His gaze scraped across the room—bare walls, a single window sitting just above his head, what remained of his gear stacked in the corner—and snagged on the journal still tucked against his side. He'd bound it himself, months ago now, during one of the rare quiet moments after joining the 141. A gift to himself for making it this far—another piece of proof that someone had looked at John MacTavish and decided he was someone worth keeping around.
Did Ghost think so? He must've—he'd stayed behind in the end, waited in the tower of that church—
"You came through here?"
—but Ghost had left him behind, hadn't he? Soap had asked him, couldn't help himself even knowing the answer would gut him like Ghost's own blades had done the Shadows in his path.
"I'm used to working alone."
Christ, like that made it better. Like Soap wasn't supposed to feel the weight of those words settling cold in his gut. He'd stayed in the end though, that had to count for something, didn't it? They'd both made it in the end, even though the job was far from over—
His fingers found the journal as his thoughts trailed off, tracing the familiar ridges and scars in the leather. His pen was still tucked in the spine, somehow—yet another miracle—and seeing it struck him with the sudden urge to write. To get this whole thing down, process it before it could eat him alive, and before he knew it he had a blank page open and had scrawled a single, shaky sentence across the top.
I thought I was gonna die out there.
Soap's hand stilled, grip on the pen tightening as he jammed it hard into the paper. For a few minutes, alone in those streets, he'd been certain—
"Go, Johnny, get out of there! Soap—go!"
He moved. Shoved the dead Shadow away and launched himself over the concrete barrier, shooting blind into the night as he skidded downhill. He didn't think, didn't question—didn't have any thoughts, really, aside from following his CO's orders because Ghost's tone said now and Soap trusted that voice more than his own instincts. Graves' voice echoed through the trees as he stumbled through the woods, but the rest…
He didn't stop moving. Not till he made it properly into Las Almas, at least—blood dripping down his arm, mixing with the downpour soaking him straight through the tac vest. Stumbled along the way, tripping over his own damn feet—and as the bullet wound throbbed anew, he all but collapsed in a shadowed alleyway, keying his radio until he found an empty channel.
"This is Bravo 7-1, in the blind… how copy…?"
Static.
"Ghost, this is 7-1, do you copy?"
Static.
His hand dropped, heart kicking against his ribs. "Fuck… where are you, Ghost?" The question clawed at his throat, sharper than the pain in his arm. He needed to get out of here, needed to find his way to safety now, before it was too late—before the Shadows found him, before he bled out in this godforsaken city with no one coming for him because Ghost had—
He managed three steps before his legs gave out. He hit the blood-soaked pavement with a low grunt, the impact punching what little air he had left from his lungs. For a few seconds he contemplated just… staying there. Taking a long-needed breather, maybe resting his eyes even though every part of him screamed that he needed to get up, needed to keep walking, but… maybe if he just stayed down for a minute his head would stop spinning and he'd be able to think again?
Except if he stopped, he was as good as dead. And Ghost—
—no one was coming to save him. Not Ghost, not the other half of the 141, certainly not that American fucking bastard.
The thought landed as cold and certain as the rain freezing him to the bone. Ghost had told him to run, and he had, and now he was alone. But it brought another, darker fear too, that maybe the reason he hadn't heard from his lieutenant was because Ghost hadn't made it, that he was dead and Soap was next and this was how it ended—
"Soap, this is Ghost. How copy?"
Relief rushed through Soap, hot and bright. He forced himself back up on his hands and knees, vision still swimming, slipping and falling forward on blood and rain as he reached for his comms—
"Johnny? Johnny, how copy?"
"Solid."
Christ. He'd nearly wept hearing Ghost's voice, and the first thing he bloody did was lie to the man. No way in hell was he solid, but like he told Ghost, what was the difference?
Soap stared at the page, at the shaky line of text that had dragged him back into that night. His hand ached from gripping the pen so hard, pulse still hammering through his veins even though he was safe. But he forced himself to keep going anyway, to get it all out before it could destroy him from the inside—
I didn't know if I could trust him. Or anyone, really—we thought we could trust Shadow Company, General Shepherd, the brass… but none of that hurt more than the fact that he—Ghost—left me.
Or so I thought.
He really had, too. At first, hearing Ghost's voice in his ear was enough—at least he knew the spooky bastard was alive, right? But as he crept through the streets, listening to the echo of gunshots and the screams of innocent civilians, as he looted their homes and their corpses for 'Guerilla Warfare 101'…
"Ghost, you missin' a knife…?" He examined the blade for a brief moment before wiping it off on his jeans. Poor things were already ruined anyway, what was a little more blood? At least he was armed up now—riskier than a gun, but lower profile, too.
"Several."
Soap held it up to the light, turning it this way and that. It certainly looked familiar—a tactical recurve like the man tended to favour, but— "Think I found one."
"Some of the dead Shadows are my handiwork."
Neutral. Nonchalant even. Like they were talking about getting a bloody tea.
"You came through here?" Soap tried for casual—
"On my way to the church."
"And you left me?"
—but he couldn't keep the thread of hurt out of his voice. Sure, logically he knew that Ghost was trying to save both their arses, or they would've been rounded up like Alejandro and the rest of Los Vaqueros, but… fuck, it stung.
"I'm used to working alone."
What really got him, though, was the fact that Ghost had been here. Not just on the comms, but here in the flesh. Clearing a path, maybe, but at the same time he tried to rationalize it he couldn't help but wonder why. Why hadn't Ghost waited for him? Would Ghost have left him there to die if the comms hadn't worked? The fact that he'd come through here should've been a comfort, but Ghost had still left without a word.
He was still watching, though.
That had to have meant… something, right? After all, Soap was putting a lot of blind faith in the man—
"So much for no man left behind," he groused bitterly.
"Just get yourself to the church." Ghost's voice turned brusque. "Tryin' to keep you alive and get you here in one piece."
Oh.
The words landed harder than they should've. Just trying to keep him alive… so… what, he gave a shit? Soap tucked the knife into his belt and kept moving. He couldn't think about what that meant—not yet. Not when he still had Shadows on his tail, a church to reach, and that raspy voice pulling him forward.
A dot of ink bled onto the page where he'd rested his pen too long, and for a moment, Soap couldn't remember where he was. His breath came in short, shallow pulls, chest tight as his vision swam. The memory felt almost like surfacing from a bad dream, but he swore he still felt the rain on his face and the blood dripping hot and wet down his arm—
Ghost had been there. Not just on the comms, but out there in the storm, clearing the way ahead, making sure Soap didn't walk into something he wouldn't survive.
And fuck, what did he do with that?
He tried to keep writing, to get it all down and out, finish this off so he could catch an hour's rest or something because they still had work to do—
I was so… hurt, thinkin' he'd left me behind, that hearin' him tell me he likes me alive… steamin' Jesus, the hell do I do with that? I have no bloody clue what possessed me to ask him to take the damn mask off, either. There's just somethin' about him, now that we've been stuck together like this. Can't quite put my finger on it, because Christ he's bloody weird (and his jokes are SHITE) but…
I wanna know more. I have so many questions:
- Why didn't he try to catch up with me? (Keepin' a low profile?)
- Would he really have left? (Can't imagine he would, but what if my comms had been proper broke?)
- What does 'quite the opposite' even mean? (Dunno why, have the feelin' he's a bonnie thing under that fabric. Still would love to find out…)
- Why am I so fuckin' fascinated by him?God. I wanna know him. Figure out what makes him tick because something tells me I can trust him with my life—
Soap's pen stilled. The memory rose up before he could stop it, visceral and raw, sharper than all the rest—
The church.
Get to the church.
Ghost is at the church.
Get to Ghost, get to safety.
The tunnel had been freezing. Water up to his chest, every step forward an act of faith as he clung onto Ghost's whispered "you're on the right track, keep comin'" in his ear. No choice but to believe him as he dispatched the Shadows in the water, forcing himself to push through because Ghost was waiting on the other side.
And then the pain. The butt of a rifle smashing into his head, knocking him to the ground, a barrel levelled with his face until—
"Holy hell…" the shot rang out clean, dropping his assailant in a burst of blood. "Ghost, was that you?"
"Who else?" Ghost remarked dryly. "Now go."
He'd run. Just like the first time, seeing the man's eyes wide with fear, he listened and he ran, legs screaming and breath coming in ragged gasps as a new group of Shadows swarmed him, but Ghost promised he'd be at the steps and—
—he was.
Standing at the top of the entrance like the angel of death, and fuck, if it'd been any other time he would've tackled the man, hugged him as tight as he could manage and cling—
There hadn't been time for that, naturally. But he'd kept up, even through the waning adrenaline, because Ghost didn't just wait—he vaulted the church gates and dropped into the streets like it was nothing, putting himself in the line of fire just to cover Soap as they darted through the square.
"We need a vehicle, on me—"
Not I. We.
And just like everything, like they were already two halves of the same whole, they'd fought their way through the streets together. Found the truck together. Gunned it past the blockade and into the night together.
"Alright, Johnny—you made it."
"We made it, LT."
I think I could trust him with my heart, too.