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Summary
"How many did you kill?" he whispers. "How many lives did my gift to you steal away, hmm?"
Soap clenches his jaw, fights past the sensation of his own lips sewn shut. "Ah lost count," he replies. "Ghost, what -. How -?"
Ghost meets his eyes, lowers both of Soap's sore hands to the floor on either side of his hips, and crawls into his lap. Soap is so surprised by it that he doesn't even think to fight Ghost off until too much weight, a too-heavy body, settles on his thighs.
"You took the knife, Johnny," he says. "You took it, and you killed with it. Not my fault you're so good at it, my sweet acolyte."