Chapter Text
Soap had been worried. He and Ghost has a few days between short missions, and Price barely blinked when Soap told him he was invited to the funeral of an old friend. Ghost was beside him, and they both got approved for off base leave to Scotland.
That wasn't what worried him. What worried him as his family. This felt... Weird. Being asked to go to the funeral for a man he knew his fiancee had killed. He didn't care much about Franklin anymore. He didn't care what happened. Not really. But he cared about what his family will think.
Not that they were much of a family any more.
His family is the 141. Ghost, Price, Gaz, Laswell, Alejandro, Rudy, and their crew.
But he was worried of how they would react. Simon was wearing just a mouth mask, eyes and forehead uncovered. He still had his classically skull design and he still had on his skeleton gloves, though fingerless. And he held Soap's hand.
That's all he could really ask for, and he soaked every moment he gets with Ghost. There are moment that aren't as sweet as this. The ones were soap thinks he going to die, or that Ghost is going to die. The other way too. Ghost calling across the comms in worry, forgetting the formality of their call signs in favor of letting everyone know he was worried.
And Soap still had the knife he took off of the dead Shadow in Las Almas. Ghost was right. The fight is not over.
So, here they were. Soap with the knife - better than any ring he could have been given he thinks - in it's holder at his waist, and Ghost with many more standing beside him.
Johnny and Simon.
Here, to mourn with the MacTavish family, at their request.
Soap's hands shake a little - deadly in the field and barely able to face his own family. What a sorry man. Ghost grabs on hand on his own, and tugs until Soap looks at him. "Together."
"Yeah," Soap nods.
He knocks quietly, before he can persuade himself form it. Simon doesn't let go of him, and Johnny doesn't either.
The door is opened by a young woman who looks similar to Johnny, with the same blue eyes and brown hair. His sister.
"Oh, Joan!"
"John," he corrects in a hiss.
"And who's this handsome fella?" She flirts.
"I'm Simon," he answers. He seems stiff using his first name. "Johnny's fiancee."
The woman's face falls, "no shite."
"Yes, shite," Johnny returns. "go'nae let us in?"
He fidgets a bit while the woman stares. "Right yes. Mam!" She turns from the door. Before entering, Johnny looks up at Simon with a wince.c
"Here we go," he says.
"I'm here," Simon assures, and let's Johnny lead him inside. They don't set down their bags quite yet. Neither wanted a kid to go though it and find something they shouldn't. Reports that needed to be completed, after action photos. Pistols, with ammunition.
Yeah. Not something for a kid to find.
An older woman, that must be Johnny's mother, comes from the kitchen. She's wearing black, and Johnny twitches when she looks over him.
"You'll have to come to church then," she spits with a smirk like she's won something.
"I leave Saturday. Just here for the funeral. You invited me."
"And who's that?"
"Simon," Johnny says. "dinae Elise tell ya?"
She snuffs. "You know where you room is, Joan."
"John," Simon corrects.
"Yes, love?" Johnny answered automatically.
Simon shakes his head. "We should take these up. Price wants a call."
"Yeh," Johnny nods, and leads Simon upstairs. He throws how bag without ceremony into the chair, and Simon sets his down on the floor beside it. "This was a bad idea. We should 'ave got'an a hotel."
"It's alright," Simon assures, huffing him.
"Just until Saturday," Johnny nods. "Let's check in, and then we can get some dinner?"
"Mam wants you to eat with us," Elise says, lingering in the door way.
"Shite," Johnny curses.
Simon let's Johnny go to close the door. "We're here together. That what matters."