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Ever since he was young, Ghost had found comfort under the cover of the night sky. Her obsidian veil drawn tight, allowing for the stars so carefully sewn onto it to shine, possibly even as brilliantly as their daytime counterpart. As he grew older, he’d look to them to find his fallen brothers amongst them.
In spite of this, he’s no stranger to the monsters who cowardly hide themselves in said provided safety. He’s come to know many throughout his time in the army. Seen their faces, fought alongside them, and be led by them. He doesn’t doubt he’ll continue to know them. Likely long before the last grain of sand sat inside his hourglass comes to fall.
Nevertheless, now, as he sits once more under the star-freckled sky, he undeniably knows he is safe. At least, for a little while. For now. After all, who knows what monsters the morning light will reveal.
Across from him sits his brother-in-arms, Soap. A man he’s come to know intimately over the years. In spite of what his brain begs him to believe, he trusts him. A fire sprouted from a handful of twigs divides the two men.
Its heat serves only as a temporary comfort, as the cold climate–and even colder winds–bite at their tired bodies. The occasional crackling of flames fills the silence hanging between them. Ghost notes the exhaustion etched into his friend’s features. An expression he no doubt mirrors. It comes as no surprise then, that for once, neither man jumps to fill the quiet with idle conversation or bad jokes.
Mere days ago Price had assigned them a duo mission. One that was supposed to be simple. Their goal; obtain the documents residing in the leader’s office and get out. The group residing in the area is a new–assumed–trafficking ring. Dealing mainly in weaponry, though according to reports, they're seemingly not opposed to the human trade either. In the past months they’d grown bolder, more arrogant, as their trade and influence grew.
Laswell had been provided a layout of their hideout–a mansion–drawn out carefully by a local informant. The map also outlines all routes for entry and exit into the building. Allegedly this would leave those taking said routes undetected. All of the 141 unanimously agreed discreteness would still be applicable regardless. Their goal in the end was simple; grab the necessary documents and bounce.
Once there, if the captain is to be believed—and he so often is—the target could be found on the third floor. Residing in his office. The whole mission could be done in a handful of hours. Hell, they’d done similar jobs in less. So, with the layout of the building mostly committed to memory, they were ready. By all means, it had been set up to succeed.
Life has a funny way of keeping people on their toes.
The two men didn’t make it much further than the second floor. They quickly came to realise, the intel was dirty. Now surrounded by men who had obviously been waiting for their arrival. Men who would call themselves soldiers rather than the butchers they in reality are— all of them equally armed to the teeth with feral glints shining in their eyes. Though the welcome wagon was truly a heartwarming sight, Soap and Ghost silently agreed they would not like to stay for the buffet of bullets that would undoubtedly follow soon.
Hastily exchanging the necessary pleasantries—mainly consisting of a variety of swears and “Run!” ’s shouted in increasing alarm—they narrowly make their escape. Not left with many options, Ghost makes the executive decision the best (and only) way out is through the nearest window. Glass shards burrow themselves into clothes and flesh alike as he does. A parting gift of sorts. After all, it would be rather rude to leave empty-handed.
Though avoiding most bullets and knives thrown in their direction, some did manage to find purchase. So with a knife lodged in Ghost’s upper thigh and the small army no doubt soon to follow suit, he dashes, best he can, for the forest line. Thankfully it starts a mere 30 feet away. He knows Soap would be right behind him soon enough. Despite his loud mouth he was good at following orders when needed.
“You… You think we lost ‘em?” His hands grab onto his knees, in a feeble attempt to catch his breath. A chuckle rings through the air. He recognises it easily to be Johnny’s.
“God, I sure fucking hope so.” soap puffs out in response, mirroring his lieutenant’s actions. He finds the effort to be mostly fruitless, yet continues regardless. He manoeuvres his body to lean against one of the many oak trees surrounding them as he does. He duly notes the heavy pounding of his heart and the muted stinging in his shoulder are still ever-present.
“What happened to you bein’ top of your class?” ghost teases, the slight undertone of humour evident in his voice. Soap knows a grin, though hidden, undoubtedly accompanies the sentence. He shakes his head in return, a grin of his own dancing on his lips as he does. Banter always flowed easily between the two. No matter how stressful the situation.
Ghost finally dares to glance over to his…to Soap. Azure eyes meet those of burnt umber and he recognises the many words that are left unspoken. The very same words who sparkle and scream in the waters left uncharted. The words that dance in the air between them. They’ve been dancing to the same melody for years now, never seeming to tire. It has, perhaps unknowingly, become part of their routine.
And he knows as well as any man, woman or person in the army, that routines are good. They must remain unbroken. They’re created and set in place to keep order. To keep the machine oiled and going. It keeps people functioning. Without its structure everything might come apart. Ghost might come apart.
Were he a more courageous man he might’ve dove in already. Holding on for dear life as the waves try with all their might to engulf him. Drag him down, the weight of his sins serving as cinder blocks, or perhaps he’d already swam to their joint solution.
But Ghost has never been a brave man when it comes to matters of the heart, and so he leaves them unspoken, keeping the dance from its end and keeping him drowning in the oceans that make up Johnny’s eyes. It’s better that way. Safer. For both of them.
“Oh fuck you, you bastard.” Soap deadpans in return, dragging Ghost from his thoughts. For emphasis, he shoots a glare at his lieutenant. Though both know the heat behind it is hollow. Recovering swiftly, he retorts.
“C’mon, this little bit of cardio is what takes you out?” He clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. “Expect double training when we get back Sergeant.” His voice sounds gruff yet breathless, even to him. Realistically, were he to follow through on his threat, both men knew it would cause no problem. At most, it would leave the sergeant a little more sore than usual at the end of the day.
Soap makes a move to, Ghost assumes, protest, but any words he might have had died on his tongue. Instead, a pained groan makes its way past his lips, the sergeant freezes in his movements for just a moment too long. An uneasy feeling settles in the lieutenant’s stomach.
The other man rigidly moves his hand to the left side of his shoulder. His fingers—as he feared—come away dripping wet with scarlet.
“Shit.” Both men mutter in unison. The scot lets his head hang seemingly in defeat. He bites back another groan as the intense burning sensation now registers. Though it is still somewhat dulled largely thanks to the adrenaline still happily pumping through his veins.
He’d felt it while running, of course, he had. That type of pain wasn’t something even adrenaline could tune out in its entirety, nor something most people could just as easily ignore. Soap had assumed, however, it was simply his previously acquired bullet wound once again acting up. He’d disregarded it, blaming the cold temperatures they’d found themselves in. He figured Ghost would be in a similar boat with the scars and old wounds that line his body. He’d seen them a handful of times before. Quick glances in the showers had revealed most of them. Though he tried to never let his gaze linger, in fear of getting caught.
He’d been lucky enough that the bullet all those years ago had only burrowed itself into his muscle, missing any bone. Still, rehabilitation remains as unpleasant as always. Especially when it comes to bullet wounds. As was the chronic pain the—then—new wound left him with. Healing in and of itself is a long and tedious process that often left both men antsy to do something . To do anything. Not that the Medbay doctors would ever allow it. They run a tight ship, and have surely met—and kept—men far bigger and far more stubborn than them in line.
Over time the pain itself would pass. And Soap would grow more and more accustomed to it as it does. More used to the previously empty spaces on his body slowly filling with old wounds and scars. Memories from missions, he’d call them. Though, he’s unsure assigning them the sentiment truthfully helps with the unease that settles in his bones when he looks at his reflection a flicker too long. He never dared complain about any of it. After all, he made it out alive so far. The same could not be said for all his brethren. He has no right to complain.
“MacTavish,” Ghost grunts, his gruff voice dragging the other from his thoughts. His good arm is leisurely thrown around his lieutenant neck, helping him carefully stand upright. “C’mon, up you go,” he almost whispers, encouragingly. Soap leans most of his weight on the man as they make their way over to a rotten tree stump.
“You seem to have an affinity for getting shot in the shoulder, don’t you Johnny?” Ghost teases. He swiftly sweeps the little bit of snow from the stump, as he carefully lowers Soap onto the semi-flat surface. His hands wrapped around the other’s waist, offering support, as he does. His comment earns him a snort. Though he’d never admit to it aloud, his stomach flutters at the sound whenever it’s made. Unfortunately, the sound this time is followed quickly by another pained grunt once Ghost removes his arm.
“What can I say, it really gets me going.” Soap counters with a wide grin. Seemingly in good spirits despite their current situation. Simon knows better than to trust the man on his word alone.
“I’m sure it does.” He shakes his head lightly with a chuckle. “Where’s your field dressing?” he asks. His eyes do not leave his wounded shoulder. The bullet has pushed right through the various layers of clothing. Now leaving the dark smoke-coloured fabrics coated in crimson. Ever the fashionista Ghost notes to himself it doesn’t look great. Despite this he reckons he’ll live, if they manage to get to exfil sooner, rather than later.
“Most left front pocket.” Soap answers, swiftly. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think you like me.” he continues teasingly, making the other roll his eyes in fake annoyance..
“I like you alive.” Ghost states, repeating the words from the mission years ago. A soft smile tugs at Soap’s lips because of it. Softer than it has any right to be. Ghost recognises the smile, though he’s not seen much of it in the army, before that—before he became who he is now—he saw it often on his brother's face. He caught glimpses of it when Tommy would look at Beth and Joseph. A smile like that is not meant for someone like him. He doesn’t bother to comment on it, now’s not the time nor place for that discussion.
Truthfully, he doesn't know if either would ever come.
Instead of continuing his line of thinking— for fear of what it would lead to and uncover—Ghost swiftly finds the plastic-wrapped square package. He places it carefully on the tree stump before daring to turn back to the sergeant.
“Always the charmer, eh LT?” Soap says, the smile is still there. Ghost only grunts in return, attempting to keep his mind busy on how to deal with their current predicament, instead of letting it wander. The mission had failed, rather obviously, and returning to the mansion at present would not end well for either of them. The guards are likely on high alert thanks to their first attempt as it is. To reach exfil, when they ring it in, they’d likely have to pass the building regardless, however. They’ll cross that hill when they get there.
Or, they would. If either of their radios actually fucking worked. He guesses both were sent to radio heaven during their fall. With the sky already painting the world in shades of honey and wine, the decision is easily made. Set up for the night and make their way to the previously agreed upon exfil location once first light comes.
Cautious hands wrap the wound with practised ease. Though he makes it a point to avoid Soap’s eyes, fearing if he doesn’t he might find himself engulfed in them once more. Surely, this would be the time he’d be pulled under by the strong current in which Johnny’s chaos and emotion can be found. They made it their home long ago after all. Ghost absently wonders if he is to join them at the bottom one day.
He finishes wrapping it, having cleaned it as much as possible with what little materials available. He gives a quick nod to signal it’s done. Soap, whose eyes had followed the others hands like a hawk, offers him a kind smile.
“Thanks, LT,” he grins warmly. “Think it’ll last me ‘till mornin’?” He gives Ghost’s shoulder a little push with his good arm.
“If you’re lucky.” Ghost shrugs, voice monotone in reply. It only seems to brighten the Scot’s smile.
“Ah, so I should be fine then aye?” Soap teases, a spark shining in his eyes—not unlike that of an excited child. Golden light dances across Johnny’s features as he sways, the flames leaving gentle kisses in their wake as they do. Across thick and bushy brows, the light beard he’s still not shaven, his pronounced cupid’s bow and thick lower lip. Something unnamed within him wishes to do the same.
The sergeant’s dark chestnut mohawk sits atop his head in chaotic waves. As stupid as he may have thought it looked, he cannot deny it strangely suits him. Though it really wasn’t a mohawk anymore. It has grown far longer than Soap probably ever intended it to. Also likely just about fitting inside regulations. It’s not a bad look though.
“You’re staring.” Soap’s voice drags Ghost from his thoughts. “Have I got something on my face?” he questions, apparently far more perceptive than Ghost gives him credit for, or perhaps he’s never been as covert in his glances as he liked to think he was. A look of surprise crosses his face, though his eyes widening is truly all that could be seen.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed LT, you’ve been doing it all night.” Soap leans his muscular arms on broad thighs, leaning closer ever so slightly—though he’s still a good bit away. “At first I thought it was just a ‘Ghost’ thing,” His fingers make air quotes at his name. Ghost things? He’s not oblivious nor arrogant enough to think having small tics and habits escape him, but he certainly didn’t think they’d be noticeable or reoccurring enough for others to really notice. “But… It’s strange, I’ve never seen you do it to others.” Soap continues.
“You don’t.” This, now, in turn leaving the scot confused. “Have something on your face, you- you’re good.” he clarifies while averting his gaze, even to his own ears his voice sounds breathless. As he bites at his chapped lips he’s suddenly very glad for the fact he wears a mask. It is currently hiding his shamefully flushed cheeks at being caught.
“Then why?” A sigh rolls over Soap’s lips, his face wears an unfamiliar expression.
“What?”
Another sigh passes his lips, as he lets his head hang for a moment in frustration. “Why do you stare at me Ghost?” he clarifies, his tone sharper than it was before. “Because you ain’t do it to Price, or Gaz, or any of the other recruits. It’s just..Just me…why me?”
And what is the man in question to say here? What reply could he give that would not end with their friendship strained? Were he to speak the truth, it could potentially risk just about everything. The inherent trust built over years, upon years of lethal missions. All the fragments of stories shared in the dark, pieces of the puzzle of their lives, before any of this. Things from a distant past neither man cares to admit they miss. After all, it’s of no use now, having lived and breathed war and violence it’s become a part of them now. Sunken into their blood.
If he allows himself to ruin it, ruin them, now, all of it will have been for nothing.
They will have been for nothing.
Yet, if he lies, to one of the few people he can truly call a friend, it would eat away at him. Consume all that is left in the barren house he was forced to build from his splintered bones on the faltering foundation that is Simon Riley. Comfort is usually brought by silence, yet now, as he remains quiet in the face of an expectant Soap, it’s nauseating.
He remains silent.
The other man only sighs at the non-answer, muttering “Never mind.” under his breath. The twinge of annoyance becoming more and more evident in his voice and body language.
And listen, he knows, he knows —far better than most—that expressing emotions, discussing, and let alone showing them as they’re happening does not come easily to Simon. Even so, Johnny cannot help himself grow frustrated. Not exactly at the man himself, it’d be plain unfair to truly be upset with him over behaviours ingrained and carved into his bones long before he realised its meaning. Behaviour Soap’s been slowly picking away at–making little progress.
Nevertheless, the game where the stupidly tall man is unable—or perhaps, outright refuses—to see the blatant fondness and infatuation Johnny holds for him, so evident in nearly everything he does, is beginning to grow stale. He also knows Simon is trying, probably far harder than he’d ever truly realise.
Silent as always, Ghost stands, turning his back to the other man, done with the conversation. Desperate to move on to another thing. Any other thing. In uncomfortable moments he tends to grow restless. Having something, anything to do typically serves as a great distraction.
Perhaps now it's time to prepare their sleeping arrangements with what little they have.
And so, both men end up laying upon a shitty excuse of a bed, but it’ll have to do for now.
“Did I ever tell you how I got my name?” Ghost tries, trying to ease some of the palpable tension. The obsidian sky has now fully swallowed the hues of honey and wine, while the fire burns weakly, desperately holding on to its few remaining embers, it casts both their faces in shadow. Perhaps for the better, in this case.
“No,” Soap replies, voice far quieter than Ghost prefers. The sea meets burned wood once more. And maybe, maybe if he dreamed hard enough, the waters would welcome what’s left of his burning corpse in its cold arms. “No, I don’t believe you have.”
“Got it long before enlisting, believe it or not.” Ghost chuckles humorlessly. “As a child, it became important to know how to disappear,” he wiggles his freezing fingers for effect. “Move through the house unseen and all that. I’ve told you ‘bout my old man haven’t I?'' he asks, genuinely unsure. Soap thinks on it for a moment.
“Only brief mentions here and there I believe. Not much else.” He replies after a little while, shrugging briefly. He’d never outright spoken of the man, there had been the odd off hand comment here and there which had begun to paint a picture of a sadistic man.
“Hmm,” Ghost hums in reply, eyes not meeting his. Instead focused on—what he assumes to be—a tree. “He was…a cruel man,” He settles on. “never liked me much either. I’ll spare you the details, they ain’t pretty.” He gives a noncommittal shrug. “He was why it became,” he stops again to find the right word. “a necessity to learn it. By the time I finished primary, I had it mastered.” Glimpses of the past find their way back to his mind, showing themselves in rapid flashes before his eyes. He tries to blink them away. “Turns out it’s a rather useful skill in our line of work.”
“Is that why you enlisted?” A light chuckle escapes Ghost at the logical question.
“It isn’t surprisingly enough.” A smile plays at his lips—not that Soap could see it. “Registered because what else was I supposed to do? My father planted a seed of something…. ugly inside me. I didn’t know its name then, and yet…I…I made no move to stop it. I let it fester, as he watered it.” Day in, day out. “Until its roots became intertwined with my body and it…It became a part of me.” He takes a shaky breath in an attempt to steady himself. “I didn’t know what to do with myself when that... thing became louder. If anything, I thought it best to make use of it here.”
“Did it not…ya know, scare you?” soap inquired. He’d been listening intently while remaining—uncharacteristically—quiet. Trying to pick up on any changes in his voice, it’s far too dark to properly look at the taller man.
“Wasn’t so much scared, more …fearful,” he decides. “If anything, I was fearful. Before enlisting I was fearful of the man I was about to create. ‘fraid that someone born of such dark things would…I don’t know…Consume me? I suppose.” The silence drags and Ghost almost wants to ask if Soap had finally fallen asleep.
“Has he?” The question sounds genuine enough, the man's voice far quieter than the lieutenant would like. The question is so simple, yet so difficult all the same. “It’s said to be easier to embrace it, rather than fight it, no?” The scot continues. Ghost remains quiet, knowing full well he was right.
“I don’t know.” He eventually answers truthfully. “As years pass it’s hard to say where Ghost ends…”
“And Simon begins.” Soap is kind enough to finish the sentence for him. The other man nods in reply. “Would you ever let him go?” the sergeant ponders aloud after a moment. “Put Ghost to rest.” He adds carefully, afraid the suggestion might make Simon shut him out once more. Close himself off and raise the walls he’d been trying to climb since he joined the 141.
“Would I ever put Ghost to rest?” The lieutenant repeats. Snorting a little as he speaks. “Truth is, every day I’ve worn that name I’ve hated him a little more.” A sigh rolls over his lips, as he closes his eyes. He puts his hands together, finding comfort in the touch. “More importantly. Is there enough of Simon left to truly bury Ghost.”
Johnny rolls to face Simon now, suddenly being a lot closer than he intended to be. He could feel the others' breath reach his lips despite the balaclava. Simon opens his eyes at the movement, giving him a questioning look.
“This okay?” Johnny questions, voice near quiet. This was the first—and likely last—time he could truly look at his companion of many years. Despite the mask, observing the little details often forgotten amid battle. Such as the few freckles scattered just below amber eyes, missed by the dark makeup which covers most of the area. Or how said eyes, illuminated only by the faint light of the campfire, looked as though they held a fire of their very own.
“Yeah,” Simon answers breathlessly, following it with a soft nod. He wasn’t exactly used to being in this proximity to another living person.
“You don’t have to do it on your own you know?” Johnny whispered, not looking away from his eyes.
“I can’t just ask you to carry my burden, Johnny,” Simon whispered back. He lets his eyes scan the other's face, lingering just a second too long on his lips. “Wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“Nothing in life ever is.” The soft smile returns to his face once more. It suits him, Ghost decides. “Allow me to help you, Simon.” Imploring blue eyes search his own, silently pleading with him to accept.
“I don’t know if I can.” Muttered the lieutenant. “I can’t lose you as well.” Soap’s head flinches back ever so slightly as his eyebrows furrow together.
“What do you mean? You won’t- I won’t just leave you- What makes you think-” He rambles, tone growing more agitated as he continues speaking. The taller man stops him in his track by gently grabbing his hands into his own.
“You remember Roach?” He inquires quietly.
“Yeah, of course, we were friends.” Simon smiles at this, knowing the answer before he even asked. He’d seen them about on-base being the best of buds, and of course, heard both parties excitedly talk about the other. Or in Roach’s case see him sign almost animatedly. He’d not been as close to Soap then.
He takes a deep breath before continuing. “When we lost Roach …I raged. Was intentionally cruel to our enemies, the recruits. I was distraught, as I’m sure you were too. I wept day in, day out ‘till my eyes physically couldn’t anymore.” Another shaky breath, followed by an encouraging hand squeeze from the man opposite him. “I’m not proud of myself then. But, I managed to come back from it. Largely due to you and the others. I’m almost certain the old man would’ve kicked me to the curb had he not been grieving himself.” He chuckles.
“He considered it for a short while.” Soap grins.
“I don’t blame him.” Their eyes find each other again and for a moment Simon cannot help the grin tugging at his lips beneath the mask. “But with you …I’m ruined over you.” Simon professed. “I don’t think I can make it back from you.” Johnny’s eyes widen in surprise, his mouth forming an O-shape. “I don’t know if I want to…”
“Ghost…” He begins carefully before being interrupted by the taller man.
“Simon,” He smiles under the mask. “It’s Simon.” Johnny beams back a smile of his own. This one is soft and gentle and full of something Simon recognizes easily yet fears to name at this moment.
“Simon,” The scot repeats, more so for himself than anything else. The name sounds good coming from his mouth. Finally more real than fiction. “Can I kiss you?”