Chapter Text
Soap could never sit still in the briefing room. The chairs were always too uncomfortable, and Price’s voice became white noise after a while. But here he was, feeling the left part of his asscheek fall asleep.
“Alright, listen up, lads.” Price started, dusting off his bucket hat. The rest of the 141 were similarly examining their gear - tightening straps and securing knives. They were coming off a break in between missions, taking on something that should be a milk run for the formidable task force that they had become. Being gracious, Laswell had thrown them the scum of the earth - Barakat Al-Sayed, an experimental poison scientist who sold his talents to a human trafficking ring, a simple bag and tag.
“This should be easy, in and out once the helo drops us down.” Price jerked his chin down at the map on the table. “Our intel has placed Al-Sayed on the south side of this building, minimal guards and staff clocked out by four o’clock. Not sure what he’s cooking in those labs down there, so keep your masks close and your fingers to yourselves.”
Soap kicked Gaz’s chair across from him and murmured, “Talking to you, Garrick. No sampling in these kitchens.” Kyle had a bad habit of snacking from the uncooked cookie dough bowls and swiping handfuls of ingredients others were using at any given time.
Gaz replied by kicking his chair so hard he almost tipped back, and Soap cackles.
“Boys,” Price raised an eyebrow at them. Soap dropped his eyes back to the map, biting back his grin.
“Sorry, sir,” Gaz remarked, shooting the other sergeant a short glare.
“I’m serious. Touch nothing and keep your gloves on.”
“Rog,” came from all three of them.
Soap slid his eyes over to the Lieutenant, ever the perfect soldier. The man had his thumbs wrapped around his vest straps, and if Soap didn’t know any better, he’d say boredom was radiating off of him. Under the skull mask, his brown eyes were half-lidded, his brow unfurrowed.
"Anything pressin’ we should be worried aboot?” Soap asked, crossing his arms.
Price hummed, “Kate got some information for us about what Al-Sayed normally cooks up.” He rifled through some papers and handed them to the sergeant, “Hallucinogenics, narcotics, and ingestible poisons - ones that cause death and a kind of manipulation that allows the victims to become puppets. Mind-control almost.”
Gaz frowned, shifting forward in his chair as he took the papers, “And he’s advertising this stuff? Selling to the highest bidder?” Price nodded. “Bloody hell.”
“That’s where we come in,” The Captain tucked an emergency cigar in his pocket. (Soap was there when he used the last one on an 18-hour mission)
“Kill the bastard before he has a chance to sell any of it.” Ghost spoke, his gravel voice being aired for the first time in hours.
“Sounds easy ‘nough,” Soap nodded, agreeing with the rest of them. They stood, determination on their faces as well as an almost pre-giddiness with the anticipation of an easy win.
“Good,” the captain nodded at them, his eyes bright, “Dismissed. Nik’s driving. We leave at 2100 hours.”
Loading up into the helo was always exciting; the little boy in Soap was still bloody exhilarated every time. All he wanted to be as a kid was a soldier. He never thought he’d be where he was now. Soap smiled up at Ghost as he jogged up the ramp. He bumped his shoulder against the silent Mancunian’s as he turned and looked across the helo pad. His lieutenant was a quiet man by definition, but didn’t seem to mind the tactfulness that Soap could never seem to get rid of. He’d always been “touchy,” as his ma would call it. When he joined the military, he realized just how little soldiers shared comforting touches. He made it a silent mission to bestow fist bumps, back slaps, and shoulder claps to everyone he could. It was just worse with his team. Gaz got the brunt of it mostly. Gaz was his brother in all but blood, and he acted like it too. Many times, the two of them would take their sparring a bit too far and end up wrestling like wee youngins.
The silence between the two had shifted from Soap being in awe of being in the presence of The Ghost to dare he say it, comfortable. Soap would even go so far as to call them friends. Battles build strong friendships, and betrayal even more so.
He glanced over at Ghost. The man was intimidating as hell, yes, but now Johnny knew he cared. Somewhere in that cavernous chest of his, the Ghost had a beating heart that cared for the 141 and craved camaraderie. Soap liked to say that he played a large part in bringing Simon out of his shell since he joined the team, but he couldn’t be sure. His Lieutenant wasn’t big on heart-to-heart conversations.
Ghost was always on the helo first, a silent omen as he waited for the rest of the task force. The helo seemed to glow like a dream, the green interior highlighting Ghost’s skull mask.
Johnny smirked, thumbing the ribbing on his assault rifle, “Hey, Lt., do you know what kind of music chiropractors like?”
Ghost took a moment, but he took a deep breath in, the only movement telling Johnny he wasn’t standing next to a statue. “What, Johnny?”
“Hip pop,” Johnny bit the inside of his lip until he heard the huff of air escape the Lieutenant and then he broke into a grin. He had come to learn that a little huff was as close to a belly laugh as Ghost was going to get.
He sees Price and Gaz walking up to the helo, and the anticipation singing in his blood turns to excitement. He subconsciously straightens, and he runs the plan through his head again. He shakes out his hands to distill some of his nerves. A simple mission, just getting their feet wet again.
“Eager, Sergeant?” Ghost asks, a hint of teasing in his low rumble.
“Aye, wanna get this guy before he has the chance to hurt anyone else.” Soap nods as the last two members of their team slide past him to take their seats.
Ghost hums, almost muffled against the fabric of his mask.
“Well…let’s go get us a win, yeah, Johnny?” Those golden eyes were slightly creased in the corners, Simon smiling slightly as he recalled their first meeting.
Soap’s grin almost broke his face. “Roger that, Lt.”
Strapping in and getting settled for the long flight was no hardship of Soap’s. He enjoyed the anticipation of the journey, allowing himself a chance to review the mission, think about possible outcomes, check his mags and bullet count. All things that he’s done previously, but the downside of long helo flights is his unused energy has nowhere to go. And after a while, his brain couldn't come up with things to double and triple check. There wasn’t much talking one could do, and shouting was needed even through the coms. It was just he, himself, and his lonesome. His leg started to bounce, and his fingers drummed against his chest plate. A prickle of unease bloomed in his gut.
He glanced over at his Captain. Price was napping against the hull, his head tipped back and his rifle resting on his lap. The man could sleep anywhere, lucky dobber. Ghost was beside him a few seats down, still as a statue, eyes closed, but Johnny knew he wasn’t asleep. He didn’t sleep on missions. Ever. Gaz was across, watching him when he finally slid his eyes over to the dark-skinned man, giving him a kind, exasperated smile. Soap felt his face flush, a bit embarrassed to be caught.
Gaz unbuckled himself and walked the short distance across the aisle to sit next to his fellow sergeant. He patted Soap’s thigh and reached into a pocket in his tact vest. Soap’s eyebrows and curiosity rose. Gaz had a habit of keeping a small paperback book of some sort tucked into his spare pocket that was made for ammo magazines. Garrick’s parents had started sending him the books back when he was a private, all bought from their hometown library, and were mostly late 60s and early 70s sci-fi. It was always fun to see what he was reading next. Gaz pulled out a beaten paperback with an ocean and a shark-like creature on the front and flipped it so Soap could read the back. The mohawked sergeant hummed (which Gaz definitely couldn’t hear) and nodded, skimming the summary. It sounded interesting enough, almost an Aquaman rip-off if humans evolved from sharks. Gaz’s eyes sparkled, and the two sergeants huddled together to start reading. Soap didn’t let himself feel bad about his fidgeting and prayed that Gaz would always be so understanding, willing to distract him. He squeezed his hands to his thighs, willing them to still so they wouldn't disturb anyone else.
It was a sore spot when people commented on his absent-minded movements. He couldn’t stand it when people commented on how he was always keyed up…spastic…overexcited. His parents didn’t know what to do with his excess energy, and it made childhood…difficult. His chest warmed with gratitude to have a friend who took it in stride. Gaz bumped his shoulder against his fellow sergeant’s, drawing him out of his thoughts, and the corner of Soap’s mouth ticked up. He gestured for Gaz to turn the page and reveled in the chuckle he could feel radiate through his shoulder. He pressed closer and allowed himself to get lost in the story.
It was an actual pity to have to pull away from the book when Nik relayed their drop zone was only a few minutes out. The plot had really started to pick up. Muscle memory awakened within Johnny as they dropped from their helo, sliding next to his Lieutenant with Gaz on his other side. The two other members were as alert as ever, battle-ready and primed to complete this mission. Soap couldn’t escape the nagging feeling in his gut as they marched through grass fields in a loose formation. Something wasn’t sitting right about this mission. Soap rechecked his gear. Night vision flicked on and safety off on his rifle. He pulled back and allowed Gaz to move forward as Al-Sayed’s building came into view. The base the scientist chose was high in the mountains, with a cold fog rolling in. The sergeant frowned as he took stock of each member of his team, all alert and on point. Was it only him who was feeling off? Would they judge him for being jumpy if he said anything? Especially since it was just a feeling, no tangible proof as far as Soap was aware.
They entered into a more secluded section of the mountain, using the trees as coverage. The base was getting closer, and with it, the reveal of a few armed guards and patrols. Gaz and Soap dropped down and quickly positioned themselves in a sniper position. Ghost and Price hide behind the trees, quietly moving out of sight. Soap wasn’t too worried; there weren’t that many people still at the compound, and the patrols worked in two-hour shifts. They had time.
“Bravo-six, what’s your status?” Laswell’s voice buzzed in their ears.
“We’re in the tree line, Soap and Gaz set at firing points. Eyes on half a dozen hostiles at the northern entrance.” Price responded, his voice low and gruff.
Laswell was quick in her reply, “You’re green-lit. Fire when ready. Good luck, boys, and be safe.”
“Rog’, stand by for breach,” Price nodded at the two sergeants, “Boys.”
Gaz nodded and adjusted his scope, “Two hundred meters. Soap, on me.”
“Aye, got it.” Soap slowed his breathing and tightened his fingers on the trigger.
It was short work from there, Soap allowing himself to get lost in the motions of sniping and following the other sergeant's instructions. Wait, breathe, pull. Over and over until the northern entrance was clear.
Gaz looked back at Price as the last two hostiles fell, “On you, Cap.”
Price dipped his head at them, a small proud smile on his face, “Good work, lads,” he turned to the Lieutenant, “Ghost, start the timer.”
“Rog,” Ghost tapped his watch, specifically designed to alert them at the end of two hours when the next roving shift of scientists would arrive at the compound and see the bodies of their co-workers. They needed to be out of here before that.
Price clicked on his com, “Watcher, how copy?”
“I copy, John. What’s your status?”
“We’re good here, Laswell, six down. Pushing forward.” Price waved them further.
“Copy, stay on it team. Out.” Soap smiled at the bluntness of their overwatch. Laswell was a lovely lady, but Johnny’d hate to be on her bad side. She was vicious when she wanted to be.
Arriving at the building was uneventful, with Ghost and Soap breaching the entrance easily. Soap was on alert, a tug in his gut alerting him to any potential danger.
“Gaz and I will take the lower level,” Price radioed, clear in his ear, “Ghost, you and Soap take the upper. Rendezvous in an hour if all goes well. Radio if you have any problems. Copy?”
The rest of them radioed their confirmation.
“Johnny, on me.” Ghost headed up the stairs.
Soap felt his blood sing, despite the pit of anxiety rotting in his stomach, and stepped in line with Ghost.
The base was dimly lit, their footsteps echoing slightly as they walked. To the left of them were two unchecked rooms. Ghost gestured with his head, and Johnny switched out his rifle for his tact knife. The mission here was stealth, and if they blasted up the whole compound, Al-Sayed could spook and run. The lieutenant waited in the hall with his scope trained and ready as Johnny turned the knob and entered. He gently eased open the door, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. When nobody came charging at him, he signaled for Ghost to continue down the hallway as he cleared the room.
His gut wouldn’t settle with this mission; something just wasn’t right here, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. The room was simply decorated and looked a lot like living quarters or an apartment, small with not a lot of hiding places. Soap’s shoulders dropped, and he sighed. He sheathed his knife and walked to the illuminated desk. Papers were strewed all around with messy handwriting and what looked to be scientific formulas. “Clear, Lt,” He dropped his hand from his throat mic as he thumbed one of the pages. Johnny frowned as he saw them. He wasn’t the smartest lad at the SAS, but he wasn’t a complete bampot. He recognized a few chemicals, but the rest were beyond him.
Two clicks in his ear, signaling the other room was clear too. A few minutes later, the lieutenant arrived at the sergeant's side.
“What’ve you got, Soap?” The skull mask zeroed in on the papers.
“Could be valuable, but half of this is naff.” Johnny started rifling through the drawers, trying to keep everything in place. He glanced over at the older man, guessing his eyebrow was raised under the mask. He gave a small smirk, “Allow me to use your language, sir. It’s rubbish.”
Ghost shook his head, his brows furrowing. The man reached for his com, “Price, Gaz, how copy?”
“Clear down here, Ghost, nothing unusual. Three hostels down,” Gaz briskly reported, “What about you two? Havin’ any fun?”
The two soldiers shared a look, debating what they would tell the rest of their team. “Clear up here, might have some intel. Situation still undetermined, we’ll keep you updated,” Ghost decided. Soap nodded and turned back to the papers.
“Rog,” Gaz replied, “Stay safe.”
“Copy, Sergeant, same to you.” The lieutenant turned back to their unusual discovery.
Ghost grabbed a page and held it up, “I don’t think it’s even English.” Soap hummed and gave a small, triumphant sound as he stood from his squat to reveal a three-ring binder. He flipped it open to the front page.
“Project Hourglass - experiment session fifty-six.” There was no other description, and a quick flip-through revealed a lack of pictures. But it did reveal more of the same script. It was jagged and dark, like the person was frantic when they wrote it, but there wasn’t a single discernible word in the jumbled mess. Until the last page. “Subject deceased, realignment not met, experiment ceased at spike thirty-four.” Soap paused, confusion lighting up his bones, “What in the hell is this?” Apprehension prickled up his spine as he thumbed another page of research.
Ghost looked like he had similar questions and pulled the binder closer to him. Johnny could read in his shoulders that the man was tense, skepticism written in his movements. Johnny bent and reached into the drawer again, pulling out two similar binders. He threw them onto the table, “Sessions thirty-one and fourteen,” He handed one to the lieutenant and started to flip through the one labeled fourteen. He turned from the desk and paced as he read. Soap shook his head in bewilderment at the dozens of pages of illegible script, symbols that weren’t of any known gangs or terrorist organizations, and violent sketches of various people, subjects, he assumed. All in the same desperate and manic font. As he scanned the pages, a small piece of paper flew from the binder, floating to the floor. Soap cursed and crouched to grab it, and something caught his eye, glinting in the low light.
Soap froze, ice flooding his veins. Scratches. Dug into the floor. Long gouges in the concrete, dragging towards the back of the room. Human nail scratches.
“Oi,” He whispered, nerves alert, “Ghost.”
Ghost, observant as ever, didn’t give a spoken answer, taking heed of his sergeant’s lower voice. He brought his gun up and stepped forward until he was side by side with Soap, flashlight flicked on, and pointing at the scratches.
The two soldiers share a look, both disturbed at the findings they’ve come across. The hair on the back of Soap's neck stood up. They both follow the lieutenant’s flashlight as Ghost follows the scratches until they…disappeared? The scratches seem to simply stop at the wall.
It clicks in Soap’s head at what he’s seeing, and he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. He gets up and rushes to the door, his hands itching to touch, “No bloody way!”
“Soap,” Ghost scolds, pulling his gun down so he doesn’t get his sergeant caught in the crossfire.
Soap whips his head around to gaze at the lieutenant, his eyes bright. “Ghost, it’s a secret door. It swings out. There’s gotta be a way to open it.”
Ghost pauses for a second, reexamining the door before refocusing on the other man. He brings up his gun, caution written in every line of his body. Ghost nodded. “Get it open then.”
“On it,” Soap pointed back at the desk, “See if there’s a switch or something underneath.” Delight at finding a hidden door yet anticipation of danger battled for room in his stomach making Soap feel slightly nauseous.
Ghost hmphed but turned to look. “This isn’t the movies, Johnny. None of the 007 shit.”
“Ah, awa’ n bile yer heid, Lt,” Soap was examining the scratches, getting a sense of the width of the door frame, and feeling along the wall. He stepped closer to get a sense of any airflow through the hinges. “Never pegged you for a Bond girl.”
Ghost gave a noncommittal noise, and Soap heard the sound of papers shuffling behind him. “Connery’s the only decent one. Grew up on ‘em.”
Soap’s mouth curved into a smile, pleased with the little tidbit from the normally closed-off man, “The rest not up to your standards, aye?”
Simon hummed and simply replied, “The books were better.”
Soap barked out a laugh. Of course, he’d read the books. He smirked at the door. He stepped back and thought for a moment before simply pressing hard against where he thought the frame would be. It opened with a quiet hiss. “Ha!” He turned over his shoulder, “Ghost,” he whispered, excitement still coloring his voice, “I did it.”
The Lieutenant looked at him for a moment, eyes fond before he burst Soap’s bubble by holding up a small black remote.
Soap clicked his teeth, “You’re no fun, Lt.”
The sergeant could tell there was a smirk on the Lieutenant’s face behind the mask. “A for effort, Johnny.” He moved passed Soap, raising his gun as he crossed the threshold.
“A for asshole more like it,” muttered Soap as he followed close behind.
Ghost chuckled, rich and warm as he headed down another set of stairs.
Both of them blinked rapidly as white lights flickered on as they descended, reminding Soap of a hospital. The lights continued to flick on one after another in an ominous path.
They looked at each other, getting their bearings. Stepping into the unknown was always risky and, with their line of work, often deadly. Soap dipped his head at the taller man. He trusted Ghost and would follow where he led. He had to trust Ghost knew that too.
The lieutenant’s eyes roved his face and must have found what he was searching for. “On me, Johnny.”
“Aye, Lt,” Soap replied.
He followed.
It didn’t take them long to reach the end of the hallway, which resulted in a lab. The door was open and the lights on. Ghost slunk his way in, observing the shelves upon shelves of experiments, vials, and beakers. Soap shivered at what could be in the bubbling jars and smoking containers. It was like someone packed every high school lab experiment into one place.
Soap almost crashed into the other man as he froze and moved his rifle to his shoulder, muzzle pointed at one of the desks ahead. Soap peaked around his lieutenant’s shoulder and there, in a white lab coat, was someone mixing vials. They were muttering to themselves, voice barely audible as they swirled a purple-looking liquid in a test tube. They turned and their profile came into view.
Al-Sayed.
Ghost looked back and behind, directing Soap to the other side of the table. They would separate and corner. Soap nodded, and they both stalked towards the man. The sergeant’s nerves were up, the anticipation and tension easing back into him.
Their footsteps were silent as they inched towards the target, hoping with bated breath that they could just place a rifle against his head and call it a day.
But luck was not on their side.
Al-Sayed placed the vial down and scratched his nose. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the two of them, and went back to writing notes. Then it clicked. He whipped around, panic on his face.
“Don’t move!” Ghost ordered. Both of their guns trained on him. Ghost relayed the command in Arabic.
Al-Sayed nodded, but Soap’s instincts didn’t settle. He gripped his rifle a little harder. The man was slow to raise his hands, and it took one shifty glance of his eyes for the Sergeant to telegraph what the man was going to do next.
“Don’t-” He shouted, hand reaching for him, but it was too late.
Al-Sayed moved fast, lobbing the vial of liquid at Ghost and swiping his arm across the desk to shatter and shove everything at the lieutenant.
Ghost lets out a sound that’s close to a growl as glass shatters across his feet. Soap could only pray there was nothing seriously dangerous in the liquid that pooled at the lieutenant’s feet. He’s proven wrong when it starts to sizzle and pop. The vial thrown at his face is blocked by his rifle muzzle, but the hard plastic gets covered, which starts to ominously sizzle as well.
Al-Sayed makes his move and dashed out, passing Soap in a blur of white.
“I got 'em!” he shouted, chasing after Al-Sayed. A slippery eel that one. Dangerous too.
He ignored Ghost’s upset “Soap!” as he chased the scientist back down the hallway.
Soap was hot on his heels, legs eating up the distance between them. A giddy sort of feeling started to bubble in his chest. Call him crazy, but he did enjoy the chase, the hunt, that came with these missions. The moments where his head and body were in sync, and all the energy had a purpose. And after all, the bastard got a good shot in; he needed to even the score. His chest started to heave, surprised at the agility Al-Sayed was showing.
In a sharp move, the other man ducked into one of the rooms they cleared on the way up. Too caught up in the chase and only realizing it a moment too late that he should have stopped and prepared before charging into a blind spot, something bright orange explodes in his face.
In a moment, Soap is blinded, gagged, and suffocated. He can’t breathe; whatever he inhaled coats his throat and goes down like fire. He coughs and keeps coughing so hard he almost throws up. It takes him to his knees, his eyes watering as he goes down. He’s vulnerable right now, open to attack. He's scrambling, and fear licks up his spine. He doesn’t even know which way the door is. He hears footsteps running away from him and unsheathes his knife. He’ll go down fighting if he has to. Soap swipes at his face again, willing his eyes to stop spouting tears like a waterfall. He can barely open them without them stinging like a son of a bitch. After a few moments, when nothing attacks him, he allows himself the chance to back himself up against a wall. He slides down it, his face throbbing and his tongue feeling like lead inside his mouth. His instantly nauseous, bile coating the back of his throat. He tries to collect himself, but it’s not working. Soap needs to tell the rest of them he doesn’t have eyes on Al-Sayed. He needs to check on Ghost. Prize and Gaz were in danger too. He's screwed up the mission more than he thought possible.
His voice is mangled when he goes for his throat mic. “Gh’st,” he tries, clears his throat, which makes it worse, and speaks again, “Bar’kat. Lost ‘em. He’s-” he coughs and feels like he swallowed glass, “Threw somethin’ at me-” That’s all he can get out. His eyes are blurry, everything in blobby shapes. His brain’s spinning, what did he ingest? Hallucinogenics? Poison? A spark of fear takes root. He could have seizures, choke on his own blood. Crack and sizzle like Ghost’s gun. Pain is making him panic, and rational thought is escaping him. Soap can do better than this, Soap is better than this. It’s just pain; he can push through. It takes him a few moments before words filter in.
“-ap? Soap? Johnny!” Ghost bit out in his ear, the sharp sound of worry clear.
“Aye, h’r.” Soap squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard as the burning still didn’t seem to go away. He needed his eyes. He couldn’t be a soldier without his eyes. He cursed himself for not putting on his mask. Stupid. Acted like a bloody fool.
“Where are you, son?” Price asks, crisp concern tainting his voice too.
Speaking’s hard right now. Swallowing feels even worse. Soap tries to think, tries to clear his vision, tries to breathe. “Al-Sayed-lost ‘em,” he manages before setting off another round of coughs, this time the force causes him to throw up whatever he has in his stomach. He wipes his face as best as he can. He needs to let them know. The mission will fail if they lose their target. He coughs and spits, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lungs feel like they’re shrinking, and his throat feels like a hand is squeezing until he’s going to be blue in the face. “Never mind that,” Price orders, “Where are you, John?”
Soap groans, his voice raspy, “Upper level, one of the rooms. Closest to the stairs.” He shivers, feeling like he’s going to throw up again. John, the name his mam gave him. This must be serious if the Captain is calling him by his first name.
He hears them before he sees them, and it’s the only reason why Gaz and Price don’t have a bullet in their faces when they rush into the room, as his eyes are still stinging like hell and they haven't cleared. They feel similar to back when he was a wet behind-the-ears greenie being pepper-sprayed during drills. Actually, they feel worse. He hears the two of them and allows himself to slump against the wall, trying to catch his breath and grapple his body back under control.
“Soap!” cries Gaz, rushing over and dropping to his knees next to him. His hands rise but hesitate, like he doesn’t know what he can do without hurting the other sergeant, alerting Soap to how bad he must look as he peels his eyes open.
Soap wheezes a breath in, eyes flickering up at the Captain-shaped blob standing in the doorway, “Al-Sayed?” He asks, his voice breaking, hoping beyond all odds that his major screw-up didn’t let a terrorist through their grasp. “Ghost?” He asks with almost the same intensity but for entirely different reasons. The lieutenant hadn’t exactly been safe when he left him.
Price strides into the room, a determined set to his steps. “On his way, he’s fine.” He drops to a knee next to the sergeants, his brown eyes pools of distress. “We gotta worry about you right now, Soap.”
Johnny shakes his head, but doesn’t stop them when they start to fuss over him. He must look pretty bad if they’re openly showing this much concern. Guilt eats at him, burning more than the strange powder. A dark, vicious part of his brain is glad to see that they care. He hated being the FNG when he first got to the SAS, cycling through a few squads that told him he wasn’t “the right fit”, he was too undisciplined, too energetic, too talkative. Just...wrong. He had hoped he’d found his place, a family with the 141. It soothed something inside him to see the open worry on their faces.
He tries to tell him he’s fine, but they aren’t having it. A clatter interrupts them, and three sets of eyes turn to the lieutenant in the door frame. Ghost is locked onto him, his eyes betraying his emotions. He’s worried, which in turn, sends ice shooting down Johnny’s spine.
Soap must be dying. Ghost is never worried.
“Al-Sayed?” Johnny asks, confused as to why the rest of them don’t seem to be worried about their escaped target.
“Detained. Got ‘im with Nik’s help.”
Soap opens his mouth to apologize to the three of them when he chokes and starts coughing again, which spurs the other two into action. Price and Gaz work together to clean him of whatever substance the crazy scientist threw at him. He winces when he hears the thud of Ghost’s knees next to him. A gloved hand touches the back of his shoulder, a clean place, to give some comfort. Price and Gaz snap on plastic gloves, and Soap prays that whatever is on him, doesn’t transfer to any of them. They use water from their canteens and one of Ghost’s spare masks to clean his face and eyes as best they can. Soap can feel them hold their breath as they wait for any side effects to take hold as they work. Any number of drugs can cause hallucinations, seizures, and burning. Who the hell knows what the scientists concocted in this lab that could be far worse. They try to flush his eyes, but that just makes it a bigger mess. If he got dosed with anything, all they can do now is wait for it to take effect or for Soap's body to react.
Soap’s nauseous, anxiety swelling in him. He's so worked up about what will happen next that he’s panicking, shallow breaths becoming shallower. He neglects to tell the others either way. “Shit, son.” Price frowns as he takes in the state, unhappy with what they’ve been able to clean him of. He shifts to rest a hand on Soap’s ankle.
Johnny has enough vision by now that he can see that whatever powder was thrown on him is bright orange and he is covered in it. From his hair to his neck, down his tac vest, and past his thigh holster. An apology is still stuck in his throat, and he can’t squeeze his Captain’s wrist to show his regret at screwing up their mission. “You solid?”
Solid? No. Throat on fire and slowly feeling like he’s swallowed acid, yes. But, he’s a soldier, he’s One-Four-One, he’ll be fine. He can’t let him slow them down more than he has already. He is fine. Soap’s vision is already starting to come back, the blobs Ghost and Gaz have turned into becoming sharper. He wheezes and swallows hard as he shakes his head yes.
Price doesn’t look convinced.
“Exfil?” Ghost asks, pouring more water on Johnny’s already-drenched mohawk. Soap doesn’t even have the energy to complain. He just closes his eyes again. They haven’t let him drink anything, not wanting him to ingest more of the powder further, being cautious that ingesting water might be an activator for something, but God, what Soap wouldn’t do for a drink right now. His mouth has turned numb, and his throat still burns every time he swallows.
“Five minutes out, a click west.” Price looked back at Soap, his eyes swimming. He squeezes his ankle again. “We’ve already informed Laswell. She’s having medical standing by.” All three pairs of eyes turn to Johnny.
Shit, they look so worried, he thinks. He tries to break the tension. “Any way to save the ‘hawk, Cap?” He pants, raising his eyebrow. He’s started to shake again, and he’s pretty sure it’s not just from the adrenaline crash. His skin feels like there’s ants underneath, a burning sensation like acid crawling along his arms.
Price lets out a stuttering chuckle, “Not a chance, son. Finally give you a chance to buzz that god-awful thing.” He shoulders next to the blue-eyed sergeant and gets an arm that Soap suspiciously can’t feel over his shoulder. In one movement that makes Soap's vision swim, he's standing. The world sways as they get Soap upright, black spots dancing in his eyes.
Gaz joins him on the other side, hefting Soap’s weight, “Getcha back to regs like the rest of us.” Gaz laughs but Soap can tell it’s forced and the worry doesn’t leave his eyes. Price and Gaz share a look over his head and he knows they can feel the tremors running through his body.
His legs buckled.
“Soap,” Ghost lunges, heedless of the danger he puts himself in, and helps them steady the quickly losing consciousness sergeant.
He jerks in their arms, flinching away from them, desperate not to get any powder on them.
Their concerned faces are the last thing he sees before the world goes black.
Soap woke with a start, inhaling sharply through his nose. Adrenaline shot through him as he remembered what happened on the mission. Was the team safe? Did they have Al-Sayed? He quickly glanced around at the dim room. Hospital. He shifted and the scratchy sheets of the medical wing of their base confirmed it. Soap let out a short cut-off groan when he registered the deep muscle ache that seemed to spread across his body. His face felt sticky like his eyes had been closed for a long time. A heart monitor steadily beeped in his ears along with…snores? Loud snores.
Soap’s lips gave a tired twitch as he registered who was snoring. He opened his eyes and glanced to the left, relaxing back into the bed as he saw his sleeping Captain. Price was slumped in the chair next to his bed, bucket hat clutched in his hand, chin touching his chest. His shoulders were still rigid, and the man looked bloody uncomfortable.
Soap’s heart warmed as he shifted in bed, swallowing against a sore throat. He felt exhausted, like he worked out for hours. All of his muscles were jelly, warmed up and stretched out. It was uncomfortable, but Soap has had worse. He shifted again, sitting up slowly, testing his limits. He was thinking about how he could make a quick getaway to his room when Price let out a loud snore. Soap froze, blanket clenched in his fist. When Price's breathing evened out again, he let out a breath.
“He’s been waitin’ for you to wake up,” A voice from the other side comes, soft and tired.
Soap whipped his head around, instantly regretting it. His skull felt like lead and spots decorated his vision. He breathed through it, pushing back the bile on his tongue. When he opened his eyes again, Ghost filled his vision. He got hit with a small spike of deja vu, though this time under much better circumstances. Hopefully. Ghost was blocking the hallway light, his silhouette denying Soap’s tired eyes the chance to read his face.
“You planning on leaving, Sergeant?" Ghost asked sharply, coming into the room and taking a seat in the remaining hospital chair.
Plan foiled, Soap deflated against the bed. He scratched at the tape holding his IV line. He smiled ruefully, “Can’t blame me, can you, Lt?”
His smile dropped when Ghost said nothing. Soap swallowed, guilt and shame filling him.
He scrunched his eyebrows, shifting his smarting body, “How long h’ve I been out?”
“Around eighteen hours,” Ghost’s rich brown eyes caught his, and Soap was surprised to see distress in them. “You passed out before we could get you to the helo, and you had a seizure when we landed,” Ghost continued, leaning back and crossing his arms.
Soap hummed, closing his eyes and raising his eyebrows, “Explains the aches.” He shifted his legs a bit, frowning when the movements weren’t as smooth as he liked. He took a moment to absorb the information.
Silence reigned for a few beeps of the heart monitor before Ghost spoke again, “You were stupid, Johnny.”
Soap can’t help the flinch, the words striking home harder than he liked. He looked away from the lieutenant, clutching at the hospital sheets as he clenched his jaw.
Stupid
The word rang in his head, moments where his classmates, teammates, his family, called him the same thing flashing through his mind. He hunched his shoulders as if that could erase his shame at his actions. Nothing hurt more than being called stupid or viewed as stupid. It was something Soap tried to fight against with every fiber of his being.
“You know better than to run after terrorists.”
Soap felt a stab of anger in his chest, “I couldn’t just let him escape, could I?” His brows drew together as he stared at the mask-clad man. “It’s our job.”
“Your job is to listen to orders! I told you to stay put-”
“I wasn't about to let the mission go to shit-”
“If you had waited-”
“OI!”
Two pairs of eyes, golden brown and startled blue, shot to the now awake Captain.
“Enough, from the both of you,” hissed the Captain. He eyed the two of them - Simon quiet and stubborn and Soap chastised and pale. He jerked his thumb to the door, “Ghost, take a walk. I’ll talk to you in a minute.”
Ghost rose with a glare to the Captain, before pointedly looking at Soap, as if to say We’re not done. A hard shove to his shoulder got him moving again.
Price sighed, pinching his nose as he came and stood by Soap’s bedside. Soap can't help but squirm at the sound, reading the disappointment radiating off the older man.
Soap braced for Price’s anger, waiting to be chastised for almost costing them the mission. For making a stupid decision. His stomach churns and he fidgets as subtly as he can as the silence builds.
“Sir-“ He starts but the captain holds up a hand to stop him. Soap’s stomach drops.
“Soap,” Price lifts his head and his captain's gentle eyes take him off guard, “How are you feeling, son?”
The question takes him back. How was he feeling? Price wasn’t…mad?
Soap frowns, “Fine, sir.” He sits up as straight as he can, hoping the exhaustion doesn’t show on his face.
At Price’s raised eyebrow, he knows he failed.
“Son,” the captain tries again. “You almost died, you’re allowed to feel shitty.”
Soap can’t help the small laugh that escapes him. He glances at Price, reading the worry in his shoulders and the gentleness in his crows feet. He decides to let loose a little truth at the sight of the open concern. “Feel like right shit, Cap”, he drawls, letting his head hit his pillow.
And honestly, he does. His limbs feel like lead, his head is pounding, and he can feel a fever seeping into his skin like the cold, but instead it makes him shiver with heat and pain. The adrenaline from the fight with Ghost is quickly fading and he can feel himself going under.
Price hums, taking his seat again and scoots closer. A calloused hand feels his forehead before it sweeps through Soap’s hair. He can’t help but close his eyes against the gentle touch. Soap thinks he can remember his mother or some other relative doing this once or twice when he was feeling under the weather as a kid, but it’s faint. He remembers how comforting the action was. He makes a small noise in his throat and at Price’s chuckle, warmth floods his chest.
Price tsks, frowning at the heat he was feeling. “I’ll get the nurse to bring you something. Your fever’s rising again.”
Soap wakes up enough to snatch the captain's wrist before he turns. He has to get this out, has to let Price know. “I’m sorry,” Soap mumbles, trying to express his urgency. “I didn’t mean to screw up the mission. Ghost was right, I was being stupid. I-”
“Soap, Soap,” Price grabs his wrist and clasps their hands together. “It’s alright, son, missions go wrong, but this wasn’t your fault. Simon was too harsh on you.” Soap scoffs, “Enough of that. You focus on getting better, I’ll talk to our wayward Lieutenant.”
Soap opens his mouth to argue, but Price hushes him. “If this happened to Gaz or Ghost, would you be feeling the same?” The captain raised his eyebrows at him, “Would it have been their fault?”
Soap frowned but shook his head quickly. That’s entirely different. Though he figured mentioning that fact to Price wouldn’t help his case.
Price nodded his head, “Alright. Then it’s not your fault either.” He patted his still clenched hand, “Now your job is to rest and recover.”
With a sniff, Price stood, patting Soap on the chest as he went to the nurse’s station. He stopped at the doorway, “If I hear another sorry out of you, I’m gonna assign you latrine duty for a month.”
Soap gave a tired chuckle, feeling his eyelids get heavier and heavier. He gave a weak two-fingered salute before Price smiled and tapped the doorframe twice.
Soap sighed, sinking into the pillows. He let the heat trapped under his skin and the fatigue he felt through his body lull him back into the darkness, his shoulders a little lighter and the guilt not so encompassing.
He burns.
He burns, tongue thick and hands heavy as he fights through the flames, sweat clinging to his temple
He burns as his father’s blunt fingers dug into his arm, into the belt, into his hair
He burns as machines scream and unfamiliar voices shout around him
He burns as he remembers feeling small and breakable, weak
He burns and tries to reach out, tries to grasp them, but no one is there
He burns and he thinks he screams
He burns as hands try to grab him, to take him away, to punish him
He burns and he burns and he burns