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Chapter Text

Soap's experience with violence throughout his entire career molded him into a gentle and tolerant person with an unbreakable spirit. His words of encouragement and reassuring touches during a rough mission were able to bring out the best in any broken soldier like the warmth of the sun melts away the bitter snow after a harsh winter. His influence was apparent in the rookies that he teaches and in the positive atmosphere inside the base. It's safe to say that Soap held an important role within Task Force 141.

The sun began to set when the plane carrying the task force landed. The team managed to recover important documents regarding the location of Makarov's possible hideouts in central Europe. After many failed missions and tragic casualties, it was lifting to finally be able to take a step toward finally taking him down for good.

Soap stepped off the plane with a smile on his face. Although he was sore from the physical demands of the mission, he was satisfied with the outcome. He felt accomplished- he contributed to the victory of his team. Not only did everything go according to plan without a single hiccup, but he also managed to get a few laughs out of his stoic lieutenant with his cheesy jokes and receive playful shoves and reassuring touches in return. Although it happened hours ago, he could feel the phantom weight of Ghosts' hands and the warmth they left behind. It bled into his chest and lit his soul aflame.

Over the past few weeks, he'd been considering whether he should confess his feelings to Ghost. He would run every outcome in his mind, again and again, from the very worst to the very best, sometimes losing sleep because of it. Ghost was difficult to read. He would participate and even initiate playful banter with him, exchanging words that were on the cusp of unprofessionalism, but he would also give him the cold shoulder and be very curt with him. Soap merely brushed those moments off, chalking it up to bad days with recruits or paperwork- maybe even a shitty morning. There were more good instances than bad. Those lingering eyes and fleeting touches had to mean something. He doesn't treat anyone else like he treats Soap. He had to mean something to Ghost, right?

His smile grew when he felt a familiar jab to his shoulder. "Get cleaned up and prepare for the debrief in two hours. Good work, Johnny," Ghost said.

"O'course, LT," Soap replied. He would've said more, but his lieutenant seemed to be in a hurry to get back to base. He couldn't blame him at all. Soap felt disgusting in his clothes, which were coated in mud, blood, oil, and sweat. He swore he had a pound of dirt in each of his boots. He couldn't wait to get in the shower and clean this shit off.

After scrubbing his skin raw in the showers and using enough shampoo to create a tower of suds on his head, he slid into some casual clothes. He picked up a quick snack at the chow hall before heading to Price's office. Since the mission went so smoothly, he predicted that the meeting would be short and sweet, leaving him free for the rest of the day. With his extra time, he could visit Ghost or play cards with Gaz if he wasn't too tired. He was excited to end the day on a positive note. Speaking of the two, they were already in Price's office.

Soap checked his watch. It was fifteen minutes before the meeting was supposed to start. He knocked on the door, poking his head in when he heard Price's muffled 'come in.' "Ahm not late, am I?" He asked, slowly stepping in and closing the door behind him.

"Not at all, son," Price replied, "Now that you're here, we can get this meeting over with. We have something important to discuss after going over today's mission."

"S'not bad news, is it?" Soap inquired, taking his usual spot next to Ghost.

"Quite the opposite, actually," Price's warm chuckle melted away any anxiety Soap had building up in his chest, "It'll be a pleasant surprise for you all…or something new." His gaze was locked on Soap, indicating that the other part of that sentence was meant for him. His curiosity was piqued, now.

Just as he expected, the meeting blew over quickly. After they were assigned paperwork, Price stood up and placed his hands on the back of the chair, his crow's feet accentuated by the smile on his face. "We've received news from Laswell about Sergeant Sanderson."

Soap's eyes caught how Ghost's posture straightened up at the news-as if he were about to spring out of his seat. Sanderson, from what he'd gathered from the small stories from Ghost and Price, was important to the team. They both talked about him with fondness - like one would describe a happy childhood memory. Although he was curious, he did not pry. Sanderson was considered dead, so it was a sore spot for all of the task force.

"He was found alive in a facility not far from where we had to retreat several years ago," Price said.

Soap saw the disbelief in Ghost's eyes and the drop in Gaz's jaw.

"Where is he now?" Ghost asked with urgency.

Soap's never heard this much emotion in his voice before- not even when they were sharing personal, and often sensitive, details about their lives late at night in a quiet corner of the base. He was desperate.

Before Price could reply, there was a knock at the door. It slowly opened seconds later, revealing a slim figure wearing a surgical mask. His brown curls rested right above his bright, green eyes.

"Roach…" Ghost muttered as those emerald eyes met his. He bounded over, nearly hip-checking a chair. His arms reached out and brought Roach into a tight embrace, which was returned in full. Gaz followed, nearly smothering Roach with his body.

Jealousy reared its ugly, green head and constricted Soap's chest, making his breath hitch. Almost immediately, a wave of shame rushed over him along with hot anger directed against himself. This was a heartwarming moment- a soldier, presumed dead, reuniting with his team- and the last thing he should do is make it about himself. He watched the scene with a somewhat forced smile.

After a few minutes, Roach was finally given room to breathe. He had to smack Ghost's and Gaz's shoulders to shoo them away. Soap felt a shiver travel down his spine when Roached looked at him.

"This is Sergeant MacTavish, our newest member of the 141," Price said, clasping a hand over Soap's shoulder.

Soap stood up and held out his hand for Roach to take. He noticed that the other sergeant's hand was rough yet could demonstrate such gentleness. From this contact alone, he could tell that Roach was a good person. Guilt sunk deep into his chest, bordering on physical pain. How could he- for even just a moment- hold something against Roach? How he felt shouldn't be Roach's responsibility, and Soap was going to make sure of that. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard so many things about you. You can call me Soap."

Roach pulled his hand away and began to sign. Soap's BSL was a bit rusty from underuse, but he managed to piece what he understood together.

'Nice to meet you, Soap! It'll be a pleasure to work with you,'

He could see the smile in his eyes, for the skin at the corners wrinkled much like Ghost's.

'Likewise,' Soap's movements were slow and awkward, but the message was received with glee. Roach's movements sped up slightly.

'You know sign?'

'Just a bit. I haven't used it in a while,' Soap glanced away, feeling somewhat bashful.

'It's still pretty decent! I can understand you when you speak, I just can't talk. You don't have to use sign with me,'

Soap chuckled and shook his head: "No can do, mate. Ahm no passin' up a chance ta learn." He spoke to him this time, snorting when Roach raised a brow at him.

"English, MacTavish," Ghost called out from behind Roach.

Soap rolled his eyes, signing as he spoke: "It is English, you knob."

Roach's shoulders shook with silent laughter at the interaction: 'You're funny!'

"Hey mate, wanna get something from the chow hall? I'm sure you're tired of that hospital goop." Gaz said, slinging an arm over Roach's shoulder. The sergeant replied by holding two thumbs up and nodding his head.

The group left Price's office, Roach and Gaz chatting away while Ghost stayed quiet with a hand resting on Roach's shoulder. Soap lingered behind, watching the three of them interact with each other. They fell together seamlessly as if they were three pieces to the same puzzle. Soap could feel the strong connection that threaded between Gaz, Ghost, Roach, and Price.

Soap felt secure with the bond he shared with his teammates and captain. They worked together well, and Roach's return would make their team invincible! Soap just hoped that he was able to fit within the "original team" now that it's been restored.

When they took seats at the tables, Soap noticed that Roach took his usual spot next to the lieutenant, so he just sat next to Gaz across from Ghost. They chatted over dinner, sharing stories to catch Roach up on the lives of his crew.

Soap couldn't help but notice how Ghost interacted with Roach. It was as if he was afraid that the sergeant would disappear if he let go of him. A gloved hand was always resting on Roach- over his shoulder, on the small of his back, his hand, or his thigh. Sometimes the touches would be reciprocated with a hand covering Ghost's or entangled arms that disappeared under the table with fingers laced together.

It took Soap months for him to receive anything from his lieutenant. The Brit was a tough nut to crack. His walls were so thick and built so high, Soap had doubts that he would ever see what was behind that mask. He chipped at that wall each day, slowly wearing it down. He cherished each moment that Ghost was vulnerable with him. After the first time the Brit came to him maskless with tears in his eyes in the dead of night, Soap swore to himself that he would do anything to protect him and make him happy.

When the trays were put away and the night came to a close, Soap wished his teammates goodnight (he received a small laugh from Roach when he attempted to sign it to him) and made his way to his room. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He was excited to potentially create a relationship with Roach, but he couldn't shake off the insecurities that sprouted from his return. After seeing the way Ghost easily dished out affection for Roach, he decided to keep his feelings to himself.

He would do anything to ensure Simon's happiness, including sacrificing his own.

He lay in bed, eyes glued to the ceiling as his mind was overwhelmed with thoughts. It seemed like hours before he reached out and switched off his lamp, submerging him in darkness. The room felt colder than before, and the thin blanket felt scratchy against his skin. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, ignoring the throbbing ache between his ribs.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed slowly for Soap. While the rest of his team worked to assimilate Roach back into the task force, he busied himself with paperwork and other tedious tasks that would've been put off until the deadline. He wasn't alone often since he always made plans with Ghost or Gaz during his time off, but he hasn't seen them around the base at all. He could only spend so much time at the gym or in the recreation room before getting bored out of his mind.

He walked to Price's office with a manila folder tucked under his arm. He knocked and waited for his captain's voice to come through before opening the door.

"What's going on, son?" Price asked, glancing away from his work to address Soap.

The sergeant set the folder on his desk: "Finished up the documents from the mission early, sir."

The way Price's brow rose was comical. It was as if Soap had told him the sky was green and someone had set the ocean on fire. His large hands took the folder and flipped through the pages while his eyes closely examined the content. After a few minutes, the folder was placed down and given the hum of approval from Price.

"Good job, son! Usually, I would've had to bug you about it the day before it's due, but I'm glad you're on top of it," Price said with a chuckle as he slipped his reading glasses off his face.

"Aye, well…" Soap presented a bashful smile and glanced away, "I've had more time to get things done recently."

"If you keep this up, you'll be quicker than Roach. That kid was always the first one to toss a folder on my desk after missions," Price recalled with fondness, arms crossed over his chest, "Sometimes it would be the same day that I handed it to him."

Soap knew that Roach was a great soldier from all the stories that he's heard. He was great on the field and he apparently still held the same integrity on base. No wonder everyone was torn when he was pronounced dead. He was a good person overall. Maybe if he operated the same way, he wouldn't have to work so hard to get praise.

"Dunno how he did it. Any amount of paperwork is insufferable," Soap replied with a snort.

"Doesn't help that you can't sit down for more than a few minutes, son," Price said.

"Oi, Ah still get it done!" Soap feigned offense at Price's words.

"Yeah, yeah, just keep it up, okay?" Price placed the glasses over his eyes, "Now, get out, I need to finish some boring administration stuff." There was no malice behind his words as he shooed his soldier away.

Soap laughed and gave him a two-finger salute before turning to leave: "Yes, sir! I'll bother you later."

Much like the other days, he was left with nothing to do, so he aimlessly wandered the hallways, hoping to catch a familiar face or two. He waltzed into the rec room, expecting to find it empty, but he found Roach and Gaz playing cards. He smiled at the sight.

"Hey, guys!"

Roach turned around and gave him an enthusiastic wave while Gaz's eyes remained glued to the cards in his hands. Soap sat down between the two at the circular table and glanced down at what they were playing. It was poker— specifically five-card draw.

Roach slapped the table to get Gaz's attention and began to sign: 'Make up your mind! You're taking too long!'

"Oh, piss off! You totally rigged these cards," Gaz huffed.

'That's an excuse, Gaz. Maybe you should've practiced more when I was considered dead.'

Soap chuckled at the reply and gave Roach a playful bump on his shoulder.

Gaz, his best friend, rolled his eyes and kicked Roach's leg under the table: "No one to play with, here…It's not fun without you."

Soap eyed Gaz, tilting his head in confusion. They have played countless games of poker ever since they established a friendship. Did Gaz not see their time spent together as fun? Was he just something that Gaz uses to pass the time? Was he a replacement? Each night they held cards, the other sergeant seemed to have a smile on his face and laugh at his shitty jokes. Soap lost most of their games thanks to his terrible poker face.

He opened his mouth to defend himself, but he decided against it. He didn't want to prove Gaz's point by ruining the mood. Maybe he was just letting things slip because Roach was back.

Gaz huffed, discarding a few from his hand and picking up some new ones. From what Soap could sense, he didn't seem to get what he wanted.

Roach tapped the table, wanting Gaz to play his cards.

The sergeant threw his cards face up on the table, revealing a Jack of spades, a Queen of hearts, a King of diamonds, and a pair of tens. Although it had the potential to be a royal flush, luck was not on his side. Roach set his hand down with a cheeky smile, revealing four Aces and a Jack.

Gaz released a string of light-hearted profanities and curses toward Roach, who was laughing in return.

"You got room for one more?" Soap asked, excited to play a game with his new teammate and best friend.

Gaz sighed, pushing the cards into one heap in the center of the table. "I'm tuckered out, so I'm heading to bed. I'm sure Roach would love to stay and play, though. He turns sadistic on a winning streak," he said, standing up from his seat.

"What did you do today, Gaz? Usually, you're up 'till some ungodly hour," Soap inquired, taking his new seat in front of Roach.

Part of him wished he never asked because he wasn't prepared for what came next.

"Oh! This morning, we all went to town to show Roach around the city— went to cafes, restaurants, stores…just like old times!" Gaz replied with a warm smile, "Even Price tagged along. I didn't think he was going to leave that office of his."

Oh…

Soap ignored the way the ache in his chest throbbed ever so slightly. It was as if the man himself had reached into his chest and decided to squeeze his heart.

No wonder the base was like a ghost town this morning. Why wasn't he invited, too? He wasn't a part of the "old crew," but he still wanted to spend time with his friends. Maybe they just wanted to relive old memories…memories that didn't include him.

They should have time as a group together, Soap thought, Roach just came back and missed out on so much.

"I'm glad you guys had fun. You lot definitely deserve it," Soap said, drawing his attention back to the cards Roach was shuffling.

"Well, I'll see you guys tomorrow, alright?" Gaz then left the room, leaving Roach and Soap to themselves.

Soap doubted that.

"G'night, Gaz!" He wasn't sure if it reached him past those closed doors.

"You ready? Maybe I'll give you a run for your money!" He placed his happy façade on once more.

'Let's see about that. I haven't lost yet!'

Soap picked up the cards Roach dealt to him and examined what he had. After a few moments, a large figure appeared behind Roach. Soap knew who it was. He didn't even have to raise his eyes. Ghost always carried a strange aura at all times— an aura he was fond of. A masked head peered over Roach's shoulder. Roach used a hand to pat his face. It was a simple, yet intimate gesture.

Soap glanced away from the scene, stuffing his face into his cards as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. He scratched at the itch that appeared on his chest. He felt so awkward sitting right in front of them as they had their moment.

"Wanna head to the bar when you're finished, Bug?" He heard Ghost ask.

His lieutenant already had a cute pet name for him.

Soap threw down two cards and drew two from the deck. Ah, nice, an Ace of Spades and a Joker. He obtained a wild card. Maybe he had a chance at winning after all.

His eyes fell over the crudely drawn court jester. He drew his thumb gingerly over its mask, bitterly envisioning his face hidden behind it. He felt like a joke. The one-sided situation-ship he had with Ghost was pitiful and silly. He would scramble for scraps of affection much like how a jester would draw laughs from a crowd through self-humiliation and self-deprecation. What a comedian he was…

A small tap on his leg knocked him out of his trance. Ah, right, he was playing a game of cards.

"Oh, sorry…I was thinking," Soap said, hiding the bottom half of his face behind the fanned cards. "You've got quite the poker face. Show me what you got."

Roach placed his hand down: four queens and a single King of hearts.

Soap didn't pay much attention to what he had before placing it face up on the table. There were two black eights, two black aces, and his silly joker.

"Full house…doesn’t beat your four-of-a-kind," Soap said with a bitter smile, "Good game, yeah?"

'Nice try! I still remain victorious!' Roach signed quickly with a small chuckle from Ghost. He understood why everyone loved him, now. He was so sweet to him despite just meeting him at the beginning of the week. His kindness doesn't seem to have any limits. No wonder Ghost took such a strong liking to him. 'I would love to continue, but I've got to go. Have a nice night, Soap.'

"I'll beat you one of these days, Roach," He replied, eyes still glued to the table, "Have fun, alright? Stay safe out there."

He suppressed a grimace when he felt a jolt of pain shoot across his chest at the sight of Ghost's hand resting upon Roach's lower back as they walked away. He was left alone again, surrounded by silence. Orange rays of evening sunlight slipped through the windows, shining over the empty seat in front of him. The room felt so big now that everyone was gone. He felt awkward sitting here by himself. He gathered the cards, wanting to clean the table up for the next group of people (or lone soul) that came in.

His hand grazed the five cards fanned out before him. He glanced down at his play and frowned. The smiling eyes of the Jester bore into his soul, silently mocking him. He felt as if he was the butt of one of its jokes. He slipped the card into his pocket, keeping it as a reminder of what he could never have. It's not like anyone would miss it. It's not even used in most games nowadays. It's just some stray, out-of-place card— an outcast. If he caught himself dreaming of Ghost, he could look at the Joker and let it berate him with its fixed smile and soulless eyes. Maybe he could move on.

He left the table as it was, abandoning the mess, and retired to his room.

Speaking of his room, he needed to talk to someone about getting his thermostat fixed. No matter how far he turned the dial, it just seemed to get colder and colder. He swore that he could see his own breath in the air and feel ice build up on his brows in the night.

He walked in and closed the door, shuddering as a cold breeze brushed past his bare arms. He had to shed his clothes to get dressed in something warmer, much to his dismay. He slipped on a hoodie and some fleece—lined sweats that he dug out from the depths of his closet before sliding himself under the mound of blankets on his bed. Once he was comfortably cocooned, he grabbed his sketchbook from his nightstand. He still had a few hours left before he had to go to sleep.

He thumbed through the pages, reliving all the memories he jotted down. There were written notes, little doodles he made out of boredom, intricate sketches of landscapes and cityscapes he saw on missions, and portraits of his own teammates. He saw Price, Gaz, even some recruits that left a lasting impression on him during his career… and Ghost, his lieutenant.

He had so many pages dedicated to his iconic skull mask and the many tattoos that were on his body. After his face was revealed in Las Almas, he made an effort to commit each detail to memory— his scars, blond curls, his honey—brown eyes. He was blessed with more opportunities after coming home from that operation. He spent hours sketching him, perfecting it.

Once Roach came back, it was almost as if he didn't exist to him. He was afraid that he would forget his face. He worked so hard to earn his vulnerability only for him to go ice—cold when Roach reappeared. Each time he saw Ghost, he was either with Roach or chatting it up with Price and Gaz. Anytime he would try to join in on a conversation, he had nothing to say. They were always talking about old times, telling Soap that he "had to be there to understand" or that it was "a small inside joke in the task force." Soap loved hearing all about their past, but he never felt more isolated in a room filled with his friends. Anytime he would try to add his own experience, it would be shut down immediately and covered with an old story from Price or Gaz that everyone else would know except for himself. He didn't feel like talking with them anymore.

He winced when he felt an uncomfortable sting on his chest. This felt much sharper than the dull ache that's been growing in intensity over the past few days. He glanced down and saw that his hand had been subconsciously scratching at the same spot under his hoodie for who knows how long. This definitely wasn't a bug bite.

He tossed the book to the side and slipped out from the pocket of blissful warmth. He went to the connected bathroom and stood in front of the mirror that hung over the bathroom sink. He lifted his hoodie over his chest and froze at what he saw. He blinked, squinted, and rubbed his eyes— it was still there. He wasn't hallucinating.

He stepped closer, placing a finger on the discolored patch of skin. It looked as if he was punched in the chest with a great deal of force. The center was nearly black and faded to a sickly green around the edges. He saw darkened veins around the affected area. It felt like a bumpy rash.

He tucked the hem of his hoodie between his lips and retrieved some creams and some gauze. He didn't see anything when he stepped out of the shower with a towel around his hips days before. There were red splotches from where he had been scratching, but nothing this serious.

He rubbed some moisturizing cream over it followed by gauze and tape. He hoped that it would shrink and go away. Maybe he caught this while he was outside near the edge of the wooded area of the base. There were a lot of suspicious plants over there. He was probably being stupid and fell asleep on some poisonous plants.

He turned his lamp on and crawled under the covers. He fiddled with his sketchbook again, spending hours looking through it and adding a few new doodles and drawings— whatever came to his mind. When the lids of his eyes felt heavy, he pulled himself from the page he was working on. He was looking at an arrangement of pretty flowers. He always admired the ones with large, colorful petals, but his favorite flowers were the ones with thorns. The danger behind its beauty was alluring to him. It loosely resembled…

He should probably go to sleep.

He placed his sketchbook back on the nightstand— not bothering to close it. The hairs at the back of his neck stood up when the pads of his fingers brushed against the light switch of the lamp. He felt a sense of crippling dread— a threat was near, but he was alone.

He glanced behind him and caught the glimmer of something on the floor. He saw the familiar mocking visage of the court jester poking out from the pocket of his pants, which were discarded on the floor next to his bed. Its eyes were trained on him— watching him.

Maybe he can keep the light on for tonight.

Chapter Text

Soap kept an eye on his chest after the first blemish appeared, applying cream and replacing the gauze religiously. He was relieved that the area on his chest had not grown, but it showed no signs of shrinking. That part worried him the most. The last thing he wanted was to be discharged by consulting the base's medical staff. He had no family to travel to. His holidays and leave time were spent on base or in the company of solitude in his small flat an hour away. If he didn't have the military, he had nothing.

He scoured every corner of the internet for answers to his mysterious condition. He came upon unsavory explanations, such as necrosis, skin cancer, and radiation poisoning, which were easily debunked.

The sickly-looking skin was still very much alive. It resembled thick calluses instead of supple flesh. Every sensation over each patch was dulled, but still there. He never worked around radiation, so it was unlikely that it would be the cause. Skin cancer was a scary, yet probable cause for the blotches on his skin. He compared the images he found to the blemish on his chest. There were some similarities, such as discoloration and odd texture, but there was no image containing dark, prominent varicose veins or green-tinted skin.

He slipped a sweater over his head immediately after stepping out of his morning shower. Although it was nearing thirty-two degrees Celsius, he required sleeves to feel comfortable around base. He was always shivering— fighting for warmth while the other soldiers seemed to wilt from it. It was as if his body refused to accept the heat.

He headed to the chow hall, hoping to eat while the food was still lukewarm. Pancakes were being served this morning— his favorite. He felt an odd sense of relief when he saw that the tables were empty. He stacked his plate with pancakes, a generous serving of syrup, and some pieces of floppy bacon and retrieved a cup of coffee sweetened with sugar and flavored cream. The sharp edge of the cold was dulled more with each bite of warm pancake.

His blissful solitude was cut short by a group of familiar voices echoing through the cafeteria. Gaz was chatting up a storm with Roach while Price and Ghost listened on. He didn't know what hurt more— the fact that they didn't acknowledge him or the fact that Ghost and Roach were holding hands in the open.

They grabbed their trays and sat at the opposite end of the table. They continued their conversation, not even attempting to keep themselves quiet.

"I'm happy for you both," he heard Gaz say, "I always knew there was something between you two."

When Soap didn't hear a reply, he assumed Roach was signing to him. His assumptions were confirmed by the faint sound of shifting cloth.

"Yeah, Ghost doesn't seem like a relationship guy either. How did you guys even get together anyways?"

Soap's eyes widened at the news. It hadn't even been a full month since Roach returned and Ghost had already decided to make it official with him. It was uncharacteristically quick. It made him question the relationship that he and Ghost shared. They shared the same bed on bad nights and comforted each other through nightmares. Soap was there for him when he broke down during the day and needed someone to ground himself to reality.

During all that time, did Ghost envision someone else in his place? When those honey-brown eyes looked at him, did he see "Johnny" or his "bug"?

The negative thoughts spoiled his appetite, and the chill came back in full force. The pancake turned to ash in his mouth. He forced himself to swallow despite the sudden dryness in his mouth.

He lightened the iron grip he had on his poor, plastic fork before standing up with his tray. He threw what was left in the garbage. He would've offered the rest of his food to someone else, but it was just himself and the rest of the 141 in the cafeteria. He didn't feel like he could handle facing the new couple just yet. He needed some time to adjust— come to terms with the fact that he would never be something more than a coworker to his lieutenant.

He refilled his coffee, forgoing the cream and sugar. The thought of anything comforting or sweet made his stomach knot. For some reason, he didn't feel like he deserved it.

He couldn't explain why his body reacted so violently to the news. He should be happy for them! Roach is a good soldier and a nice lad, and Ghost deserves something special in his life… even if it wasn't him.

His heart hammered so hard that his hands trembled slightly, and it was getting difficult to breathe. He needed to leave before he embarrassed himself.

He made his way to the exit, hands gripping his mug as if it was his lifeline. Just when he passed his coworkers, Gaz spoke up:

"You're quick to leave breakfast. I thought it was your favorite time of day!"

Soap cursed the man in his head.

"Heartburn," he replied, massaging the spot between his ribs in an attempt to calm down his racing heart.

"Maybe you should slow down when shoveling food into your face next time," Gaz replied, earning a laugh from Ghost and Price.

Whatever hope he had for a good day disappeared after those words were spoken. He wasn't in the mood for silly jokes or low blows— he already developed an internal dialogue that beat him down during all hours of the day. He had no room for Gaz's comments at the moment.

"Whatever, Garrick," he said, offering a tight smile. The façade he put in front of his friends began to crack. It was buckling under the stress of his strange condition, his broken heart, and his confrontation with Gaz. He couldn't keep it up much longer.

"Lighten up, mate. It's just a joke…"

Maybe for you, Soap wanted to say. He released a sigh and shook his head: "Sorry, just not feeling well today. I'm going to rest a bit."

"Well, see you around," Gaz said before turning to face Roach again.

Soap knew that it would probably be a few days before they would talk again.

"Yeah, see you later," he said, angling himself towards the double doors. Although he was so eager to leave, he felt like he needed to address the thing that troubled him most. He turned to Roach: "Oh, and…congratulations! I'm happy for you two." He didn't know whether he looked the part, but he must've been convincing enough. Roach, the sweet lad, signed a 'thank you' while Ghost nodded to him and glanced away. Their interaction had come to a natural close. He could leave without potentially making a bigger fool of himself.

As he walked away, sipping on his bitter coffee, he felt anger brewing in his core. He didn't know why or at who. He couldn't be mad at Ghost for being in love with someone else. Although he loved his lieutenant dearly and would do anything for him at the drop of a dime, it would be selfish for him to feel entitled to his affections based purely on dedication. He didn't owe Soap anything.

He couldn't be mad at Roach— and he wouldn't— even though it was easier to do so. He could blame him for the sudden change in his friends' attitudes toward him, or his lost love, but none of that was his fault. He was innocent. He deserved everything good in the world after what he had been through. It's not fair to him to receive bitterness for something he didn't do.

That left no one else to blame but himself. He must've done something to deserve this sickness and isolation. Whatever he did, he desperately wanted to fix it but had no clue where to begin. He was the problem— that much was obvious. What was something he could do to make himself more worthy of being a part of the 141?

He thought about the paperwork, his productivity, how he performs on missions…

He hasn't gotten any complaints but that doesn't mean that his superiors were satisfied with him.

He felt like a weak link. Everyone else had a history with each other. They knew how to perform well together on missions. There was cohesion, communication, and trust between all of them. They were like a fitted, complex puzzle. He must've caused quite the disruption when he joined the team.

He was like a wild card— chaotic and unpredictable— often straying from plans or using more firepower than expected. He changes the game and bypasses rules he feels are bullshit. He never fell in line. He always had something to say. Maybe that was why his team pushed him away when Roach returned. It would be so much easier without a chaotic sergeant.

He was going to prove himself.

He had to be a better soldier.

The gym was mostly empty save for a few clusters of recruits where the mats were. He moved to the quietest corner and wrapped his fists in cloth. His self-hatred transformed into energy that he needed to burn off. He felt that putting his body through an intense workout would make him feel better.

He abused a punching bag until his knuckles were bleeding through the wraps and his clothes stuck to his skin from sweat. The chain whined and groaned as the heavy bag swayed. Each punch stung, but the words fueling them hurt worse.

Unpredictable

Chaotic

Unlovable

Loud

Childish

Useless

He pulled back, panting, face red with effort. The burn of his muscles and the sting of his fists fed his sick desire for pain. He was pleasantly numb. The mocking visage of the jester faded from his thoughts and the voices in his mind quieted into unintelligible whispers. For the first time in nearly a month, he felt satisfied.

"Sergeant MacTavish?" A foreign voice called for him.

Soap turned around to see a young rookie standing behind him. The kid looked to be about eighteen. He noted how his weight shifted from one foot to the other and how he wrung his hands together in front of him. He was nervous.

"How can I help you, Private?" He replied, wiping his face with a towel.

"We were wondering if you would like to spar with us!"

He peeked over the rookie's shoulder and saw a group of four, young men hovering around the mat. They chatted amongst themselves while occasionally glancing over to see the outcome.

Although he was planning to take a shower and get some much-needed fresh air, he couldn't say no to an energetic recruit. This could turn into an important lesson for these kids.

"Sure, kid. I'm not going to go easy on you lot," He said after a moment of consideration.

His heart warmed at the absolute joy that appeared on the young man's face. He followed him back to the small clique of soldiers. It felt so nice to be wanted after so long of spending most days on his own.

"Let's see what you guys got," Soap said, popping the knuckles on his abused fists.

The first one to step into the makeshift rink had a familiar face. He was a soft-spoken and shy recruit, but he had lots of power behind his large frame. There was lots of potential, but he had no control. He remembered giving him some advice while he led a lesson.

"Nice to see you again, Private Marx. Let's see if you've improved since basic training," He said.

"Yes, sir!" Marx replied enthusiastically.

They circled each other for a few moments before Marx went in for the first attack. They threw calculated punches and kicks and eventually wrestled to the floor. Soap was pleasantly surprised at how much Marx had grown as a soldier. His hits carried power and more control, but he was still slow— slow enough to leave an opening.

Just as he was about to take advantage of it, his knee locked up without reason, leaving him vulnerable. Marx took the opportunity and tackled Soap to the floor, trapping him in a strong headlock.

With a chuckle, he gave a few taps to the arm under his chin: "Aye, let go of me. You won."

He stood up with assistance from Marx, who seemed to glow from his victory.

"Those were some strong moves there-" Soap was interrupted by a stern voice.

"What the hell was that, sergeant?" It was Ghost. He was standing at the entrance of the gym with his arms crossed over his chest. Soap could feel his eyes burn into his body. He was disappointed in him. "Don't tell me you've gone soft. If that was an enemy, you would've been killed. You're better than that." His monotone, ice-cold voice sent a shiver down his spine— and not a good one.

"Ahm jus' exhausted, LT. I've been here for a while now." Soap said with a frown. The leg that gave him trouble during the match felt oddly heavy and strange.

"I don't want to hear excuses, MacTavish," Ghost said, "You better fix whatever the hell is going on before you get yourself killed."

His words were like a slap to the face. It's been a while since Ghost had referred to him by his last name. Maybe the presence of rookies had a hand in his decision to address him formally. But, that never stopped Ghost from calling him "Soap" or "Johnny" in front of recruits before. Was Ghost ashamed to be associated with him now? Is that why he kept his distance and barely acknowledged him? It seems that those walls he worked so hard to chip away were built back up again, shutting him out for good.

"Yes, sir," Soap replied, his voice meek compared to his usual speech.

He received a grunt and was presented with his lieutenant's back as he left.

He turned toward Marx, who was still standing by his side with a perplexed expression.

"You did well today, Private. Maybe you can teach the rest of your group a thing or two," Soap said, mustering up a smile.

"I learned it from you, sir," was the sweet reply.

"Keep at it, then."

He gave Marx a pat on the shoulder before making his way to his belongings. He exited the gym, sparing a farewell to the group of rookies as he left. The sweat on his skin turned sticky as he walked back to his cold room, making him feel uncomfortable. He grimaced when a blast of cold air smacked his face as he walked into his room.

He quickly stripped and hopped into his shower, eager to wash away the sweat and escape the cold. The hot water warmed his body, but it couldn't melt the ice that flowed through his veins. The way Ghost addressed him made his skin crawl. All those nights spent comforting and days spent at his side meant nothing to his lieutenant. He was a placeholder for a presumed dead man. Now that said dead man had come back into Ghost's life alive, there was no need to keep him around anymore. He felt as if he was discarded like trash. He felt used.

The realization made tears spring into his eyes. Whatever fell was camouflaged by the water and swept down the drain. Although his skin was scrubbed raw, he still felt dirty.

He stepped out of the shower and began to dry off. The mirror opposing the shower was fogged up. Small droplets of water gathered and slipped down the glass, revealing slivers of his distorted image. He turned his head away. He couldn't look at himself right now.

It was so difficult not to take everything personally when his team's "playful" words kept piling up without some affirmation to balance it out. He couldn't tell if they were jokes anymore. He was left to interpret their words on his own, and the outcome wasn't great. It made him feel insecure.

When he dried his legs, he noticed something beneath the dark, coarse hair covering his shin. He knelt on the cold tiles to investigate further. When he moved the hairs away to get a better view, he saw a black splotch on his leg. He thought it was dirt, so he ran his towel over it. The mark remained.

He placed a finger over the mark and noted how its roughness was similar to the blemish on his chest. He followed a jagged line up his leg and found another affected area above his knee. The darkened veins protruded off of his skin slightly— like welts— and it was harder than the surrounding flesh.

He stood up abruptly, his towel bunched up in his hands, and approached the foggy mirror. He cleared as much of the mirror as he could. It was still covered in water, but his reflection was clear. He gazed at his chest, and the towel in his hands fell to the floor. He placed a hand over his mouth in horror

The blemish, formerly the size of the palm of his hand, had grown exponentially. The sickly, green hue traveled up the side of his neck and covered the left side of his face, accompanied by an expansive web of darkened veins. It was as if he were struck in the chest by lightning and it spread over half of his body, singing its fractal pattern into his flesh.

The veins surrounded his left eye along with the green flesh. The white of it was tinged yellow and the bright blue of his iris was infected with an unnaturally vibrant green. His hand trembled as he touched the area near his eye

This didn't make any sense!

He was fine just an hour ago. No one commented on it while he was sparring with the rookies.

How did it grow so fast?

There was no pain, no itching in these areas, no indication that it was spreading…

It looked as if his flesh was dying— as if he were rotting from the inside. He tore himself away from his reflection and covered up with the towel. His knees ached with how hard he fell to his knees in front of his closet. He dug through his winter clothes, pulling out anything that had high coverage, such as turtlenecks, hoodies, and jackets.

His face was another issue. A simple medical mask wasn't enough to hide everything— he needed to wear something else. A black balaclava lay among the clothes strewn over the floor of his room. He snatched it up and examined it.

This was the mask he wore during his time in Las Almas. He traced the design painted on the front. It was a skull mask— similar to the one Ghost usually wore. He needed to visit the supply closet for some extra, plain masks. He didn't feel comfortable donning something that reminded him of his lieutenant. The moments they shared in Las Almas were long gone. He needed to move on from all of it.

Tinted sunglasses could hide his discolored eyes.

He would be unrecognizable to his entire crew.

He wouldn't be able to interact with anyone without being questioned about his change in wardrobe.

He felt trapped— cornered.

Soap was never afraid of anything, not even when he was dodging a shower of bullets and flying debris. He faced danger head-on with no hesitation.

He was fearless.

Yet, in the privacy and safety of his bedroom, he felt nothing but unbridled fear and dread.

He could find comfort in his final moments knowing that the task force had his back and that he made somewhat of a difference in the world if he were to die in combat.

If anyone were to find out about his condition and report it, he would be discharged from the military. Everything he valued in life— his friends, family, and career— would be ripped away from him. He would rot alone. No one would attend his funeral or give a speech about how good he was in life. He would be forgotten. The imprint of his existence would be washed away by the bittersweet waves of memories forgotten.

Soap slipped the old mask over his head.

He would do anything to salvage what he had left.

Chapter Text

Soap thought that he was improving ever since he slipped the mask on. His paperwork was delivered to Price days before the deadline by a recruit and the rookies were well-disciplined and improving steadily. He was always working on something-- anything-- that needed improvement of any kind. He never gave himself time to step back and appreciate his contribution to the well-oiled machine that the base had become.

It was four in the morning when Soap decided to start his day. He had spent another night tossing and turning in his heap of blankets, trying his best to fall asleep, but the cruel world didn't bestow such grace upon him. He developed prominent eyebags over the days due to exhaustion, but they were expertly concealed by dark-tinted sunglasses that appeared to be cemented to his face.

He stopped by the chow hall to pick up a small breakfast, which consisted of canned coffee, a couple of granola bars, and a piece of whatever fruit was available. He never sat down to eat. He couldn't risk running into the rest of his team. He had no answers for the many questions they would prod him with.

He finished his breakfast in the gym while he prepared for his first batch of recruits. He was eager to start teaching. The rookies never questioned him due to their inexperience and ranking. They didn't know "Soap"; they knew "Sergeant MacTavish"-- a stern, yet gentle mentor figure. He dove at every chance to slip into the role. He loathed being left to his own devices, surrounded by a never-ending echo of taunting voices and crippling self-hatred. Being with the rookies was his favorite thing in the world now. 

He wore a smile under his mask when the first recruit walked in. 

.

After the lesson was completed, Soap left the gym, yearning for a quick shower to wash the sweat away. He took a more direct route to his room -- a route that contained Price's office. The door that was usually cracked was shut, indicating that the Captain wanted to be alone or that an important meeting was taking place. Although it wasn't his business, he couldn't contain his curiosity. He quieted his footsteps as he neared the door, listening for any voices or words he could pick out.

He recognized Gaz's voice immediately. 

Price's office was like a second home to Gaz. It was one of the places Soap looked at when he couldn't find him. 

Then, he heard a low rumble alongside Gaz's voice that belonged to Ghost. 

This raised some questions.

Ghost never visited Price's office unless he was called in for something important.

If Ghost was there, would Roach also be there? Since the young soldier didn't use his voice, he couldn't be sure, and he wasn't going to be peeking through a keyhole or window to confirm his suspicions. He merely assumed he was there because he was always at Ghost's side.

He stalled for a few moments before deciding to walk away. He couldn't be caught snooping around. It would tarnish the reputation he carefully built over the past few weeks. 

His blood ran cold when the handle of the door turned followed by a soft 'click.' He walked faster, hoping not to rouse any suspicion if they caught him passing by. He kept his eyes forward, not daring to look back when he heard them file out of the office. Whatever conversation they were having behind the privacy of a closed door was now bleeding out into the hallway.

"I'm sure this mission will be easy for you guys. It's info retrieval. You got five hours before we meet on the tarmac," Price said, "Use that time wisely." The emphasis at the end of his little speech drew laughter from Gaz and a sound of annoyance from Ghost. He didn't want to linger on the implications of what Price was trying to joke about.

He rounded the corner and plastered his back against the wall, his heart threatening to jump out of his chest. He hadn't been that close to his team since that incident with Gaz in the chow hall last week. Just being a few feet away made him feel sick to his stomach. 

There was a mission…

Why wasn't he notified about it?

Roach needed to get used to working with his team again-- Soap understood that very well. But, wasn't it just as important to include him as well? If they were going to be working together in the future, shouldn't he be assigned missions with him as soon as an assignment comes up? 

He didn't know why he was so upset.

It wasn't the first time he was left out of a mission.

There were times when he was stuck training rookies for weeks while his friends risked their lives on a battlefield hundreds of miles away. Before departure, they would say their goodbyes to the team in case it was their last conversation. It was scary to think that his dearest friends could be taken from him with just a twitch of a finger or slip of a blade, but it was what they signed up for when joining the military. 

When they returned, whether it be Price, Gaz, Ghost, or himself, a small celebration would take place at the local pub. New stories would be shared over drinks and food.

Soap looked forward to every single celebration. 

Now that his relationship with them was frayed, would any celebrate his return? Perhaps his death would go unnoticed…

Maybe his team would visit him before heading out! It was rare for any of them to forget such an important ritual. 

He clung to that sliver of hope as he redirected himself to the training grounds. The window of time he saved for a quick shower came to a close. There was another batch of recruits waiting for him.

When he stepped outside, he was pleasantly surprised by the amount of rookies gathered at the training grounds. Usually, they would start filing in minutes before the scheduled start time with one or two soldiers arriving late. This batch of students were twenty minutes early-- a rare occurrence. 

His approaching figure prompted a brisk arrangement into rows and columns by the soldiers. They stood up straight with their arms pinned to their sides and chins tilted up. Although a few individuals needed improvement on their stance, it was a proper formation. 

"Did someone pass away? Rookies like you are a lot more rowdy than this," Soap commented as he approached the block. As he walked by the first row, he spotted a very familiar face: that of Private Marx. He noticed how Marx's eyes regarded his new appearance before returning to their prior position.

"Eager to learn, sir," Marx replied.

The reply caused a smile to form under Soap's mask. "That's what I like to hear!" He said, "Two laps around the track, and then we'll get started. Make it quick!" 

The soldiers quickly obeyed.

Now that he was alone, he gave himself a moment to reflect. He never felt under pressure when dealing with the recruits. He loved teaching them; it was his favorite thing to do! He felt as if he were actively making a difference in the lives of the soldiers under his wing. He never understood why his teammates loathed it. 

Yes, the first few days of training were hellish. There would always be a handful of rebellious kids that made his job more difficult. While his teammates were quick to dish out harsh punishments, Soap practiced another method of discipline. He knew that the recruits were made up of young people who come from different walks of life, which may include being fresh out of school or escaping an abusive home. It took a lot of extra effort, but he would eventually address the root cause of their behavior before handing them a reasonable punishment. He rarely threw anyone out. He was patient and had a big heart-- too big, according to Ghost. 

Soap was startled from his thoughts when he felt a warmth radiating from his hand. He noticed his limb was bathed in the light of the sun. The gloomy clouds had parted just enough to let in a few blissfully warm rays of sunlight. It's been so long since he experienced any form of warmth. It was like taking his first sip of water after being stranded in an arid desert for days. 

He missed this so much…

As much as he wanted to stay in the sun, he had an important job to do. He could hear heavy footsteps approaching.

He led his students to the beginning of the obstacle course. Everyone was familiar with the course, so explanations and demonstrations weren't necessary. To make it more exciting, Soap decided to add an incentive. 

"First pair to reach the end gets a special prize, so pick your partner wisely," He said, "if no one has any questions, line up at the start."

He watched as his soldiers arranged themselves into pairs. He predicted some pairings and raised a brow at others. Although he could assign them together, he wanted to give them a choice and see how it plays out. 

The most surprising pairing included none other than Private Marx. Due to his large build and great strength, others approached him but were shut down. Soap assumed that Marx would pick someone that gave him the best chance of winning, but he was proven wrong. He stood next to a scrawny man-- one that had passion and drive but lacked athleticism. If Soap's memory served him right, that was Private Cooper. That kid had brains. During a lesson in the sniping range, he overheard Cooper calculating -- out loud-- the trajectory of his bullet once he pulled the trigger. He could hardly believe it when the kid struck the center of the target. Sometimes Soap wondered why he chose the military instead of pursuing something else.

After a few moments, Soap gave a signal for them to start the challenge. All of them began to climb the first wall. 

Soap made his way to the end, overlooking his soldiers and giving some encouragement to those that needed it. 

To his surprise, Marx and Cooper were ahead of everyone else. When they encountered larger obstacles, such as a wall or a net, Marx would drag him up as if he were a sack of potatoes or keep a hand fisted in Cooper's shirt to keep him stable. Cooper's slim figure allowed him to assist Marx with crawling through tunnels and slipping under beams. While Marx would simply start climbing a rock wall, Cooper would map out the most efficient path and let his partner follow him.

Marx hopped down from the last obstacle and ran toward the finish line. Cooper lagged behind, for he was struggling with climbing down the last wall. When he dropped to the ground, he crumpled to the floor, releasing a loud curse. His foot must've suffered from the fall. The kid stumbled to his feet and limped after Marx, who looked back to check on him. 

Marx and Cooper were going to lose their place if they didn't act quickly enough. Another pair was already climbing the last wall, inching closer to them by the second. 

Marx jogged back and held Cooper close by the waist, supporting his weight as they stumbled forward. The other pair quickly passed them, but Marx didn't seem to care.

They finished strong in second place.

Soap approached the injured soldier and gave him a pat on the shoulder: "That was a good run," His eyes flicked up to Marx. "You went back for him. You could've won if you left him behind." That was a lie, of course. Soap was simply curious about his motives for turning back.

Marx gave him a shrug: "But, sir, I'd never leave someone behind." He said it as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. 

It reminded him of what Ghost had to him in Las Almas: "No one fights alone." That moment caused the spark that ignited the growing, ravenous, all-consuming flame of desire in his chest. Even through Ghost's absence and under the flood of his tears, the fire hasn't gone out.
 
Soap smiled and patted him on the back: "Good man. Take him to medical."

 Marx nodded and scooped Cooper up in his arms, eliciting a small noise of complaint from him. They disappeared into the building, leaving Soap to go through with his promise to his soldiers. From his cargo pants, he produced two, small plastic bags filled with a variety of items, such as toothpaste, a pair of socks, a small comb, wipes, etc.. He held them out for the winners to take: "Use these wisely."

He held them out for the winners of the challenge to take. 

"No way," exclaimed one with enthusiasm, "I've been needing a new comb."

"Now I'll have a pair of socks without holes in it," said the other, "Thank you, sir!"

"Don’t mention it," Soap replied. 

After two more laps around the track, Soap dismissed his students. The sounds of gleeful chatter and conversation faded as they walked away. Soap missed having them around already. Although he would love to bask in the sunlight, he wanted to check up on Cooper. The injury wasn't serious, but the kid had low self-esteem. He hoped that this incident didn't knock him down further. 

He walked into medical and questioned the staff about a Private Marx or Cooper. He was led to a small room. He knocked on the door before entering. 

"How are you doing, Private?" He asked.

Cooper gave him a thumbs up along with a smile: "Just a sprain, sir! It hurts like hell, but at least it's not broken."

"Good to hear! I brought some snacks to save you a trip to the mess," Soap said, sliding a few protein bars next to Cooper's hand.

"Thanks, sir! I really appreciate it," The young soldier replied, stuffing them into the oversized pockets of his pants.

The three engaged in small talk for a while. He felt more at home as he talked with his recruits. Unfortunately, he could never be as comfortable with them as he was with the 141. No matter how much time he spent with them, he would always see them as his students; his students would always see him as Sergeant MacTavish. They were young and naïve. They reminded him of his own days in basic training all those years ago. There was a maturity difference and a power imbalance. The most he could be to them was a teacher and mentor… maybe a distant friend if they survived long enough. 
 
"Excuse me, sir," was the soft voice of Marx, "Are you okay?"

His eyes widened at the question. He hoped his look of surprise was concealed by his mask and sunglasses. A whirl of emotions -- fear, shock, sadness-- ran through his body whilst panic gripped his heart. 

He desired to answer honestly-- tell someone about all the shit he's gone through since Roach's return. He wanted to scream for help. 

The cry was on the tip of his tongue but he swallowed it back down.

"You've spent a lot of time in the sun wearing those thick clothes. Are you not suffocating under all of that?" Marx asked.

Soap's mind took a minute to process what Marx was actually referring to. The violent storm of emotions slowly began to calm.

"It's very hot sometimes," he lied to him and he felt terrible about it, "But I'm working on my endurance. There are times when you have to wear this in the desert or maybe in a tropical setting. It's not fun, so it's best to get used to it now."

It was a half-truth. 

Marx seemed convinced.

"Alright! I see…" the soldier replied, "Is it going well for you?"

"It is, actually," Soap said, anxiously thumbing a stray thread at the end of one of his sleeves.

"Maybe I'll give it a try, too!" Marx said with a smile.

"Be careful with it, aye? I don't want to have to drag your sorry ass back to medical if you have a heatstroke," Soap chuckled.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"I'll leave you to it. Have a good day, you two," Soap felt like a burden for taking up so much of their time. 

He slowly closed the door behind him when he left the room. 

He spent more time talking with the pair than he expected. Golden rays from the setting sun illuminated the halls. It was getting late.

What time was it, anyways? It couldn't possibly be five, yet. His team had not dropped by. They would never forget…right?

He lifted his arm and slid his sleeve up to gaze at the screen of his watch. 

His heart dropped. 

18:00

They were long gone and not a word was said to him before they left. 

There was no confusion as to where Soap was. He was always training rookies. If he wasn't, he was eating or doodling in his notebook. That has been his routine for years, now.

Are they avoiding him on purpose? Perhaps, he wasn't even on their minds…

He slowly closed the door of his room. The click of the lock behind him broke the dam to all the feelings he tried so hard to conceal. Salty, bitter tears fell down his cheeks and soaked his cloth mask. He slid down the door and curled up on the floor-- knees tucked under his chin with his hands covering his face, muffling the sobs that escaped his chest. He wished he could make himself small enough to disappear. 

They abandoned him.

He made his home here with the 141; this was his family. He bloomed beautifully
under the nurture and care of his team. He was like a garden during the spring: vivacious, colorful, and bright. It slowly withered with neglect. His voice no longer echoed through the halls and his strong presence was replaced with a phantom that quietly haunted the base.

He tried his best to improve, but it still wasn't enough!

He doesn't know what to do.

I'll never be enough, he thought.

He cried until his throat became scratchy and his eyes became sore. His mask was heavy with tears and snot and stuck uncomfortably to his reddened face. He was a mess. His sunglasses were discarded a few feet away from him-- most likely flung off when he attempted to stop the flood of tears. 

He felt physically ill as if he had caught the flu: his muscles were sore, his face felt fuzzy, and his body was weak. 

The simplest tasks, such as removing his boots, became the most difficult obstacle. He managed to kick them off after minutes of struggling to unlace them with his shaky hands. He ripped the mask off, tossing it next to his sunglasses. 

The evening sky was swallowed quickly by the darkness. He knew he couldn't stay on the floor-- it wasn't safe. Although his body protested, he crawled to his bed like a wounded animal. He flopped onto his bed, not bothering to strip himself of his dirty clothes. 

He wrapped his arms around his pillow and hugged it close to his chest. He tried to imagine that it was someone-- anyone-- in hopes of dulling the pain in his chest, but his treacherous mind couldn't conjure anything. 

 It was as if he were shot in the heart with an arrow. Although the wooden shaft was gone, the jagged, metal edge of the arrowhead was left lodged inside, secreting its deadly poison into his blood. He could feel it more intensely now than ever before. 

He tugged a thick blanket over himself despite knowing that it would do nothing to shield him from the persistent chill.

He curled up under the golden halo of his dingy lamp. It was kept on throughout the night, so it rarely had a break. It offered him a faint sensation of warmth and eased his anxiety, but it was synthetic. It was like trying to mimic a trip to the beach by swimming in a bathtub. Recently, the light began to flicker-- most likely from overuse. Soap was terrified that the glass bulb would pop, leaving him to be consumed by the darkness. 

Perhaps it was the lack of sleep or the sickness that tricked his eyes into seeing a faint outline of… something… in the darkest corners of his room. His imagination would supply the mass with large hands and sharp claws that Soap swore he could see inching toward the foot of his bed. Some nights, he could see its face, which stayed the same since the hallucinations started: a Jester's mask-- the same one drawn on the playing card that was hidden in his sketchbook. Its mocking smile was filled with sharp, sinister teeth that hid a long, forked tongue. 

He made sure that all of his limbs were tucked under the safety of his blanket. If he didn't allow himself to entertain the mass, then it would go away. 

That's what Soap thought. 

He felt pathetic. He --a man who has faced death on multiple occasions-- was cowering under his covers like a small child.

Another night was spent tossing and turning under his covers. He experienced only a few relaxing moments when his body stilled. Unfortunately, his mind remained wide awake.

Chapter Text

When the morning light slipped past his window and caressed his face, Soap slowly roused him from his half-conscious state. He opened his eyes and released a sigh as he felt exhaustion settle into his bones. He was tempted to stay in bed, for his limbs felt too heavy. He entertained the idea, but he ultimately decided against it. He had work to do. 

After a few moments of internal pep talk, he summoned the strength to sit up.

He rose a hand to his face to rub the tiredness from his eyes, but his arm was stopped halfway. He looked down and spotted green tendrils poking out from under his sleeve. They wrapped around the metal framing of his bed, effectively gluing him in place.

He tugged his arm again.

The thinner tendrils snapped, but a thicker and stronger one remained. He felt the mysterious growth with his free hand. It was smooth, like a stem of a delicate flower, decorated with small, green leaves, and didn't budge no matter how hard he pulled. 

It felt familiar-- so familiar that it unearthed a once-forgotten childhood memory. He remembered spending most of his time playing at the forest's edge behind his house as a child. Thick vines wrapped around many of the trees. He had the time of his life swinging from those vines and climbing those trees. If those vines were anything like the ones that currently held them captive, he would need to use something sharp to cut himself free. No amount of tugging would break the vine.

His eyes drifted over his shoulder to the nightstand where his switchblade was stashed. Getting to it would be a challenge since he slept facing away from the lamp and his right hand was stuck to the bedframe. He twisted himself onto his back and felt for the handle of the drawer. He slowly inched it open and slipped his hand inside, feeling blindly for the smooth handle of the blade. 

His trapped arm began to cramp from stretching it so much at such an awkward angle. 

He pushed himself further into the drawer, grunting in pain when the vines squeezed his wrist. He mentally congratulated himself when his fingers brushed the small tool. He pulled it closer and finally got a hold of it. He slipped his hand out of the drawer and turned back to the vines on his bed. He slipped the blade between the flesh of his wrist and the vine and began cutting what he could. 

When it snapped, most of it began to shrivel and die. He dropped the knife on his bed and massaged his sore wrist. He had no clue how long it had been wrapped up during the night. He didn't feel anything…

He sat back, wide awake from the adrenaline running through his veins.

He pushed his sleeve up to see if there were any more strange growths wrapped around his arm. Instead, he found where they originated from.  They sprouted from patches of heavily discolored, hardened flesh along his limb. He gingerly touched where the growth began. It was oddly sensitive at the base-- ticklish, almost. 

He moved his affected hand around, testing its mobility. It was stiff due to the parts of the vine that were still connected to him. It would definitely interfere with his work and it was very noticeable even with the sleeve covering it. 

That left him with one solution…

He had to cut it off. 

He slipped the blade into his left hand and held the sharpened edge to the base of the growth. With how sensitive it was, it would certainly hurt like hell. He could already feel how cold the metal was and he was barely grazing the growth. 

Pain was a price Soap was willing to pay to keep a low profile.

If he did it quickly, it wouldn't hurt for long.

He grit his teeth and took slow drags of air to calm his nerves. It would be similar to stitching his own wounds in the field, right? 

He hoped so.

As soon as the blade pierced the discolored flesh connecting him to the vine, he saw a flash of bright light as if someone had stunned him with a torch. He didn't expect it to hurt this much-- not from something so small.  He whimpered out a curse and steadied his hand. He couldn't turn back now. He kept pushing through, feeling every shift and slide of the metal until he could finally rip the rest off. His ears were ringing and he felt dizzy. 

When he finally came to, he was laying on his side, bleeding arm clutched to his chest. The vine was a few inches away, oozing blood onto the sheets from where it had been cut. Because it was no longer attached to his body, it began to die. It shriveled up faster than any dying plant he's seen before. 

Blinking away the tears, he slid off his bed and tossed the growth in the bin next to his bed. He concealed the bloodstains with his comforter. He traveled to his bathroom and pulled out the first aid kit. He rummaged around for some gauze and some anti-bacterial ointment. As he patched himself up, his thoughts wandered.

What the fuck was that?

It's not like he could consult the internet. As far as he knew, there was no such thing as becoming a living flower pot. That's not possible…

He wasn't going to die, right?

Other than the painful throb of his new wound, he felt fine…

He ran his uninjured hand through his messy mohawk. He had work to do today. Maybe that was a one-time thing, yeah? He conjured more thoughts to ease his fears as he slipped on a clean mask and clothes. He placed his sunglasses on as he headed towards the chow hall.

Since the 141 was gone for… 

Who knows how long. They didn't even say…

Well, they were gone for now, which allowed Soap to stay in the cafeteria longer than usual. 

He looked over his options, and none of them were appetizing to him. Usually, he would be frothing at the mouth over a piece of bacon, but the sight of the greasy slice of meat just made him feel nauseous. He slipped a singular waffle onto his tray to try. It looked gray, but it was basically a pancake-- his favorite --with syrup holders. He glanced over to the fruits that were offered. They looked ripe and their colors were appealing. He filled most of his plate with a variety of fruits-- both whole and whatever diced mix came in a fruit cup. He grabbed his usual cup of coffee and sat down in a seat farthest from the entrance that faced the brick wall. 

He slipped his mask over his nose and popped a slice of strawberry in his mouth. It was sweet and tart-- as expected-- but he didn't expect the euphoric feeling that came with it. Although he was tempted to eat more of his fruits, he opted to try a piece of his waffle. He cut some off and placed it in his mouth. What he experienced was the exact opposite of the strawberry. 

It was absolutely disgusting. 

It was as if he had a mouthful of shit.

He swallowed it down and took a swig of his sweet coffee to wash away the taste and soothe his stomach. 

He was not doing that again.

He ate the rest of his fruits and threw the waffle away.

He was disappointed that he wasn't scheduled to train any rookies today. It was the only thing he looked forward to each day. 

He decided to occupy himself with the stack of paperwork Price left him before going on his mission.

.

After a few hours passed, Soap decided to take a small break. He looked out of his small, dirty window and examined the weather. There was not a cloud in sight and the sun was high up in the sky, giving a beautiful shine to the leaves of the trees and the bushes. He could catch some sunlight before night comes around. Maybe he could fully experience the warmth he felt while he was out training rookies. 

He filed whatever he finished away before locking up his room and making his way to the back of the base. He didn't want to be bothered by anyone at the moment, so he opted for a more private area. He opened the metal door and stepped under the awning. He gazed at the dichotomy between the darkness of the shadow he stood under and the light provided by the sun. 

He inched his fingers toward the dividing line, nervous but eager to feel the sun. Just like before, warmth flooded where the sun touched. 

He slowly stepped out, careful not to overwhelm himself by going too fast. The sunlight seeped through his clothes and replaced the cold that occupied his body. He walked out further, aiming for the top of the hill he occupied with Ghost on their slow days. He took a spot directly under the sun and set his back against the grass.

He would usually take his sketchbook out and doodle or jot down some memories, but he couldn't bring himself to lift a finger. It's as if someone slipped a fluffy blanket over his shoulders, pulled him against a warm chest, and a soft kiss was placed on his forehead. He closed his eyes, curling up on his side. 

For weeks, he fought hard to fall asleep-- trembling under a mountain of blankets for warmth and cowering under his dingy lamp. 

He felt at peace here. 

He felt safe. 

It didn't take long for him to fall asleep. 

.

When he woke up, he was laying in the shade. The sun was setting and the moon was visible in the darker part of the sky. A cool breeze brushed against the minute amount of skin exposed around his eyes. It wasn't the same "cold" he experienced when walking into his room. This one was gentle. It didn't bite him or make him retreat under a pile of blankets. 

He needed to get inside soon. He didn't want to get sick. 

But laying here felt so good…

He indulged for a little while longer, not thinking to get up until the stars began to shine in the black sky. 

He released a sigh and tried sitting up. He didn't get too far, for something held him back. A groggy noise of confusion left his mouth as he looked around. Maybe his sweater got caught in a branch or something. He couldn't see well in the dark because of his sunglasses.

He attempted to take his glasses off, but he found that he couldn't move his arm. His heart rate began to pick up as he realized that he couldn't move any of his limbs. He was tied to the ground by something, but he couldn't tell what it was. 

His movements became more erratic as the adrenaline spiked through his system. He managed to get an arm free in the struggle. With his hand, he blindly felt over his chest, searching for whatever was trapping him. His palms grazed over a series of thin, string-like formations over his chest and midsection. They were tough and scratchy, like metal wires. 

He ripped through them as best as he could, freeing himself little by little. He managed to wiggle from the clutches of the ground and crawl away. He shakily stood up and brushed the dirt from his body. Grass and roots clung to his clothes. 

He sprinted towards the entrance to the base, not wanting to linger in case the ground wanted to try and consume him again. 

It was late, so most people would be holed up in their rooms. If he was lucky, he could make it to his room without running into a stray recruit. 

He rushed to his room, nearly tripping over his own shoes after he got the door open. He fled to the bathroom and tore at his clothes in an effort to get them off. He was consumed by so much panic that his coordination was compromised. After popping a few stitches and ripping fabric, he stood bare in front of the mirror. 

He gazed at his reflection. He felt his throat close up and his eyes burn, but no tears fell. It seems that he had none to spare. 

Sprouting from his body were thick vines that wrapped around his limbs and part of his chest. The vines had roots that were attached to them-- roots with dirt on them. No wonder he faced such difficulty getting out. Tiny roots were burrowed in the ground, nearly cementing him in place.

If he wasn't able to free himself… how long would he have been stuck there? No one really went there except for some of the 141. It would be a while until some poor recruit stumbled over his corpse, most likely. 

Soap retrieved the switchblade from his bed. 

If this was anything like what he felt this morning, he was in some serious trouble. 

He gathered more supplies, such as the first aid kit, extra gauze, and a towel, and locked himself in the bathroom. He set aside his supplies on the lid of the toilet bowl. From his pants, he used the leather belt to create a makeshift bit. He stuffed the folded, faux leather between his teeth and looked over his body.

Where should he start? 

There was so much…

He decided to start with the most notable one-- the vine wrapped around his chest and midsection. He felt for where the vine connected to his body and held the sharpened edge of the blade against it. He pushed into the flesh, causing a muffled whimper to escape his mouth. The pain was so intense that he had to lean against the sink to stay upright. 

Blood oozed from the wound. It was darker than usual, resembling tar more than blood. 

Once the blade made it through, he unwound the expansive growth from his body and threw it to the ground.

That was one, but there were at least seven more that he could see in his reflection.

He shook his head, mentally cursing as he held the blade to a vine sprouting from his shoulder. 

Once Soap considered his work to be finished, he was laying on the tiles, covered in a mixture of blood, sweat, tears, and dirt. Drool trailed down his chin and neck, having escaped from behind the leather bit, which had teeth marks embedded deep into the material. 

The bathroom was in a similar state. 

The towel was there for decorative purposes, apparently. The once-white towel was oversaturated with blood. It wasn't going to do anything but smear his mess around. The bin was filled to the brim with a variety of vegetation and dead vines. 

He was exhausted after putting himself through so much pain. He stared at the ceiling with glassy eyes, on the verge of passing out. 

The blade slipped from his twitching palm and clattered to the blood-stained tile.

He felt a sick sense of self-satisfaction as he lay there, body numb with pain and stained with evidence of his hard work. 

He felt reborn…

Maybe the chemistry in his brain was messed up.

He walked out of the bathroom, wearing enough gauze to be considered a shitty mummy costume. Most of the blood on the floor was wiped away, but some of it was still lodged in the cracks and the grout.

He struggled into a pair of sweatpants and a sweater before crawling into bed. He set himself down as gently as he possibly could, not wanting to anger any of his fresh wounds. He tugged a blanket over his body with one arm but only managed to cover half of his body. 

The light from his lamp became blurry and slowly took over his vision. 

Then, it all went dark.

.

Over the next week, Soap developed an odd routine: wake up, clip the vines, eat breakfast, work, take a nap on the hill, cut himself free, clip the vines, bandage the wounds, pass out in bed, repeat. He couldn't resist the beckoning call of whatever was trying to tie him to the ground. He was like a winged insect to a Venus flytrap: he kept crawling back each day, lured by the sweet promise of warmth, despite knowing that the hillside would try to swallow him whole. 

Because he cut the vines so often, he became numb to the bite of the blade. The pain never disappeared completely, but it was manageable. The number of vines sprouting from his body when he woke up increased exponentially since they first appeared, forcing him to spend more time in the bathroom every day. He had trash bags filled with clipped vines stacked next to the toilet. Although the pain wasn't a problem, the blood loss still affected him. He would faint before he could properly clean his mess, so his bathroom looked like a slaughterhouse.

On this particular morning, he made sure to keep as much blood in his body as he could so he didn't pass out.

Today was a special day, after all.

He got word that his team was coming back home. The plane was touching down around one in the afternoon. Of course, no one told him directly-- he just overheard a group of other sergeants talking about it.

He couldn't bring himself to feel more than indifferent to their return. Although he was glad that they were alive, he would feel more trapped on base. It was already difficult to hide his worsening condition from the recruits he trained. Private Marx nearly got a glimpse of it when Soap tripped over a vine that decided to take root in the ground while he was observing his students spar outside. Fortunately, he managed to explain his way out of suspicion and complete his lesson without any other hiccups. 

If someone like Ghost suddenly took interest in his performance, he wouldn't be able to hide for long. 

He stood on the tarmac, watching as their plane came to a stop a few meters away. His team may not stick to tradition anymore, but he would. He was still bitter about the day that they left. 

The rear door of the plane dropped to the ground, allowing soldiers to walk out. The 141 were the last to leave the plane. They were chatting amongst themselves as they walked past him. It was strange seeing them so up close and feeling so far away. It was no surprise that most of them didn't spare a glance toward him. He looked totally different compared to the version of "Soap" that the 141 remembered…if they still remember him, anyways. 

Roach turned his head in Soap's direction before looking up at Ghost. He couldn't read the look in his eyes, but he had a hunch that he was confused. Roach began signing. Soap couldn't see most of it, but he assumed.

'Who is that? Is he new?' Roach signed.

Ghost's head turned to him, gazing at what Roach was referring to, making Soap's blood run cold. 

"Who knows? Probably some random soldier stationed here." Ghost replied. 

That stung, and Soap didn't know why.

That night, they went to the bar without him-- of course.

.

Soap settled back into his routine, making slight changes to avoid his teammates as much as possible. He knew that he couldn't avoid them forever, but he thought he would have a little more time than what he was given. Just two weeks after the 141 came back from their mission, he was notified by a recruit of a meeting he had to attend after lunch. Although he wondered why Price didn't come to tell him himself, he was grateful to have a few moments to mentally prepare to speak with his team again. He had an hour until the meeting started.

He was panicking. 

They were definitely going to question him. There was not a doubt in his mind.

He didn't even know what to say!

He couldn't just joke around like he used to. He… changed… and he wasn't sure if it was for the better. Creating a smile took more effort and social situations, such as teaching a class or talking with recruits, drained him more than usual. He was so out of touch with himself. He couldn't even fake it by cracking jokes and acting like a fool… He didn't know where he fit with the 141 anymore, so the chemistry was off. 

Before he knew it, his hour was almost up. 

Fuck making a plan, he thought. He was just going to go with the flow.

Hopefully, he wasn't the last one that arrived.

He stood in front of Price's door and took a few deep breaths. His chest was uncomfortably tight, and it wasn't the vines. They weren't even growing on him as far as he knew. 

He knocked on the door.

"Come in," Price's voice was muffled through the door. 

He turned the knob.

When he walked through, he saw some heads turn in his direction. Gaz sat closest to Price's seat and Roach sat across from him. The place next to Roach was empty. Ghost wasn't here yet. 

"What business so you have here, soldier?" Price asked. 

Oh, right, he was covered from head to toe.

He cleared his throat and averted his gaze: "For the meeting, sir."

His Scottish accent gave away his identity. 

"Soap?" Price asked, raising a brow, "Alright then." There was a short pause before he continued, "Have a seat, and we'll get started when Ghost gets here." 

"Yes, sir," Soap replied, taking his place two seats from Gaz. 

The quizzical looks from all of them made Soap feel exposed. He felt as if they were looking through his mask. He brought a hand up to feel that the cloth was still snug against his face. 

"Hey, mate." That was Gaz's voice. "You alright? Your leg is bouncing like crazy."

He glanced up and saw the man's eyes travel over his entire uniform. He quickly steadied his overactive leg with a firm hand and nodded to him. 

"Yeah, mate. Just peachy…" Soap replied. 

That answer wasn't satisfactory enough. 

"You know, if there's anything that-" The click of the door cut Gaz off.

Thank the Gods

Ghost walked in and took his spot next to Roach, which was directly in front of him. Soap should've thought of that before committing to a seat.

"Now that we're all here, let's get started," Price said.

Soap wasn't able to pay attention during the meeting. He tried his best, but he couldn't concentrate with Ghost's eyes burning holes into him. When the meeting concluded, Soap was eager to leave. He already had the manila folder tucked under his arm with his knees turned toward the door. He could read through the files later to catch up. He was just waiting for Price to say those words and set him free. He couldn't stand being in this room anymore. 

"Soap, son… stay behind for a few minutes. Everyone else is dismissed."

Fuck!

He sighed and turned back towards the table. He set his folder down. There was no escape, now. 

Price sat directly in front of Soap and gave him his usual fatherly smile.

"Yes, sir?" Soap asked.

"You can drop the honorifics here, son. I just wanted to chat with you," Price replied.

Dread sat heavy in his stomach, making him feel nauseous. 

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No, of course not,"  Soap was relieved at that, "I just wanted to check up on you. You know that you can tell me anything, right?" Price said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Although Soap would love to reach out to him, he was afraid of the consequences. He would be gambling with his life. He couldn't trust Price with his condition just yet. 

"Your appearance is a big change. I didn't even recognize you at first," Price continued, "What caused the change?"

Soap turned his head away, picking at the skin of his fingers beneath the table. He didn't know how to answer without appearing suspicious. He feared that he would be kicked out permanently. Whatever he was infected with had changed him physically. He looked like a monster… He didn't want to be sent away.

"Price…I…It's…" He struggled to find the words, "It's complicated."

"Did something happen?"

A lot happened since Roach returned, but it was mostly internal conflict. Nothing really happened at all. He didn't think something self-inflicted, like his current mental state, was worth worrying about. He was a soldier. He didn't want to burden his Captain with his feelings.

"No…Not really."

"I have a hard time believing that, son," Price said, bringing his arms onto the table. One seemed to inch towards him, promising comfort and confidentiality. "This isn't you."

Although Price had only seen him a handful of times since Roach's return, he was still very observant. He didn't want to see his horrified face if he ever saw what he kept under his mask. 

"I-I'm sorry, Price. I really can't talk about it, right now," Soap said, eyes cast down at his lap, "It's…difficult."

His admission received a look of pity from Price. 

The arm on the table moved closer.

"It's alright, son. If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me." The hand was raised and clapped onto Soap's shoulder, and he flinched-- hard. 

Price's touch seared his flesh, even through layers of clothing. 

"Yeah…I'll keep that in mind. I'll see you this evening, Price."

Soap stood up, nearly knocking the chair over. He gathered his things and stormed out of the room, yearning for the safety of his bed.

Within the office, Price frowned at where Soap sat. There was something wrong -- most definitely-- and he wasn't going to force it out of him. Whatever it was, he hoped that it was something he could help with. He hasn't had a proper break since Roach returned. He was so caught up in trying to get the kid back on track. 

When he stood up, he noticed something underneath Soap's chair. A crack was present in the cement of the floor that wasn't there before. Within it stood what looked like a small flower. The vibrant, purple petals circled the dark abyss at its center.

Chapter Text

A few hours after his talk with Price, he was on a plane destined for one of Makarov's bases. The pictures in the file painted more of an office building than a military stronghold. The basic, brick complex was three stories tall and had a large barbed wire fence surrounding the property. It was placed in the center of a densely wooded area that concealed its presence.   

Apparently, this boring building held information regarding Makarov's location.

It looked sketchy, in Soap's opinion.

He sat next to Roach, who he considered to be a human barrier between himself and Ghost, who sat on the other side. A few feet across from him sat Gaz and Price. 

The rattle and rumble of equipment and the muffled roar of the engine filled the awkward silence. Usually, Soap would crack a few shitty jokes or make a stupid remark about something that happened during training, but he couldn't bring himself to speak. The tension in the air had him by the throat. 

Although the cabin lights were dim, he noticed several concerned glances from Gaz and Price. Soap suspected that his captain confided in the other Sergeant since he and Gaz were still considered "best friends." He wondered how well that title held up over these last few weeks. He barely saw Gaz even though he was on base. Their last real conversation took place over a month ago. 

A small tap on his left leg caught his attention. He turned his head and saw Roach facing toward him. He raised his hands to sign:

'I'm excited to finally work with you. I've heard lots of stories.'

Soap smiled with his eyes, which were hard to see from behind his tinted glasses. 

'All good ones, I hope. I'm excited to work with you, too,' he signed in reply.

His BSL had improved since Roach's return. Although he rarely spoke with the other Sergeant, there were several selectively mute recruits within his classes. Instead of forcing them to speak, like other officers would've done, he gladly offered accommodations. Over time, he preferred talking with his hands rather than using his voice. He could easily lie through confident movements than his meek voice.

Roach paused, watching Soap's hands before shooting him a confused look. Soap understood that Roach didn't expect him to sign back. The soldier continued signing:

'Mostly,' he said, 'I heard that you lost an eyebrow during a demonstration.'

Soap released an audible snort and nodded. He was surprised that stories of him made it to Roach. His team didn't seem too keen on talking about anything other than a past that didn't involve him. He didn't think that they had anything good to say about him. He knew it wasn't Roach's intention, but he felt pressured to impress him. He wasn't sure what expectations Roach had in mind for him. 

'Price chewed me out for it, too,' Soap replied, 'I still thought it was funny. Gaz drew my eyebrows on for weeks.'

Roach's shoulders shook with his charming, silent laughter. His hands were still suspended in front of his chest. It looked like he wanted to communicate something else but was calculating how to say it. Eventually, Roach began to sign:

'I thought I said that you could use your voice around me,' Roach signed slowly as if he was hesitant about pointing it out.

'I remember,' Soap said, 'I still want to practice.'

I don't want to talk just yet...

'You can talk and sign at the same time,' Roach suggested.

'You're right. I just don't want to interrupt the silence,' Soap made his movements smaller so prying eyes couldn't see them. Roach didn't know him as intimately as the others, so he felt he could get away with much more when he talked with him. He didn't feel pressured to act a certain way around him. 

'If you say so,' Roach said.

Soap thought their conversation had come to its natural close, so he merely nodded and cast his eyes back down to the floor. He didn't want to risk accidental eye contact with those across from him.

A few minutes later, there was another tap on his leg.

'How do you feel about the mission?' Roach asked with a tilt of his head, 'Are you excited?'

In all honesty, Soap was nervous. Although he only consumed a few pieces of fruit that morning, his stomach felt heavy. He wasn't as confident in his abilities anymore. The growing vines, hiding them all, the lack of sleep, being left out, his feelings for Ghost-- all of it weighed on his mind, taking a chunk out of his self-esteem and tenacity. He had a feeling that this mission was going to go south. 

'Somewhat. I haven't been on a mission in a while,' he said. 

'I understand,' Roach replied, 'I felt nervous on my first mission back. I didn't think I would be able to operate well after so long.'

'How did it go? Did everything go smoothly?' Soap asked.

'Yes! It's like a never left. I feel back at home,' Roach's eyes conveyed a happy expression. 

'I'm glad things never changed for you.' 

If only he could say the same for himself.  

Roach was about to reply, but Price's voice put an end to their conversation. 

"Alright lads," the captain spoke up, his loud voice slicing through the white noise created by the hum of the engine, "Prepare yourselves. We're about to touch down. We'll be transported near the site by vehicle and walk the rest of the way."

Just after he finished his speech, the plane began to shake. The equipment inside of the cabin fought against their metal constraints, creating an ominous, semi-rhythmic, metallic banging as they made their descent. Soap gripped the sides of his seat, gloved fingers digging into the leather in an attempt to keep himself in it. There was a final jolt as the wheel made contact with the ground before the ride smoothed out. 

The cabin door dropped, revealing a depressing landscape: crying, black skies that smelled of petrol and gunpowder. They filed onto the tarmac, standing in the rain. Fat droplets soaked through Soap's clothing. The touch of rain felt oddly refreshing. He used to loathe the feeling of clothes sticking to his skin whether it be from sweat or rain. Now, it didn't seem to bother him. 

He followed the others to a large van with tinted windows. They were crammed into the back like sardines in a can-- they were shoulder to shoulder with little room to move. Soap was suffocating with how close he was to his team. He felt like every minute twitch and turn of his head was under scrutiny, especially by Price, who was right in front of him.

Fortunately for him, he was right next to the doors and touching thighs with Roach, who, by chance, happened to sit next to him again. The contact burned as if the side of his leg was hovering over a low flame. The constant jostling of the van made it impossible to separate himself. 

Price's orders were there to distract him from the uncomfortable feeling that settled in his leg:

"Roach and Soap, you'll be scoping out the base for info. According to the intel, it's an external hard drive on the top floor," he said, "As usual, take out anyone as needed, but no fancy shit, okay?"

Soap nodded, noting Price's lingering gaze before he switched to his lieutenant. 

"Ghost, you'll be stationed by the building. Keep an eye on those two and get rid of any threats without bringing any attention to yourself. Gaz and I will be on overwatch. If things go south, fall back and regroup at exfile-- understand?"

There were some affirmative sounds from Gaz and Ghost. He and Roach signed in reply. 

When the van parked, they were let out. They were surrounded by expansive woods. It seemed endless. Countless trees brushed the sky, offering partial cover from the rain. The crunch of pine straw under his boot was softened by the mud. The scene was beautiful to him. If only he were here under different circumstances…

Price and Gaz were off to his right, discussing other parts of the plan. He turned his head to his left and found the two lovebirds huddled close together. Although he took just a glance, the image was seared into the back of his eyelids. Ghost held Roach by the waist, masked lips pressed to Roach's forehead. He could hear the soft mumble of Ghost's encouragements and see Roach signing back. Unsurprisingly, it made his heart clench and the freshly shaved stumps of the vines throb. He could feel a headache inching behind his eyes. The sight made him physically ill. He leaned against the van, using these precious moments of downtime to ease his symptoms. He was patiently waiting for Price to send them off. 

He was startled out of his little, mental pep talk by a hand on his shoulder. He followed the arm and found Price's concerned face. His touch burned… but Soap didn't want to disrespect him by pushing his hand away. 

This was the third time the odd burning sensation returned. This wasn't a coincidence and was probably caused by the mysterious growths. He couldn't stand the touch of others despite it being the thing he wanted the most. 

"You alright, son? If you need to stay back, just say so. I can't risk losing a good soldier," Price said.

"I'm fine, sir. I'm able… just a headache," he replied verbally, eyes stinging with tears from Price's scorching touch.

His shoulder was squeezed, intensifying the feeling, "Alright. Head out and stay safe."

"Yes, sir," his voice sounded strained. 

He quieted the soft gasp that left his lips when Price finally released his shoulder. He caressed his shoulder and parted from the van. Roach was waiting for him at the edge of the dirt path. He joined him and they began their walk through the woods, exchanging some small talk with their hands. 

'You okay? You didn't look too good near the van,' Roach pointed out.

'I'm fine,' he lied, 'Just a headache. The plane ride was rough.'

'I see…' Roach glanced away, 'We're alone now. You can use your voice if you want.'

Soap swallowed thickly and looked down at the mud below him. He didn't know why Roach was so determined to hear him talk. He took the chance to ask him why.

'I'm just curious. Why do you want to hear me?' 

From the sliver of moonlight highlighting their path, Soap could see the way that Roach's eyebrows raised in what seemed like surprise. 

'Everyone said that you talk a lot and that you were very loud, but you never seem to talk at all,' Roach explained.

Soap frowned at the new information. He loved to talk. Ever since he escaped his home in Scotland, he's done nothing but talk. His childhood was filled with sour memories of him being punished for opening his mouth. His mother berated him for his loose lips, claiming that she wished she had given birth to a "fine gentleman" rather than a "rowdy, useless, peasant." 

Although he couldn't be physically punished anymore, people could still push him away.

Is that another reason why they all excluded him? 

Maybe they got tired of hearing his voice and preferred Roach's silence instead.

'Lost touch with my voice, I guess,' Soap admitted, 'Plus, we have to keep an ear out for any threats. My loud mouth would alert anyone within a fifty-meter radius.'

Roach laughed at that.

'Now I understand why Ghost likes you so much,' he signed with a smile.

Soap nearly stopped in his tracks. He knew Ghost respected him on a professional level. He does his job well and is trusted to watch his six. On a personal level, he had no clue how Ghost saw him. He never thought that Ghost would bring him up. His actions contradicted Roach's statement. His last "conversation" was actually a lecture that was given to him in front of the rookies. That was a while ago. Whatever they had before Roach's return was just a distant memory. There was nothing between them anymore.

'I'm just a reliable teammate-- just like Gaz or Price. I'm nothing special,' Soap replied. 

'Not true! You might deny it, but I can see it,' Roach said, 'I'm good at reading people.'

'Oh really? Tell me what you see, then,' Soap was genuinely curious about what Roach thought of him. Since their actions were limited, he didn't think that he had much to say.

'Well, you're a good teacher! The rookies are happier now than they were back when Ghost and I did training. So that means that you're kind, humble, patient…and funny! I like your jokes,'

The admission made Soap feel better, especially with how genuine Roach seemed, but there was an underlying feeling of guilt. It would be much easier to be bitter about everyone and everything, but he couldn't bear the thought of having ill feelings toward anyone. He told himself daily that their actions were unintentional-- that they were excited to have such a great comrade back after so long. As the weeks dragged on, it was like he was slowly fading into the background. Perhaps it was just his luck-- that it was his fate-- to be alone in the end.

'Thank you, Roach. That's very nice of you.'

'I'm just being honest.'

If only he could do the same. 

A bleak edifice stood out amongst the trees. It lay beyond the wooded area. From a distance, he could see a dim light shine through a window on the top floor. That detail alone made him suspicious. It seemed like a set-up.

'There it is,' Soap signed.

He brought a hand up to his mic and cleared his throat before speaking: "This is Soap. The building is in sight. How's it lookin' up there, Ghost?"

"All clear. No enemies in sight," A deep voice rang in his ear.

He stomped out whatever feelings bloomed in his chest from hearing his voice and switched into "work" mode. His life was on the line as well as many others.

"We're going in," He said.

"Copy."

Soap took the lead as they entered the building.

All the lights on the first floor were out. If there were any threats hidden behind any doors or shelves, they would most definitely have the upper hand. Soap flipped down his night vision goggles and motioned for Roach to do the same. 

They checked through each room and found a whole lot of… nothing.

Everything was so quiet.

Too quiet.

Soap spotted the staircase and ascended, back glued to the wall. He whipped around each corner, scanning the area for any threats-- people or traps. It seemed as if this building was deserted after a regular work day. All the desks in each room were clean and organized. Not a single item was out of place. 

 If the information they kept here was so important, why wasn't it guarded?

Once each room on the second floor was cleared, they traveled to the third. Light spilled from behind a door at the end of the hallway. It was coming from the same room they spotted from outside. 

"I don't feel too good about this, Roach," Soap said as they approached the door, flipping up his goggles. He peeked through the small window and saw the same office space setup the other rooms had. There were no traps inside the room as far as he could see.

"This is Soap. We're outside the room rumored to have the information. No one seems to be here," he said, glancing back at Roach, who looked equally as worried, "I highly suspect that there is a trap hidden somewhere in this building."

"Proceed with caution," Price advised over the comms, "If anything happens, get out."

"Copy," he replied.

He grabbed the lever-like door handle and pushed down. There was a small click as the lock disengaged. The door wasn't even locked.

He gently pushed the door open and heard another, more distinct 'click.'

The dark hallways lit up with, small, blinking red lights.

"Shit!" Soap cursed, "The whole building is rigged!"

The blinking sped up slowly. It was a timer, and he didn’t know how long they had to escape the building. 

The two flew down the stairs, following the same path they took up to the top floor. 

Just as the exit came in sight, the lights suddenly stopped flickering-- as if they flat-lined-- illuminating the whole floor with red light.

Just as the explosions went off, Soap used the last of his vital seconds to tackle Roach, shielding his body with his own. They didn't make it to the ground before the blast flung them both into the yard. The building collapsed, showering them with dust and debris. 

.

When Soap came to, his ears were ringing and his vision had trouble focusing. He could make out the bright orange and yellow of the billowing flames that stood in place of what used to be a building. He heard the soft crackle of his comms and muffled, panicked voices.

"Soap! Roach! Do you copy?"

He couldn't tell who it was. 

He wasn't sure if he had any major injuries since his entire body was in pain. It protested as he shifted into a sitting position. 

A few feet in front of him was Roach's unconscious form.  

He slowly crawled to him, fighting against his screaming muscles, aching bones, and the urge to vomit, to check for any visible injuries. He couldn't see any blood, which probably meant that any injuries he had were internal. They probably both had a concussion and fractured bones. They were lucky to have made it out. 

He shook his shoulder. 

He released a sigh of relief when Roach stirred.

"The entire building was a setup. There was no information here, sir," Soap said, hoping that his team could hear him through his mangled mic. 

"We're heading your way, Sergeant." That was Price. He sounded breathless as he spoke. "If you can, head into the woods. Any of you broken?"

"Roach is unconscious but alive. Probably knocked his head against something," Soap said, releasing a pained groan as he stood up. Through the soreness, he felt a peculiar sensation in his stomach. "Everything hurts like hell, sir."

He whispered a small apology to Roach as he sat him up and grabbed a strap on the back of his vest. He made sure that it was secure before dragging him away from the carnage and to the edge of the woods. 

The adrenaline pumping through his veins masked the pain as he stumbled down the path. He cursed as he slipped on slick leaves and fell to his knees. When he glanced up, he saw three figures quickly approaching. The darkness concealed their faces, so Soap assumed the worst. His right hand brushed the handle of his knife, which was strapped to his thigh. He wasn't going down without a fight.

One of the figures raised their hands and slowly stepped into the moonlight. 

"It's alright, son. You're safe."

It was Price.

Ghost and Gaz tended to Roach while Price picked him off the ground and placed him back on his feet: "We have to get moving. That explosion could've notified any forces nearby."

When they made it to the van, Gaz carefully placed Roach in the back. Just as Soap was about to join him, he was yanked back by the collar and slammed into the side of the vine. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs and left him disoriented. He could feel saliva pool in his mouth-- he felt sick. He blinked the water away from his eyes to look at his assailant. A skull mask and angry eyes came into view. 

"What the fuck was that, MacTavish?" Ghost scolded, "You said that you had a feeling that there was a trap, so why weren't you more careful?"

He was careful! He checked each and every corner with Roach and found nothing! It was cleverly hidden in a blind spot behind a door. How was he supposed to know? It's not like Ghost was there. Even if he was, Soap doubted that he could spot it.

"I was…" Soap responded through grit teeth, "It was hidden--"

He gripped Ghost's wrists and attempted to pry him off, but he was pressed further into the side of the van. A pathetic whimper escaped his throat.  

"Your recklessness could've gotten Roach killed!"

Oh…

The realization felt like a splash of cold water on his face. 

Did Ghost not care about him at all? He was caught up in the same explosion. If Roach was the one to open that door, would Ghost react the same way? He didn't think that he would treat Roach the way he was being treated now. He loved him too much, apparently-- enough to disregard the health and safety of his own teammates.

Soap lacked a reply. All he could do was stare at him with a wounded expression.

Eventually, Price came to rescue him. He pulled Ghost away and pushed him to the side. He could hear him angrily scolding Ghost while Gaz came up to his side wearing a frown. He was led into the back of the van and placed right behind the passenger's seat. 

He stared at the ground, retreating into his mind like a wounded animal fleeing from a fight to lick its wounds. Ghost's words swirled in his head. He did everything properly. He tried his best to complete the mission. Was it his fault that it failed? Soap didn't think so, but Ghost seemed adamant that it was. 

The outside world became distant-- the physical pain, the wet clothes sticking to his skin, the tar-like blood trailing down his left eye from a gash over his brow-- like he was submerged in water. Everything was a blur. 

The words, "Hey mate, we're here," barely registered. 

When he decided to come back to reality, he was the only one left in the van. Roach was gone -- most likely taken to a nearby medical facility-- and his captain and lieutenant were far ahead with Gaz lagging behind. 

He shifted in his seat, groaning as the pain came back. He powered through it and set his feet on the ground outside. When he took his first step, he felt molten, hot pain shoot down his leg from his abdomen. Perhaps he pulled a muscle or got hit by a big piece of debris. 

He felt dizzy.

He placed a gloved hand against his abdomen where the pain originated from. He felt something poking against his hand-- something hard and jagged. He glanced down and saw a shard of metal protruding through his flesh, leaving a large tear in his sweater. Although the rain washed away most of the blood, his wound still wept, red trailing sluggishly to the belt of his pants.

The adrenaline from the mission hid the pain long enough for him to get away. He didn't even notice it. 

He turned back to the van, looking at where he sat. The pale, cloth seat was nearly black with his blood. Because of his morning and evening rituals of trimming vines from his body, he wasn't aware that he was losing blood. 

It was so much…much more than he's seen before.

"Soap?"

The call went unanswered. 

Soap crumpled to the ground. 

He felt the vibration of footsteps approaching and heard the whisper of voices behind him. Although he tried his best to fight the strong pull of sleep, he was too weak to resist. After all that he went through today, he deserved some rest. He wanted to be a little selfish-- just this once-- so he simply let go. 

His eyes slipped closed and everything plunged into darkness.

Chapter Text

This wasn't supposed to happen.

It was meant to be an easy mission-- get in, get the info, get out.

They've done it countless times before.

Yet, this time, two of his soldiers ended up on a stretcher.

Their jobs were dangerous and unpredictable, but this could've been prevented.

He replayed the events of the mission in his head and picked out several red flags that he didn't recognize at first. The entire building was an obvious trap. A novice-- no -- a child would've known better than to go inside. This building was in the middle of nowhere and had no space to house soldiers. As Soap reported, the building was filled with bleak and bare office rooms-- no gym, no lunch hall, no artillery closet. There was nothing that indicated that soldiers could be stationed there for long. If the information was so important, why wasn't it guarded? He should've pulled them out as soon as Soap-- the demolition expert-- communicated his worries about a trap. Instead of listening to him, he ordered him to "proceed with caution." He felt as if he triggered the charge himself. 

Because of him, Roach was placed in a room nearby with a concussion and a fractured wrist while Soap's whereabouts and condition were unknown.

Soap…

His behavior over the past few months was strange. 

His new attire-- the mask, sunglasses, and sweater --set off alarms in his mind. The change in wardrobe was so sudden that it gave him whiplash. He didn't even recognize him when he came to his office for the meeting. It was as if he was staring into the past-- like he was teleported back to when Ghost first joined the task force. 

Although he loved Ghost like a son, the first few years with him were rough. Ghost had a tough shell and was a cold individual. He preferred to push people away and isolate himself. His behaviors were self-destructive. It took Price a long time to get through to him. The addition of Roach made it easier.

The meeting lacked its usual charm. Soap was completely silent. When asked a question, he would use his body to communicate-- nodding, shaking his head, or signing with his hands. There were no quips, witty remarks, or humorous comments. It was as if Soap wasn't even there. Because the tint of his sunglasses was so dark, he couldn't tell whether Soap was looking at him or not. Was he even paying attention? He seemed so out of it.

Naturally, when the meeting ended, he kept Soap behind to talk to him. Although he desperately wanted to know what happened to cause this sudden change in his behavior, that was not his goal when he talked with Soap. He wanted to let him know that he was there to support him in hopes that he'll willingly come back to him later and talk to him.

He recalled the way he flinched when he tried to comfort him by squeezing his shoulder. He wanted to comment on it, but he didn't want to make him feel more uncomfortable than he already looked. Whatever happened to Soap occurred under his leadership, so he was responsible for fixing it. He had to, not only for Soap's health but for the best interest of the team… which was falling apart before him. 

He thought that Roach's return would make them invincible since they were already known as a force not to be reckoned with. A bit of extra experience wouldn't hurt their already talented group of soldiers. 

It was no surprise that Ghost glued himself to Roach's side since they had a history together. What he didn't expect was their decision to pursue a romantic relationship. It's not like Price thought that Ghost wasn't a fit partner, he just didn't think it would happen so fast. Like any good father figure, he congratulated them. Although against regulation, Price wasn't going to say no if it made Ghost happy. His lieutenant deserved a bit of sunshine after a lifetime of storms.

Ghost was physically affectionate-- holding his lover's hand in public, giving him kisses in more private corners of the base, and offering comforting touches after a hard day. Roach seemed happy at his side. Though, when Roach was occupied, whether it be in conversations with Gaz or doing some paperwork, Ghost's shoulders would drop and his eyes would fixate on the floor or the wall. He was happy, from what Price could tell, but not satisfied.

Price noticed something odd forming between Ghost and his sergeant, Soap. Whenever Ghost's duties involved working with Soap, he kept as much distance as possible, found an excuse to leave, or corrected him harshly during demonstrations.

He assumed that something had happened between them-- maybe a small disagreement-- so he waited for it to smooth out. They were adults, and they rarely stayed mad at each other for long. They were close…or they used to be, at least.

Things had only gotten worse since then. 

While Price was getting an unconscious Roach situated in the van, he heard a loud slam against the metal side of the vehicle and felt the entirety of it shift. Then, he heard Ghost yelling. He rounded the vehicle to assess the situation. He was shocked at what he saw: Ghost had his sergeant pinned against the van by his gear, nearly lifting him off the floor. He saw the fear in Soap's eyes as Ghost screamed at him. 

He saw red. Rarely did he get angry at his own squad. But this…this was absolutely uncalled for.

He shoved Ghost to the side, freeing Soap. 

"Whatever bone you have to pick with him can wait. Lay a finger on him again, and I will personally kick you out of the military," he had said, face inches away from Ghost's, "Do I make myself clear, soldier?"

"Yes, sir," was Ghost's hesitant reply. 

Price took a moment to gaze into his eyes. They were defiant but held something that he couldn't place.

"You're not going on another mission until you fix whatever is between you two," Price said.

The ride back was tense. 

Roach was laying across the seats, his head secure in Ghost's lap. Ghost was silent-- eyes cast to the ground, perhaps in shame. Gaz was sitting next to Soap, who lay limp against the back of the passenger's seat. His eyes were half-closed, rarely blinking. He looked exhausted. Price couldn't blame him. 

When they made it back to the base and started their journey across the strip of asphalt, he thought that Soap would be right behind them. He was wrong.

He heard Gaz's voice first.

"Soap?"

He sounded so concerned.

When Price turned around, Soap fell to the ground. 

He ran as quickly as his legs could take him and dropped to his knees before him. He gathered him in his arms and looked over his face. His eyes were struggling to stay open-- they were shifting their gaze at nothing in particular, pupils nearly swallowing his colored irises. 

"Stay with me, son. Keep your eyes open!" He cried.

When Soap's eyes fluttered shut, Price's blood ran cold. Cursing, he picked him off of the ground and rushed him to the base. 

Gaz and Ghost stood uselessly frozen in place.

"Someone get a medic!" He yelled.

It took longer than usual for someone to come to Soap's aid.

When they took Soap from his arms, he could feel the warmth that his blood left behind on his clothes. Although it had dried hours ago, he could still feel the phantom sensation of its slickness. 

"You're going to walk through the floor at this rate, captain," A voice to his side pulled him out of his reflection. 

He raised his eyes from his combat boots. He was no longer standing on wet asphalt, watching a group of medics pry Soap from his arms. He was in a waiting room, standing under LED lights that irritated his eyes.

He turned to Gaz, the owner of the voice. The sergeant was hunched over his knees as he sat in one of the hospital chairs. His knee was bouncing quickly, dispelling some of his nervous energy. 

He halted his pacing and covered his eyes with the palm of his hand. He wasn't in the spirit for such comments, but he knew that Gaz was trying to lighten the mood. He appreciated the attempt. 

"Can't bring myself to sit," he replied.

"I'm sure they're fine, Price," Gaz said.

Roach, most likely.

But, Soap…

The amount of blood staining his clothes was enough to make him worried. The wound he sustained must've been big. There was no way Soap didn't notice it. Why didn't he say anything?

Before he could communicate his thoughts, the soft squeak of rubber shoes caught his attention. The waiting room door opened, revealing a young woman dressed in scrubs holding a clipboard. 

"Are you all here for Sergeant Sanderson?" She asked.

Ghost spoke as soon as those words left her mouth: "How is he?" The chair he was sitting in knocked against the wall with the ferocity with which he stood up. 

"Stable," The nurse replied, "He's got a concussion and a few bruised ribs. We'll keep him overnight to observe him further." She flipped through a few pages on her clipboard, looking for anything else to report on. When she found nothing, she dropped the board to her side and smiled. "I'll lead you to him."

As the nurse walked away, the three filed behind her. Ghost was on her heels, clearly eager to see his lover. They traveled the long, winding hallways of the hospital, walking past countless doors. Haunting moans and groans of pain echoed against the bleak walls of the establishment.

Price peered into each open room as they walked, hoping to find Soap. He knew it was unlikely that he was going to hear about him soon since his injuries seemed severe. He just hoped that he was okay. He may not be a man of God, but if praying helped Soap, he would do it without hesitation. 

The nurse stopped at an open room and knocked on the thick, wooden door. "You've got visitors," she said.

Roach was sitting up in his bed with bandages wrapped around his chest and a few pieces of gauze stuck to his arms. 

As expected, Ghost sat on his bed and brought him into a gentle hug. Although it irked Price to see him use those violent hands to bestow such gentle care on Roach, he didn't comment on it. 

'I'm just fine, Simon!' Roach signed as best as he could trapped against Ghost's chest. 

"I'm glad," Ghost replied quietly. Price could barely hear him. "I was so scared when the charge went off. I thought I'd lost you again."

'I won't leave you that easily,' Roach said, placing a kiss on Ghost's covered forehead. 

If only he knew what happened…

"You're one tough fucker, huh?" Gaz said with a grin as he took a seat next to Roach's bed.

Price watched on as they engaged in conversation. He was relieved that one of his soldiers was okay. Soap was still missing from the picture. 

"How're you feeling, son?" Price asked, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. 

He couldn't bring himself to sit. He wasn't going to relax until he knew Soap was okay. 

'I've got a headache and I'm really sore, but I'm alive!' Roach said with a smile, 'The doctors said I was lucky to make it out with the injuries I have.'

"That's good," Price said with a smile. It was slightly forced. He was genuinely glad that Roach was okay, but that last bit of information made his stomach twist. "What all do you remember from the explosion?"

Roach took a few moments to gather his thoughts before answering. He detailed how red lights began to blink as soon as Soap opened the door. He recalled running down the flights of stairs with Soap right behind him. His memory became fuzzy around the time of the actual detonation of the bomb. 'I remember being shoved forward. I think it was due to the blast, but I'm not sure. Then I woke up, here. It's hard to remember. Sorry, Price,' Roach finally dropped his hands after that. 

"It's alright, son. No need to apologize. Just get some rest, yeah?" Price replied. 

He didn't know what to do with Roach's story. Without knowing Soap's condition and injuries, it was difficult to come to a conclusion. 

Roach glanced around at his teammates. It was as if he were looking for someone. When he didn't find who he was looking for, he looked to Price.

'Captain, where's Soap?' He asked.

Price sighed, shaking his head: "Don't know, son." He watched as Roach's expression fell to that of sorrow. "He fell unconscious when we made it back to base. He was bleeding out when they took him in. We haven't heard of him since."

Roach's misty, green eyes glanced over his clothes, which were stained nearly black from the combination of mud, dirt, and blood. He gestured to it and hesitantly began to sign:

'Is that his?'

Price's lips fell into a straight line. He nodded.

"I'm sure he's fine, mate. He wouldn't leave us like that," Gaz supplied with a comforting hand on Roach's shoulder. It was clear that he wasn't taking the news too well. Despite only knowing him for a few months, Roach seemed to be more emotional than everyone else, who had known Soap for years.

'Gaz, the doctors said that I was lucky ,' Roach signed, wiping some of his tears with the back of his hand, 'What if Soap wasn't so lucky?'

"C'mon, mate. Don't say that," Gaz said with a frown, "We don't even know, yet."

"I'll ask the front to see if they know anything," Price said, detaching himself from the wall.

Roach nodded, signing a small 'thank you,' to Price as he left. Price wasn't too confident about the quality of information he was going to receive.

He approached the front desk and peered over the top of a monitor. A young man locked eyes with him. 

"How can I help you, sir?" The young man asked. 

"I'm looking for John MacTavish. He's my sergeant," Price replied.

"Alright. I'll look him up right now." 

Price watched as he tapped away at his keyboard and moved the mouse around. After a bit of searching, the man's eyebrows raised. "There he is," he whispered. A few more clicks later, Price saw his brows furrow in confusion. 

"He's here, sir, but there's no room number," the young man said, "Usually, it's reported, but it looks like it's been left out. This is common when they're in surgery or it could be a human error. I'm sorry, sir."

Surgery…

There was still hope.

"No problem. Thanks for your help," Price said, nodding to him before walking back down the hall.

With how much blood came from Soap, it was obvious that he needed some work done. He couldn't see much of anything when he carried his limp body to the base. He was too overcome with panic and urgency. 

When he returned to Roach's room, they all looked at him.

Price shook his head.

"He's here, but they don't have a room number for him, yet. He's most likely in surgery right now."

'I hope he's okay,' was Roach's response.

"Me, too."

Price snuck a glance at Ghost. His eyes were focused on the covers of the hospital bed, his mask concealing whatever expression was on his face. 

As much as Price didn't want to entertain it, Soap's injuries were made worse by Ghost's outburst. If he died, Ghost would be partly to blame. He hoped, not out of malice, that his lieutenant knew it. 

They stayed until they were kicked out of the hospital by the nurses. 

He watched as Ghost lay a kiss on Roach's lips. He whispered something he couldn't quite catch before leaving his side. 

When Price got to his temporary room, he took a shower. He made a mental note to burn his clothes later. Even if the stains could be washed out, which was unlikely, he didn't feel comfortable wearing something that was marked by the possible death of his sergeant-- someone he lovingly called his "son."

After performing his nightly routine, he crawled onto his stiff mattress and pulled the scratchy over his body.

Sleep didn't visit him that night.

.

The next day, he visited the hospital after completing some post-mission duties and eating lunch. He checked in and walked into Roach's room. Ghost was there at his side as expected. Gaz had other duties to attend to, so he wasn't able to stay for long. 

After another set of tests by the nurses, Roach was finally discharged from the hospital. 

Ghost left with him.

Price decided to stay and wait for Soap.

He paced the waiting room just like the night before. After a while, he confronted the same young man at the front desk and received the same answer. He was kicked out of the room when visiting hours were over. 

He had no room number.

No news on his status.

.

The next day, he arrived early in the morning, carrying some paperwork to complete as he waited to see his sergeant. 

He struck up conversations with the nurses that passed by and some of the other soldiers who were waiting for news on their friends or family. The waiting room, once filled with a few visitors, was now empty. 

The others didn't come to visit. 

He was alone.

Nurses asked him to leave at the end of the day, their eyes filled with pity. 

.

The next day was similar: he came alone, sat down, finished some paperwork, and talked to other guests and staff. When the clock assumed a familiar position at the end of the day, he stood from his seat. A familiar face of a nurse greeted him at the door of the waiting room. 

"I'll be back tomorrow, then," he said with a sad smile.

"Actually," the nurse, a vibrant young man, said, "I've got news for you."

Price's eyes widened. He nearly dropped his paperwork.

"The patient you're waiting for-- Mr. MacTavish-- he's open to visitors," he said.

"Can you take me to him?" Price asked, his voice cracking slightly.

"Of course! Follow me!"

The nurse led him away. They traveled down a few flights of stairs. The lower parts of the hospital looked like a dingy basement-- the lights flickered, it was darker, and the atmosphere was tainted with death. The smell of stale blood and the sobs of sorrow from some of the rooms was the biggest indicator that this floor was not a happy one.

The nurse stopped at a door and knocked on it. He cracked it open. "Sir, you've got a visitor," he said, holding the door open for Price.

When Price walked in, he felt the weight of the world lift from his shoulders. He felt like he could finally breathe. Soap was in a large hospital bed with blankets pulled up to his neck. The wires of the machines traveled under the blanket, reading his vitals and most importantly his heartbeat. He could hear the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor.

He was alive!

"Oh, son, " Price whispered, approaching his bed. As the full room came into view, he recognized someone familiar at Soap's bedside. It was a disgruntled Kate Laswell. He gave a simple nod to her. He would talk with her later. Right now, there was something more important to address. 

Soap had a black mask over his head with an addition of an eyepatch covering his left eye. A bright, blue eye squinted at him.

"Nice to see you, captain!" Soap greeted in a voice that mirrored what he sounded like a few months prior. 

"You don't know how happy I am to see you, son," Price said with a sniffle, "You gave me quite a fright, there."

Soap chuckled sheepishly, raising an arm to scratch the back of his head. He was wearing a white, long-sleeve turtleneck. "Sorry, I didn't realize how bad it was. I didn't feel anything until I got out of the van-- honestly, sir."

"Don't apologize, son. I should be apologizing…" Price said, "I should've taken you both out as soon as you said something,"

Soap's brow rose and his head tilted slightly.

"It's okay Price. It's part of the job," Soap said.

"And…what happened afterward. I want to apologize for that, too," Price's head hung in shame. 

"What do you mean?" Soap asked.

"The way Ghost treated you, son," Price said,  "I'll make sure that he apologizes to you personally. What he did was uncalled for."

"Oh…that," Soap turned away and shrugged, "It's already forgiven. You know how he gets with Roach. He's very protective."

"I'm not taking no for an answer this time, soldier. He needs to pay for it in some way," Price said.

"Whatever you say, Price," Soap said with smiling eyes.

He looked more uplifted than he had been in months. He must've gotten some good news.

"You seem in good spirits. Everything feeling okay?" Price asked.

"I'm right as rain! I'm a bit sore…I did get skewered by a large piece of metal. I'm a quick healer, though! The doctors said I'll be back on duty in no time," Soap said, "I'll be able to leave tomorrow if everything is okay. I can't wait to get back home…I miss everyone."

Price could hear the grin in his voice. His words seemed genuine. There was no hint of anger or malice towards Ghost or… anything, really. His change in attitude was off-putting.

"Take it easy, won't you? Can't have you give me any more gray hairs. At this rate, I'll go bald," Price said, patting the top of his hat. 

"I promise, sir," Soap chuckled, "You might look good with a shiny head!"

"I'd rather keep my hair, son."

After a few minutes of conversation, Soap was feeling a bit tired. The way his speech slurred and his eye drooped prompted Price and Laswell to tuck him in and say goodnight. 

Once he and Laswell were alone and walking through the hallways of the hospital. Price to the chance to ask her some questions. 

"How were you able to visit him?" He asked, "They wouldn't tell me what room he was in until late this evening."

"That's because he requested me, John," Kate said, eyes not sparing him a glance, "There were a few things he wanted to tell me before he wanted visitors."

Price eyed her, silently telling her to elaborate.

"It's confidential. He asked me to take it to my grave," she replied.

When they were about to part ways, she turned to face him for the first time that day. Her expression was awfully grim. 

"I'll tell you this since you're here, John," she said, voice laced with bitterness, "Keep a close eye on your men."

She walked away, leaving Price alone in the middle of the hallway.

Chapter Text

Laswell's words haunted him as he drove back to base. Not even the quiet hum of music from the radio could distract him. Its gentle, constant static and the eerie whistling of wind from the cracked windows provided the perfect accompaniment for his thoughts. He didn't notice any large fractures within his team before this mission, but Soap must've told Laswell something to provoke her bad mood and her awfully cryptic words. This implied that his Sergeant didn't trust him enough to confide in him. Perhaps he was a part of the problem or was at least guilty by association.
 
As he pulled into the base, he decided to act upon Laswell's advice. There was a fault in his team that grew beneath his nose. Perhaps he could solve the mystery behind Soap's odd behavior if he addressed them-- assuming that the cause was a single person. The only one that came to mind was Ghost, who revealed his grudge against Soap with his outburst.
 
He walked into the base with the intention of finding his boys. He knew that they were most likely grouped together since Roach still needed someone to look after him. He found them in the recreation room huddled around a small, round table playing a game of poker.
 
When they heard him enter, they paused their game to quietly greet him. Roach then signed to him:
 
'Any news on Soap?'
 
He noticed the minute shift of Ghost's shoulders. They stiffened ever so slightly. Although his expression remained neutral as if he didn't care, his body showed anticipation.
 
He nodded with a smile: "He's coming home tomorrow. He says that he misses you guys."
 
Roach's face immediately brightened up. He no longer hunched over the table. His shoulders were pushed back and his spine straightened. He looked absolutely overtaken with joy.
 
'I'm so glad! I've been worried sick,' He signed quickly.
 
Price snuck a glance at Ghost. His Lieutenant visibly relaxed, but his eyes were cast to the floor.
 
"Told you he wouldn't leave us," Gaz supplied, patting Roach on the shoulder.
 
 "We'll be leaving as soon as he gets back, so have your things packed and ready to go," Price informed them.
 
"Finally!" Gaz released an over-exaggerated sigh, "I miss my bed."
 
'The beds here are the same, stupid,' Roach quipped.
 
While the two of them engaged in playful banter, Price kept his eyes on Ghost. Apparently, his staring was a bit too obvious since his Lieutenant turned to face him. Their eyes met.
 
A small, curious grunt came from behind the skull mask.
 
"Just wondering how you're doing. These past few days haven't been easy for us," Price said, crossing his arms over his chest.
 
Ghost's eyes fell back to the floor:
 
"M'fine."
 
His voice was barely over a whisper.
 
Price could tell that Ghost was shutting down mentally. His tired eyes and his unusual slouching served as evidence. He's known Ghost for a long time-- long enough to be considered to be a healthy father figure. Ghost only gets like this when he feels guilty; it's a self-defense mechanism brought on by his tumultuous past.
 
He was glad that Ghost was experiencing some form of regret, but he needed to express it in the form of an apology. The team would remain fractured if he didn't. Price already had a few plans in place to make it happen since he knows that Ghost rarely initiates emotional conversations.
 
After these night's events, Price felt as if he could finally rest. The exhaustion was able to seep into his bones now that his anxiety had eased up. It's felt like weeks since he's been able to get a good night's rest.
 
"Well, I'll be heading to bed now. Get some rest, alright?" He spoke to all of them, but he was still facing Ghost. He gave his lieutenant a gentle pat on the back before dismissing himself from the room.
 
He trekked the long, winding path to his temporary room-- to his stiff mattress, flat pillows, and thin blankets. Fortunately, when his body hit the bed, sleep was merciful enough to take him away for the night.

.

He met Soap at the hospital early the next morning. His Sergeant was sitting in a chair at the front of the complex dressed in black with a large, plastic bag filled with medication and a change of clothes on his lap. When Soap spotted him, he greeted him with what Price assumed to be a smile. His blue eye squinted so hard that it looked closed. He stood up and approached Price with a slight limp.
 
"Mornin', Price!" Soap said.
 
"You feeling alright, son?" Price asked, coming to his side.
 
"A bit sore," his Sergeant replied, "but I feel refreshed!"
 
"Good to hear," he said, "Let's get you home, now."
 
He had to assist Soap to his car since walking proved difficult for him. The wounded sound he made as he sat in the seat pierced his heart. He knew the Scot was a stubborn man and hated asking for aid. Soap must've been in serious pain to act this way around him.
 
Luckily the car ride was smooth.
 
When they got to the base, Price led him to his room, which remained untouched since he was stuck in the hospital the entire time after the mission. Although they would be leaving soon, he still wanted to give Soap the chance to get whatever belongings he had together and get a little food in him.
 
As they made their way to the chow hall, they passed by the rest of the team, who were hanging out in the rec room much like the night before. Soap stopped in his tracks, gazing at the group. It looked as if he was hesitant about stepping into the room. He wasn't given much choice when Roach-- ever so perceptive-- looked up and saw them standing at the entrance.
 
Roach immediately threw down his cards and came to greet Soap, hands moving so quickly that Price couldn't read all of what he was saying. It was safe to say that he was delighted to have Soap back. From what he could catch, Roach was asking about what happened to him and asking why he was in the hospital for so long.
 
'I got impaled with some metal,' Soap said, raising the hem of his sweater to reveal his bandaged abdomen. The gauze held red splotches already. The sight drew a silent gasp from Roach and a small curse from Gaz, who had just walked up and was standing by Roach's side.
 
With a sorrowful expression, Roach looked upon his bloodied bandages, hesitantly reaching out towards them. His fingers gently brushed the gauze before finally settling upon Soap's hand as a silent apology.
 
With one hand, Soap signed to him: 'Are you okay?'
 
'I'm fine, Soap. I'm not the one that was turned into a kebab,' Roach replied.
 
That made Soap audibly chuckle.
 
'I know, but you scared me when you didn't wake up,' Soap said, 'I thought I knocked you out when I tackled you.'
 
Roach raised a brow at his words.
 
Hell, even Price was confused, too.

He recalled something that Roach said in the hospital shortly after he woke up. He said that he felt a peculiar push during the explosion. Although Roach concluded that it was caused by the blast, it was still odd enough for him to remember it.

After a few moments of thought, everything seemed to click. It wasn't the explosion that Roach felt; it was Soap using his body to shield him. If Soap hadn't been there, Roach definitely would have been served with a sharp piece of metal. Whether Roach would have made it or not…well, he didn't want to think about that.

Roach appeared to arrive at the same conclusion. A free hand covered his mouth while the other one removed itself from Soap's hand and began to sign. His movements were blocked by Soap's body, so he couldn't see what he was saying. The conversation ended with Roach's arms slithering around Soap's neck and Soap pulling him in for a hug.
 
Price pulled his eyes away from the heartwarming scene to examine the rest of his team. Gaz was still standing there, but Ghost was nowhere to be found.
 
Soap was then pulled away by Roach-- most likely to the chow hall. Price decided to tag along. He wanted to see what their interactions were like. Plus, he was getting a little hungry.
 
When they sat down at the table with their trays, Roach was by Soap's side while Gaz remained next to his. He noticed that Soap's plate was filled with a variety of fruits and vegetables without a single piece of meat. This was odd since the Scot always preferred beef or lamb over half of the things currently sitting on his plate.
 
"You're not gonna try any of the sausage?" He asked.
 
Soap shook his head, hesitating for a few moments before speaking: "I haven't been able to keep anything down besides fruits and leaves since the surgery."
 
"That must be hard since you can't eat any of your favorite stuff," Gaz piped up, voice muffled by a mouthful of food.
 
"Eh," Soap replied with a shrug of his shoulders, "It doesn't bother me as much as I thought it would. Plus, the fruits taste pretty good."
 
Price noticed how Soap pushed the food around on his plate with a fork while the fingers of his other hand seemed to hover over the hem of his mask. He could only assume that he was anxious about eating around people.
 
He decided to address it: "We can meet up later if you want to eat in your room."
 
Soap looked up at him, his blue eye holding an emotion that he couldn't quite name. It was as if he were wearing those shades again. His expression was just as difficult to read. He seemed to consider the arrangement.
 
"That's alright. I want to eat with you guys," Soap replied quietly, "It's been a while."
 
The fingers hovering around the hem of Soap's mask took action and pushed it up to the bridge of his nose, revealing the bottom half of his face. He was growing a decent beard beneath that mask. It was definitely against regulation. His dark, coarse hair covered a majority of the bottom half of his face and whatever part of his neck that wasn't covered by his turtleneck sweater. He most likely didn't have the opportunity to shave in the hospital.
 
Price couldn't remember the last time he ate with his Sergeant.
 
It's been too long.

Price wondered how he never noticed it before this mission.
 
Soap was absent the few times he ate with his team. He didn't think anything of it since he usually took meals in his office so he could finish some work. Each time, he assumed that it was a coincidence that Soap wasn't there.
 
The heavy guilt forming in his stomach replaced the hunger.
 
He merely sipped on his tea-- not because he liked it. The drink he made was too bitter for his liking, but at least it was something that mimicked the sensation of being sated.

.

The flight back was short and uneventful. Soap and Roach signed to each other the entire time while Gaz decided to take a nap on his shoulder. Ghost sat silently next to Roach, eyes glued to the floor. Price was glad that his Sergeants were getting along so well. Soap needed a break and some good company after the events of this mission.
 
As the plane made its descent to land, it began to jostle and shake. Soap was tense in his seat, his gloved hands squeezing the life out of his restraints. The sharp movements of the plane were causing him pain. Roach picked up on it and offered his hand for Soap to hold. The image was sweet.
 
As they filed out of the plane, Price caught Ghost by the shoulder: "Report to my office after you get settled."
 
He left his side, not even waiting for a response, to prepare for the impromptu meeting he planned. He wasn't going to allow Ghost to simply disappear-- not after what he did to Soap.
 
After an hour, he heard a knock at his door.
 
"Come in," he said.
 
Ghost stepped into his office, gazing with curious eyes at the setup in his Captain's office space. Price gestured for him to sit in one of the two chairs that were facing each other in front of his desk. Once his Lieutenant sat down, Price wasted no time explaining what he expected of him:
 
"You have ten minutes to think of an apology for Sergeant MacTavish. Grovel or beg forgiveness if he asks for it-- whatever you need to do to set things straight between you both," he said, watching as Ghost stiffened up in his seat, "I'm not going to give you another lecture. You already know what will happen if you slip up again. You will not leave this room until Soap does. Understand?"
 
He waited for a reply of some sort before leaving his office to fetch Soap. Just as he expected, he found him playing cards with Roach. Gaz was lounging on the nearby couch, glued to his phone. It was odd for Gaz not to join in on games, especially if Roach is playing.
 
"Soap?"
 
"Yes, sir?" His Sergeant looked up from his fan of cards. 
 
"Can I borrow you for a few minutes?"
 
"Sure!" Soap placed his cards on the table and muttered a quick apology to Roach, who gave him a thumbs up in reply, "What can I do for you, Captain?"
 
"We're going to my office. Ghost wants to chat with you," he explained as he walked.
 
"Price, you know that it's okay, right?" Soap said.
 
"No, Sergeant. I don’t. Just hear him out, okay?" He said, determined to go through with his plan.
 
Soap released a defeated sigh, "Alright, sir."
 
"I'll be out here. Don't wanna seem nosey," Price said, opening the door for Soap.

Soap gave him a nod and walked inside. The heavy door fell shut behind him. All Price could do as he waited was hope and pray that this plan wasn't going to backfire on him.
 
Price couldn't pick out any noises. They've been in there for at least five minutes. He was starting to worry. Just as he glanced at the oakwood door, he heard Soap's muffled, charming laughter.
 
He released a sigh of relief.
 
Not too long after, Soap opened the door with a smiling eye, seemingly glowing from the encounter. "See you around, alright LT?" He said into the room.
 
He didn't hear a reply before Soap walked out into the hallway.
 
Price poked his head into his office. Ghost was still sitting in his seat, eyes glued to the floor.
 
"I'm glad that you settled things. Now, go enjoy the rest of your day, Ghost."
 
When Price didn't get so much as a hum or a look, he peered into his face. His brows were furrowed together and his eyes were clouded over. He looked confused.
 
"You alright?" He asked.
 
That seemed to knock Ghost out of his trance.
 
"Uh, yeah," he muttered, standing from his seat and brushing his palms against his pants, "Thanks, Price."
 
He stood up and walked out of the office.
 
That was odd.
 
He wondered what they chatted about to make Ghost react in such a way. Soap seemed perfectly fine-- better than fine, actually. But, it wasn't any of his business. He just wanted his team to return to some form of normalcy.

.

Price tried his best to settle back into his regular schedule: completing paperwork,  disciplining out-of-control rookies, and attending meeting after boring meeting. However, he couldn't get too comfortable, for Laswell's words slithered into his mind as soon as he was alone.
 
Keep a close eye on your men.
 
What exactly did she mean by that? It's been on his mind ever since those words left her mouth. There was tension between his men caused by the many changes that came from Roach's reintroduction-- the new relationship, the change in the team's dynamics, and the mission. He was under the impression that his team was undergoing an adjustment period. Said period was longer than he expected, which meant there were large fissures within his team.
 
He had already addressed one of them-- Ghost-- and he hoped that the team would heal fully from that incident.
 
The next few days flew by without any hiccups. Ghost kept his distance from Soap when he could, but it was difficult since Soap and Roach were attached at the hip. Their bond grew stronger since the mission. It made sense. Soap saved his life, after all.
 
Ghost's affectionate gestures for Roach came to a stop in Soap's presence. This change was subtle, but Price's keen eye caught it. Whenever Soap was distracted by Roach or doodling in his notebook in silence, Ghost had his eyes on him. Price sensed something odd in the atmosphere. The emotion Ghost held in his eyes as he regarded his oblivious Sergeant was similar to how he looked at Roach-- with warmth and fondness.
 
Price tossed around several possibilities in his mind as to why.
 
Was Ghost jealous? Unlikely.
 
Does he like Soap? Maybe.
 
If so, what about Roach?
 
This was already getting messy.
 
That night, he received an invitation from Soap to spend time at the local pub. Price eagerly accepted, wanting to ease the stresses of his large workload with the pleasant buzz of alcohol. When he met up with Soap in the parking lot, he saw the rest of his team there as well.
 
Soap invited everyone.
 
At the pub, Soap was more rowdy than usual. His glee was amplified by the flow of sweetened drinks and bitter shots. He was the first to leave the group and join the sea of bodies on the dancefloor. His steps held vivacity and his strong arms swung to the obnoxiously loud beat with vigor. It was almost as if he had not been poked through with a piece of metal two weeks prior.
 
As Soap danced, Price examined the rest of his crew. Roach was nursing a glass of mead while chatting with Gaz and Ghost was nestled into the darkest corner of the pub. Although he tried to conceal it, his eyes were glued to the dancefloor-- more specifically, Soap.
 
His gloved hand tightened around his glass of watered-down bourbon when a stranger pressed their body up against Soap's and began to dance with him. As expected, they got touchy, trailing their hands over the broad expanse of his chest and the length of his arms. Soap seemed to enjoy the company and made no effort to push them away. He encouraged it instead, lacing their fingers together and laying his head back upon their shoulder.
 
The intimate sight was too much for Ghost to handle, for he tore his eyes away from the dancefloor as if it burned him and got lost in the amber liquid in his glass instead.
 
The night ended with a tipsy Soap being hauled into the backseat of Price's truck along with a fairly buzzed Roach and a completely stoic and sober Ghost. Gaz sat next to him in the passenger's seat, head turned out towards the window.

.

Two days later, Soap presented him with a small stack of paperwork while he was enjoying his lunch in his office. After skimming the first few pages, Price knew that it was a request for Soap's presence on a mission with a different team. He recognized the name of the captain requesting his services. He had no complaint with the team Soap was temporarily assigned to, so he didn't mind lending him off if that's what his sergeant wanted.
 
When he turned to the last page, he saw that Laswell's signature was already there. Usually, he would have to forward papers like these to her after he's signed them, but it looks like she's done all the administrative business for him. He felt like he was excluded from an important conversation. Why wasn't he notified of this?
 
"Are you sure that you're ready to go back out so soon?" He asked, slipping his pen from the breast pocket of his uniform.
 
"Yes, sir! It doesn't even hurt anymore," Soap said with a chuckle, "I even took down some rookies during today's sparring sessions."
 
"If you say so," Price said, placing the ballpoint of his pen at the dotted line, "I trust your judgment."
 
He drew his signature on the page and placed the stack of papers to the side. He would file it away later.
 
"When are you leaving?" He asked.
 
"In thirty minutes," Soap said, his bright blue eye squinting at him.
 
Usually, it would take a week to get the paperwork processed before a soldier could be greenlit for service on another team. Soap's transfer was expedited. Although he wanted to question everything about this sudden mission, he knew that this was most likely the "confidential" information he shared with Laswell within the confinements of the hospital's walls.
 
"Are you already packed?"
 
"Yes, sir. I've said my goodbyes and they all wished me the best," Soap said, eye glancing to the ground, "Can I request something else?"
 
Price stood from his office chair and nodded to him, offering his full attention.
 
"Can you walk me to the tarmac?" His sergeant asked.
 
"Of course, son," he replied.
 
What kind of question was that?
 
Of course, he would send him off-- whether he asked for it or not.
 
"I'll get my stuff. I'll see you at the door in a few, yeah?" Soap's voice changed slightly-- at least to Price's ears. It was lower in volume and lacked its usual luster. He didn't sound confident.
 
He then left his office.
 
Price made his way to the exit and stood at the doors, waiting for his sergeant.
 
The base was quiet.

A few minutes later, Soap arrived with a deflated backpack hanging off of his shoulders. It looked like Soap packed no more than just a single change of clothes. What was he thinking? This mission was supposed to be for a few weeks. Whatever he packed might last him an hour if he's lucky.
 
Perhaps the other team had supplies waiting for him.
 
His sergeant has been in the military for most of his life, so he wasn't going to question him on something as basic as packing.
 
It was still a bit odd.
 
They took the long walk to the tarmac in silence.
 
A helicopter was waiting for Soap.
 
Price slowed his steps as he neared their destination.
 
"Take care, son," he said, reaching out and slapping a hand on his shoulder, "I'll see you in a few weeks, yeah?"
 
This time, he didn't feel Soap flinch at his touch.
 
Maybe he was getting better.
 
Then, his sergeant did something unexpected. Price was suddenly pulled into a tight hug. He felt as if Soap was trying to squeeze the life out of him. He tried his best to return the hug, but his arms were pinned to his sides. He managed to slip in a few pats to the sides of Soap's arms.
 
His affectionate side had become nonexistent up until his visit to the hospital. He was glad that Soap was returning to his old self.
 
When they parted, Soap's eye met his:
 
"Thanks for everything, Price."
 
Soap gave him a proper salute, which he returned.
 
Then, his sergeant turned his back to him and walked to the awaiting helicopter, disappearing within its round cabin.
 
The blades began to rotate, causing Price to place a hand over his head so his hat wouldn't fly off. The body of the vehicle lifted off the ground, and his soldier was carried into the sky and past the tree line that surrounded the base.
 
Price stayed there until he could no longer catch the glint of the helicopter in the sky.
 
Thanks for everything, Soap had said to him.
 
His words weren't comforting, for they carried a sense of finality.

It sounded as if he had said goodbye for the last time. 

Chapter Text

Good dreams rarely visited him while he slept. Every night was plagued with nightmares. Most of them were variations of his past-- his time spent in Roba's captivity, being buried alive, coming home to his family only to find them all dead, and witnessing Roach being burned alive next to him. He never got used to those scenes despite encountering them nearly every night.
 
Just recently, a new figure started to appear in his dreams.
 
It was Soap.
 
Though, it wasn't the version of Soap that he fondly called "Johnny." It was the silent, black-clad figure that he addressed as "Sergeant MacTavish."
 
The last two nights were occupied with the same, morbid dream.
 
Soap's body would lay limp on the ground of his black dreamscape just as it did the night of the mission when he collapsed outside of the van. Ghost would be standing a few paces from Soap, unable to move, and forced to watch the grotesque scene play out before him. Blood would slowly pool beneath his Sergeant, spreading out far beyond what the human body was capable of giving. Trails of crimson sought him out as if they were sentient. The moment they made contact with the rubber sole of his boot, Soap's gray, lifeless eyes would dart to him from their fixed position.
 
He would be shoved back into the land of the living, breathless and sweating at the brow. The image would leave him so disturbed that not even the warmth from the sleeping body curled against his side could soothe the chill that shot down his spine and raised his flesh. He wouldn't dare go back to sleep in fear of seeing him again. He would stay awake with his eyes fixed on the ceiling until the light crept through his blinds.
 
On the third night, nothing seemed to change.
 
The scene played out the same as it had the last few nights.
 
When Ghost's eyes met that of Soap's lifeless ones, he expected the dream to end right there. Instead, he heard a chilling voice come from his lips. His voice, which he remembered as confident and smooth like honey, was weak and breathy as if he were using his dying breath to speak to him. It was just above a whisper and slightly muffled due to the mask, but he could hear it as if Soap was speaking right into his ear.
 
"Simon…"
 
His eyes snapped open, revealing the pale surface of his ceiling. He was overcome with dread. His heart hammered against his ribs right under Roach's fingertips. Luckily, his lover was still fast asleep-- head tucked under his chin with their legs tangled together.
 
He didn't want to explain his particular dream to Roach.
 
He couldn't.
 
He already felt tremendous guilt about the feelings he had toward Soap.
 
When Roach was presumed dead, he never thought he would move on. He thought that he was too ruined for anyone else. Roach was the only one to open his arms to him and grace him with the undying love and adoration he didn't think that he deserved. He accepted all of his flaws and dealt with his heavy baggage. He held onto the thought of him for as long as he could, comforting himself with the memories of his warm hands and gentle touches.
 
It was like that for years, and Ghost had no plans to change it.
 
As soon as Soap came into his life with his bright blue eyes, obnoxious mohawk, his loud, charming voice, and stupid Scottish accent, he knew that he was in a lot of trouble. He always thought that he was a handsome individual. His childlike passion for explosives merely added to his charm. Ghost fancied the idea of pursuing him, but the memory of Roach's touch would pull him away.
 
Those phantom hands couldn't hold him back for long.
 
He felt himself growing closer to his Sergeant over the years. Fleeting touches would linger and their conversations became flirtatious.
 
Soap ignited a desire that was lost to Ghost. It terrified him at first, but he slowly began to warm up to the idea of moving on.
 
When he learned that Roach was still alive, he felt like the shittiest human being in the world. He was a traitor-- a cheater-- in his own eyes. He wished that his heavy guilt would crush him to death so he wouldn't have to face his crimes.
 
He decided to devote himself fully to Roach, like he had been all these years, and try to forget whatever feelings he developed for Soap. That was no easy feat as he soon realized. Even when he was embracing Roach late at night, finally reliving those moments of pure intimacy and love he yearned for, his treacherous heart would remind him of Soap. No matter how many times he attempted to rip those feelings from his chest, they would grow back like a stubborn weed.
 
Soon, the light that slipped through the blinds caressed his face.
 
It was time to get up.
 
He gently maneuvered Roach's head onto a fluffy pillow, careful not to rouse him from his sleep. He untangled their limbs and sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. He held his head in his hands, attempting to massage the oncoming headache away. The lack of sleep was affecting his health.
 
A few minutes later, he heard blankets shift and felt the mattress dip behind him. A bare chest pressed against his back and arms circled his middle. He could feel the graze of soft lips on his shoulder.
 
A 'good morning' was slowly traced on his chest.
 
"Mornin' Bug." His voice came out rougher than expected.
 
Roach peered over his shoulder and kissed his cheek while carding his fingers through Ghost's blond curls.
 
'Another nightmare?' He inquired.
 
Ghost nodded.
 
'Do you want to talk about it?'
 
Ghost glanced to the side and shook his head. The headache made its home right behind his eyes. He wanted the image of Soap to go away, but it was burned into the back of his eyelids.
 
'You're quiet. That means a lot of things are happening up in here,’ Roach said, giving a gentle pat to Ghost's curls to accentuate his point, 'Do you wanna share your thoughts?'
 
Ghost shook his head again, rubbing at his eyes.
 
There was a moment of stillness.
 
'Is it about him?'
 
Ghost went rigid against Roach's touch, giving away his answer.
 
When the warmth of his back pulled away, he panicked. Roach probably hated him for thinking about someone else. He reached out and held Roach's wrist, hoping he wouldn't leave.
 
'It's alright, Simon,' Roach signed, a smile gracing his angelic face, 'I can feel it when you look at him. There's something between you two.' He sat next to Ghost with his legs dangling off the edge of the bed.
 
"No-- Gary," Ghost stammered, bringing Roach's hand to his chest, "I'm not leaving you. I love you! I-I'll forget about him-- just please don't leave--"
 
His speech was silenced by a finger to his lips. Roach shook his head with furrowed brows.
 
'I'm not mad,' Roach signed, squeezing Ghost's trembling hand, 'A lot has happened since we separated. It's been a long time. We are different from the people we were before that all happened. All those years in that facility, I was hoping that you found someone who you could take care of because you deserve it. I'm so glad that he was there for you.'
 
"What are you trying to say, Bug?" Ghost asked.
 
'I'm saying that you should pursue him, Simon,' Roach said, 'The time we spent together was heavenly. You will always have a place in my heart. I'm not going anywhere.'
 
"But…"
 
'Just go to him, please. Don't torture yourself by being at my side. Things aren't as they used to be, and I've made my peace with that already,' Roach said, 'I've had years to think about it. Trust me.'
 
Ghost decided not to fight Roach further on the matter. His Bug was stubborn, but he was also right. He still felt like it was wrong.
 
He pulled Roach in and placed a kiss on his forehead.
 
"I love you," He said.
 
'I know you do,' Roach replied, 'But you love him, too, don't you?'
 
Ghost sighed, glancing down at his lap: "I've done a lot of bad things, haven't I?"
 
'You can fix it! I know you can,' Roach encouraged with a bright smile and a punch to his shoulder.
 
Ghost feared that what he did during that mission had placed a permanent barrier between himself and Soap. Although his Sergeant merely laughed it off and told him to "not worry about it," he would understand if he didn't want anything more than a professional relationship moving forward. 
 
He didn't have the heart to tell Roach about it-- he had so much hope in him. He feared his reaction.
 
"Thanks, Bug," Ghost simply said.
 
'I'll always be here if you need me,' Roach said, peeling himself away from Ghost's grasp and rolling out of bed. He got dressed and spared him a smile as he walked out of the room, leaving Ghost alone.
 
When Ghost left his room to complete his duties, he kept an eye out for his Sergeant. As he walked the halls, he peered into each of the open rooms, hoping to see a black-clad figure lounging in one of them but he found nothing. After he finished training rookies on the obstacle course, he checked the hill that Soap would sometimes nap on. He wasn't there, but he found an odd patch of dead vines and kicked up dirt.
 
Where could he possibly be?
 
The day quickly transitioned to night, and his Sergeant still hasn't made an appearance.
 
Perhaps he didn't want to be found. Ghost couldn't blame him. He hasn't been the greatest person to him lately-- that was an understatement.
 
He came to his door and knocked. He received silence. Maybe Soap didn't truly forgive him for what he did.
 
After a few minutes, he retreated from his door and to his room.
 
He went to bed alone that night.

.

The next day, he spotted something interesting.

Some rookies were spending time in the recreation room during their short break from training. Among them, Ghost caught one holding something in his hands. It glinted in the sunlight that flooded through the window. He stopped in his tracks and focused his attention on the metallic item. Upon closer inspection, the mystery item was a switchblade. It wasn't just any average blade. He could tell that it was professionally crafted and cleaned. The polished, wooden handle looked familiar to him. He remembered gifting Soap one that looked just like it. 

The rookie holding it was familiar as well. He immediately recognized him as Private Marx, one of Soap's favorite students. He was lying across the couch, examining the blade under the light of the sun-- twisting and turning it in the palm of his hands. He was careful with it.

What was he doing with it?

When he walked into the rec room, the soldiers turned to salute him, Marx included.

"At ease," Ghost said, waving them off and signaling for them to go back to their tasks. He turned to Private Marx and nodded to him: "Private."

"Yes, sir?" A pair of green eyes met his.

"Where did you get that blade?" He asked, gesturing to the pocket that it was slipped into when Marx stood up to salute him. 

Marx fished it out and presented it to him.

There was no doubt. 

That was his blade. 

"Ah, Sergeant MacTavish gave it to me a few months ago," the soldier said.

Why would Soap give it away?

He really fucked up.

"When was the last time you saw him?" Ghost inquired. 

"When he gave this to me, sir," Marx replied.

A few months ago…

"I see…" Ghost hummed, "Thank you, private."

He left the rec room.

Soap was always on rookie duty, so it was odd for one of his students -- his favorite one at that-- to not see him for an extended period of time.

That night, he visited Soap's room again. He knocked on his door and waited for an answer.

As he was standing there, he felt a gust of warm air brush against his legs from the space between the floor and the door. It was getting colder outside, but not cold enough to explain this sort of heat. 

Perhaps Soap's love for Winter had changed. 

He didn't know…

He hasn't had a conversation with him in nearly half a year. 

The more he began to reflect on his interactions with Soap, the more he realized how absent he was. He noticed that his Sergeant had stopped eating with them. He started skipping out on breakfast around the time Roach returned, then lunch a week after that, then dinner a few days after he had been missing lunch. Their time outside of their duties was nonexistent. He couldn't remember the last time he hung out alone with Soap. 

When he didn't receive an answer, he trudged back to his room in defeat.

.

His search during the next day was fruitless. 

He quickly became irritated. 

That night, he decided to speak to him through the door. 

Soap had to be in there. 

His room was the only place Ghost hadn't looked into. 

"Johnny, open the door, please," he said a few moments after he knocked. 

When he didn't get a reply, he rested his forehead against the wood of the door and released a sigh.

"If you keep ignoring me, I'm going to open this door," he threatened, his gloved hand grasped around the doorknob.

Nothing.

"I'm warning you, Sergeant."

Silence. 

Ghost muttered a small curse and twisted the knob. He expected the door to be locked, but he was met with no resistance. 

He was hit with a blast of hot air when he pushed the door open. The heat was so intense that he had to take a few steps back to recover and adjust to it. 

He walked in and flipped on the lights.

The room was a mess-- most definitely against regulation. There were clothes strewn about, the bed was occupied by a heap of blankets, and papers were thrown onto his desk without care. Soap wasn't the cleanest person, but he would never allow himself to live in such a chaotic environment. His eyes glanced at the thermometer next to the door. He assumed that it was broken since no one in their right mind would enjoy toiling in such heat. The dial was turned as far as it could go to the right side. The numbers on the dull screen read thirty-three degrees Celsius. It wasn't broken in the slightest.

Why would he turn it up so high?

He turned his attention to the lump on the bed. It was large enough to hide someone Soap's size. 

"Johnny?" He called out.

He peeled away the layers, treading carefully in case Soap was nestled under there. He didn't know if he wanted to see what was lying beneath the blankets. If his room looked like this, he could only imagine the state of Soap's appearance. 

He dug through the layers of blankets and found…nothing.

Who the hell would need this many blankets?

Who would even wear a blanket in this heat?

It's only been a few minutes, and Ghost felt as if he was standing in the middle of a field during the hottest days of summer. He was sweating-- both from the heat and from his nerves.

He pushed the last layer away, exposing the bedsheets. Soap wasn't there. Instead, he found multiple dark stains on his sheets. From Ghost's extensive time out in the field and in the military, he could tell that these stains were from blood. From what he could see, some stains were faded and washed out while others were…newer. The sheets were stiff where the darkest stains were. 

"Fuck…"

His heart picked up speed. 

Soap was hurt and he couldn't find him. 

He looked toward the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar. 

He slowly approached it as if he expected something to jump out at him. As he neared the bathroom, he picked up an odd scent that wasn't present when he first walked into the room. It smelled like a rotting garden with the presence of something…sour. 

What the hell was in there?

When he switched on the lights, he was greeted with a horrific sight. 

It looked as if several murders had been committed in the bathroom. Every surface had some sort of dark smudge on it-- even the ceiling wasn't spared. The tub and the tiles near the door had the highest concentration of blood. He stepped in further and peered into the tub. Whatever hadn't gone down the drain pooled around it and rusted the metal. The smell of rotting blood was so strong that it made him gag through his mask. He forced the bile back down his throat with watering eyes. 

This place was a biological hazard. 

He then turned his attention to the black trash bags piled against the wall adjacent to the tub. They looked as if they were about to explode at the slightest disturbance. Ghost gave a bag an experimental shove. 

"Shit!" 

His hand jerked back when his palm was pricked by something sharp through the bag. He held his injured hand to his chest, waiting for the residual pain to fade. Although the trash bag was stuffed full, it felt light. 

He carefully untied one of the bags, careful not to prick himself once more. 

When he finally managed to open the bag, its contents spilled at his feet. 

It was a pile of moist, rotting flowers and vines. Some of the vines were covered in thick thorns, which was what he probably nicked himself on. 

What the fuck…

Where did all of this come from? 

He turned away from the bags and turned his attention to the sink. It, too, was covered in stains. The contents of a first-aid kit were sprawled over the counter with no particular rhyme or reason. It looked as if someone had gone through it with haste and tossed aside what they didn't need.

Sitting next to the kit was another one of his switchblades. This one was special. It used to be his prized possession until he gave it to Soap, who promised to cherish it just as much. Now, it lay on a porcelain counter, its once shiny blade rusted and covered in crimson. 

All of this blood couldn't have come from one person…right?

If so, they would have to bleed out every day.

Soap was hurt. That much was obvious.

Now, Ghost was under the impression that it was self-inflicted. 

He slowly retreated from the bathroom, his mind still processing what he had just seen within the confines of this room. As he backed away, his leg caught onto a stray vine on the floor. His loss of balance startled him. He quickly regained his footing and stabilized himself against a blood-stained wall.

This was worse than what his nightmares could conjure.

By the time he slammed the door to Soap's room shut behind him, he was trembling all over. He was absolutely petrified by what he saw.

He had to tell Price.

He dashed through the empty hallways, fueled by adrenaline, hoping-- praying-- that Price was still in his office. 

When he made it to Price's door, he was winded. He barged into the room.

He was relieved when he saw Price, but he also saw the startled expressions of the rest of his teammates. His captain would never hold meetings so late in the evening. 

Why was everyone here?

Price was quick to steady his quivering form with a solid hold on his shoulders. 

"Price, Johnny-…he's--" Ghost managed to force out through his heavy breaths. 

"Shh… take some time to breathe and slow down," Price advised, "I know, son. I was just about to come get you, but I'm glad you came here first."

"W-What?" He asked.

Did they find the room before him?

"Something happened to Soap," Price said.

That's what he was here to talk to him about! The blood, the mess, the trash bags-- of course something bad happened to him. Why won't he let him talk? 

"Yeah-- You don't understand, Price, he's--" He tried again, but he was interrupted once more.

What came out of Price's mouth caused his heart to drop into his stomach and his entire body to be possessed with a deathly cold. 

"Soap's MIA." 

Chapter Text

When he opened his eyes, a fierce, bright, white light encompassed his entire vision. Soap thought that he had finally passed on and was standing before the golden gates of Heaven. He felt relieved, and it startled him. He never wanted to die or had ever thought about ending his life despite the world placing him in situations where the option was enticing at every turn. He never caught a break from the suffering, but he remained strong. He was determined to experience peace while his heart was beating. 

His odd relief faded with the gradual introduction of throbbing pain, reminding him that he was alive and was not floating up to Heaven as he thought. There was not a part of his body that wasn't sore. It was so intense that he could feel his heartbeat echo throughout his limbs.

As his visions focused, the bright, white light retreated into rectangles above him. He could make out ceiling tiles and smell the familiar stench of chemical solvents and cleaners. He could hear the steady, rhythmic pulse of the heart monitor.

He glanced down and saw slender, stem-like structures attached to his arms. His medicated brain kicked into panic mode. He grasped at these "vines" and quickly tore them from his body. Blood trickled from the places where the wires and tubes were forcefully removed.

His racing heart triggered an alarm. The pulse coming from the monitor flatlined when Soap ripped the wires off of his chest.

"Hey, hey! Settle down, will ya?" A gentle, feminine voice cut through the fog in his brain.

He ceased his aimless, panicked flailing and turned his head towards the source of the voice. There was a petite, elderly woman standing close to his bed. Her wild, gray hair framed her round, wise face. A large, white coat hugged her shoulders and a brown clipboard was tucked under her arm. She looked like a doctor, but she lacked a stethoscope around her neck. Instead, she had a variety of pens clipped to her breast pocket. 

Her small, gray eyes were trained on him, and a frown accentuated some of the wrinkles on her face. 

"No need to panic!" She reassured Soap, "You're safe in this hospital."

Soap glanced down and saw the discarded bloodied, clear tubes that fed his body liquids, and small wires that tracked his pulse instead of vines. The growths weren't there.

Why?

They usually formed when he slept. 

He opened his mouth to apologize, but all that came out was a pitiful wheeze and subsequent coughs. He released a whimper in pain and clutched his bandaged midsection. Although his entire body hurt, he felt a strange burn emanating from his abdomen.

"Ah, you were out for a while. Here, have some water," the lady placed a bottle of water on the small table next to his bed amongst the mess that he knocked over in a frenzy. 

Soap took the bottle and twisted the cap off. His hand went to his throat to lift his mask, but his fingers met soft flesh and rough hairs. 

Where was his mask?

He patted his face. 

There was nothing there. 

He felt naked-- exposed and vulnerable. And this innocent, elderly lady was here, staring at his grotesque face. 

Before he could hide from her gaze, she spoke: "It's our secret, Sergeant MacTavish. I won't let this slip beyond my team."

Although her words eased some of his nerves, he remained apprehensive. He nodded slowly, finally taking some refreshing sips of water. He could feel it travel down his throat and settle in his stomach. After a few moments, the plastic bottle was drained and crushed in his fist. 

"How do you feel?" She asked, slipping the clipboard out from under her arm. She expertly slipped a well-loved pen from her pocket.

"Groggy, sore," he replied. Now that his throat wasn't dry as a desert, his voice came out clearly albeit weakly.

The sound of intense scribbling of pen on paper filled the silence between his answer and the elderly lady's response.

"I'm glad you're feeling okay despite your accumulated injuries. You were put through the wringer, hun," she said, "You also caused quite the surprise when the nurses discovered your…," she trailed off, gazing up as if to snatch the correct word from the sky, "condition."

"You have no reason to worry. I was called to handle your case since I work with individuals with unique afflictions. The team that fixed you up was given amnestics, so they won't remember treating you. It'll keep you out of some nurse gossip," she added with a wink. 

"Th-Thanks," Soap replied, unsure if he should say anything else. He thought that she was a strange individual, but he trusted her. She spoke with such confidence and conviction. Maybe she was truly able to help him or at least educate him on what he had contracted. 

"Now that you've settled down, I'll properly introduce myself. My name is Dr. Miller. I am a researcher that specializes in-- like I mentioned before-- rare afflictions," she said, rolling up a chair to his bedside, "I know that you have many questions, so you can start asking away if you wish."

She sat on the chair and placed the clipboard face on her lap. Soap could see the elegant, cursive writing on her pad of paper, but he couldn't decipher it from his angle.

"Has this--" Soap gestured to his face," -- happened before?"

Dr. Miller leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other. She gave him a nod: "Yes, but it's rare-- and I mean very rare. We have yet to find a cause, but we have several ideas," she said, "The only other example I've seen is a man from the 1400s. His body is well preserved by the overgrowth of flowers on his body."

"Excuse me--" Soap stuttered,"-- overgrown?"

"In the final stages of the disease, these plant-like growths seem to constrict the host and dissolve the barrier between human flesh and plant matter." She then explained how the samples of the plants from this particular "specimen" -- as she fondly called it, as if it wasn't still a person-- had human blood running through its stems and something akin to human flesh forming its petals. She also noted that the body of the host shared some characteristics of a plant, such as areas of the body having a green hue and kept "fresh" through photosynthesis. 

It was as if the plants were a parasite that fed from the vitality of its host…or something like that. 

Soap wasn't too sure. He was still wrapping his head around the fact that he was turning into a literal, living flowerpot.

"Think of it like this," Dr. Miller continued, noticing Soap's confused expression, "You know how flowers and vines grow on abandoned buildings? It's just like that."

The word "abandoned" stood out to him. Perhaps this was more than just a metaphor.

"What's it called?" He asked.

Dr. Miller turned her head to think. The tips of her fingers pressed against the bridge of her large, round glasses. "There's no official name since it's so rare," she said, "But, in the few pieces of literature that describe your predicament, it's called 'Nature's child.' It's a rough translation from the  Old French and Latin texts we found. There are different names for it in other cultures as well."

Nature's child…

"It comes from the belief that Mother Nature reclaims and cares for those who are thought to be rejected by humanity. That's what the literature says. The scientific cause is still being researched," Dr. Miller said.

The new information made Soap think and review his entire life. 

Perhaps those ancient authors were on to something. 

Maybe they were right. 

Throughout his childhood, teen years, and most of his adult life, he couldn't pick out a time where he genuinely felt appreciated. He was an asset-- a second choice-- a pawn with a pretty face --not so pretty anymore. He drained himself-- sacrificed so much-- to uplift others but no one had done the same for him. He had nothing left to give. He was as useful as a wilted leaf to a vibrant, healthy flower. He had no place here -- anywhere-- anymore. 

He didn't think his desperate cries would be heard by anyone-- let alone some force of nature-- beyond his room.

"I'm sure you're still processing this info. Unfortunately, I don't have good news for you," Dr. Miller said, "You're in the final stages of the disease, hun. It won't be long until the plants take your body. If you want, we can bring you in for some testing and possibly buy you some extra time."

"No, that's alright, Dr. Miller," Soap said, eyes cast to the white sheets. He didn't know what she and her team were going to do to grant him more borrowed time. He didn't want to become another one of her specimens-- at least, not while he was alive. He didn't want to be poked and prodded by strangers as they gawked at his deformed body and the beautiful, colorful flowers sprouting from it. 

If he was abandoned by everyone, why should he stay?

"Are you sure?" She asked, straightening her posture. She seemed shocked that he would rather die than find a cure. 

"Yes, ma'am. I've thought it over for a while," he replied. 

"Alright," she said, standing up, "If that's what you want, we won't interfere. I'll get a few papers for you to sign and get you hooked back up to those machines. In the meantime, is there anyone you'd like to call?"

"Yes, actually…"

.

When Laswell walked into his room, she didn't seem shocked at his odd appearance. She may have been given a quick summary of his situation when she was informed that her presence was needed. Her usual stoic face was replaced with worried creases and sad, blue eyes that examined his naked face.

Soap didn't have enough time to groom himself these past few weeks since his mornings and evenings were occupied with cutting vines instead of his hair. His mohawk had grown well past regulation, and his beard was thick. The sides of his head, which were usually shaven, sported hair around two inches long. His head was a mess of unevenly cut hair. Without his mask, he would most definitely be mistaken for another person. 

Laswell sat next to his bed and nodded to him: "Nice to see you, John."

Soap mustered a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes: "You, too, Laswell."

Silence fell between them for quite some time. Laswell looked as if she wanted to speak. Their eyes would meet, but a word wouldn't be uttered. 

Soap understood her silence. What could you say to comfort someone in his situation? So, he patiently waited for her to gather some words. In the meantime, he worked out what he would tell Laswell when the opportunity arose.

After nearly an hour, Laswell finally spoke: "How did this happen, John?" She spoke carefully and carefully-- as if the volume of her voice could shatter him.

"I don't know, Laswell. This…thing… that I have is still a mystery," he replied, "The doctor said that I was in the final stages of it."

"Does anyone else know?" She asked.

Soap shook his head: "I hid it under my clothes."

"And your face?"

"Mask and sunglasses."

"And no one noticed?" Her tone raised slightly. She seemed in disbelief that something major could slip under the radar. She was angry, but it wasn't directed at him. Soap could tell. 

She was still under the impression that the 141 was tightly knit.

If only she knew…

"About that…" Soap muttered, hands twitching and trembling with nervous energy at the thought of unearthing months of torture to a living person. Where would he even start? "I need to tell you something, but you can't tell anyone else-- not even Price or the 141."

Laswell nodded her head: "Of course. You have my word, John."

After those words left her mouth, Soap began his recount of events. He started by describing Roach's return. He reassured Laswell that the other sergeant wasn't the cause of his illness and didn't exhibit any dismissive behavior towards him. In fact, Soap saw him as a new friend. Then, he described the shift in the 141's dynamics. He told her how he was being isolated during conversations and left out of events, such as nights out, day trips, games, and meals.

Once he started to spill, the flow of words just wouldn't stop.

He told her about the dark splotch on his chest that grew across his body as the days passed. He spared her the gruesome details of clipping the vines and passing out from blood loss. He merely told her that it hurt.

He told her about how Ghost attacked him after a mission gone sideways and how Gaz remained indifferent to his presence. 

He even told her how he wished he died in the explosion instead of waking back up in a hospital bed.

By the end of his speech, his cheeks were wet with tears and his chest burned from holding back sobs. He was trembling beneath his blankets. He was no longer a strong soldier. Before Laswell sat a broken man.

"Oh, John…," Laswell whispered, "Why didn’t you tell anyone?"

"No one to listen. When it started to grow, I didn't want to risk being seen, " Soap said, "I didn't want to give them another reason to push me away. I was sure that Price was going to report it and kick me out."

Although his sight was blurred by tears, he could see the way Laswell clenched her fists in her lap. She was trying to manage her anger-- keep her cool in front of Soap. Her fists were so tight that her knuckles were white. 

"What do you want to do now, John?" She asked. 

"I…I want to be on the next plane out. I don't have long, and I don't want to rot in this bed, Laswell," Soap said, blinking away his tears. 

Her expression changed dramatically: her eyes widened, her eyebrows were raised, and her lips were slightly parted. This change would seem minute to a stranger, but Soap was no stranger. She looked as if she wanted to say something-- perhaps talk him out of it-- but nothing of the sort left her mouth. 

She accepted it. 

Soap wasn't going to give her a choice.

"Alright," the word seemed strained as it came out. It must be hard to speak knowing that she was sending a soldier to his demise. "I'll make it happen," she said, "And when this thing has taken you over, what then?"

Soap gestured to the cute, little Band-Aid behind his ear: "The doctor put a tracker in me. When I stop moving for two weeks, they'll come find me and use me for…science."

"I see," Laswell said, glancing down at her lap, "I…just wish that it didn't have to come to this."

"Me, too…"

Laswell raised the sleeve of her shirt to her eyes.

Soap pretended not to see it.

.

Soap didn't think his plan would play out so perfectly after Price picked him up. Now that his days were numbered, he decided to celebrate one last time before leaving this world behind him for good. Although his team no longer wanted him, he wanted to play pretend. Maybe he could experience a shred of the happiness he felt before Roach's return if he put in a lot of effort. 

He was still bitter about what Ghost did to him, but he forgave him for the sake of attaining peace. The last thing he wanted was for his final moments with his team to be awkward and tense. 

The moment they shared in Price's office would always stick with him. 

When he walked into the room, Ghost looked like a kicked puppy. It was odd to see such a big, scary man try to shrink into his metal chair. There was a look of sorrow in his brown eyes. Perhaps Ghost thought that he would start berating him-- yelling, screaming, perhaps cursing his name and wishing that he had never crawled out of the grave he was dug in. He would have if not for the disease. 

"I understand," Soap had said, "I get that you two have a past. It hit close to home. Just… don't worry about it. Let's start over."

Ghost's confused expression and the stuttering and stammering that came from his mouth was comical. 

When he shook his gloved hand, he felt a blissful warmth spread through his arm. It was better than what he could ever receive from his dingy lamp…and even the sun. His touch was like a drug. 

His aching heart kept him from indulging in it further. He already made up his mind. Even if he were to seek him out, he knew that Ghost wouldn't give him anything but a cold stare and a cold shoulder. He and Roach were exclusive, and it was made perfectly clear to Soap.

He released Ghost's hand as if it burned him. 

He laughed away the nervous energy.

"See ya later, LT," He had said.

That was the end of that encounter-- and all others, apparently.

He partied hard that night at the bar. He sipped on sweet drinks and got just drunk enough to relax. He didn't want to get blackout drunk. He wanted to remember all of it. He joined the sea of bodies on the dance floor. He didn't expect the company of a stranger, but he welcomed it and all of their burning touches. Their hands seared his flesh, but he didn't push them away. He embraced the pain since it was the last time he would feel it. 

He had fun-- or experienced something close to it. 

He ate with his team, played games, and spent late nights with them over the next few days. 

Although Gaz remained distant for a reason Soap couldn't deduce, he didn't press the issue. He tried his best to recreate his fondest memories with the man he once called his best friend, but it was obviously one-sided. Soap would collect as many crumbs of affection Gaz left for him-- if there were any at all. 

Soap didn't want to announce that he was leaving on a mission. 

He wanted to keep it a secret. 

He wanted to quietly disappear under their radars. It would be easy. That is, after all, how they've been treating him for months. 

He wondered how long it would take for them to notice his absence. 

Would it be days?

Weeks?

Months?

Perhaps it may be over a year.

In a sadistic way, Soap wanted to see their reaction to his inevitable death. Would they cry? Maybe they would throw a celebration after finally getting rid of the most useless member of the team, raising their glasses to the loss of dead weight while his body rotted away on some foreign field. 

He could envision it: Gaz would crack open a beer and talk about how loud and obnoxious he was, Price would comment about his work ethic, and Ghost…

He didn't want to think about what he would say. His heart clenched at the mere thought. 

A pat on his shoulder knocked him out of his daydreaming. 

That's right. He was on a plane ride to his final destination. 

"You ready, MacTavish?" The soldier, who Soap came to know as Sergeant Pax, seated beside him asked.

"Yes, sir," He replied with a nod. He would smile, but his mask and sunglasses would shield it.

"Let's get this show on the road, boys," Soap heard the loud, encouraging words of his temporary -- technically permanent-- captain. 

He followed the other soldiers as they dove off from the plane.

For a snap second, Soap reconsidered releasing his parachute but switched his focus back to the mission. He would be useless to the world as a smear on the ground. The least he could do was help out with the last few hours he had. 

He interrupted his freefall by deploying his parachute. 

Once he touched down, he detached himself from the harness and pack and charged into the chaos with a loaded weapon in his arms. 

Luck must have been on his side because the mission went to shit. 

His team was overpowered and forced to retreat.

He was on Sergeant Pax's heels as they made their way to the exfile location. They were being pursued by a small team of enemy forces. 

Soap held them off, knocking most of them out with his well-calculated shots. He could feel a difference in how his body operated during this mission. It was slower than usual, and his limbs felt heavier. Raising his pistol was becoming a chore and running took more effort. 

He knew that it was the disease.

A bullet lodged itself in Soap's thigh, sending him to the ground. He recovered quickly, sitting up and steadying his hand. He picked off more threats.

"MacTavish!" He heard a panicked cry over the deafening sounds of gunshots and war. It was Sergeant Pax.

"Go on without me!" Soap replied, skillfully reloading his weapon. 

His eyes never strayed from the carnage in front of him. 

"That's not an option," Pax retorted.

No matter how many Soap killed, they just kept coming like an angry pile of ants. If this disease didn't get to him first, these soldiers would. 

"I don't care! I'll find a way," he said. 

He was not moving from his spot on the ground. 

His stubbornness forced Pax, who showered Soap with an array of colorful words, to move on without him. 

Soap felt a shred of guilt at disobeying orders, but the mission -- although important-- was not the reason why he was here. 

It was a tough fight, but he managed to be the last one alive. Soap couldn't believe that he made it out with the injuries he received-- a bullet in the leg, a cut on his cheek, and a deep gash on his arm from where a bullet grazed him. His ticket to safety was already miles in the sky.

He was fine with that. 

He stood up on his shaky legs and sought cover in the dense forests. Although his leg screamed for him to rest, he kept moving, searching for a decent resting place.

Eventually, he found an interesting structure formed by a hollowed tree and its roots. Years of erosion slowly removed soil from the base of the tree, exposing a wide expanse of long roots. They formed an enticing, little cocoon that could hide someone his size. It reminded him of a swaddle for newborns except it was made out of twisting and winding roots. 

Soap shed his heavy gear-- his vest, helmet, extra weapons-- and sat it next to the base of the tree. He crawled in between the roots and huddled against the inner wall of the hollowed tree. 

He shifted around, settling in the most comfortable position he could manage with his wounds. He propped his head upon a thick root. He pulled off his mask and discarded his shades. His first intake of crisp air was refreshing. The colors of the forest, which were usually dimmed by his glasses, were vibrant and lively. It was beautiful.

He felt the call of the ground beneath him, which seemed to pulse under his fingers. Before, it was a faint tug in his chest-- something that he could easily brush off if needed. This time, it seemed like it, whatever or whomever it may be, was begging him to rest. He was ready to answer its pleading cries. 

His limbs felt heavier by the moment. 

As he lay there, the pain emanating from his leg slowly faded away. He glanced down at his weeping wound and saw green tendrils slowly sprouting from the healthy flesh around it. It was surreal to see them growing so fast in real-time. The small vines burrowed into the soft dirt and took root. 

He felt as if he was floating -- like he smoked a healthy dose of cannabis or took some strong narcotics. The sensation was odd yet pleasurable. He assumed that the plants were doing something to his blood-- or maybe his brain-- to make him feel this good in such a shitty situation. 

The numbness that relieved him from the pain of his wound began to spread across his body. It gently and slowly washed over him like the small waves of a tame ocean spreading across the beach, reaching its frothy limbs across the large expanse of the beach. 

He felt relaxed…

He didn't have the energy to move. 

He couldn't move, even if he wanted to.

He was sleepy. 

He felt something soft brush against his cheek. He glanced down since he couldn't move his head anymore. Pressed against his face was a beautiful, red flower. Its soft petals caressed his skin as if they were comforting him in his last moments. 

Soap always thought that his entire life would flash before his eyes when he neared death's door, but no memories-- good nor bad-- came to greet him. 

Perhaps that belief was false. 

It became difficult to keep his eyes open as time passed. It was like an invisible hand from above was coaxing his eyes closed like one would do with the recently deceased. 

A lone tear escaped as he closed his eyes for the last time. It was absorbed by the soft petals that lovingly kissed his cheek. 

He didn't feel sad.

In fact, he felt nothing at all.

Chapter Text

M.I.A.

Those were the only three syllables that echoed in Ghost's head as he sunk further into the void that was his mind. Everything was spinning around him, yet time was sluggish.

The echoes migrated from his head and reverberated throughout his entire body: his steady heart rate became a stuttering mess, his stomach twisted into knots, his mouth dried up, and a tremor possessed his hands. 

The words hurt so much that he could have sworn that he had just been shot, but there was no gunfire-- no weapon in sight.

It seemed so distant, but he could hear someone yelling at him. 

The more he focused, the more distinct it became.

He could make out words.

"…on? Snap out of it, Simon!"

Price's commanding voice violently thrust him back into reality-- and such a cold reality it was knowing Soap wasn’t at his side. 

"You back with me, son?"

Ghost nodded, not trusting his quivering throat to make a sound. 

"Here, let's get you seated before we discuss this further," Price muttered, guiding Ghost to the couch. 

He fell onto the cushions with the grace of a newborn. 

He didn't realize the iron grip he had on Price's arm until his captain started to pry his fingers away. He immediately released his grip and shoved his hands into his lap to prevent another incident like that. Price would have bruises later-- surely. His body was no longer in his control. It was as if his emotions loomed over him like a specter and played puppeteer with his limbs, controlling him with invisible strings.

"When?"

It was barely a whisper, but he managed to force the question out. 

"A few months ago, son. I thought you would know that since he told me that you all wished him the best," Price said, tilting his head slightly. His brows were pinched above the bridge of his nose, forming deep creases between his eyes. 

Ghost shook his head.

"We didn't see him at all, Cap," Gaz supplied from the other end of the sofa. 

The other sergeant's expression was hidden by his hands, which walled his head, but he could tell that he wasn't faring much better than himself since his signature cap sat by his side on the leather surface of the sofa instead of its rightful place on his head. It was strange to see him without it. 

"What?" Price asked, parting from Ghost's side, "He said…" 

Whatever words he had died on the tip of his tongue in the presence of a chilling epiphany. 

"He lied," Ghost said, eyes glistening with unshed tears, "Why would he lie?"

"I don't know," Price admitted, gnawing on his bottom lip as he paced back and forth, "I'm still trying to piece it all together."

A familiar, gentle hand settled upon his shoulder. He turned his head and spotted Roach sporting red-rimmed eyes and pink cheeks. He must've been crying for a while. His eyes appeared greener than before; it was typical for them to shine brightly when glazed with tears. 

'I'm sorry,' Roach signed, resting his forehead against his arm and staining his sleeve with tears.

Ghost's eyes were glued to the floor. 

He realized that he had been looking for someone who was never there.

He thought back to the conversation he had with Private Marx.

The kid hasn't seen him in months…

That alone should have told him exactly what he needed to know, but he, like a fool, stubbornly clung to the slim chance that Soap had been tucked away somewhere on base. He imagined that he was curled up in a rarely used closet with his sketchbook in his lap doodling his heart away.

Soap had been gone for nearly three months and Ghost, along with his team, never realized it. He was risking his life, or lying in a ditch somewhere, while the rest of his team were enjoying the safety of their base alive.

He began to feel nauseous. The presence of bile singed the back of his throat. 

Perhaps if he paid more attention while Soap was still around, he might have caught something. 

It wasn't like Soap to leave on a mission without saying a word. 

Why was he so secretive about this mission?

Other than his wardrobe change, he seemed fine.

He was talkative, playful, and loud…

And then he just disappeared.

Ghost was clueless as to how he didn’t pick up on the silence that fell over the base. Ever since Roach arrived, his Bug was the only thing on his mind. He was so caught up in reigniting an old flame that he neglected Soap entirely. 

Now, once he realized his mistake, he was gone.

Gone for good?

Who knows.

The probability of finding him alive decreased by the day, and he had already been gone for months.

There was so much Ghost wanted to say to him. He thought about it-- forming what he wanted to say in his mind-- each time he approached his door at night. Although he was not a religious man -- far from it, actually-- he prayed that Soap would answer him. His prayers went unanswered-- or perhaps he pled too late. 

Now, he feared that he would be confessing and apologizing to a corpse, groveling at his headstone as he would the on graves of his deceased family. Knowing that Soap may have, in his last moments, been unable to recall a single good memory of him made Ghost's chest constrict. He may have taken his last breath under the impression that Ghost hated him when, in fact, it was the opposite. 

If that was the case-- if Soap was actually dead-- the guilt would follow him for the rest of his miserable life. 

He had been so cruel to him for such selfish reasons. He was terrified of losing Roach once more, so he pushed Soap away: he yelled at him, ignored him, only talked to him when the mission called for it, and, regretfully, physically assaulted him. 

He hurt him.

He could only assume that he was partly, if not all, to blame for Soap's secrecy.

His train of thought was interrupted by a musical ringtone.

Price hurriedly fished his phone from his pocket and held the device up to his ear. 

"Kate," He said, releasing a breath of relief, "I was just about to call."

A pause.

"Yes, I just got news from the Captain that Soap had gone missing."

Another, more lengthy, pause.

"Yes. The team is here. I'll make sure that they can hear you."

The phone was sat face-up on Price's desk. 

"I'm in the process of making a few calls regarding Soap's location," Laswell's voice was accompanied by the clicking of a keyboard, "In the meantime, I need you to listen very carefully."

"A team will be arriving shortly to transport you to a facility. They are working under a trusted individual, Dr. Miller, so don't become hostile," her voice was different than her usual monotone speech. It may have been the phone itself, but she sounded colder, more distant, as if she was bitter about something. "Also, do not--" she placed clear emphasis on the syllable, "--go into Soap's room."

That bit of information caused Ghost to perk up. He sat up so suddenly that it caught the attention of everyone in the room. He spoke without realizing it:

"You knew about it?"

He received a hardened look from Price and curious glances from the others. 

A sigh came across the phone. 

"Yes. Unfortunately, I cannot reveal how. That's confidential," she said, "Hopefully, you didn't mess up anything in there that would interfere with Dr. Miller's investigation."

Ghost thought back to the rotten vegetation that spilled to the floor when he opened one of the many dark trash bags that lined the wall next to the bathtub and toilet. Other than that, and moving the sheets, he didn't touch anything. 

"As of now," Laswell continued, "the entire 141 is under investigation for the disappearance of John MacTavish and is placed on an undetermined amount of mandatory leave until the case is closed. Do I make myself clear?"

Before the shock of the news could settle in, Price interjected:

"Investigation?" He cried, "Are you implying that we have something to do with his status? Like a murder?"

There was a pause.

"Yes, John." The answer was quick and curt. 

The confirmation was the blade that had slowly sunk into Ghost's chest. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Although he hadn't been given any details on his disappearance, he felt obligated to turn himself in as if he were a criminal. Underneath his gloves, he felt the phantom sensation of Soap's sticky blood coating his hands.

Had he really been forgiven? Perhaps Soap had not been as sincere as he appeared to be. The version of him that Ghost was familiar with was always selfless-- putting the needs of others in front of his own. It would make sense for him to ease Ghost's fears without attending to his own bitterness, which he probably still held-- or died with.

"Dr. Miller's team is authorized to use any force necessary to get you to cooperate, so I advise you not to resist," Laswell said. 

"Hold on a minute, Kate!" Price said, "What's going on?"

"You'll figure it out, soon. Now, sit tight. They're on their way."

She hung up, leaving all of them speechless. 

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room like a dense fog. It was hard to breathe-- hard to look at anyone. 

A frustrated sigh left Price's lips.

"So we're being arrested, basically?" Someone asked. It was Gaz. 

His head had risen from his arms. He could finally see his face. He was frowning, but there was little evidence that he had been crying. 

"It seems that way. I'm sure there's more to it," Price replied.

"But, he disappeared on a mission, Cap. What does that have to do with us?"

The words that left Gaz's mouth felt so…dismissive. He wasn't sure if that was his intention or not. Either way, it made Ghost see a flash of red. 

"Mind elaborating, Sergeant Garrick?" Ghost asked, spine stiffening.

Gaz seemed offended at the tone. 

"I'm just saying that it's odd that we're being investigated for something that we had no control over, that's all," Gaz said, narrowing his eyes, "Plus, when did you start caring for him?"

Ghost stood up: "Excuse me?"

His voice shook slightly. 

Roach, sensing the growing tension, tried to pull him back to the couch by his arm, but Ghost yanked his limb away from his grip. 

Gaz stood up as well.

"You can drop the act, Ghost. You didn't care about him when that explosion could've killed him. We all saw it," Gaz said, "So what spurred the change, huh?"

Roach raised a brow. Clearly, they were discussing something he had no recollection of. 

'What is he talking about?' He signed, tugging on Ghost's sleeve to get his attention.

Ghost wasn't ready to reveal that moment, yet. He was deeply ashamed and had yet to process it all. He was forgiven! That's what he thought. He wanted to apologize, but he was too much of a coward to do it. Even though Soap spoke for him, he could've insisted more strongly-- make him feel like he was genuinely sorry.

"Roach, I--"

"Oh? He didn't tell you?" Gaz scoffed, crossing his arms, "Of course, he wouldn't. He was part of the reason that he bled out on the asphalt--"

"Enough!"

Price's voice cut through, immediately silencing Gaz. It was the loudest that Ghost had heard his voice on base. It startled him. 

"I need you both to calm down. Arguing will not help us recover Soap," Price said.

"But, Cap--"

"You have no room to talk, Garrick!" Price snapped.

"What, so you're blaming me now?" Gaz asked.

"Just-- shut up! We'll get our answers soon," Price said, pressing his thumb into the side of his temple. The stress must've caused a headache. "If you have nothing helpful to say, I don't want to hear a single sound from any of you."

That statement took all of the fight out of Gaz. He slumped back in his seat and glared at the wall.

Ghost took his place next to Roach, who looked more concerned than before. He tapped his shoulder. 

'Simon, what did you do?' He asked.

Ghost turned his head away.

He kept his lips sealed.

.

It seemed like hours before a knock echoed throughout the room. Anymore, and Ghost swore that he would've gone insane. The peering eyes, the silence, and the tension suffocated him. 

The door opened before Price could utter a "come in" or ask "who's there." Beyond the doorframe stood a group of individuals in yellow, hazmat suits. The sight of them made Ghost nervous, especially since the style of the suits worn was commonly used for dangerous, airborne chemicals and highly infectious diseases. The faces behind the clear, plastic guard were obscured by gas masks.

This was no ordinary "arrest." 

This was containment.

The person leading the group slipped his hand out of the hazmat's sleeve and glove and produced a card, which he held up at the clear barrier in front of his face. 

"We're with Dr. Miller. Please, come with us," the masculine voice was muffled, but it was loud and clear. He was most likely wearing a microphone inside of his suit.

Ghost glanced at Price, who pursed his lips in a straight line at the introduction. It looked as if his captain was deciding whether to be compliant or not. Personally, Ghost didn't want to know about the "force" they would use to get them to cooperate. 

Noticing Price's hesitance, the leader of the group continued: "We will update you on the situation as we transport you to the facility. This involves a certain member of your team."

Ghost watched as Price's expression shifted to that of sorrow. 

"Alright," Price said, "Come on, boys."

They filed out of the room and were led through the halls. As they made their way towards the exit, they passed by their team's sleeping quarters. Another group of figures in hazmat suits were gathered at Soap's door, which was lined with red caution tape. He could see the flash of a camera within the heated confines of his sergeant's bedroom. 

The sight made his heart drop. 

He couldn't linger for long since Roach pulled him away with an iron grip on his arm. 

They were stuffed into an unmarked van parked outside of the base. 

Ghost couldn't help but experience a twisted sense of déjà vu as he sat across from Roach.

Now that they were pressed close together, Ghost could make out the face of the man behind the window of his suit. The wrinkles on his face indicated that he was older. His glasses slightly obstructed his gray eyebrows.

"Mind telling us what this is about?" Price asked the leading figure, who looked just as cramped in the small confines of the van as the rest of the team did.

"We located Sergeant MacTavish," the figure replied.

"Is he okay?" Ghost asked. 

There was a pause. 

Not a good sign. 

His gray brows furrowed as if he was trying to find a way to reveal sensitive information. "His condition is unknown. We wanted you to come with us in hopes that you could assist," he said, "We were told that the task force was the closest one to him. He has no family listed on his emergency contacts."

Unknown…

His carefully constructed response didn't sit right with Ghost. The man was hiding something-- something important. 

After some time, the vehicle came to a stop. The heavy doors were opened by anonymous personnel, and the team was guided onto the parking lot of a huge, depressing edifice. The building was bleak. It was gray with no windows in sight. The only thing worth noting was the amount of cameras surveilling the area. There were eyes on every angle of the building.

This wasn't a hospital or a morgue. 

They entered through several sets of heavy, metal doors controlled by armed guards. 

Why did this place need so much security?

Perhaps it was to protect the outside from what was within.

Whatever this building was, Ghost didn't feel good about it. 

What did this have to do with his sergeant?

They walked through winding hallways and down countless steps, passing by what looked like medical personnel and more armed guards. The floor they arrived at seemed to be the bottom floor-- the basement. 

It was colder compared to the other floors they traveled through, and the only light available was synthetic; there was a lack of natural light, which was a common theme for most of the building. 

They were led into what resembled a waiting room. 

They sat in silence for a while. 

His entire night seemed to be filled with waiting.

Someone else came to greet them a few minutes later. It was a short, elderly woman with large, round glasses. 

Ghost was glad that they weren't in a hazmat suit. He felt relieved to see the uncovered face of a human. 

"I apologize for the sudden intrusion. I know you're a busy bunch, so I'll cut to the chase," she said, pulling a chair from the parameter of the room and setting it before the entire group.

"I'm Dr. Miller--" she gestured to her little name badge pinned to her lab coat over her chest, "-- and I'm leading the investigation regarding your team and Sergeant MacTavish. You will be staying here until it concludes. We have rooms and extra clothes prepared for you. All we ask for is your cooperation."

Sergeant MacTavish was admitted to the hospital approximately three months ago with a serious injury. He also presented a… unique case," she said, "Did any of you notice any changes in his behavior before his hospital visit?"

The question spurred confused looks. 

After a moment of contemplation, Price answered: "Well, he started wearing a mask and sunglasses," he said, glancing at the floor, "The first time I saw it was when we had a meeting before the mission that sent him to the hospital. When I asked, he didn't want to tell me. He said it was 'too difficult' to talk about."

Dr. Miller began scribbling in her rather large notebook. 

"Was the subject brought up again when he was discharged from the hospital?" She asked.

"No," Price replied, shaking his head, "When he came back, he returned to his usual self. I didn't think much of it."

"Can you expand on that, please?" She requested while jotting down more notes.

"He was…talkative, loud, and energetic. After he was discharged, he spent all of his time with us," Price said. 

"What was he like before he was admitted into the hospital?" She asked. 

"He was…" Price trailed off. He seemed to have difficulty finding the words or gathering memories that could help him. 

Ghost attempted to form his own answer, but he came up empty when he tried to recall memories of Soap before that mission. He became frustrated with himself. He wasn't able to share information because he had none.

Other than unnecessarily scolding him in front of recruits that one time, he couldn't remember seeing him around the base or having a conversation with him.

"He was quiet. He was also antsy. During the meeting, he kept fidgeting with his clothes or bouncing his knee," Price said, "I can't tell you much more. I was busy getting Roach--" he gestured to the sergeant, who was sat next to Ghost,"--settled into the task force."

Dr. Miller smiled at Roach: "Are you a new addition to the team?"

Roach shook his head and began to sign. Dr. Miller tracked his movements, but she looked utterly lost, so Ghost hopped in to translate. 

"No," he said, "I was with them before Soap was in the task force. I was readmitted when I was recovered from a facility almost a year ago. It had been years since I went missing."

"I see," Dr. Miller said, slipping out a different colored pen from her breast pocket and making more notes. Her cursive writing filled the entire page.

"How is your relationship with Sergeant MacTavish?" She asked.

Roach perked up, his movements becoming faster. He was eager to share.

"He…He is a great person," Ghost translated, "He is very nice to me and all of the recruits. He didn't know me well, but he was willing to risk his life to protect me. I consider him a friend."

"Did you notice anything unfamiliar or strange?" Dr. Miller questioned.

"Not really… Other than the first time I met him, he always wore a mask. I don't know him as well as everyone else."

Thank you," She said.

Roach nodded and signed a 'no problem.' Ghost didn't feel a need to translate it since Dr. Miller seemed to understand the gesture. 

Her pale eyes landed on Ghost. The Brit felt like a spotlight had just been shined on him. It felt like she was examining him like a specimen.

"You must be Simon Riley," she said.

 He felt a chill travel down his spine at the sound of his name. 

"How did you know?" He asked.

"His sketchbook was on him when we found him. There were pages filled with a man with a skull mask. Sergeant MacTavish also wrote notes next to his drawings," she said, "It seems like you are a very prominent figure in his life, yes? If you'd rather not talk, that is fine with me as well."

Ghost knew that Soap had artistic talent. He would always be sketching in his notebook during small breaks or at night when he couldn't sleep. He knew of some drawings containing his figure since Soap would reveal them to him after he finished. 

Pages, Dr. Miller told him. There were pages filled with him.

He wasn't aware of how much space he took up in his personal sketchbook.

He didn't deserve the honor.

His lack of a response was enough for Dr. Miller to move on.

"That's enough for today," she said, standing up and tucking her notepad underneath her arm, "I'm sure you all are tired. It is quite late, after all." She pushed her chair back to its original position against the wall.

Ghost didn't think that he could feel any more guilty. 

He felt useless. 

Although he had known Soap for years, considered him a friend -- was in love with him-- he had no information to help with Dr. Miller's investigation. 

He suddenly spoke up: "Is…Is he okay? Is he here?" 

"He is here, yes. He is alive," Dr. Miller said. 

Ghost felt a spark of hope within his chest--  a flash of warmth within the blizzard that consumed his heart. He was alive. The weight of the world seemed to lift off his shoulders. 

He knew Soap wouldn't die. 

He was too stubborn for his own good.

He always came back.

"Can we see him?" He asked.

He desperately wanted to hold his hand, touch him, and feel the life coursing through him. He wanted to apologize-- make up for all the wrong he did.

Dr. Miller hesitated before answering: "If you'd like. I must warn you that his condition isn't for the faint of heart."

Ghost didn't care. He has seen the worst that the world has to offer. He didn't care if Soap was disfigured beyond recognition or was half blown to pieces. He was willing to stick by Johnny's side and make things right. He wasn't going to abandon him ever again. 

Dr. Miller smiled at him and gestured for them to follow. 

Their destination wasn't far from the waiting room they were placed in. It was a few doors down. She pressed her key card against a sensor, and the metal door unlocked. She walked in and held the door open for the rest of the team.

The room was small. One of the walls was comprised of glass. It was a window that was obstructed by large, dark panels. Before it sat a control panel with a plethora of buttons and switches. The only items Ghost could identify were a microphone, a set of speakers, and small monitors. 

"This is an observation room. We are monitoring MacTavish's condition from here since…" she paused, fingers lingering over a big button on the control panel, "Oh, well, you'll see what I mean. He's in a coma-like state at the moment."

She pressed the button and the panels covering the windows began their ascent to the ceiling. Beyond the glass, Ghost spotted a cellblock filled with vegetation. It was as if he were looking into a beautiful forest. Colorful plants and pretty vines lined the gray walls.

What did Soap have to do with any of this?

At the center of the room lay a mass of vines and flowers. This appeared to be the epicenter of the nature that covered the room. 

Dr. Miller gestured to the center of the room: "There he is…"

Ghost squinted his eyes, but he still couldn't pick out his Johnny.

One of the monitors lit up before him, revealing a different perspective of the block. This camera was pointed directly at the mass at the center of the room from above. 

A familiar face made itself known to him. 

Soap's face was covered in vines and growths. Some of his skin was discolored, especially the areas around his left eye. He no longer had his signature mohawk. Amongst the many vines lay his glorious, brown mane. It was overgrown-- definitely against regulation-- but it suited him. 

He was naked as the day he was born. There were splotches of green flesh and darkened veins all over his body. 

Perhaps he was stripped of his clothing and put here to heal.

He couldn't figure out why he was placed in a natural setting and not a hospital bed.

What was he looking at, exactly?

As he examined closer, Dr. Miller began to speak: "He has an affliction that causes plants to grow from his body."

Ghost froze, eyes darting to her in disbelief.

That wasn't possible.

"The plants you see are filled with his blood and are made of his flesh. It's hard to see, but you can spot places where vines sprout from his body," she said, approaching Ghost's side and pulling out a pen from her pocket. With it, she drew his attention to Soap's left eye, his right thigh, and his chest, which bore a cluster of black splotches and darkened veins, on the monitor. It looked like the roots of a tree had been tattooed across Soap's entire body. 

His eyes examined the specific points that Dr. Miller pointed out. 

He could see it clearly. 

He wondered how he hadn't caught it before. 

He could see his tan flesh branch off from his body and darken into a vine-like structure. If what Dr. Miller said was true, then the entire cellblock-- the beautiful flowers, the vines, the thorns, and the roots-- was covered in his flesh.

Oh, gods…

The concept made him feel sick. 

"His human body is kept stable through photosynthesis and watering. From the samples we gathered and through personal correspondence,  this disease has been present for months. That explains the mask and the sunglasses," she said. 

The sight became too much for Ghost. He was slammed with nausea. 

If Dr. Miller said anything to him, he didn't catch it. He ducked out of the room, barely having enough time to find a bin and lift his mask before emptying his stomach. He could catch the distant calls from his teammates. 

This was so much worse than what he expected. 

Knowing that he had been suffering for months and did nothing to ease his pains absolutely gutted him. 

Did it hurt when those vines grew from his body?

Did the thorns he formed prick his skin and make him bleed?

Did it hurt when he used Ghost's knife to cut the vines from his body?

Ghost wasn't sure if he wanted answers to his questions.

He felt the warm pressure of a hand against his back. It was rubbing soothing circles over his muscles. He couldn't tell who the hand belonged to. 

When the dry heaving eventually ceased, he stood up straight. 

He felt dizzy.

He wiped his spittle away and dried his tears with the sleeves of his shirt. He saw Price standing next to him. He offered a bottle of water, which Ghost gladly took.

"They're having a meeting about their findings. She wants our presence if you're up for it," Price said, attempting to hide his quivering voice, "I…I know it's hard to see him like that. I couldn't stare too long…"

Ghost nodded. He felt obligated to attend despite how ill he felt. It was the least he could do for Johnny, whom he sorely neglected. 

Price gave him a pat on his shoulder and turned away.

"Good man," he said, "I'll join you in a bit. I need to take a break for a few moments."

His captain trudged down the halls, disappearing behind a corner. 

Ghost slipped the mask back down over his face and returned to the observation room. 

The curtains had been drawn back down over the windows and the monitors were shut off. In a corner, he could see Roach comforting a disturbed Gaz, who was leaning against a wall for support and whose shoulders shook with quiet sobs.

As if sensing his presence, Roach turned his head towards Ghost. 

His eyes were brimmed with tears, but his expression was different. Those green eyes held fire -- malice-- and Ghost was the target of it all. His brows were drawn inward, and his jaw was clenched. The face that held nothing but love for him now held nothing short of hatred. 

It made his blood turn cold. 

Chapter Text

After a much-needed break to come to terms with Soap's condition, the team was gathered to attend the late-night conference. Although the exhaustion-- both physical and mental-- had seeped into his bones, Ghost knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep if he tried. The image of Johnny's fleshy flowers and mutated body was forever seared into the back of his eyelids. This conference was something to keep him occupied and productive and give him, as well as the rest of the team, some answers as to how Soap caught this affliction. 

As they were herded through the halls by two silent, armed guards, Ghost could sense the hostility in the air. 

No one talked. 

No one looked at each other except for one.

Ghost could feel a certain someone's glare burning into his back. He knew who it was, and it made him want to shrink into himself out of shame. He didn’t dare turn his head to meet his eyes for fear of accidentally breaking the tension and causing a scene, so he forced his eyes ahead.

They were stopped at a large, metal door with an absurd amount of locks. It was comical how secure this place was. Everything was made of metal, reinforced with steel, or made of bulletproof glass. Each door had at least two locks and a passcode and the guards were armed and rarely spoke. Although his Johnny was held in this facility, he was still suspicious of his surroundings-- Dr. Miller included.

Once a code was punched in and an ID was scanned, the door released a hefty 'click' and shifted open. The guard looked as if he was using his entire body to open the two-inch slab of metal the rest of the way.

They were filed in by the guard behind them. The guard didn't enter the room. Instead, he assisted his teammate with closing the door and locking them inside. The loud slam of the door, the whirring of the gears, and the click of the locks were enough to put Ghost on edge. 

He felt trapped.

At the center of the room was a large, rectangular, oakwood table. On the long sides sat people wearing white lab coats. The front was occupied by a bunch of technological equipment that Ghost couldn't identify at first glance and a podium. The opposing end of the table was occupied by four, empty chairs.

Ghost set his eyes on the last seat-- the one furthest from the center--  but Roach beat him to it. 

His ex-lover didn't spare him a glance as he quickly sat down, forcing him to sit in between him and Price. His actions were intentional. Roach wanted him to feel uncomfortable-- that's what Ghost hypothesized.

He wondered if they were invisible to the rest of the occupants of the table. None of the scientists or researchers looked in their direction or acknowledged their presence with a glance or nod of the head. 

It was odd. 

Eventually, a familiar figure walked to the front of the room carrying a thick, manila folder. It released a heavy thud when Dr. Miller placed it on the surface of the podium. Ghost noticed a small microphone clipped to the collar of her lab coat. 

"Good evening, everyone," she said as she flipped open the folder, "I apologize for the lateness of this meeting, but I know you all are eager to get updates on subject 1013."

Subject…?

The fact that Johnny's name wasn't even mentioned irked Ghost. Did they even see him as human? It was as if he was nothing but another specimen to these scientists-- not a man. 

Then again, was he any different?

He didn’t treat his sergeant any better when he was still around. 

"As you know, we have guests joining us for our investigation," Dr. Miller continued, gesturing to the entire team, "This is the task force associated with subject 1013. For their sake, I will review what we discussed in our last meeting." She slipped out several pictures and placed them below a lamp-like structure. With the press of a few buttons, the pictures were projected on the wall behind Dr. Miller. 

"He was located in a hollow tree in the forests of Belgium by a tracker beneath his skin," she said.

Ghost could see the curled-up figure that was his Johnny cocooned by the roots of an ancient tree. He could see the beautiful flowers surrounding him along with the dry blood and mud sticking to his clothes and skin. 

"Here, you can see the disease had recently taken him over. It had been about two weeks since his tracker showed any movement on our radar," she slid another photo under the camera. This was a close-up of his face. 

He was clean-shaven and his mohawk was freshly trimmed. He looked as if he had cleaned himself up before heading out on the mission.

Oh, how he missed that face.

He regretted ever pushing him away. 

He was stupid.

He looked so relaxed-- so peaceful-- almost happy.

He could see the dark veins around his left eye and the green hue that occupied half of his face. It seemed more prominent in this picture compared to what he saw in the observation room. 

"He sustained several injuries from his time in the line of fire. There is a cut on his cheek from a sharp object, a gash on his shoulder from a projectile, and a bullet wound on his thigh, she said, slipping more pictures under the camera to demonstrate her findings, "The affliction tended to his wounds and healed him. The bullet that was lodged in his leg was found next to him, indicating that it had been pushed out at some point by his body."

Ghost wondered what thoughts ran through Johnny's mind before the disease took over his body. 

Was he scared?

He recalled the slight fear in Soap's voice over the comms when they were in Las Almas. He had been bleeding out from a shot to the shoulder. 

This time, he had been bleeding out from another bullet wound and no one was there to comfort him over comms. 

If Ghost had been there like he should've, this would have never happened. 

"As you can see, all of these wounds have growths sprouting from them. Upon further examination and testing,  we discovered that they acted similarly to IV tubes. They directed fluids to the wounds to encourage healing and to stave off infection," Dr. Miller said, "Clearly, this disease wants the host's body to stay healthy."

"The same process occurred with subject 1813, AKA Romeo," she removed all of the pictures and placed one of Romeo under the gaze of the camera. 

This man, like Johnny, was naked and covered in growths, but the plants that grew from him were very different in comparison. There were roses and other vegetation that Ghost couldn't identify. What he could see of his face reminded him of a Renaissance painting. 

"Subject 1813 was discovered in a catacomb in Italy. He was positioned over the sealed tomb of a woman-- assumed to be his lover," she said, " From the samples we collected, we were able to determine that the disease took over between 1390 and 1470. From examining his physical body, we can estimate that he is between 15 and 20 years of age.

Other than the difference in vegetation, subject 1813 is identical to subject 1013. The petals are made of flesh, blood runs through their stems, and their physical bodies photosynthesize to keep them…fresh and more alive."

She then produced several cassette tapes from her collection of evidence: "I don't care how much the world changes; I always do things the old-fashioned way." 

The comment drew a few chuckles from some of the older members of the conference table.

The casual atmosphere surrounding the investigation irked him slightly. He was already suffering from the guilt, self-directed anger, and the scorn of his ex-lover. Johnny's situation being treated with the same seriousness as a school project angered him further. 

He bit his tongue and said nothing.

"I was able to get more information about the disease when I interviewed subject 1013 during his stay at the hospital. During these recordings, I refer to subject 1013 as John," she lifted a tape and fed it into a complex-looking cassette player. 

She pressed a button, and her muffled voice filled the room.

"Good afternoon, John. How are you feeling?"

"Groggy, but I'm alright," Johnny's voice followed, causing Ghost's chest to constrict in such a way that it stole his breath for a moment. 

It's been too long since he's heard his voice. He didn't know how much he missed it until he heard it again. 

He wondered if he would ever hear it again.

"Anything I can get you before we start?"

"No, thank you."

Dr. Miller asked the usual questions: name, age, date of birth, family medical history, allergies…

It was like he was sitting in on one of Johnny's wellness check-ups at the doctor's office. 

Then came the questions about the disease. 

"Now, onto the elephant in the room. When did you first notice the disease? How long has it been since the first symptom?"

"It was about…three months ago." Ghost could hear the sound of shifting sheets over the audio. It was as if Johnny was getting comfortable before answering the loaded question, "I felt an itch on my chest. I thought it was a rash or maybe eczema. But when I looked, I saw this dark mark on my chest. It looked like a bruise but it felt tough."

"Any other odd symptoms?"

"Well…"

He trailed off-- most likely in contemplation.

"I started feeling cold-- no-- freezing. It was during the middle of summer, too. No matter how much I turned up the heat in my room, I was never warm. I was always so cold…" His voice wavered a bit as if he was about to cry. "I stacked layers when it was nearly forty-five degrees outside."

Ghost remembered seeing his sergeant wearing long sleeves in passing. He thought it was odd, but he didn't comment on it. He was trying to get over him. He feared that talking to him would undo all the "progress" he was making. 

Despite being with Roach and reliving the best moments of his past life, he never truly moved on.

He was delusional.

Maybe if he said something-- perhaps showed him that he cared-- then Johnny would still be here.

"Then, I started having nightmares or…seeing things-- I think. I don't know if it was the disease or if it was the lack of sleep I was getting."

"And what did you see, John? If you don't mind sharing."

It was…" Ghost heard a chuckle come from Johnny. It sounded sarcastic-- bitter. "It was a court jester. It's the one that you find on playing cards-- stupid, I know. It would hide in the darkness and stare at me as I tried to sleep. I didn't feel safe. I was scared."

"Did it do anything to you?"

"No." It sounded more like a question than a statement. "It would move around and stay at the foot of my bed. It was taunting me, I think. It had sharp teeth, glowing white eyes, and sharp claws… I didn't want to find out."

As the tape played, Dr. Miller slid a drawing of the jester under the camera. It was a dark humanoid figure with a fluid form. Its ghastly, long limbs were sprawled against the wall, the tips of its claws scraping the ceiling. 

The most notable feature was the jester's face. It was gray and wrinkled with a smile that nearly severed its face in half. It looked forced-- almost like it was baring its teeth. Its teeth were sharp like Johnny said, and its eyes were white, comical crescent moons. 

It was a sinister figure.

Ghost thought back to the times when he had nightmares. Johnny would always be at his side, grounding him with his strong arms and muttering to him with a thick, Scottish accent. It didn't matter what time it was-- Johnny was always there for him. 

Here Johnny was,  suffering through something similar, and Ghost didn't lift a finger or spare a thought to help him. Although his sergeant never told him about his nightmares explicitly, he could see the exhaustion in his posture. He knew something was wrong, yet he said nothing-- did nothing. 

Johnny had no one to comfort him during the night.

He was fighting this beast alone while Ghost lay in his room with his arms hugging a comforting, warm body to his chest.

Maybe if he got his head out of his ass, he would've been there for him.

If he was there, maybe Johnny would still be here.

"I see…why the jester? Is that something that scared you before?"

"No. It was from a game of cards that I played when the disease first started. It just…stuck, I guess."

"Would you like to elaborate?"

There was no answer, but it's clear that Johnny declined.

"Alright. Thank you for telling me."

Ghost thought that the interview ended there, but his heart would not be so easily spared. 

The discussion shifted to the vines.

Ghost had witnessed the aftermath of it.

He didn't think he was prepared to hear Johnny's words.

"When did the vines begin to grow? How often did they grow?"

"I believe that they first started to grow two months ago. One morning, I woke up with my arm tied to my bedpost by a vine. I couldn't get myself free by pulling, so I had to cut it off."

"Describe how that felt-- cutting them off."

Dr. Miller paused the tape and slipped the photos of Soap's room under the light of the projector. It was exactly how Ghost found it except for where he had knocked over a trash bag and spilled some vegetation all over the bathroom floor. 

All of the pictures were tame except for the ones taken in the bathroom. Since Ghost had already seen it, his reaction wasn't as visceral as those of the men beside him. When the photo of the bathtub was revealed, he heard Price release a curse and Gaz stifle a gag. Roach had to turn his head away and cover his mouth. 

"The content of his blood was abnormal," Dr. Miller said, "It was darker and had a higher amount of nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium compared to a human without the affliction. This was to aid the growth of the vines coming from his body."

"As you can see, the blood stains are darker in color-- almost black. The blood also clots very quickly when it's exposed to air. It's thick, like a sludge, but it didn't affect the health of the host." She pointed to the bathtub and the wall adjacent to the door-- the areas covered in the most amount of blood. "He clipped the vines from his body and stuffed them into trash bags to conceal the presence of the disease."

Bags were stacked up against the wall as if they were bricks. There had to be at least five of them that Ghost could see in the photo. They were filled to the brim and looked as if they were going to pop. There were countless vines stuffed in there. 

Johnny suffered through an eternity's worth of pain just to cut them off.

Dr. Miller resumed playing the tape.

"The closer I cut to my skin, the more painful it was. It’s hard to describe. It hurt-- of course. Sometimes, I would faint from blood loss or blackout from the pain. It was…like I was trying to sever my own limb…"

When Ghost heard Soap describe the pain he felt cutting the vines, he thought Johnny sounded a bit detached. It sounded as if he wasn't there mentally like he was describing things as they happened rather than getting emotionally involved. It was obvious that completing that ritual fucked him up in the head-- traumatized him. 

"The most painful ones were the really big vines. It would take me hours to complete the job since I would pass out and wake up covered in my own blood."

Dr. Miller paused the tape again. 

"We found scars on his body that reflect these wounds. Because the blade he used was so sharp, some of them made clean cuts that healed well and were barely noticeable," she said, "There are 23 distinct markings from larger vines and 32 scars caused by smaller vines and thorns. I would show you pictures if I could, but there is not enough time to go over each one."

Ghost had an impressive collection of scars on his body-- dozens of them. Most of them were from his time spent in captivity in Mexico. The rest of them were most likely from the field; he can't remember how he got some of them. 

"Interestingly enough," Dr. Miller continued, "the disease affected his eyes. Take a look. The blue color of his iris changed into a bright green…"

When Ghost saw Soap's, lifeless, dilated eyes, he was stunned. His left eye-- the one surrounded by the dark veins-- was as green as a glimmering emerald. The color was unnaturally bright.

It reminded him of the green eyes of…

He glanced at Roach.

Dr. Miller resumed playing the tape. 

"What do you think caused the disease?"

"I don't know…"

"Did anything happen before the disease started? Maybe an emotional event?"

There was a long pause.

"Well… there was a new-- not really new-- addition to the task force. It turns out that he was recovered from a facility and brought back. He had been considered dead for years."

"And his name?"

"Roach! He's a very nice lad. Hardworking, too."

Ghost watched as Roach perked up at the mention of his callsign. 

"You seem to like him a lot. What do you think his appearance has to do with your disease?"

"Uh…well, it's a bit embarrassing to admit this. I feel like a child whenever I think about it."

"I'll take whatever you're willing to share."

Another long pause.

"I started feeling isolated. I didn't feel as connected with my team anymore. I was being left out of activities and conversations. I…didn't think much of it since Roach was gone for so long. They wanted to catch up on a past that didn't include me. I didn't want to shove myself in their business. I feel selfish for feeling upset about it."

"Those feelings are completely natural, John. You shouldn't feel ashamed of it."

"I just didn't want to make it all about me-- that's all."

"Did it get better as time went on?"

Pause.

"No."

"What happened?"

"Nothing, actually. They… I…" Johnny struggled to find the words to explain how he felt, "This went on for months-- being left out, I mean. I was left out of missions and celebrations. They…They forgot to say goodbye when they went out on a mission without me. It was something that we always did before leaving in case it would be our last. It…It really hurt."

His voice sounded strained, like he was holding back tears, and helpless. 

Ghost understood how he felt from past experiences, but he nor any of his team did anything to help him. 

There was a sniffle.

"I felt forgotten. Perhaps I was being replaced. But, I can't bring myself to blame them. Roach is really nice…He's the best. I can't be mad. I won't be mad."

The last part sounded like he was trying to convince himself of something-- like he was trying his hardest to hold back his ill will and it was slipping through his fingers. 

Roach's expression twisted into that of grief as tears pooled in his green eyes. 

"Thank you for sharing. I really appreciate it. It's not easy to talk about something so sensitive. You've got a big heart, John."

"It's the least I can do before this thing kills me. Maybe you can find answers."

"The world will thank you for it, John. Here, have some tissues."

"Thanks."

"Isolation in groups is very common, but none have caused this disease. Is there something else?"

There was a pause and a few sniffles.

"It's…ugh, shite." There was a loud sigh. "Yes."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"I will. Just…give me a moment."

Ghost wondered what Johnny was going to reveal. From Johnny's hesitance alone, he could tell that this event caused some turbulence in his life. Perhaps this was the answer that the researchers, and the team, were looking for. 

"I fell in love."

Ghost's eyes widen at the news. 

In the years that he has known Johnny, he never saw him go out on dates or make an effort to meet anyone. He assumed that he had someone waiting for him in Scotland, but Johnny never mentioned such a person when they would have intimate and personal conversations late at night. 

"Oh? Who are they?"

Pause.

"Is it someone you work with?"

"Yes."

Who could it be?

"Are you ashamed of it?"

"Oh, no-- I've always been quite comfortable with my sexuality since I left Scotland."

"What's with the hesitancy?"

"I'm…afraid to tell him."

"Who?"

"My…uh…here." Shuffling is heard. "That's him on the left."

Ghost assumed that Johnny pulled out a picture. He waited for a name to fall from his lips, but it never came. 

"Ah…I see. Why are you so scared to tell him?"

"Well…I was going to a few months back, but he…got with someone else before I could."

"Who?"

Pause. 

"Roach."

With that bit of information alone, Ghost didn't need a name to know who Johnny was talking about. There was no doubt as to who it was. The gaze of his team felt oppressive. 

Although most of the blame rested on his shoulders, there was not an innocent man among them. All of them were responsible in regards to Johnny's deteriorating health. 

The more Johnny talked, the worse he felt.

"You must have been devastated."

"I was, but he deserves the world. He deserves happiness."

"Even at your expense?"

"If that's what it takes."

Johnny was willing to throw his life away just to keep his broken soul happy. He said it so confidently. 

Ghost didn't deserve him. He pushed him away to keep himself from having such thoughts. No matter how hard he pushed, parts of Johnny remained with him. 

They were like permanent stains on his heart. No matter how hard he tried to scrub himself of him, they never left.

His hands trembled in his lap as the realization set in. 

Not only did he make the disease worse-- he was most likely the cause of it. 

Dr. Miller paused the tape.

She brought out a familiar-looking sketchbook. She slipped on a pair of rubber gloves before opening the pages. She held the book under the camera. 

"Subject 1013 has a talent for art, as you can see. These drawings were created with graphite. He also made notes next to some of his drawings."

Looking at it felt criminal. This was Johnny's personal diary. He expressed himself in ways that revealed more than his words ever could. 

As she flipped through the pages, Ghost caught drawings of Price and Gaz. There were several faces that he didn't recognize, but the small notes revealed that they were recruits that made an impression on him. 

Of course, Private Marx-- a starry-eyed rookie-- made an appearance. 

There were landscapes of some of the places they visited on missions. Ghost could remember each one. He was with Johnny when he drew most of them. 

Then he made an appearance on the pages. There were several sketches of his iconic mask sprinkled alongside other familiar faces. The frequency of his likeness increased as Dr. Miller kept flipping through the pages. 

He was shocked to see how many pages his face occupied. There were variations of him all over-- without the mask, with the mask, smiling, sleeping, reading, drinking tea…

He felt sick. 

He placed his head into his hands, gloved fingers digging into the hardcover of his skull mask.

Then, a hand gripped the top of his balaclava and yanked his head back up with such speed and ferocity that a gasp left his lips. His eyes followed the arm of the culprit. 

It was Roach.

His jaw was clenched and his eyes were glued to the screen. 

He was pissed.  

After a few moments, most likely to ensure that Ghose wouldn't look away, his grip loosened before his hand dropped back to his side. 

Ghost could still feel the burn where his curls were caught in Roach's vice grip. 

He didn't blame Roach for being mad at him. 

The rest of the conference was a blur. All the words that were spoken turned into gibberish as soon as they met his ears. His thoughts were a mess. 

All he could think about was the fact that Johnny was in love with him. He wondered what he would've done if he had known that before Roach's return. 

He would be scared, yes.

But, he would've come around eventually…

Or so he thought.

Once the tape was played to its completion and the necessary pictures were revealed, Dr. Miller shut down the equipment and turned to her audience. "Thank you all for listening. You are now dismissed. We will discuss experimental procedures tomorrow."

Ghost didn't have enough time to process that the meeting was over before he was yanked out of his seat by someone and led out of the room.

They were given a tour of the common areas, but Ghost barely paid attention. He was still processing Johnny's words and the fact that he had suffered for so long without ever telling someone before it was too late. 

When the team was told that they were free to wander, Ghost took the opportunity to separate himself. He needed room to breathe and properly grieve over…everything. No amount of suffering on his side could ever make up for the pain he caused Johnny. He could only hope for his forgiveness. 

After what seemed like hours, Ghost finally trudged back to his cubical of a room.

When he opened the metal door, Roach was inside waiting for him.

He had a feeling that Roach was going to snap at him after hearing what Gaz had to say. 

Roach took slow steps toward him as if he were an animal stalking his prey. The hostility in his green eyes was enough to make Ghost take a few steps back. His sergeant quickly followed, trapping him against the wall. 

He poked a finger in his chest.

He lifted his hands and signed to Ghost, but his hands were too shaky and his movements were too fast for him to catch on. When Roach realized that he wasn't getting through to Ghost, he decided to use another approach. 

He opened his mouth.

"This is your fault--" Roach's voice is hoarse from not being used. This is the first time he's heard him speak. In all the years he's known him, through all the things they've encountered, Roach never spoke to him. "He saved my life, and yours, and this is how you treat him? You shove him up against a van while he's got a piece of metal in him?"

The hands that have shown him nothing but kindness shoved him up against the wall to demonstrate a point. Pain bloomed from the back of his head where it made contact with the solid surface. 

"You could've -- no-- you've already killed him! You're so fucking selfish, Riley!"

He said nothing.

His eyes stayed glued to the floor.

"You don't deserve him for what you did! He would do anything for you!"

Roach slapped him-- hard.

The dense plastic of his skull mask and the cloth of his balaclava weren't enough to protect him from the assault. 

His head snapped to the side. 

Half of his face stung. 

It was well deserved. 

The commotion attracted Gaz, who jumped in to restrain Roach from doing more damage. A part of Ghost wished that Gaz hadn't intervened. He desired to be punished. Perhaps Roach could beat the filth from his body.

"I can't fucking believe you! If he doesn't make it out of this, I never want to see your face or that fucking mask ever again!" Roach's voice faded into echoes as Gaz dragged him out of Ghost's room and down the hall. 

The heavy door shut behind them, leaving Ghost alone in his room. 

He slid down the wall and tucked his knees under his chin. His hand cupped his throbbing cheek. 

Now that he was alone, his loud thoughts were the only thing keeping him company. The voices in his head berated him endlessly, jabbing him where it hurt the most. Of course, they would know where to hit him; they were all created by him, after all. He covered his ears, hoping that it would silence them, but it only made them louder. 

Overwhelmed by the taunting and the weight of his chaotic emotions, he could only do one thing.

He cried.

Chapter Text

Although he shut his eyes, Ghost didn't get any sleep that night.
 
After the heavy door slammed shut behind Roach, he remained curled up on the floor until his lower extremities became numb. It was hours until he dragged himself to his bed. He deemed that he had suffered enough on the cold, hard floor to earn it. The fluffy blanket, however, stayed bunched up next to him, and the pillows lay useless at the foot of his bed.
 
His grand river of tears soaked into his mask and caused the dampened cloth to stick uncomfortably to his tingling face. His eyes, irritated by continuously attempting to rub away the tears, were puffy and nearly swollen shut.
 
He couldn't tell when morning came. His room had no windows-- just an analog clock whose lines and hands seemed to melt together whenever he tried to read it. His only indication was the muffled clicks of heels coming down the hallway. They grew louder and came to a stop outside of his room.
 
Ghost didn't have to turn his head towards the door to tell who it was. There was only one person he knew with such a stride-- quick, confident, and with purpose. It was no other than Dr. Miller.
 
The metal door squealed as it swung open. Dr Miller slowly approached his bed. Her steps were still confident, but they were also cautious.
 
Ghost knew that his rough night was obvious through his posture and his reluctance to acknowledge her. He was still curled up facing the wall with his eyes downcast.
 
"Good morning, Mr. Riley," He heard her voice behind him.
 
He felt the bed dip.
 
"I understand that you're overwhelmed by recent events. If you need a break from it, just let me know," she said, "But something tells me that you're not fond of breaks."
 
Her words piqued Ghost's interest. They seem to insinuate something-- ask something of him. Only then did he push himself into a sitting position. He fought the dizziness that suddenly rocked his head.
 
"If you're up for it," Dr. Miller continued, "you can help us with a few experiments. Your close relationship with John may reveal more than what we can find out on our own."
 
Although the request was framed as if he was given a choice, Ghost knew that the only way out was to participate. He had a lot to make up for, and he couldn't achieve that by sulking in his room all day.
 
In response, he simply nodded his head.
 
"Perfect. I'll meet you outside the observation room when you're ready. Here's your uniform if you choose to participate," she said, placing something next to him, "I will explain the procedures and get you through it as quickly as I can."
 
When she left his room, Ghost turned to the items that Dr. Miller had placed on his bed. There was a neatly folded set of white scrubs with a surgical mask placed on top. He took the pile into his lap and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet bumped into something that wasn't there before. When he glanced down, he found a pair of white, slip-on flats and some socks.
 
The color choice was odd to him, but there were a lot of practices and other things that were questionable in this facility. This was probably the least concerning.
 
He slipped into the connected bathroom and freshened up-- took a hot shower, brushed his teeth, and combed his blond curls. He still felt like a mess, but at least he didn't feel quite as dirty. He slipped on the uniform and secured the mask over the bottom half of his face.
 
When he passed the mirror in his bedroom, he caught a glimpse of his reflection. He looked plain-- sterile. There was no color other than his sleeve of tattoos, his blond hair, and the blue-tinted mask.
 
He made his way to the observation room. It was hard to forget where it was since what he witnessed inside left him traumatized. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he turned onto the hallway that housed it. He could see Dr. Miller's figure standing in front of the door to the observation room. She was holding a gray, plastic bag.
 
His footsteps alerted the Doctor, who turned to face him with a small smile. She opened the door to the room and gestured for him to go inside. "The screens are turned off and the windows are covered," she said. This was most likely to comfort him. She did witness his reaction to seeing Johnny, after all.
 
Ghost walked into the dim room, eyes glued to his white flats despite being reassured that he wouldn't see anything. Dr. Miller led him into a smaller room.
 
It was bare except for a metal table and two metal chairs. They were welded to the floor. This looked like an interrogation room. He sat in the chair farthest from the door, shivering at the touch of cold metal.
 
Dr. Miller sat across from him and put the plastic bag on the table. She fished out a clear container and slid it to Ghost.
 
Inside was a plain ham and cheese sandwich, a small juice box, and a chocolate chip cookie. This was something he would have eaten at school when he was a child.
 
"Thought you might need this," Dr. Miller said.
 
He slowly pulled the container towards him, eyeing it with suspicion. If the doctor wanted to kill him, he would accept it with open arms. He wouldn't lift a finger to stop her. If she were to end his life, he would at least want a say regarding the method of execution.
 
"It's not poisoned if that's what you're concerned about," she said, noticing his hesitance, " If you don't like it, I can request another one from the cafeteria."
 
"No," Ghost said softly, "It's okay."
 
It was the first thing he's said all day.
 
He cracked open the container and dug into his simple breakfast. He slipped his mask below his chin, exposing his whole face. He didn't mind Dr. Miller seeing him. She had already seen his face in Johnny's sketch book.
 
As he ate, Dr. Miller spoke to him about the experiments she wanted to run.
 
"We hooked up some equipment to John to monitor his brain since that's the only organ that works. His heart hasn't stuttered since he's been here," she said, "Since you are familiar with him, we wanted to see how he would react to your presence."
 
It was awfully cruel to send him into a room to keep a corpse company, but he couldn't bring himself to resist the offer. These were the consequences that came from his ill decisions. The worst thing that could happen was Johnny staying in his bed of flowers never to wake up again. It's already sounding like a helpless cause, so what's the harm in trying?
 
"Okay," he replied.
 
After finishing his meal, Dr. Miller led him to yet another door inside of the room. Through the small, glass window, he could see a cement staircase covered in a variety of vegetation. This most likely led to Johnny's cell.
 
"I will give you instructions from the observation room. If anything happens, staff will be alerted and we will get you out as quickly as possible," Dr. Miller said, opening the door and flooding the room with the overwhelming scent of tropical forests and sweet nectar. When he stepped out into the wilderness, he made an effort to avoid touching any of the growths that hung from the ceiling and protruded from the walls.
 
He regretted consuming breakfast.
 
The anxiety he felt made him nauseous.
 
He carefully descended the steps.
 
When he made it to the bottom, he could see the full extent of the growth. It was much more than those screens let on. This was a forest-- a human-sized terrarium. The temperature was considerably warmer and he could feel the moisture hanging in the air.
 
 "You may approach him, Mr. Riley," Dr. Miller's voice echoed through the cell block through hidden speakers.
 
He stepped forward and poked his head into the cell. He flinched when the leaf of a vine brushed his cheek. The room was bright and beautiful. There wasn't a section of wall that wasn't overgrown with something green or colorful.
 
There was no way to get to Johnny without stepping on the vines covering the floor. He feared that he would hurt him if he stepped on them since they were made from his flesh and blood. Could Johnny feel it if he touched a leaf? He didn't want to hurt him more than he already had.
 
"I know you're hesitant, but you must hurry."
 
Ghost took a deep breath of sweet air to calm himself before taking his first step into the room. He walked slowly across the room, mindful of every vine he came across. Unfortunately, there were some that couldn't be spared.
 
He cringed at the feeling of vines giving under his weight. He could hear the soft squelch under his shoes with each step. He glanced back and saw puddles of red growing amongst the vibrant green. The blood had stained the white material of his shoes and spattered on the ankles of his socks.
 
He felt a surge of emotions when Johnny's face came into view. It's been so long since he's seen him up close and in person. He was just as beautiful -- if not more-- as he remembered. He missed him so much, but he also felt that he was violating his privacy by seeing him in such a vulnerable state.
 
He carefully sat next to Johnny's prone figure and examined his appearance.
 
Electrodes were attached to his forehead, but they had no wires. The technology this facility used was more advanced than what was used in hospitals. Beyond the electrodes was his sea of hair. It had grown out considerably. There was no longer a mohawk; the sides of his head, which were usually shaved close to his scalp, grew out. It seemed to be about shoulder-length.
 
He was taken back to a conversation they had shared one night in a safe house.
 
"Are you going to keep that stupid mohawk forever?" He had asked Johnny, whose arms were perched upon a window sill. Between his lips was a glowing cigarette.
 
"Probably not," Johnny had replied with a smile, "I might grow it out and go from there. I can't imagine myself having a mohawk at fifty."
 
Ghost didn't think that his hair would grow out so long so fast. It seemed as if they had that conversation yesterday.
 
He felt an urge to reach out and rake his fingers through his soft locks. He wanted to pull him free of his prison of vines and wrap his arms around him, but it was too late for such intimacies. He threw any opportunity away and gave his affections to an effigy he had cruelly constructed out of Roach.
 
Now that he was here, he didn't know what to do. What could he possibly say to help Dr. Miller-- more or less Johnny?
 
He carefully reached out and brushed Johnny's arm with his hand.
 
Suddenly, the plants around him violently twitched, startling Ghost. He snapped his hand back to his chest and eyes each green stem in his vicinity.
 
There was no doubt about it.
 
He wasn't hallucinating.
 
The plants definitely moved.
 
But why?
 
Were they trying to attack him to protect Johnny?
 
"Touch him again. We're getting something here," Dr. Miller said.
 
Ghost glanced up at the observation room, which peered into the cell block from above through its wall of windows. He could see Dr. Miller and another researcher having a discussion in front of a monitor.
 
Perhaps making physical contact sent something to the machines.
 
Swallowing his fear, Ghost reached out again. He gently placed a hand on Johnny's arm.
 
The plants moved again, shuddering as if bothered by a gust of strong wind. The budding flowers bloomed quickly, spreading out their brightly colored petals and releasing a faint, sweet smell. It eased his nerves and made him feel drowsy like he had taken a sedative.
 
He looked at Johnny's face to see if anything had changed.
 
His eyes were still closed.
 
He felt like he should say something. Even if Johnny wasn't awake to hear it, maybe getting some of his feeling off of his chest would do something.
 
There was so much that he wanted to say. He was angry at himself and at others for not supporting him. He wondered where everything went wrong and how he could possibly make up for it.
 
So, he decided to take a small step forward.
 
He apologized.
 
"I'm sorry, Johnny," He whispered, voice cracking.
 
Now that he had hurdled himself over the first obstacle, the rest came easily.
 
"I…didn't know about this," he said, referencing his disease, "But me not knowing isn't an excuse for how I treated you. I was…angry at myself. I never meant to make you feel like I abandoned you, but I did."
 
There was much more that he wanted to talk about-- things that would leave him more vulnerable than what he's comfortable with.
 
He released a frustrated sigh as he struggled to translate his feelings into words. Johnny was always better with this than him. He was a natural at it. It wasn't until this moment that Ghost learned to appreciate Johnny's communication skills.
 
Ghost glanced up at the large windows once more. Dr. Miller was taking notes while the other researcher was pointing at the monitor. What exactly did they find?
 
"Keep going. Talk to him a bit more," Dr. Miller urged, "We need a bit more information to confirm a few things."
 
He decided to abandon what he was attempting to say and switched to another one-- something easier for him to translate:
 
"You said that you forgave me, but I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive myself. I hurt you… I'm sorry."
 
That was the only thing he could say.
 
"I'm sorry."
 
Like a broken record.
 
It was a morbid observation, but Ghost felt as if he were talking to a grave. Here his Johnny lay, surrounded by all the beautiful flowers a person could ever want, eyes closed, unresponsive. The only thing he was missing was a pretty headstone that summed up his life in a few engraved words.
 
After some time-- Ghost couldn't tell how long-- Dr. Miller told him that he could leave whenever he felt ready. Oddly enough, he didn't want to leave. He felt like he was abandoning Johnny once more. But, he was beginning to feel fatigued and desired a mattress to sleep on.
 
Once he made up his mind, he slowly stood up and hesitantly removed his hand from Johnny's arm. He carefully hobbled out of the room, not wanting to crush more vines under his bloodied shoes.
 
He traveled up the steps and met Dr. Miller at the door. He was guided inside and sat back down in the metal seat.
 
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Riley. I understand that this is hard," She said, placing a fresh change of clothes on his side of the table. "I would like to ask you a few questions if that's okay with you."
 
Ghost nodded to her. 
 
"How do you feel?"
 
"I'm…tired, actually," he replied.
 
"Tired because you got no sleep or tired from the time you spent in the cell?" Dr. Miller asked.
 
"I…I don't know."

Dr. Miller released a hum and scribbled a few sentences in her notepad. 

"Alright. And how was your experience in there?" She asked.

"It's very humid and a bit hot. The plants…when I stepped on them, they bled," Ghost recounted, "And when I touched Johnny, the flowers moved and released a…sweet scent."

"I see," she muttered, "Thank you for your time."

Ghost thought she would ask more questions, but he was secretly grateful that it was over. He was ready to curl up in his room and attempt to sleep. 

"You can change into these clothes right here. You can leave the dirty ones behind. We'll collect them later," Dr. Miller explained, standing from her seat, "I'll be outside." 

Once alone, he followed her orders and slipped on the t-shirt, sweatpants, and shoes he was lent. He folded his bloodied clothes and left them on the metal table. Dr. Miller was waiting for him outside. 

He wordlessly followed her through the halls like a lost duckling. The floor tiles and doors seemed to blur together as he began to zone out. Being with Johnny was an emotionally exhausting experience. He felt drained in more ways than one. 

He was introduced to a medical team and instructed to sit in a chair while the nurses drew his blood and took his vitals. He was never explained as to why they needed that information. Or…perhaps he doesn't remember it.

Another slipped a bottle of pills into his hand along with a carton of juice. "Take this before you go to sleep. It'll help you rest," someone had advised. He couldn't decipher anything about their voice or appearance. They were merely figures with empty faces to him. 

Soon, he found himself in his room. He set the juice box on the nightstand and gazed at the bottle in his hands. The name of the drug was something he had never heard of before. He didn't think that he could pronounce it if he tried. 

He unscrewed the cap and deposited a pill in the palm of his hand. The gel capsules were rather large and filled with some mysterious blue liquid. He mentally shrugged and slipped the mask off of his face. He popped the pill in his mouth and washed it down with some fruity juice. 

He crawled into his bed and slipped under the blankets. After several minutes, the medication he just swallowed took hold of his body. His limbs went numb and the lids of his eyes became lead. It was nothing that he had experienced before. 

It was pleasant to be forced into slumber so quickly. 

-

The next two weeks contained the same procedures. He wasn't given a break-- he didn't want one. His day was occupied with experiments and testing. From the moment he woke up until the time he went to sleep, he was with Johnny. 

Although each day was an emotional challenge, he was glad that he didn't have to interact with the rest of his team. They avoided him like the plague-- Roach especially. A look of pity or a glare would be shot in his direction if he ever managed to catch the eye of any of the task force. 

His white uniform made him a phantom of the facility. It was given to him by Dr. Miller to label him as a test subject. He was haunting the halls that held the observation room at all hours of the day. 

He found more to talk about in Johnny's presence instead of just apologizing for hours. He talked about his dreams -- if any-- the flowers blooming in the cell, and some good memories from his past. 

Today, he felt the urge to come clean.

As usual, he took his place next to Johnny's side and held his cold hand. 

"Good morning, Johnny. I see that there are more flowers in your space. They're very beautiful," he greeted, gently caressing the blue petals of a bell-shaped flower. It shuddered at his touch. "Only an artist like you would be able to decorate like this."

He then fell into an awkward silence. 

He was hesitating.

But why?

"I've been thinking about all the things that happened in the past few months," he said, "It's a lot. But, I really miss you, Johnny."

As soon as the words left his lips, his eyes started to burn and his bottom began to quiver. 

"I know that I've apologized for everything, but that's not going to fix it. You've been nothing but good to me, and I treated you like utter shite because I was scared. It's not fair to you," he said. 

"You know, I…I had a conversation with Roach a while back. We aren't together anymore. It turns out that after so much separation, I was just clinging to memories of him," he said, "Then you came around and made me…happy. You comforted me even when I didn't think that I deserved it.

"I was so scared to say it. Everything around me dies-- family, friends, Roach… I didn't want anything to happen to you. I thought that I was helping you by pushing you away, but I was actually hurting you," he said, wiping away a few stray tears with the back of his hand, "You're here because of me, and I'm sorry."

"If I told you how I really felt, I thought it would be a death sentence. If I told you that…that I love you," Ghost averted his eyes as they began to flood with tears, "I regret never telling you."

He settled his head over Johnny's chest, his ear nestled over where his heart was. He desperately wanted to hear the beat of his heart once more, but all he could pick up were his own sniffles. 

After a while, his eyes began to close. His face felt numb after so much crying. The calming scent of flowers lulled him to sleep. 

-

He was a bit disoriented as he came out of his slumber. He didn't know how long he was out. He was still slumped over Johnny's body, whose skin was stained with his tears. Ghost unceremoniously wiped it away with his hand, mumbling a small "sorry."

As he dried the tears on Johnny's skin, he felt the slightest twitch beneath his hand. The mere sensation was enough to make him freeze. He looked over Johnny's face. He could see his eyes moving under his lids.

He crawled closer to make sure that he wasn't hallucinating. 

It wasn't a hoax.

"Johnny?"

His face twitched, most likely in response to the faint brush of breath on his face. 

For the first time in nearly a year, a smile grew on his face. He quickly placed an ear over his chest and held his breath. 

He could hear it-- faintly-- the signals of life. 

To say that he was happy would be an understatement. 

Ghost was elated.

Though, it didn't last long. 

His smile faltered when he caught whimpers from Johnny's lips. They didn't sound good. The twitching became more frequent and more intense as seconds passed. 

The vines on the walls began to wilt, turning black as they rotted. The blackness traveled from the farthest ends of the room to Johnny, who rested in the center. Ghost was worried that the rotting vegetation could hurt his sergeant. 

Just as he settled a hand on Johnny's cheek, he began to convulse as if he were having a seizure. The sudden movement startled Ghost onto his back. Blood bubbled from the vines that were connected to Johnny's body.  

The sight alone frightened him.

There was so much blood. 

The lights in the cell block dimmed and turned red. He assumed that the machinery sensed what was going on and alerted the staff.  

He crawled to Johnny, who was now free from the clutch of the vines, and looped his arms around his body. He stilled his failing limbs and kept a firm hand on the back of his head so it wouldn't hit the floor. Although he had lost most of his muscle mass, his body was still strong enough to cause Ghost to struggle. 

Just when he thought the worst was over, Johnny opened his mouth and released a horrifying sound. He had never heard a scream so raw. The people he interrogated had never cried like this. 

It was so loud that it physically hurt.

He turned his head as much as he could to lessen the pain from hearing his screams. 

Throughout the chaos, Ghost didn't realize that armed guards had entered the cell block. When he caught eye of the guards, he felt a bit of relief. Perhaps they could help him get this situation under control and get Johnny to a hospital bed. 

Instead, they snatched Johnny out of his arms and stabbed a needle into his neck, silencing his screams. His body stilled, went limp, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Ghost thought that they had killed him. 

Ghost, out of anger, attempted to take on the group of guards. He managed to knock one down before he was tackled to the ground and restrained. Just as he was about to yell, he felt a pinch on his neck. 

Immediately, the fight left his body, and his limbs became paralyzed. It was similar, if not identical, to the medication he took every night. The world around him began to blur until he couldn't distinguish the guards from the room itself. All he could see were smudges of color and the echoing voices of the guards. 

Then, his vision faded entirely, emerging him in darkness.

Chapter Text

The last thing John expected was to open his eyes after the darkness had swallowed him whole-- when he said his final goodbyes to the world. When he woke up, he recognized the roots that cradled his now bare body. This was the same tree that he had fallen asleep under, but this wasn't the same forest. Instead of the 'pop' of bullets, he heard rushing water and the song of birds floating through the crisp air. Through the gaps between the roots that hung above him, he could see the grand canopy of the oak tree he was lying under. The sun filtered through the healthy, green leaves and the thick, strong branches, and warmly kissed his tanned skin.
 
His body felt different, as well.
 
His thigh-- once aching from a bullet wound-- held no evidence of injury. He reached down and ran the pads of his fingers over the area and not a hint of scar tissue was found. It was as if he was never wounded at all.
 
Not only was he free of any injuries, but the darkened veins and the vines had disappeared. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was free. He could cry with how relieved he felt. The weight of the military, his family, and the disease were lifted off of his chest and shoulders.
 
Although he missed his life with the 141, he knew that they were much happier without him. They had Roach-- a good lad-- perfect for the team. He could occupy the spot that John warmed for him. As far as he was concerned, he was retired now. He could build a perfect life for himself within this forest without being a bother to anyone else.
 
He was tempted to stay in his cozy spot in the hollow tree and nap away for the rest of his retirement, but he was too curious about what the forest had in store for him.
 
He crawled out of the tree and stepped into the sun. He released an audible sigh as euphoria possessed his body. The warmth he felt was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. It was like drinking a hot cup of cocoa on a chilly evening but tenfold: it warmed his body from the inside, spreading from his abdomen and out towards his extremities.
 
After a few moments of bathing in the sunlight, he took to exploring.
 
He followed the sounds of water through the forest, climbing over large rocks and logs, until he came to the source: a small, glittering pond with a gentle waterfall. The water was so clear that he could see the smooth pebbles that covered the floor of the pond. He approached the lip of the pond and loomed over the water, staring at his reflection.
 
His eyes widened in surprise. Although his reflection was slightly disturbed by the small waves, he could make out details of his face. His eyes were brighter and bluer than he remembered-- almost as blue as the sky that hung above him; there was no hint of green or of the dark bags that had made their home under his eyes. His cheeks regained their healthy, red flush and his lips, once bitten on and dry, were rosy and soft. He looked younger, and he felt a lot better, too. He smiled, revealing a set of pearl-white teeth.
 
He placed his hands in the water, dispelling his reflection. From his experience, he expected it to be frigid, but it felt warm and inviting-- courtesy of the sun, no doubt. It was odd but pleasant. The pond seemed to lure him in.
 
Although it was waist-high at its deepest, the water made him feel weightless. When he reached the waterfall, he stood under it, letting the water soak his hair and cascade down his body. He could feel all of his troubling thoughts wash away and sink to the floor of the pond.
 
It was a cleansing experience.
 
Surrounding the pond were bushes and trees that held vibrant berries. He swam to the edge and plucked what he could reach. From the bushes, he gathered strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries. From the nearest tree, he retrieved a large mango. Although the temperate climate wouldn't allow a tropical tree to grow here, it seemed to thrive, offering him swollen, ripe fruit from its branches.
 
He washed his berries in the water, cleaning off the small specs of dirt, before setting them out on a flat rock to eat.
 
He took a raspberry and popped it into his mouth. As soon as the berry burst between his teeth, his taste buds were overwhelmed with a perfect balance of sweetness and tartness. He could suppress the sound of pleasure that had erupted from his throat. Although the raspberry was long gone, having been greedily swallowed, the residual flavor and the promise of more made his mouth water.
 
He picked up the mango and struggled slightly with the peel. When he got to the yellow meat of it, the sticky juices were dripping down his arms and into the water. He was messy-- like a child-- but he was too happy to care.
 
He brought the peeled section of the fruit to his lips and took a chunk out of it. Its sweet nectar ran down his chin and dripped onto his chest. The soft flesh easily gave into his teeth. Much like the raspberry, the mango's flavor was immaculate.
 
He feasted upon the berry, nibbling even the slightest bit of flesh off of the peel and sucking the hairy core clean. He lapped up the juices that remained on his hands and arms. With his tongue, he followed a trail of nectar that traveled from his wrist to the bend in his arm. Wasting any part of the mango would be a crime.
 
What he had eaten so far had settled nicely in his stomach and filled him with pleasure-laden satisfaction.
 
He spent his afternoon lounging in the pond and snacking on fruit.
 
When the sun fell, he decided to add to his hollowed tree. He made something akin to a bird's nest within the interior with the material he found in the forest. He had a soft bed of moss on the floor to even out the bumps of the roots and a basket woven out of grass to harvest his berries.
 
Although the days blended together, skewing his sense of time, he realized he was not wanting of anything.
 
The fruits were for his satisfaction, not to quell his hunger; the pond served to cleanse him, not quench his thirst; the sun was there to keep him warm, not burn his flesh. He was living in simple luxury-- being spoiled by nature's gifts-- unburdened by the limitations of his humanity.
 
Then, something unexpected occurred.
 
He woke up one morning to the sound of rain pelting the canopy of his cozy tree. When he poked his head out to take a look, the entire forest looked gloomy and gray-- courtesy of the dark clouds that hung above him. 

When he stepped into the rain, its coolness seeped into his flesh and chilled his bones, causing him to shiver. He thought nothing of it since rain showers were a natural process. It would hydrate the trees and bushes that held the berries he loved so much and add more water to the small pond that would clean him.
 
He retreated to his oak tree to dry off. Hours later, the sun came out, and he was able to continue his usual activities: exploring and munching on fruit.
 
The rain would return after a while. The clouds would grow heavy and spill their sorrow in his happy place, but the sun would always prevail and the song of birds would come back again.
 
John thought this rain shower would be like any other, but the flash of lightning and the boom of thunder made him jump. The wind picked up, turning the rain on its side and sweeping branches across the forest floor. Lightning danced across the sky and struck the canopies of other trees. For the first time, John feared that he, along with the home he built, would succumb to a fatal strike of electricity.
 
Storms like this are natural, too, right?
 
He decided to sleep the storm out, curled up in the depths of his hollowed tree.
 
Tomorrow will be better.
 
The sun would be out, and the birds would sing again.
 
When he woke up, the storm was gone, but it was eerily silent. He couldn't hear the song of birds or the gentle sounds of the waterfall.
 
He looked outside.
 
His blood ran cold.
 
The entire forest looked as if the life had been sucked out of it. The flowers were wilted and the grass was shriveled up. The air was no longer crisp; it was dry and stale.
 
With worry squeezing his chest, he left his home and traveled to the pond. The sight filled him with horror. The pond was dried out, leaving behind dusty pebbles. The waterfall had disappeared. The scent of rotting fruit wafted through the air, making him gag.
 
The sun seemed more intense than before. Even glancing at it from behind his hand made his eyes water. Its rays, which used to treat him with such gentleness, were burning him with its touch.
 
Suddenly, most likely due to the intense heat and the dryness of the dead vegetation, a fire broke out. He didn't know where it started, but it traveled quickly, eating up everything in its path as if it were possessed with a ravenous hunger. The flames licked at the sky, looming over him as if he were prey.
 
So, he ran.
 
He ran until his legs burned and his lungs ached. No matter how far and how fast he fled, the fire licked at his heels and singed the ends of his hair. He couldn't outrun this thing forever.
 
He was terrified.
 
He thought the suffering was over, but life seemed to have it out for him. It would grant him reprieve and cruelly rip it out from his hands when he got comfortable.
 
The inevitable came sooner than John expected.
 
The flames surrounded him, leaving him with nowhere to run. It closed in, inching closer-- teasing him. Suddenly, the fire lunged at him, swallowing him whole.
 
He felt as if his entire body had been doused in acid. The smell of burning hair and flesh filled his nostrils. The pain wasn't the worst part of it all. It was the sight of his flesh melting off of his body that instilled terror within him. Hand hands, whose skin peeled and bubbled, attempted to swat the flames from his naked body, but it was all in vain.
 
He collapsed when he lost all feeling in his legs, which were burned beyond recognition. He couldn't even scream-- there was no oxygen for his lungs to use.
 
It took a while-- too long-- for the darkness to consume him.

.

When John woke up, he was in a sweat. He was panting with how hard his heart was racing. He quickly sat up and scanned his surroundings, the adrenaline still racing through his veins. 

There was no fire, no forest… where was he?

Wherever he was, it felt familiar. 

When he didn't find any hint of a threat, he relaxed, dropping his shoulders and slouching over his lap. He dragged his knees up to his chest and hugged them close. 

He couldn't do this anymore. 

From the battlefield, to a forest, to flames, then to this empty room-- he couldn't take it. His hands gripped at his overgrown hair, tugging at it harshly. He could feel the sting on his scalp, but the pain couldn't help him distinguish whether he was in reality or not. The feeling-- the pain-- of the fire still lingered like a phantom over his flesh. 

Now that he had calmed down more, he noticed that he was sitting on a hospital bed and dressed in a paper-thin gown. His body was sore and awfully stiff as if he hadn't moved for ages. There was a monitor next to his bed. He couldn't read any of the information on the screen since it kept flashing red. 

What did that mean?

He didn't have time to wonder for long. A nurse swung open the door. The sudden sound nearly made him jump out of his skin. She stared at him for several moments before approaching his bedside. 

"Are you doing alright?" She asked, voice muffled by the surgical mask she was wearing. 

"I…" He coughed, voice weak and raspy. His throat was drier than a desert. "I think so," he managed to say. 

"I'll get you some water and bring in Dr. Miller," she said, leaving the room as fast as she had come in.

Dr. Miller

The same sounded so familiar. He'd heard that name before, but he couldn't put a face to it. After all that he's been through, it was difficult to recall anything about his life before the disease took over.

When said doctor walked in, he was slammed with memories. It was all coming back to him. Dr. Miller was the doctor who helped arrange his mission with Sergeant Pax. He remembered the tracker that was placed right behind his ear before he left the hospital. 

"You're awake," Dr. Miller said, taking a seat next to his bed, "I know you must be confused. You gave us quite a fright when you suddenly came out of your coma and went into a seizure." 

She held out a bottle of water and he took it without question. He twisted the cap and took a few sips before clearing his throat to speak. "I'm not…" he began, unsure of what to say, "The vines. Where are they?"

"They are gone, John. We ran a few tests, and your blood is approaching normal levels of nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium. It seems that you're in the process of making a recovery."

"So…I'm no longer Nature's Child?" He asked.

"Not that I am aware of. Welcome back to the living, John." She said with a hint of a smile.

The presence of tears stung his eyes. They were not tears of joy. 

He was fine where he was! He was content with living in his forest, snacking on fruits and bathing in the pond. Why couldn't he just be left alone? Why couldn't he be happy? He couldn't exist anywhere without the world around him falling apart. He desperately longed to settle down and experience peace. Whatever illusion the disease created would have satisfied him until the end of time.

He stayed silent.

Dr. Miller cleared her throat and set another bottle of water on his nightstand next to a box of tissues. She also set a few bottles of pills on the table. "You might feel some discomfort, and you're also lacking some vitamins, so please take these if you can, okay?" She didn't bombard him with questions like she usually would. She seemed more reserved and quiet-- like she sensed his displeasure. "I'll leave you to rest. Call us if you need anything, okay? I'll check up on you in a bit."

John nodded his head, but his eyes were glued to his lap.

When she left, the waterworks began. He didn't have enough energy to wipe the tears off of his face, so they dripped onto his nightgown.

He glanced at the only window in his room. Through the metal bars, he caught glimpses of the night sky. The moon hung high and flooded his room with its light. It was a mockery of what he saw while he was in his paradise. He missed it already.

He let himself fall back onto the mattress. A sigh of defeat left his dry lips. He stared up at the plain ceiling.

He didn't know what was next.

He wasn't ready to face the world that he had left behind. 

He wasn't sure if he could come back to the military-- his last earth-bound home. As far as he was concerned, his team had already communicated that they didn't want him. Other than this sterile facility, he had nowhere to go.

He was unclaimed.

Even Nature abandoned him.

But why?

What did he do to deserve all of this?

Perhaps he was never meant to find peace anywhere.

He never wanted to see this world again.

He curled up on his side with some difficulty due to his stiff limbs and watched as the moon fell and the sun rose. As the sunlight came through and brushed his face, he felt warmth, but it wasn't the same warmth he felt in his dreams. He mourned the loss of his paradise.

Soon, Dr. Miller came in, wheeling a cart with food and other supplies on it. She parked it next to his bed and offered a sympathetic smile: "Good morning, John. I'm sure you have many questions for me. Would you like to discuss them over breakfast?"

John glanced over his shoulder and slowly sat up. The tears became tacky when they dried on his cheeks. "No offense, but I was hoping to never see you again," he said, eyeing the tray of food. There was a fruit salad and a cup of coffee.

Dr. Miller released a laugh. It was a quiet chuckle that she hid behind her frail hand. She reminded John of a sweet grandmother. "I could say the same for you, but life has other plans," she said, bringing out her notepad. It had thinned out considerably since the last time he had seen it.

John placed the bowl of fruit in his lap and forked a kiwi slice in his mouth. It was sweet and tart, but it paled in comparison to the fruit he had tried in his paradise. He was tempted to spit it out, but he didn't want to be rude. 

"Where am I?" He asked.

"My facility. This is where I conduct my research experiments," she replied.

"How did I wake up?"

"We are still trying to figure that out. You woke up during one of my experiments. I'm assuming that it has something to do with Mr. Riley, your lieutenant," she said.

"Ghost? What does he have to do with this?"

"Your team was brought in to aid the investigation," she explained, "They've been here for almost three weeks to help us with getting more insight about you and your condition. Mr. Riley agreed to participate. He kept you company in your cell block and talked to you."

"That's it?"

"Yes. It was fairly simple, but I had a hunch that he would bring a reaction out of you. I never imagined that you would wake up," she said, "Do you have any other concerns?"

"Are they still here?"

"Yes. They will be here until the entire investigation concludes and an official report is written," she said.

John didn’t know how to feel knowing that his former squad mates were residing in the same building as him. He thought that they wouldn't bother with him.

"Do you have any other concerns?" She asked.

"Well, not now," John said, "But I do have some things to tell you. When I was in a coma, I was living in a dreamscape of some sort."

"Oh? Tell me about it," she said, flipping to a new page in her notepad and taking out a colored pen, "Do you mind if I record it?"

John shook his head, "Not at all." Her eagerness was endearing.

He waited for Dr. Miller to set up her equipment before starting.

"It was beautiful," John began, "I was in a forest." A smile grew on his face as he talked about it. He was living through it all over again. He described the beauty of the pond, the delicious fruits he ate, the brightness of the moon, the warmth of the sun, and the pleasant song of the birds that he woke up to each day. He described how he felt satisfied and loved-- like he found a place where he belonged.

"I was happy there," he said, "but then one morning, the entire forest had dried out. A fire started." His eyes drifted towards his lap and his heart began to race. As he described it-- the running, the intense heat-- his mind drifted back to that moment. His hands began to tremble as he described in detail the pain and anguish he felt as he was being burned alive. 

"I saw my skin melt from my body-- I could feel it, too. Then, I…I guess I died again," he said, finishing his tale.

He noticed that Dr. Miller had stopped writing. She was staring at him-- listening-- with one leg crossed over the other. She took off her glasses and began to clean them with a tissue. Her expression was unreadable.
 
"That…sounds terrible, John," she said, taking a moment to place her glasses back on her face. "The fire…It explained a lot. When you woke up, you were screaming and thrashing around. You were living out that moment in reality. Guards were bought in to control the situation. We have videotapes of the incident if you'd like to watch."
 
John stuck a strawberry in his mouth and nodded.
 
He was curious.
 
She stood up and walked over to the cart that felt his food. From one of the shelves, she slipped out a tablet. She prepared the video before placing the tablet in his lap.
 
"Whenever you're ready," she said.
 
John wasted no time. He pressed the play button.
 
He could see the unmistakable form of his lieutenant draped over his body. The sight made his heart throb. It was a shame that he had to go through so much for Ghost to hold him with such gentleness.
 
It was quiet, but he swore that he heard him sniffling.
 
Had he been crying?
 
"Sorry," Ghost's voice came through clearly. He sounded so…vulnerable. It was a side of him that he rarely saw.
 
Then, he saw him stiffen up and check over his unconscious figure. His bare hands were cradling his face.
 
"Johnny?"
 
It had been forever since he'd heard that name come from his mouth. For the longest time, it had just been "sergeant" or "MacTavish" said with a condescending tone.
 
Things quickly began to escalate. The plants began to rot and blood poured from the vines that held him to the ground. He watched the way he thrashed around. He remembered moving in such a way in his dream.
 
Ghost restrained him, keeping him close to his chest as he looked helplessly around the room. Then came the screaming. John winced at the sound of himself. He didn't know he could produce something so terrible from his throat. No wonder it was sore.
 
In his "dream," he didn't recall screaming. The fire took his breath away.
 
Perhaps that didn't translate over to reality.
 
Guards fled into the room and took him right out of Ghost's arms. His screaming stopped when one of them injected him with a needle. That was the sedative that Dr. Miller mentioned earlier.
 
Ghost began to fight the guards. He managed to get one of them to the ground before he was also served with a needle.
 
The tape ended with both of them being carried out of the room.
 
"I apologize for the guards' violence. They're trained to use force against any threat. Your lieutenant presented quite a challenge, but I don’t blame him for reacting in such a way," she said, taking the tablet from his lap and setting it on the chair next to her.
 
"Do the others know?" John asked, "Know that I'm awake, that is."
 
"Yes. They're in another room with Mr. Riley at the moment. Would you like me to bring them in?" She asked,
 
"Not all of them," John replied, "Just Price and Roach."
 
He wasn’t ready to face the other two just yet. He didn't have the emotional threshold to speak with them.
 
"Alright. I'll get them from his room. If you ever need me to escort them out at any time, just tell me, okay?" Dr. Miller stood up and left her notebook on the nightstand. Although her cursive handwriting was difficult to decode -- especially from his angle-- he could make out a few phrases:
 
Group isolation…aggravated by…
 
Violent emotional response…
 
…allergic reaction
 
Before he could translate anything else, there was a knock on his door. He quickly pulled away from the notepad and straightened his posture. His heart leaped into his throat. He began to regret bringing them in so soon, but he couldn't avoid this confrontation forever.
 
It was best to air everything out as soon as possible.

Chapter Text

When the door opened, John saw the familiar faces of his captain and an oddly messy Roach. Price's lips were pressed into a thin line, his thick brows were pinched together, forming deep worry wrinkles above the bridge of his nose, and his blue eyes were glossy with a thin layer of tears. His body was tense all over, and his steps were hesitant as if he was approaching a small, frightened creature; it was unlike the confident leader he remembered.
 
Unlike Price, Roach wasn't able to conceal his emotions. The pale, freckled skin around his green eyes was covered in red splotches. His bottom lip was faintly swollen as if he had been gnawing on it. At least those lips stretched into a sympathetic smile at his pathetic figure. It was a kind gesture, but it didn't put him at ease.
 
Both of them stopped a foot away from his bed.
 
They didn't say anything; neither did John.
 
What could he possibly say?
 
Luckily, he didn't have to worry for long.
 
Roach began to sign. His movements were large and slow. Now that he was close, John noticed that his nails were bitten down to the quick and the skin around them was scabbed and red.
 
John thought that Roach would be happier in his absence. He could be with the original team and look after Ghost like he did all those years ago. But, all he saw was a mess-- enough of a mess for John, who had been through the wringer, to be concerned.
 
What happened?
 
'I'm so sorry,' Roach said.
 
"What for?" John replied with a tilt of his head.
 
He was genuinely confused. If his foggy memory served him right, the sergeant did him no wrong. If anything, he was one of the most positive influences in the 141.
 
'Everything,' Roach said, 'Making you feel unwanted, not saying goodbye, leaving you out…'
 
John felt his face burn with embarrassment as Roach continued to list off things that he didn't remember sharing. He didn't want to make anyone feel bad over what he considered to be a small, personal problem. He was reluctant to tell anyone about his feelings; he was so sure, because of his team's aloofness and Ghost's iron fist, that they would rather punish him than make it better.
 
Despite the shame and the confusion he felt, John couldn't help but wonder.
 
How did he know all of this?
 
With his meek voice, he interrupted Roach's rambling, "How do you know?"
 
Before Roach could lift his hands again, Price spoke up:
 
"The tapes, son," he said, surprising John with his gentle and fatherly tone, "Dr. Miller played your interview tapes for us."
 
John averted his eyes to his lap as he filtered through his memories. He couldn't remember much after the morning he woke up tied to his bed frame by vines. Everyday after that seemed to blur together with only a few profound moments that stuck out to him-- like the mission where he and Roach were nearly blown up and Sergeant Pax yelling at him over gunfire.
 
He was overwhelmed in what seemed to be every way. His emotions were unstable, and he didn't know how to feel. Anger, sadness, joy, and despair swirled together until they created the murky water that sloshed around his skull. His body was stiff and his joints ached. Despite sleeping for who knows how long, he felt constantly fatigued.
 
He understood why a baby might cry after being born.
 
"Do you remember being interviewed?" Priced asked him after a long stretch of silence.
 
He recalled sitting down with Dr. Miller multiple times, but the content of those discussions was lost to him. That was probably what Price was referring to.
 
"Not at the moment," John replied, "If I was taped during an interview, I certainly wasn't expecting to be around when you listened to them let alone hear you talk about it."
 
Although his eyes were trained on the blankets that covered his lap, he spotted the frown on Price's face out of the corner of his eye.
 
"We're happy that you're here," Price said, seemingly brushing over his grim comment, "I just wish that I had done more to support you. I knew you were going through something, but I didn't want to breathe down your neck and force it out of you if you didn't want to talk about it."
 
"It's okay, Price. You did more than enough for me," John said, the poor blankets now strangled in his fists, "I kept my mouth shut because I was afraid of losing everything. I didn't want to lose my family."
 
Silence followed.
 
A confession as emotionally overloaded as he lacked a sufficient answer-- reasonably so.
 
"This is a lot, so why don't we take a break before getting into it, okay?" Price offered, "You've got quite the beard there. Up for a shave?"
 
John was grateful for the distraction.
 
He turned his head to look at Price. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he wore a faint smile. "Yeah," he said, "Sounds nice."
 
With some effort, John managed to get his legs over the edge of the bed. His limbs felt heavy despite them lacking their absurd muscle mass. He placed his feet on the ground and slowly slipped off of the bed. Roach, noticing John's struggle, acted like his crutch. He drew John's arm around his shoulder and kept a solid arm around his waist.
 
As soon as he made contact with Roach's body, his own was flooded with pleasant warmth. It was a stark contrast to the burn he felt whenever he touched someone else-- anyone that wasn't Ghost. He couldn't think about anything outside of how he felt resting against Roach. It sent him into a trance.
 
His silence and distant eyes concerned Roach and Price.
 
"You okay, son?" Price asked.
 
John used a considerable amount of will to lift his head off of Roach's shoulder.
 
"What? Yeah, m'fine," he slurred, "More than fine. It's weird to walk after being out for so long."
 
"Do you want a wheelchair?"
 
"Nah, I need to get up and move anyway," John replied.
 
When they made it to the bathroom, there was already a chair next to the tub. Price moved it in front of the sink before Roach gently deposited John into the seat. On the counter sat an unused electric razor and some shaving cream. Dr. Miller must've left it there for him in case he wanted to clean himself up.
 
Above the sink was a mirror. John could barely recognize the man staring back at him. He knew that he was going to look different because of his condition, but he wasn't expecting a stranger. His uneven, dark mane touched his shoulders, and the lower half of his face was covered in thick, coarse hair. Interestingly, his left eye remained bright green, and the skin around it had dark veins. Although he wasn't attached to those plants anymore, some of it was left behind.
 
Would it ever go away?
 
Was he destined to live with it forever?
 
When Roach began to part from his side, John reached out and grabbed his wrist without meaning to. His body subconsciously craved contact.
 
'You okay?' Roach asked with a raised brow.
 
"Yeah," John glanced away but kept his grip on his wrist, "Sorry, you're just really warm."
 
'Are you cold? Do you want a blanket?'
 
"No," he replied, "Can…can you stay here?"
 
'Of course!'
 
"Thanks," John said quietly.
 
He felt ashamed to ask for favors; he felt ashamed for being vulnerable.
 
"Do you want your mohawk?" Price asked with the razor in his hand.
 
John considered it since it was his signature hairstyle. It was odd to see himself without it. He didn't think he deserved to have his mohawk back. After this was over, he doubted that he would ever be let into the military. Price doesn't deserve someone as emotionally damaged as him. He would be more of a liability than an asset. He couldn't hold it together like Ghost; he couldn't adapt a cold persona to protect himself. It felt wrong to jump back into a military career when he had already said goodbye.
 
"Not now," John replied, "Just the beard, please."
 
When Price got to work, each touch felt just as warm as Roach's hand, which kept him grounded through the whole trim. He closed his eyes so as to not see himself in the mirror and focused on the constant drone of the razor's buzz. Soon, the excess hair was brushed off his chest and the razor was switched off.
 
"All cleaned up." Price said.
 
When he opened his eyes and stared at his reflection. He looked less like a mess and more like what he was used to seeing before the disease took over.
 
"Thanks, sir. I really appreciate it," he said.
 
"Don't mention it."
 
He was lifted up and assisted back to his bed. Instead of leaving his side, Roach stayed on the bed with him. The bed was roomy compared to normal hospital beds, but it was still a tight fit with the two of them on it.
 
"Are you okay with this?" John asked Roach, "I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I?"
 
Roach shook his head and gave him a big smile; he pulled John to his chest, forcing him to lay down on top of him. John let himself relax in Roach's arms, the warmth alone making him nearly fall asleep. He wrapped his arms around the other sergeant's waist and rubbed his cheek against the hard pillow of his chest. This was the closest he could get to the heavenly feeling of the sun against his skin; he desperately wanted to feel it again.
 
"How's Ghost?" John asked, his voice slightly muffled.
 
He was curious about how he was doing after being jabbed with a sedative.
 
Roach released a small, annoyed huff while Price merely shrugged. Clearly, something must've happened in his absence.
 
"He's fine," Price said, "He's kept in a secured area, right now. Ever since he woke up a few days ago, he's been sneaking out to find you."
 
John didn't know how to react to the news. Part of him was elated that Ghost was trying to find him-- that he finally cared about him-- but most of him was still bitter about what he had done to him. He could get over Ghost being with Roach. That wasn't the problem. It was the way he treated him after. Although he brushed it off for the sake of passing away without loose ends, he had no choice but to address it now.
 
He could feel Roach moving his arm around-- most likely signing to Price-- while the other rubbed soothing circles on his back.
 
"I know, Roach, but that's not your call to make," he heard Price say.
 
"Did something happen?" He asked.
 
He gazed at what he could of their expressions. They seemed hesitant to tell him. His eyes glanced up at Roach's face when Price gestured to him.
 
'I may have…overstepped a little,' Roach said.
 
John tilted his head in response, waiting for him to explain.
 
'It's not my proudest moment,' he continued, 'When I found out that Ghost hurt you, I lost it. You sacrificed yourself to protect me when you didn't even know me, and he treated you like shit, after.'
 
His eyes grew wide upon understanding what Roach was referencing. His pale cheeks grew hot with blood. When Roach revealed that he had gotten physical with him and that Gaz had to step in to separate them, John was a bit flattered. It was nice to know that someone would go to such lengths to defend him. He didn’t know what to say; he was left speechless.
 
'Sorry, I know it wasn't right, but I was so angry.'
 
"Thank you," John said, earning a perplexed look from Roach, who was most likely expecting disapproval. Although it wasn't the best way to reprimand him, John thought that it was the least that he deserved.
 
"I don't want to go into detail right now," John said, "But, it feels nice to be…thought of, I guess."
 
'It's the least I could do for you,' Roach said with a smile, 'You've been through too much.'
 
John could already feel the familiar sting of tears in his eyes. If Roach kept tugging on his emotions with his honey-tongue, he threatened to break down in sobs.
 
Luckily, all three of them fell into a comfortable silence.
 
If anyone decided to interrupt it, they would bring up something lighthearted-- like the time John singed his eyebrows off or when Roach got a faceful of mud during basic training. Perhaps Roach and Price were trying to reconnect with him without emotionally overwhelming him. He was thankful for that.
 
Price dismissed himself after dinner-- most likely to return to the others and update them on John's status.
 
Roach never left. The only time they parted was for bathroom breaks and to eat.
 
When night fell, John was consumed with anxiety. It had been building up as the sun descended to the horizon. He was so sure that Roach would say goodnight when he got tired and returned to his own room, so he had been preparing himself to spend the night alone. He was scared of it coming back. Although the technology in this facility was advanced, he lacked other sources of light. There wasn't a lamp or a flashlight he could use to defend himself if that ghoulish figure came back to haunt him.
 
Eventually, the topic was brought up by the ever-perceptive Roach.
 
'You're nervous,' he said, 'Do you want to talk about it?'
 
"I…" John's answer was caught in his throat. He wanted Roach to stay the night, but he had already taken up so much of his time. Surely, he wanted to sleep in his own bed.
 
'Do you want me to leave?'
 
"No!" The answer came out before John could comprehend what he was saying.
 
Roach raised a brow.
 
"I mean, if you'd like to leave, that's fine with me," he clarified, "But, I'd like it if you stayed. There's…It sounds really stupid, but at night, there's this thing that--"
 
Roach raised a hand to silence him.
 
'I understand,' Roach agreed without letting him explain. Perhaps he already knew because of the taped interviews.
 
"Okay, thanks," John mumbled.
 
The lights in his room dimmed on their own when the clock struck nine in the evening. He visibly tensed. He assumed that this was supposed to coax "patients" into falling asleep since many rooms in the facility don't have windows.
 
Roach wrapped his arms around him and held his frail body close to comfort him. He made sure that John's face was mostly hidden from view so he didn't catch a glimpse of that Jester if it happened to show up. He pulled the thick blanket up, making sure that he was covered from head to toe except for his face.
 
John tucked his head under Roach's chin while his hands clung to his clothes-- clung to the warmth. He couldn't bear the thought of suffering through those hard nights again-- nights that left him curled up under a dingy lamp and shivering until daylight came to rescue him. He was so grateful that Roach was there for him.
 
When he closed his eyes, he felt no fear.

-

John spent the next few days interacting with a variety of doctors and attending appointments. He spent at least six hours each day on physical therapy to improve his strength, therapy to sort things out in his mind, routine testing to make sure the disease wasn't coming back, and interviews with Dr. Miller to document his progress. The rest of his "free time" was spent recovering his energy through naps and munching on whatever greens the lunchroom was offering. He rarely had time for himself let alone catching up with Price and Roach. 

Luckily, he was able to sit down with Roach during lunch.

"How has Gaz been?" John asked, pushing the leaves of his colorful salad around with his fork 

After a few sessions with his therapist, he felt more prepared to address his former best friend. He was able to digest his anger and resentment and turn it into something akin to apathy. It wasn't like he didn't care about Gaz at all; he merely regarded him as he would a stranger.

It was clear to John that the Gaz he was friends with wasn't the same person that still existed today. Whatever sparked the change in his attitude was beyond him. Whether he was the cause of it or not, he slowly let the entire issue go.

Roach glanced at him, but his hands didn't move. One was still holding a fork while the other sat uselessly on the table.

 His hesitance frightened him.

Was he hurt? 

Did he die? 

If he was okay, why was it taking so long for Roach to give him an answer?

Although Gaz had been reduced to a stranger in his mind, he didn't wish any ill will on him. He still cared about him as he would for any person he saw.

"Did…something happen to him?" He asked with a touch of concern.

'No! He's alive. He's fine,' Roach signed quickly, 'He's recovering from some testing right now.'

"Testing? What kind of testing?" He asked.

'You should ask him yourself,' Roach said, 'It's easier for you to hear it from him than have me explain it to you. I don't really understand all of the scientific jargon that Dr. Miller says.'

John's stomach twisted at the thought of seeing Gaz. He didn't want to visit him and experience another round of his somewhat passive-aggressive attitude. 

'He should be awake now. You should see him after lunch,' Roach said, 'I can come with you if you want.'

"Nah, mate," Soap said, dropping the fork into his half-empty bowl, "I should do this on my own. You've helped me out enough already."

Roach merely nodded, accepting John's response, and continued eating the spaghetti and meatballs on his plate. The other sergeant knew that there was no use in fighting against him-- he could be one stubborn mule sometimes.

John was never good at confronting his problems. The only reason he had been successful in overcoming obstacles was because he solved them as they came to him. He didn't actively seek them out unless it pertained to his job, such as reprimanding a soldier or breaking up a fight between two rookies.

He didn't approach problems often, but if he didn't approach this one -- Gaz-- he was sure that other problems would arise. 

So, he decided to bite the bullet.

But, he would have to finish his lunch first. 

"How's the food?" John asked.

'It's pretty good!' Roach replied, giving him a thumbs up, 'Dare I say, better than the stuff at base.'

John chuckled at that.

'Wanna try some?'

John nodded. He hadn't eaten meat since he woke up. He still remembered how other food tasted if it weren't a fruit or something green. 

Roach slung a meatball into his bowl.

John stabbed the meat with his fork and brought it to his lips. He took the smallest bit into his mouth. He winced at the strong flavor and the odd spices that settled on his tongue, but it was bearable. Unlike the waffle, it didn't taste like something had died, rotted, and turned to ash in his mouth. 

'Is it good?'

John took another small bite.

With his hands, he signed:

'It's alright.'

Chapter Text

John hovered around an empty hallway, anxiously pacing the length of it over and over until the soles of his feet began to burn. His eyes glanced periodically to a door with a plaque that read "Garrick" in big, bold letters. Even with Roach's continued support and encouraging words, his hands grew clammy at the thought of even touching that door handle.
 
He doesn't know how long it's been since he's had a genuine conversation with Gaz-- no-- Kyle. His indifferent attitude left a lasting impression that tainted whatever good memories he had. He questioned every interaction he had with Kyle-- the conversations over lunch, the jokes thrown over comms, the light-hearted gossip spread over hard drinks at a bar.
 
Did Kyle ever like him?
 
Or, was John just a stand-in for Roach until he returned?
 
Does Kyle even want to see him?
 
Despite trying to convince himself that he was just "another stranger" to him, he mourned the loss of his best friend. Thinking of those good memories made his heart ache. He wanted the friendship that they had-- before the disease, before Roach-- but he knew that wasn't possible. It would take a lifetime to heal completely from this.
 
After taking a deep breath and patting his sweaty palms on his thighs, he lifted his hand and placed three solid knocks on the door.
 
"Come in," a familiar voice said from behind the door.
 
John opened the door slowly as if there was a trap set just beyond it. To him, Kyle was unpredictable. He didn't know if he was going to explode at him, beg for forgiveness, or even acknowledge his existence.
 
When he fully revealed himself, he caught the audible gasp that left Kyle's lips.
 
"Soap," he whispered.
 
It was odd to be called that name.
 
His military career seemed so far behind him like a faint echo in an endless cavern.
 
When Kyle moved to stand from his bed, John raised a hand to stop him.
 
"Lay back down," he said, pulling up a chair to Kyle's bedside, "You're still recovering."
 
"Right…" he replied, his shoulders hunching forward as he settled into a sitting position.
 
John sat in the chair, releasing a sigh of relief. He hadn't realized how much he strained his body by anxiously pacing the halls.
 
"Are you okay?" Kyle asked.
 
"Yeah, just…getting used to walking again," John said, averting his gaze to the pristine, white blankets covering the bed, "I heard you went through some testing. What was that about?"
 
"Oh, Dr. Miller sent me for allergy tests," Kyle replied, catching his attention.
 
John's eyes shot up to Kyle's face with a brow raised.
 
"Allergies?" He asked.
 
"Yeah, I started feeling sick recently, and Dr. Miller had her suspicions," Kyle explained, gently caressing his bandaged arm.
 
When John opened his mouth to ask another question, he was interrupted by a knock at the door. Seconds later, Dr. Miller herself walked in holding a clipboard. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw him.
 
"Ah, John," she greeted him with a small smile, "I didn't expect to see you here."
 
"Should I leave?" John asked.
 
"No," she replied, "I'd like you to stay since you might want to hear this."
 
She then turned to Kyle.
 
"Your results came back," she said, handing him the clipboard, "We tested you for every plant that John sprouted. It turns out that you're severely allergic to most of them."
 
She sat at the edge of the bed and crossed one leg over the other. Her eyes were glued to Kyle's face as he flipped through pages of results.
 
"Although he changed clothes after every experiment with John, Mr. Riley still carried pollen on his skin and hair. That's what caused you to feel under the weather," she explained.
 
"So…What do the allergies mean?" John asked, finally speaking up.
 
"It could explain his behavior towards you before you succumbed to the disease," Dr. Miller stated, "The pollen from your growths caused him to have migraines, dizziness, nausea, and fatigue. His reactions were much more violent than your average spring sniffle."
 
When the words registered in John's mind, he sat back in his chair and lowered his eyes to the ground. He mulled over them, slowly spiraling as every assumption he built was knocked down.
 
So… maybe Kyle didn't hate him after all.
 
It was a misunderstanding caused by some mysterious allergic reaction.
 
Maybe he was the bad friend for assuming the worst about him.
 
The only thing stopping him from a self-deprecative spiral was one unanswered question.
 
He understood that it must've been hell for Kyle to stick around him for days while getting sicker and sicker without knowing why. He could understand his lack of energy in his presence and his upbeat attitude when he spent time with someone else.
 
Kyle's allergies explained his behavior only when he began sprouting vines.
 
It didn't explain why he went on that day trip with the 141 without telling him or the amount of conversations he was left out of. The disease wasn't present then. Where was he before the growths started?
 
"Ah, makes sense," John muttered, cutting through the silence.
 
"Any questions about your results, Mr. Garrick?" Dr. Miller asked.
 
"No," Kyle replied after a moment of hesitation, his eyes never leaving the packet before him, "Thank you." He was most likely still processing everything.
 
Dr. Miller nodded: "Well, I'll leave you gentlemen alone. It seems like you have some things to discuss."
 
She left the room. When the door closed behind her, John could still hear the faint echo of her heels as she walked down the corridor. The silence that followed was deafening.
 
John was somewhat surprised when Kyle spoke first.
 
"I…I didn't mean to leave you out, Soap--"
 
"John," he quickly interrupted, catching Kyle off guard.
 
"What?"
 
"It's John," he said again.
 
"Ah…"
 
The implications of the name change hung in the air, but it was respected.
 
"I didn't mean to hurt you, John," Kyle said, "I…I didn't know that those days when I felt sick were the days you needed me the most. I was a terrible friend. Still am…I guess."
 
John silently agreed, but he made no indication that he did so.
 
"I don't think anyone meant to neglect me, Kyle," he said, "well…most of everyone. But when Roach came back, you were gone. It hurt. You guys did so much without me--going to town, playing cards, talking at lunch, going to the bar… I felt left out."
 
Since he was overly anxious about confronting Kyle, he rehearsed everything he wanted to say. It spilled from his lips with an unnatural ease. His palms began to sweat again as he waited for a response.
 
He watched Kyle's expression change into sorrow. His brows were pinched together and a frown was on his face.
 
"Oh, John…" Kyle whispered, "I…I didn't know if you were comfortable with Roach."
 
"You never thought to ask?" John replied.
 
"It's…I should've. I made a mistake, but I had a reason," he said, "Roach was fairly close with Ghost before he went MIA. Although they weren't officially a couple, there was definitely something there.
 
"When Roach came back, I remembered your interest in Ghost. I just…assumed that you didn't want to go. You saw how touchy they were as soon as they saw each other. They were all over each other during that trip to town. But, even with all of that, it was wrong of me to hide it from you.
 
"As for the conversations, I…I just thought you wanted to know more about Roach's history in the task force and our memories together. I didn't think that you would feel left out. I'm sorry, John…"
 
After Kyle's speech, John was at a loss for words. He thought of almost every scenario that would occur. He had a response for if Kyle got angry and started blaming him, if he ignored him completely, or if he broke down in tears and begged for forgiveness. He planned for every scenario except for this one.
 
He didn't expect Kyle to talk to him or explain his motives.
 
He was trying to protect him from inevitable heartbreak.
 
He knew that Roach and Ghost had some history and didn't want him to witness it all if they were to spend time as a group.
 
He understood Kyle's motives; they were innocuous but unintentionally became a deadly weapon.
 
Kyle had no hate for him.
 
Allergies caused his strange behavior.
 
He was trying to protect him…
 
John should feel relieved.
 
He should be elated!

A swirl of emotions formed a turbulent storm that resided in his head-- anger, sorrow, sadness, fury, melancholy. Those dark clouds concealed any rays of joy he felt. He wanted to scream at Kyle, curse him for playing a part in making his life a living hell. He thought of getting physical with him, but he couldn't bring himself to lift a finger against the man who he used to call his best friend. He wanted to stand up and throw the chair he was sitting on across the room, punch a wall, and tug his hair out in frustration. He wanted to find a way to release all of it, but he couldn't move.

The sudden overflow of intense emotions left him paralyzed in his seat.

He was shocked that something as small as an allergy could contribute to such a disaster. 

He was half-tempted to laugh at the absurdity of it all-- or cry, he didn't know which one.

Eventually, he managed to brace himself against the ferocious storm and focus on engaging with Kyle. 

"I…I forgive you," the words felt odd coming from his mouth. He didn't think that he would use that phrase today.
 
All of his questions were answered, leaving no doubt or misunderstanding.
 
Yes, Kyle neglecting to communicate with him or include him in group activities that involved Roach was wrong.
 
It was clear that he regretted it.
 
What was the point of staying angry at him?
 
"I need some time to think over things, first," John said.
 
"I understand," Kyle replied, hesitantly holding out his fist to him with his palm facing the ground.
 
He wanted a fist bump.
 
It was something they did often.
 
"See you around?" Kyle asked.
 
John eyed the hand with suspicion.
 
He was tempted to give in to the request, but he felt that the physical contact was too much for him-- too fast.
 
He offered Kyle a tight smile: "Thanks for talking with me. I'll see you around."
 
He turned away from the outstretched hand and stood up. He placed the chair back under the desk he took it from. His eyes were glued to the floor to avoid seeing whatever expression Kyle had on his face.
 
He left the room and headed straight to his own.
 
Part of him was satisfied that he got answers; the other was panicking over how to process the resulting emotional turmoil.
 
When he reached his haven, he closed the door behind him with such ferocity that he startled the room's other occupant. Ah, he forgot Roach was here.
 
'Are you okay, John?' Roach asked as he sat up fully.
 
"I'm fine," John said, running a hand over his face to wipe off the slight perspiration on his forehead, "Sorry for scaring you. I…I just feel tired."
 
Although simple, the word "tired" has come to mean something much more than just physical exhaustion. He lacked the mental energy to formulate the correct words to thoroughly explain how he felt. Luckily, Roach understood him well.
 
The other merely gestured for him to lay down on the large mattress.
 
John melted into it and immediately sought out Roach's warmth.
 
'Did your conversation with Gaz go well?' He asked.
 
"Yeah, it was okay. It turns out that he was allergic to... most of my plants," John said, "That explains why he wasn't around me so much before..."

He trailed off.
 
...before he went MIA.

He couldn't say it; the wound was too fresh.
 
'I'm glad that he wasn't ignoring you on purpose,' Roach replied.
 
"Me, too," John said.

'Do you think that you could forgive him?' Roach asked.
 
"I did forgive him-- I told him so," John said slowly, "But, I'm…still hurt. I miss what we had, you know? I don't think we could go back to how it was. He was such a good friend." His voice began to crack as his eyes teemed with tears, "I miss the old him."
 
Before he knew it, those tears slid out of the corners of his eyes and down the sides of his head, dampening the hair before his ears. Roach wiped away the tears and dragged his trembling body closer until they were curled into each other-- a mess of tangled limbs on a bed.
 
"'m sorry for getting your shirt wet," John muttered against Roach's chest.
 
A gentle pat on his back told him that it was okay.

His body shook with half-contained sobs. He mourned his past life-- the life he tried so hard to cling to when everything around him was falling apart. He desperately wanted it back, but his discolored eyes, flesh, and scars would remind him that he wasn't the same man as before. Time could only heal so much, and these marks were not likely to fade.
 
When his cries settled into sniffles, physical exhaustion seeped into his muscles and bones. It felt like his eyelids were weighed down with stone. The moment the fluffy blanket was pulled over his shoulders, he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes.

Chapter Text

John left hours ago for his daily medical check-ups, but Roach couldn't find the energy to move from his upright position on the bed. His eyes were glued to the fading damp patch on John's pillowcase. 

The frequency of John's nightmares had been steadily declining under Roach's care, but there were a few nights-- perhaps once every few weeks--when he would be woken up by John's screams or cries. 

Last night was such a night, and it proved to be a struggle for both of them. 

Usually, John could be easily coaxed back into sleep with a grounding touch and words of affirmation after an hour of talking. This time, it seemed that he couldn't distinguish between his treacherous imagination and reality.

It was around three in the morning when Roach had roused from his sleep to the sound of sniffling and whimpering. He looked over his shoulder to John's side of the bed and saw a twitching lump of covers instead of his sleeping face. Roach slowly sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes to get a better look at John. He could see that John was entirely concealed under the comforter. He reached out with caution and gently touched the mound. John's movements stilled completely-- even his whimpers had quieted into labored breathing. He gently shook his shoulder, hoping that he would receive a response. 

He didn't.

He had peeled the covers back to get a look at John's face-- a grave mistake in hindsight. 

Although it was dark, he could see John's crazed, bloodshot eyes. When their gazes locked, all hell broke loose. 

John had begun to scream-- an unbridled sound of absolute terror; it made a chill shoot down Roach's spine. John threw his arms out and attempted to shove Roach away, crying "Leave me alone" and "Don't take me." 

During the violent struggle, Roach had managed to turn the lamp on, filling the bleak room with a warm glow. This seemed to calm John down. His wild eyes scanned over Roach's face, which now bore a bloody scratch. After a few moments, John seemed to recognize him, causing a new flood of tears. 

He had apologized profusely, attempting to explain his frightening dream through hiccups and sobs. Roach, still too tired to understand or decipher his words, merely held him close and swayed his body from side to side to calm him down. 

He eventually fell asleep in his arms, but the lingering adrenaline kept Roach up for the rest of the night. 

Roach cared for John dearly-- he would risk his life for him if the moment called for it-- but being his sole crutch was exhausting. Even though Price and Kyle were involved with John's recovery, they didn't comfort him through breakdowns or wake up in the middle of the night to calm him from a nightmare. John didn't trust them as much as he trusted Roach. 

Roach didn't want to set John's recovery back by asking for space or making him feel that he was a bother. But sometimes, he felt he couldn't help him on his own. 

A sudden anger set his chest aflame.

Where was Simon?

He claims to love John so much, but he's been absent since John has woken up.

He understands that he doesn't want to come off too strong or scare John while he's still vulnerable, but he could communicate in other ways. He could write a letter, draw a picture for him-- something! Something to let John know what he's feeling so he can be easier to approach. 

A sudden burst of motivation struck him. He slipped out of bed and maneuvered his tired body out of the room. He made his way down the halls with clenched fists and vigor in his steps. 

He was determined to knock some sense into him. 

He reached Simon's door and knocked upon the thick wood with more force than he intended. When the door opened, revealing Simon's naked face and shocked expression, he realized that he didn't plan what he was going to say.

"Gary?" Simon questioned with an uncharacteristically soft voice. 

Roach sighed, shoulders dropping as some of the anger oozed out of his body. Although it made sense to be angry at him, Simon was most likely beating himself up more than anyone could.   

'May I come in? I need to talk to you.'

Simon stepped aside, allowing Roach to come in. The room was identical to John's and equally as plain. The only evidence that someone occupied this space was the un-made bed in the center of the room. 

When the door closed, Simon spoke: "So, what is…" He trailed off, piquing Roach's interest, "Are you okay? What happened?" He gestured to the scratch on Roach's cheek.

It was red and throbbed slightly. Small droplets of blood had dried on the wound and his cheek. Roach was too focused on John to wipe it away. Overall, it wasn't as bad as it looked. 

'I'm fine,' Roach replied, 'John woke up from a nightmare and accidentally scratched me.'

Simon perked up at the mention of John. 

"How…How is he?" He asked. 

'He's getting better slowly,' Roach replied, 'He can walk without a cane for the most part, but he has days where those nightmares come back and his scars ache.'

"Ah…I see," Simon said, taking a seat at the edge of his bed. He looked as if he wanted to say something else but not a word left his lips. 

'He needs you,' Roach signed slowly.

"Me?" Simon asked, "He…He doesn't need me. I'm not good for him. I'll just set him back." 

'Despite all that you've done, he still loves you,' Roach said, 'If it were up to me, I wouldn't let you near him. But, he calls out your name in his sleep. He wants to talk to you but he's scared to even see you.'

Simon appeared to look ill upon hearing that John feared him. 

"I know that he's scared. I mean…after all the shit that I did, who wouldn't be?" He said, "I want to make it right, but I don't know how. I don't know what I can do or say to make him feel comfortable."

'You can start by writing a letter and being honest to yourself,' Roach advised, walking over to Simon's desk and pulling out a drawer. A notepad and pen sat inside. 

He gestured for him to sit at the chair in front of his desk.

"Are you sure that it's something that he wants? I don't want to bother him if he doesn't want to talk to me," Simon said, hesitant to even set his hand on the pad of paper. 

'It's a start. If he doesn't want it, then I'll tell you,' Roach explained, 'Staying quiet makes you seem like you don't care."

"But I do care…" Simon said, "But, I just--"

Roach interrupted him by handing him the pen.

'Just, write-- please,' Roach said, 'I'll even help you get your words out. Just give him something.'

Simon slowly nodded, finally wrapping his hand around the ballpoint pen. He slipped the cap off and hovered the point over the first line on the page. 

"Where do I even start?" He asked. 

Roach perched on the edge of the desk. He shrugged: 'I guess…acknowledge what you did and how you feel.'

After many hours, countless crumpled papers, and a thirty-minute lunch break, Simon produced a thoughtful, multi-page letter. They were neatly folded and slipped into an envelope that had John's name written on the back. 

Roach took the envelope: 'Get some rest.'

He then turned to leave. Just when he opened the door, he heard Simon speak: "Thank you… for helping me and being there for him."

Roach glanced back at him and bit his tongue. 

He wouldn't have had to do this if Simon had been honest with himself initially. Hell-- They wouldn't even be here in this facility if he had been. Although everything wasn't his fault, many problems- such as John's illness and injuries and the team's strained relationship- could've been avoided. 

He merely nodded in response and left before those thoughts could be let loose. 

Roach tucked the letter in his pocket, wanting to share it with John at a later time.  He needed to eat some food before doing anything else. His stomach rumbled at the wonderful aroma of spices floating through the halls from the cafeteria.

When he entered the dining hall, he found Price, Gaz, and John sitting together at a table. He grabbed a tray and sat next to John with a small smile. The letter felt heavy in his pocket.

-

When dinner concluded, John dragged Roach back to their room to clean up and bandage his cheek. It was then that Roach slipped the envelope from his pocket and handed it to John. 

"What's this?" John asked, glancing at the familiar handwriting on the back.

'It's from Ghost.'

John's eyes widened. He thumbed the rolled-up edge of the envelope's opening anxiously. It seemed as if he was scared of what was contained inside.

"Really?" John asked in disbelief, "Is…Is it bad?"

'Not at all,' Roach reassured him, 'He wanted to find a way to communicate with you without…scaring you.'

"Ah," John replied, "I see."

He set the note on his desk, still unsure.

They continued their evening as usual, and the topic of Simon's letter was never brought up again.

-

When Roach gave him the letter, his stomach dropped to his feet. Although he had no clue about the contents of this hefty message, his mind couldn't help but produce the worst-case scenario. He could handle Ghost yelling at him and throwing him up against a van but he couldn't take being insulted in writing. Whatever hateful words Ghost had for him were carefully thought out and immortalized on paper. Just thinking about it made the scar on his abdomen throb. 

When the lights dimmed and Roach settled under the covers next to him, John's gaze locked to the letter on his desk. No matter how hard he tried to shut his eyes and will himself to sleep, he couldn't stop thinking about what could be in that letter. 

He sat up and made his way to the desk. He switched on the low-light lamp and glanced back at Roach to make sure that he didn't wake him up. 

His back was turned away from him and he didn't stir. 

Good.

He sat in the chair and pulled the envelope in front of him. 

He carefully peeled the paper flap back and pulled out several sheets of paper. Every line on each page was filled with Ghost's surprisingly elegant handwriting. 

He gazed upon the opening words: 

Johnny,

I understand that you don't want to see me because of what I've done. It's unforgivable, and I won't try to convince you otherwise. I haven't been completely honest with myself over these years, and I haven't been honest with you…

His eyes took in each heartfelt word with his lips parted in shock. When he reached the words, "Sincerely, Simon Riley," he placed the letter down with trembling hands and tear-clouded eyes. 

This was the last thing he expected from Ghost. He knew that there was something more behind that mask, but he never had a chance to truly see it. His words, which contrasted with Ghost's cold persona, twisted his heart until it physically hurt. 

Amongst the flood of overwhelming emotions, he could feel a pair of eyes on him. 

A hand was placed on his shoulder. 

"Does he mean it?" He asked.

'He does…it's all him,' Roach replied. 

"It's...It's just a struggle. I can't seem to get over what he's done," John said, "I love him dearly, but I'm so angry. I want to forgive him, but I'm scared it will happen again if I let him back in."

Roach glanced down and examined the pages scattered across the desk. 

'He's changed a lot. He's different from the man I knew all those years ago,' Roach said, 'But, he's always been devoted. Even when I was considered missing for years, he was still faithful to me. I don’t think that he'll ever abandon you or hurt you more than he already has. Whether you still want to pursue something with him is up to you.'

John listened to his advice and nodded his head. He turned away from Roach and fished out a well-loved notepad and pen from the desk drawer. 

"Thanks," He said, "Sorry for waking you. I'll be up for a bit, so you should go back to sleep."

Roach nodded and waddled back to the bed. He reached out and tapped on the table to get John's attention: 'Don't stay up too late.'

"Yes, mother," John playfully replied with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

-

When Roach opened his eyes, the morning light was shining through the blinds. When he glanced to his side, he saw John's sleeping face. Beyond his sleeping form, on the desk, sat a sealed envelope with a yellow sticky note on it. He figured that John ignored his advice and stayed up all night to write a response. 

He carefully removed himself from the bed, making sure not to jostle John too much. But, with how late he stayed up, no amount of jostling could wake him up. As he approached the desk, he noticed that the small trash bin was overflowing with crumpled papers. 

"Deliver when you can" was written on the sticky note. 

Roach removed the note from the envelope and wrote his own message explaining his absence if John were to wake up before he came back.

He swiped up the letter and was off to Simon's room. 

When he knocked on the door, he heard "Price?"

Roach popped his head into his room: 'Not quite. But, you still might be interested in it.'

He slipped the letter into Simon's hands before retreating into the hall, not leaving room for him to respond. 

He joined Price and Gaz in the cafeteria for breakfast. When it concluded, Simon walked in and set another envelope before him without a word. 

Then it began: day after day of delivering letters between Simon and John. After encouraging Simon to write the first one, he was sure that he could handle the rest on his own. With each pass of an envelope, he noticed slight changes in both of their behaviors. 

In the mornings, Simon seemed more energetic and positive. He would approach him and bashfully ask if John had written anything for him. His eyes would light up with joy when Roach handed him a letter from John. 

He noticed the soft blush on John's cheeks when he received a response from Simon. His sleep would be interrupted by John's half-concealed giggles as he read through Simon's letter for the fifth time. He was acting like a love-sick teenager.

A conversation was inevitable. 

One morning, he woke up and saw that there was no envelope waiting for him on John's desk. 

'No message for him today?' He asked

John shook his head with a smile: "Nah, I think I'll talk to him."

Chapter Text

John spent so long reading over Simon's letters that he forgot to write a response. More specifically, he was laughing over the new, terrible jokes that he had written and fondly passing his finger over the small doodles on the corners of the page. He fell asleep with the pages in his grasp. When morning came, he was lying on his back with the letter still clutched to his chest. He could write a quick response before getting breakfast, but he didn't want to come across as insincere with a short letter. 

There was so much he wanted to say-- a lot that he struggled to put on paper. He was never good at writing about his feelings; it was difficult to find the words that accurately express how he felt. 

He could tell that Simon had changed considerably from the last time they talked. He was more expressive and vivacious in his letters-- more so than in person. Perhaps, as another patient at the facility, he was required to see a therapist. 

Whatever the case, John had a strong desire to find him and finally have a proper conversation. He wanted to see if he was okay. Price, Kyle, and Roach didn't say much about Simon when he asked. The only thing they said was that he was desperate to see him.

That wasn't much to go off of.

He figured that the rest of the team wanted them to talk and withheld information to persuade him to comply. 

John released a heavy sigh and slowly slipped out of bed. When he set his feet upon the cold, hard ground, an uncomfortable feeling shot up his leg. It was as if the nerves in his leg malfunctioned and gave him acute pins and needles. He grimaced at the feeling and massaged his throbbing knee in hopes that it would take the edge off of it. 

He reached for his cane, which leaned against the wall next to the bed. He hated using it even though he needed it. When his hand wrapped around the smooth metal, he felt as if weeks of progress had been lost. 

He hobbled to the bathroom and freshened himself up, mentally and physically preparing himself to talk to Simon. 

When he came out, Roach was hovering over the desk. 

'No message for him today?' He asked.

John shook his head: "Nah, I think I'll talk to him."

Roach's eyes widened and his mouth stretched into a large smile. He clasped a hand on his shoulder: 'Would you like me to come with you?'

"No, Thank you," John said, placing his hand on the one on his shoulder and reassuringly squeezing it,  "I think I'll be okay. You've done more than enough for the both of us. I should be able to handle this just fine."

'Okay,' Roach said, 'Let me know how it goes.' 

John nodded to him, hesitantly pulling away from Roach's warm touch. As soon as the door closed behind him, he was overwhelmed with nausea. He swallowed thickly and placed a hand over his abdomen. Both of his scars were acting up, indicating a difficult day. Usually, when this happened, he would take the day off and rest in bed, but he didn't want to disappoint Simon without giving him some sort of message. 

When he came upon the entrance to the unfamiliar hallway, it was as if he was staring into an endless void. His palms began to sweat and his grip on his cane tightened. 

He could turn back now.

All he had to do was turn on his heel and walk away. 

But, turning away meant facing Roach, who would be waiting to hear all about their conversation and disappointing him when he revealed that he couldn't talk to him out of fear.

Fear.

What was he?

A child?

He's stared death in the face without flinching, yet he can't bring himself to hold a conversation with Ghost? 

Realistically, there was nothing life-threatening about it.

Perhaps, it was because something more important than his life was at stake: his heart. 

Although having his heart broken again wouldn't result in death, it would be the end of him. He had a suspicion that he would never be the same-- that scared him. He would rather be dead than be forced to become someone he loathed. He feared that not even Roach would be able to put him back together if that were to happen. 

He released a shaky sigh and took a small step into the hallway. 

He needed to do it.

He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he walked away. 

His pace gradually increased into an uneven stroll. He glanced at each empty plaque he passed, searching for his name. As he neared the end of the hallway, he began to think that he was either in the wrong part of the building or that Ghost had somehow snuck out of the facility. 

Eventually, he found it. 

It was the second to last door.

He stood in front of it, eyeing the bold letters etched onto the plaque: "Simon Riley."

He bit his lip and lifted his cane an inch off the ground. He tapped the bottom of the door, creating a sharp, metallic 'tap tap tap.' 

A part of him hoped that Ghost was off somewhere so he had an excuse for returning to Roach empty-handed. 

That part of him was disappointed when he heard the tell-tale sound of the door's lock disengaging. 

The heavy door swung open, revealing Simon, who was dressed in casual clothes and barefaced. It's been what feels like forever since he's seen his face. Other than Las Almas, he doesn't remember the last time he saw it--Las Almas appeared to be a lifetime away.

Over these months, Simon's face began to fade from his memory. It hurt too much to think about it-- to look at his drawings-- so the image slipped from him. The only thing of Ghost's that was burned into his memory was those angry, brown eyes that were hardened with malice and contempt. 

Looking at his face felt like a taboo; he assumed that Simon didn't intend to show it to him-- or maybe he was expecting someone else who he was more comfortable with. A bit of regret infected his mind as soon as those brown eyes landed upon him and widened in shock. 

"Johnny?"

It was almost as if he could feel the vibrations of his deep, rough voice in his chest. 

He leaned against his cane and flashed him an awkward smile: "Hi."

The silence stretched on longer than he liked. Perhaps Simon didn't want to talk at all. 

"Uhm, can I speak with you?" He asked. 

The question knocked Simon out of his shock. He nodded his head quickly and moved aside to let him in. The door was held open wide to accommodate his cane. 

John walked into the room, relying more on his cane to support his weight than usual. Sensing his struggle, Simon offered him a desk chair, which looked identical to his own. 

"Thanks," John muttered, gritting his teeth as he slowly settled into the seat. He released a sigh of relief when the pressure was taken off of his bad leg. 

Simon settled on the edge of his bed. He placed some distance between them to give John comfort, but his body remained facing towards him. 

"Are you okay?" Simon asked, gesturing to the cane and outstretched leg. 

John nodded his head: "M'fine. Most of the time, there's no pain, but sometimes the larger scars emit these…phantom pains."

"Do you know why?"

"The doctors say that they can't find anything wrong. Everything is fine physically, so I'm guessing that it's a mental thing," John replied, resting a hand over the scar on his abdomen when it made an awful twinge. Through the uneasy feelings, he still sensed Simon's gaze. When it reached his cradled stomach, he quickly turned his head away and fixed his eyes on the ground. 

"I'm sorry," Simon said quietly.

John lifted his head and stared at him, silently urging him to continue. Although he had so much to say-- so many questions to ask-- he stayed quiet. He didn't want to push Simon away by overwhelming him with questions that he may not be able to answer. 

"I'm sorry for…everything," a small, humorless chuckle left his mouth, "I've practiced this-- what I want to say-- ever since you woke up; Now that you're here, I can't seem to…"

"Take your time, Simon," John whispered, leaning forward on his cane, "I'm listening."

After a few moments of silence, Simon turned to face him, "I was scared."

"Scared of what?" John asked.

"Losing you-- losing Roach, again," he replied, "We have history together. I'm sure you've heard about it from Roach."

"A little bit, yes," John said, "He didn't go into detail, but I knew that you guys were close and got betrayed by a C.O. on a mission."

"Yeah, we were good friends-- more than friends-- but I was scared to make things official between us," Simon explained, "I thought that everything I dared to love would be doomed, and I believed it-- especially when we were left to die on that mission. We were injured and…they set us on fire."

John's eyes widened and a small gasp left his lips, "Oh, Simon…"

That specific detail-- the fire-- caught his attention. He knew that Simon would feel terrible if he revealed that he understood how it felt. Although it happened over a month ago, he could still feel the bright flames as they danced upon his skin and smell the stench of burning flesh and fat as it melted away from his bones. 

He burned just like Ghost and Roach.

He wasn't sure if the manner of his "death" was a coincidence. 

This disease was rare and worked in strange ways. 

"I managed to survive and crawled out of that hell hole. I thought Roach was dead, and I just…left him there," he said, "I swore that I would never get that close to anyone ever again, but that doesn't excuse how I treated you."

"You didn't know…" John replied, his hand twitching slightly as it rested upon his cane.

"But when he came back, I swore to never let go of him again," he said, "I wanted to go back to our old dynamic and live out what I should've done years ago, but…"

"But…?" John questioned.

"But, I neglected you," he replied, his eyes finally lifting to meet John's.

"Look, Simon, I'm not upset that you got with Roach," he said.

"But you said in the interview--"

"I know what I said," John interrupted him, "Yeah, it hurt, but I could get over it. If being with Roach made you happy, then I would be happy, too. It was how you treated me afterward that really upset me.

"After you got with Roach, you just…disappeared along with everyone else. I understand that you wanted to spend more time with him-- I get that-- but you only addressed me when it was work-related. When you talked to me, you were rude. I was trying so hard to figure out what I did wrong," John said. 

"You did nothing wrong, Johnny," Simon said.

"Then why?" John asked, "Why did you push me away?"

"Because I was scared," Simon admitted, "I loved Roach, and I still clung to him after he died. When you joined the task force, I developed something for you, and it scared me."

John was shocked. 

He tensed up in his seat. 

"I wanted to-- for a lack of better words-- be with you," he continued, "I had entertained the thought ever since Las Almas, but I never acted on it because I thought I was betraying Roach, even though he was considered dead. So, when he came back, I felt like shit for trying to move on."

"I understand," John said, "but…if you felt that way about me, why did you do it?"

Simon tilted his head.

"The van," John specified. 

Simon immediately understood what he was referencing. He stiffened upon his seat and averted his gaze once more. 

John was relieved to see that Simon was ashamed, but he still needed an explanation. Maybe then, those cold, brown eyes would leave his nightmares.

"When the explosion went off, I thought I had lost both of you," Simon said, "I thought I had watched you die. I was…angry at myself for not being able to do anything--I felt useless. I wrongly took all of that out on you.

"I regret it. As soon as I saw the look in your eyes, I knew that I had fucked up. I had no idea that you were injured-- but that's not an excuse. When you said that you were essentially impaled with debris, I couldn't bear it. I thought that I almost killed you…well, I technically did…with the disease 'n all.

"Nothing I can say can make your scars and pain go away. I…I feel terrible for causing all of it. I'm sorry," Simon's voice cracked. He dabbed at his wet eyes with his sleeve.

Out of all the years that he's ever known Simon-- the Ghost-- he's never seen him be so vulnerable. Even during nights when he would come to his room after a nightmare, his tears were concealed and not much left his mouth. 

Although Simon didn't deserve it, John pitied him.

"Not all of it was your fault, Simon," John said quietly, "I told you that."

"I know you said that, but I contributed the most to your suffering-- you can't deny that. I…made it worse. There was so much I could've done to help you. I knew that you were upset and I didn't do anything about it-- I chose not to," Simon stated, "I want to do better by you… for you…If you let me."

When those words left Simon's mouth, he desperately wanted to believe him. He wanted to throw himself in his arms and start forgiving him-- start living the life that he's dreamed about since Las Almas-- but he couldn't trust him yet. Even after all those letters--all of his inked, sweet words-- he hasn't seen him act on it. 

John would give him a chance to prove himself, but he needed space to calm down and think clearly.

He needed to leave and get some fresh air before he suffocated in this room. 

As soon as he took a step towards the exit, his entire world seemed to tilt on its axis. 

His physical body was fine but weak. Months in a comatose state had weakened his muscles and stiffened his joints. Although he was working hard to gain back independence through physical and mental therapy, his mind still had great control over his body. 

He swayed and lost his footing. 

Just as he was about to fall, an arm wrapped around his lower back to keep him upright. 

As soon as he felt the mere brush of Simon's touch, an incredible warmth consumed his body and an image flashed before his eyes: a clear, sparkling lake surrounded with healthy, green fruit trees. 

It was a place he missed so much.

He wished to stay here forever, but he was disturbed that this sort of bliss came from Simon. 

The second he gained control over his limbs and snapped out of his blissful haze, he lifted his cane and smacked Simon's arm away with quick military precision. Once he escaped Simon's touch, a chill possessed him. It was just as terrible as those nights on base when he was curled up under that dingy lamp. He steadied himself on the wall, his cane slipping from his grip and clattering to the floor. He slid to the ground, instinctively bringing his knees to his chest to conserve warmth. 

He could faintly hear Simon's muffled voice over the loud noise in his head. 

He loathed the fact that his body relied on Simon to experience the euphoria he desired. He wasn't ready to get so close so soon, but he was a hopeless addict-- his mind and body craved pleasure from a vessel that nearly killed him.

"No!" John cried, "Don't touch me!"

Tears sprung into his eyes. 

"Don't touch me," he muttered quietly, "Don't touch me, please."

He repeated that phrase over and over until the words strung together and became an incoherent mess. 

His shaking hands gripped and tugged at his disheveled locks. The longer he strayed from Simon's touch, the colder he became-- or so it seemed. His teeth chattered so violently that he could feel the vibrations of it throughout his entire body. 

Suddenly, a warm summer blew over the blizzard, replacing the deadly cold with a warm spring. His hands stilled and relinquished their hold on his hair. He leaned against the source and clung to it.

This time, he could hear sounds: the song of birds, the rushing of a gentle waterfall, and the rustling of tree leaves. 

He closed his eyes, basking in the warmth. 

It was as if he was lying on a patch of soft moss under the sun's golden rays.

When he opened his eyes, the natural landscape was replaced with bleak, white walls and the earthy smell of dirt and sweet fruit was replaced with sterility. Yet, the warmth was still there. 

"Johnny?"

John didn't have the will to lift his head from the warm surface, so he glanced at the source of the noise. He spotted those honey-brown eyes. He could never forget them. 

"Simon?" He asked.

The man flinched and began pulling away.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I know you said…" He trailed off, nervously shifting his gaze away. "I thought that you were going to hurt yourself with how much you were shaking. I can call the doctor if you--"

Suddenly, Simon stopped talking. 

John tilted his head in confusion as to why. He then noticed that Simon's eyes were glued to his arm. He followed it and discovered that his own hand was latched around Simon's wrist to keep him from moving away. 

His body reacted without him realizing it. 

He was too weak to deny himself. 

The defeat caused an overflow of tears that slid down his cheeks. Not a single sound left his mouth.

The presence of tears made Simon panic. He quickly cupped his cheeks and tenderly wiped his tears away with the pads of his thumbs. He made sure to be more mindful about his touch when brushing over the discolored skin around his left eye. 

"What's wrong?" He asked. 

"M'scared," John muttered, his bottom lip quivering, "I hate feeling so…helpless. I can't control myself, and I'm sick of it."

Simon nodded in response, but he didn't reply immediately. It was clear that he was thinking through a response. It was nice to see him be more intentional with how he communicated. Instead of simply trying to cover up his true feelings with his words, he was processing his thoughts and feelings and selecting appropriate vocabulary. Perhaps he had been visiting a therapist in the facility. 

"I know you don't trust me yet," Simon said, "If you need me to be here physically, I can do it. We don't have to talk…I just want to help you so you can get better. It's all up to you-- everything is under your control."

John stared at Simon with wide eyes. He was unfamiliar with how considerate he was. In other contexts, Ghost was always the leader-- his superior-- and gave him orders to follow. It was rare for John to have agency over anything that wasn't about explosives or training rookies. 

He slowly relaxed and nodded his head: "Okay."

"What can I do?"

"Just…keep your hand here," John said, "You're warm."

"Are you cold? I can get you a blanket," Simon offered.

"No, it's…well, yes, but not really?" He attempted to explain, "It's not a regular kind of cold. It's the kind that I feel in my soul."

He hoped his explanation sufficed.

"Alright," Simon replied, "How about we sit on the bed instead? The floor can't be good for your body."

John didn't say a word. He merely followed him to the mattress.

He was half tucked under the large, white comforter. Simon insisted that he lay down so that his muscles could relax. He even propped his bad leg up on his spare pillow.

While he lay down, Simon sat beside him with a book open in his lap. One hand flipped through the pages while the other held John's arm, providing him with a constant supply of warmth. 

Although the lack of conversation made the atmosphere tense, his body seemed to melt into the mattress. Every time his eyes closed, it became more difficult to open them. 

He drifted to sleep to the constant tick of an analogue clock and the rustle of pages from a book.