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Chapter Text

Soap’s never been to Siberia before— and after their latest stint, he can say with great certainty that he doesn’t plan to come back. 

Their target was an international terrorist with a long name and an even longer laundry-list of infractions. His latest, an organized attack on the US embassy in Estonia.

Why he’d seen fit to run off and lay low in Russia’s coldest and most miserable region, Soap does not know.

Surprisingly, Russia had granted them entry to capture or kill the man, (Ghost had personally settled on the latter), and retrieve one tiny, precious hard drive containing the locations of some very high-profile trafficking operations.

Unsurprisingly, Russian forces urged the task force to keep their presence under wraps— Meaning no provided shelter, no access to the city, and absolutely no use of public roads— Which is why the team is currently shacked up in some old, forgotten structure on the outskirts of Yakutsk.

Only after finishing the job, nearly losing two men to return-fire and another to the ice, does Laswell inform Ghost and Soap that their extraction has been delayed- HQ having ordered down their aircraft.

There’s worse places to be left in the lurch, no doubt, but they have little food and no real permanent shelter to protect against the conditions. Frost blooms thick along every seam in the building— It’s icy tendrils leaving fractals across the window, creeping precariously close to the crudely assembled Comm-set that Ghost is presently angled over.

Soap watches him from the doorway. In the dim light, he looks strikingly like a statue-- Dead-still and carved out of stone.

Ghost’s hands are, as always, obscured by the taut fabric of his gloves— but Soap reckons that his knuckles are paling to the same white as the sky outside, seeing how the plastic table creaks under his grip as Laswell speaks.

“It’s the storm-“  She tells them. “They won’t let us through with this kind of visibility.”

That’s a lie.

Laswell knows it. Laswell knows they know it.

The storm is an excuse- and while Soap doesn’t doubt the Station Chief is pulling out every stop to get her boys out of Dodge, she remains only one voice in a crowd. 

Fact is, the Army won’t risk being caught with their pants down in hostile territory. It’s snowing in Russia and they appear to have forgotten that it does that sometimes.

Ghost’s eyes narrow, looking almost petulant as he glares down at the radio— Like a moody teen who’s been grounded, rather than a man who just found out his team may starve or freeze to death because some snivelling higher-up made an oopsie-daisy. 

You could set a war by the roughness of Ghost’s tone, Soap thinks— and now, there’s a dangerous lilt to the Lieutenant’s voice when he speaks.

“Laswell- I have two injured men, one critical. Our resources won’t last.”

“I’m aware,” the Chief’s voice crackles in response- Sounding thin and frustrated, even through their primitive audio set-up. “Have Rodriguez tend to them, he has medical experience-“

“Rodriguez-“ Ghost interrupts, “is the one in critical condition.”

Static filters through loudly for a moment before Laswell responds.

“i’m doing everything I can, Ghost."

She’s a good woman, a good Chief, and Ghost trusts her— Which is important because if it was anyone else on the receiving end of this call, they’d likely be met with much worse than Ghost’s agitated acceptance. 

The last thing John needs is his Lieutenant on court-martial. 

“We know, Ma’am.” Soap replies eventually, when it becomes clear that Ghost won’t. “Keep us updated.”

Bitter silence stretches long after communications fall dead, and Soap doesn’t need to see Ghost’s face to know he’s scowling. It’s not untoward- this is just another bout of fuckery in the long line of screwups they’ve been left to deal with. Completely precedented. 

Soap joins him at the table, leaning in close enough that their arms brush, and Ghost’s hand lifts up to rest heavy on his shoulder- A rare instance of contact.

“I’ll let the squad know what to expect,” Ghost tells him, stiffly. “Find Baker and have her take to the wounded- Seven’s probably doing more harm than good.”

“Baker is regular army. Was.” Soap replies lightly, correcting himself- not that it’s much of a difference. The only reason they have Seven covering medical is because he shared a bunk with Rodriguez on base. Pretty well every member of the squad knows their way around a needle and thread— but what they need is a surgeon… a good one.

“She was stationed at a Red Cross in ’06” Ghost explains, voice low enough that Soap scarcely hears it. “Let’s hope she picked up a couple tricks.”

He’s tired. They all are.

—

32 hours in, Team Bravo has well and truly run out of things to do. Cleaning and cataloguing supplies was certainly enough to occupy their minds at first, but a barrel can only empty so smooth, and Soap’s boots could likely function as a mirror at this point- polished as they are.

Boredom is in the job description, but Soap would take the horrors of war over it in an instant.

Normally, soldiers may have occupied themselves in this kind of down time with writing letters— Soap’s been meaning to send one off to the Los Vaqueros boys for weeks now— or engaging in other personal hobbies. Reading is certainly popular, along with Penny Ante or whatever game one might make up with minimal inventory. However, the penetrating cold has eroded all motivation to do anything of the sort.

Soap thanks the heavens that whoever occupied this building last saw fit to install a wood-burning stove, even going so far as to leave a pile of lumber for their use.  It crackles and hums feebly- running as high as the rusty exhaust can handle— and while the company is grateful for the semblance of livelihood it provides, the old contraption does little more than keep the shelter from freezing over completely.

The two wounded, Rodriguez and another man with the unfortunate nickname ‘Pigeon’, are sound asleep by the burner, stable for now in their very own makeshift triage. A strip of canvas hangs from the ceiling for privacy, but Soap knows that Baker is watching over them dutifully. She has little knowledge of medical procedure, but she’s trying- working in shifts with the three others who have the most experience

The rest of the personnel murmur quietly to each other in huddled groups around the room. With their white snowsuits— fully decked out, even in the relative protection of their base— the squad reminds him of a documentary he once saw on harp seals.

It’s not the 141. Just Ghost, Soap, and a dozen troops handpicked by god-knows-who. Soap felt a pang of disappointment when he entered the aircraft, originally— Expecting to see Gaz or Mason or any familiar face, really.  Now, Soap stands by the far wall and observes them fondly— listens to the ambient mutter of conversation, catching bits and pieces.

“McDonald’s notwithstanding- I’d eat a million dehydrated potatoes before I-”

“You don’t gotta be a film critic to know that Avatar is-“

“She’s so out of my league it’s crazy”

“Just ask her- man.”

Soap would die for these people, he thinks, a little dramatically. He’d die for them and he doesn’t even know them.

“I’ve seen Ghost’s face.”

That catches Soap's attention, so he ambles over to listen in on the conversation, checking his watch and playing for inconspicuous.

Umeh and Winchester are huddled close by the sink, appropriating the area to roll cigarettes, and doing a piss-poor job at it-- as indicated by the dusting of crumbled tobacco on the floor.  

“That’s a bold-faced lie, Winchester.”  Umeh, the greenest member of their squad, responds.  Soap smirks at that— If Winchester is trying to impress her, he’ll need to up his game.

"Swear on my mama, I've seen it."

“Careful, Soldier.” Soap warns, giving himself away. “The big guy might be lurking somewhere.” 

“He’s out counting polar bears,” someone chimes in, and Soap chuckles. More ears are on this bit of gossip than he thought.

True to word, Ghost had dipped out of the common area hours ago, grumbling something about setting up a watch shelter, and hadn’t reappeared since. Not being seen is Ghost’s M.O., however, and they would be remiss to conclude that a lack of visibility means a lack of presence. 

Winchester cranes his head around, scanning the room before leaning forward conspiratorially, apparently deciding to take the risk. His voice is an emphatic whisper when he speaks.

“Saw it in ‘Nam.”

“Now I know that’s a lie, boy.” Umeh says, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Neither of you were born, and the Lieutenant joined in ’01.” 

Soap clicks his tongue, impressed. She’s done her research.

“PT in Vietnam.” Winchester clarifies. It’s an obvious attempt at hazing, and Umeh’s too sharp to fall for it. Still, a couple others have overheard the exchange, and are now listening intently. Winchester opens his stance to let them in.

“It was August. No running water, but we hardly needed it— place was so flooded and swampy that you’d breath open air and feel like you were drowning.” He narrates, with all the corny suspense of a man telling a campfire story. 

“I’m from Vietnam, dumbass.” Seven interjects, sitting up from what was maybe a nap in the corner “They have running water.”

“Easy, I meant at the compound.” Winchester retorts. “Though I tell you, it wasn’t really a compound. They had us, me and Riley, set up in a tent— the real deal. We spent 45 long days in that relentless heat and humidity.” 

Soap feels his brow twitch up at the use of the surname, and is swiftly reminded of how little the people around him know about their Lieutenant. It’s valid ignorance, to be fair— they’ve only just met 3 days prior— so Soap doesn’t bother to correct the transgression.

Ghost’s name is intimate, secondary to who he is, and even command knows not to use it. 

Winchester continues, oblivious.

“Anyways… there was this one particularly brutal day. Rain was pissing down so violently that they had us relegated to the tent— which, during waking hours, was no better than an oven, mind you." He lowers his voice a peg, exhaling deep and shaking his head as if recalling a truly life-changing event. "...And the humidity, God- it was alive! creeping in the air and clinging to your skin without mercy. The bugs, the mud, the heat, there was no escape. At one point I just had to say ‘fuck it’ and strip to my intimates— hoping, praying that it would take the edge off. Guessing Ghost had the same idea, ‘cause when I looked over- there he was! Face bare as the day he was born.”

“That so?”  Comes a voice, harsh and wind-bitten like gravel- and Winchester freezes with his hands mid-gesture. 

Ghost looms menacingly by the entryway, snow powdering his shoulders and head. Nobody even heard him come in, and Soap mentally pats himself on the back for calling it. 

The Lieutenant leans back against the doorframe, arms crossed, and Winchester makes a weak, pained noise in the back of his throat.

“What’s the verdict, then?” Ghost presses- and even though his tone is lighter and dripping in sarcasm, the weight of his gaze strikes a crystal-clear message: Tread lightly.

“Well…“ Winchester starts, swallowing hard. The entire room is looking at him now, and getting caught in a lie by a superior is enough to make anyone flustered. A small, very small, empathetic part of Soap feels bad for Winchester— The man can’t know Ghost well enough to realize he’s fucking with him. “You guys ever meet Russo on base?… uh, Carlton Russo.”

“Yeah, yeah-” Seven pipes up, “-Guy was in all those rom-coms. Calendars, too.”

“Beauty of a man.” Ahmad points out from across the floor, and Umeh’s eyes widen fractionally.

Winchester nods, “That’s the one.”

Ghost tilts his head, bidding him to go on. 

“Well…“ Winchester says again, halting to choose his words carefully. “If you and Russo were sat side by side in an audition- for one of those movies, I mean… I say you’d beat him out every time, Lieutenant-Colonel, Sir."

Ghost’s eyebrows disappear up under the sockets of his mask, and John tips his head back and openly cackles- shattering the strained, oppressive atmosphere that crawled in with Ghost’s arrival.

“Soliciting for a promotion, Winchester?” Ghost asks, amusement colouring his accent.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Sir.”

“Splendid. Keep it to the bunks, then.”

Though nothing is heard, Soap can feel the company breath a sigh of relief.

Everyone who's anyone knows: Ghost’s moods come fast and hard, and he holds onto bad blood like there might be a shortage coming up. He’s not mean- and he certainly doesn’t go out of his way to torment the men in his charge— But Soap knows first hand, the crippling feelings of inadequacy that come along with a stern reprimand from the man. 

An old Military special: Manufactured superiority. Ghost wears it well. 

“Well done, Private.” Soap says to Winchester, when they’re out of the Lieutenants eye-line. Winchester gives him a dazzling smile, and Umeh snorts. 

If Ghost hears them, he doesn’t show it, and instead turns to address the group. 

“Watch-point is set. We’ll start in two hour shifts- one hour at nightfall. I don’t want any of you getting hypothermia, hear me?”

“Yes, Sir.” The room replies in jumbled, barely-there unison.

Another person in command might have disciplined the troops for their unprofessionalism, but Ghost seems content to let the crew be at ease. Maybe it’s the cold, or maybe he’s just exhausted. Either way, Soap gets the impression that the Lieutenant doesn’t especially care for leading outside of the battlefield— That’s always been more Price’s strong suit.

Ghost nods once, unzipping his outermost parka and hanging it neatly by the stove, before turning to leave in the direction of their radio set-up, promptly as he arrived. 

He seems subdued, somehow- sluggish, and Soap wonders just how long he spent in those furious winds without a break.

“Winchester.” Ghost says, pausing briefly at the door to look over his shoulder.

“Sir?”

“Bundle up- you’re on first.”

—

Winchester

Soap

Seven

Umeh

Diaz

Each of their shifts pass without much drama- though soap can’t seem to shake the glacial numbness that’s still clinging deep to his bones— and Ghost opts to take over again when Diaz shuffles in, looking half-dead with icicles forming on his beard.

A poker game started up at some point, no stakes. 

Soap folds his third dire hand in a row, and Baker deals Diaz in- Diaz, finally having defrosted enough from his hour excursion. 

They play. A six and eight flash cruelly up at Soap, taunting him, and he chuckles because if he doesn’t he might scream.

The game carries on for what feel like an eternity, and irritability hangs thick in the air- a consequence of minimal rations and the cooped-up, claustrophobic conditions. Some of the squad retired to their established sleeping quarters at sundown, and Soap envies them. The temperature alone is enough to keep him unpleasantly alert, and he’s always had trouble sleeping on an empty stomach.

“Can I ask you something, Soap?” Baker says, breaking the uncomfortable silence that Soap didn’t realize took hold. He almost wants to say no, too aggravated with his losing streak for small talk, but when he really thinks about it- the opportunity to get his mind off their current situation is a welcome one. 

He nods.

Baker presses her lips into a thin line, pulling the scattered cards on the table into a pile.

“What really went down in Mexico? With the Shadows, I mean.”

For just a second, Soap’s mind blanks. 

He’d been debriefed, of course— told what to say and how to say it, and it’s not the first time someone’s poked him about the incident.

Though the Shadow Company was designed with the purpose of dropping out of existence on a word’s notice, people were bound to hear whispers of what happened in Las Almas. 19 murdered civilians and 55 dead Mercs on the ground left a considerable dent— A heavy river of blood that didn’t quite wash away with the rain, no matter how much the brass would have liked it to.

“Job went sour.” he tells her, plain. “Originally, we were working with Shadow Company, taking care of a bit of nasty business on an oil rig. Some guys got their hands on…” 

Soap pauses, stopping himself with an awkward, abortive cough into his fist, trying to recall if the missiles were ever openly discussed. He thinks they should be- but he’s just cynical enough to understand that learning from mistakes isn’t in the army manual. 

Then and there, Soap’s not so sure he wants to say anything more at all.

“Well, they weren’t planning anything good.” Is what he settles with. “Afterwards, though… we were meant to recup at Fuerzas Especiales HQ. Graves’ team fell out of line, overstepped their authority, and we dealt with it.”

“You and the Lieutenant?” Baker questions. Her inflection is curious, not interrogative, and Soap is glad for that. 

She can’t know that he spent the following weeks with the image of that mother and kid, freshly slaughtered in their own home, imprinted on the underside of his eyelids. That he still sees shadows in alleys and on rooftops, even when they aren’t there. That he still hears people begging for their lives when he drifts to sleep.

Suddenly, John is back. Alone. Guided only by Simon’s voice through the comm and a naive promise of vengeance. Hot, slippery blood coating his fingers. Wielding a throwing knife that was, in hind-site, the most precious thing he’d ever held- a tool that had saved his life in more ways than one. 

“Sir?” 

Soap looks up, meeting the eyes of everyone at the table- all looking at him with varying degrees of intrigue, and hopefully having mistaken his moment of weakness for dramatic pause. 

A subtle glance to the side shows that while Rodriguez has yet to regain consciousness, Pigeon is awake and listening as well, curtain drawn to include him, though he really should be resting. 

And just like that, John is present all over again, because none of them should be here- but Pigeon especially. He’s 22. Fucking 22— probably has a girl back home and a ma’ and pop who worry, and they’re not at war but he’s still bleeding out slowly under a cheap army blanket, listening to Soap tell his little fairytale like it might change something. 

“Yeah,” Soap breathes. “Me and the Lieutenant.”

Soap laughs then, despite himself- shaking off the clammy chill gnawing it’s way under his skin. 

“Tell you what, lass-“ He says, knocking his boot into Baker’s, “Let’s get out of this alive, throw a bash, and you can press me for details when I’m sloshed. You too, Pigeon”

“Deal” says Pigeon from behind the canvas.

“Deal.” says Baker. “Also, Deal?” She asks, handing him the freshly shuffled cards.

Soap takes them.

“Last round for me,” he sighs, remembering that he’d be down a fortune if they were playing for keeps. “Who’s in?”

“Count me out." Umeh says. “Me and Seven were going to-”

“Oooh- going to what?” Coos Diaz, earning himself a swift punch to the arm from the newer recruit. 

“Can it.”

“Speaking of Seven,” Ahmad interjects, “Where is he?”

“Basement!” a voice chirps distantly, sounding faint enough to be true. Before Soap can ask what the hell he’s doing in the froze-over, damp shit-hole that is the basement, Seven calls out again- “You guys are gonna kiss me.”

—

Two crates. 

Two crates of premium-grade, piss-cheap English Gin. 

Seven’s eyes are wild with frenzy when he brings up the first batch, babbling a story about turning over some old chairs, searching for firewood, and finding gold. 

Soap can hardly believe it. 

They had checked the structure, naturally, upon arrival. However, the items of interest pertained more to food and blankets, and less to personal joy.

“A Christmas fucking miracle” Soap remarks, giving Seven a solid pat on the shoulder and helping him place down his find.

The others march to wake up their sleeping cohorts, grinning all the way. They shouldn’t be this elated about a couple bottles of spirits- but it’s been a long 41 hours, and alcohol keeps you warm.

“Think we’ll get shit for drinking on the job?” Seven asks him playfully, only to fumble on his unprofessionalism in the face of a higher ranking officer. “-Sir.”

Soap doesn’t mind. As far as he’s concerned, they’ve been off-duty since their target’s body hit the ground— and he almost wants to tell Seven to lose the honorifics entirely.

“Shit from who? Ghost?” He says instead.

Seven shrugs, removing a couple of dusty glasses from the crate, and placing them haphazardly on a slotted plank of wood. 

“Between you and me, he’s not as heartless as the myths would tell you.” Soap says, shooting the Private an understanding smile.

“He’s definitely as intimidating.” Seven admits. “…And as lethal.”

Soap’s grin widens. It’s a special type of presence Ghost wields— one that demands respect, through he rarely seeks it out. 

“Aye- that he is.”

Soap vividly remembers the first time he truly cocked up an assignment- the first time he challenged Ghost’s authority.

What was supposed to be a simple recon turned to an all-out firefight when Soap lost footing and fell through a roof- effectively alerting every operative in the building of his presence. Ghost had jumped down after him, leaving cover and receiving 4 bullets straight to his chest for it. he would’ve died right there- if not for his plated vest and the opposition’s unvaried aim. 

They got out, of course. a mixture of luck, the team’s quick action, and perhaps divine intervention— and the mission was an absolute failure.

“That was a dangerous move, L.T.- You should’ve left me.” Soap told him later, laying bandaged-up and miserable in the helicopter. 

Nobody had outwardly admonished him for his rookie mistake— and they wouldn’t, Soap was still the best shot in the Force after Gaz, FNG or not— but the whole situation had Soap feeling hotly embarrassed. Too ashamed, it felt, to even look his superior in the eyes as he spoke.

Ghost stood then, glowering down at Soap with what could only be described as indignation. 

When he responded- it was to the entire squad.

“Does anyone here wish to challenge my command?” Ghost boomed, accent laying on heavy. His tone was sharp enough that it could be heard by all, clear over the whirring blades of the chopper. “If so, speak up now- without judgement.”

Not one man made a move, and Soap felt his breath hitch in his throat. 

“Does anyone disagree with the calls I made today? Any feedback?”

Silence. If Soap could phase through the steel floor and sink down into the earth, he would have.

“Right.” Ghost barked, turning his fierce eyes back to Soap. “So you’ll do well to mind your rank and keep your opinions to yourself, Sergeant.” 

Then, low enough that it wouldn’t be heard by the others, Ghost growled- “Don’t pull that self-sacrificing shit again, MacTavish. Not with me.”

John cringes at the memory- still a sore spot, though time has eroded the bite of it.  At the time, he figured Ghost’s outrage was directed at his insubordination… But these days he’s not so sure. 

Ghost looks after his team, no man left behind, but sometimes John wonders— who looks out for Ghost?

(Ghost doesn’t need anyone to take care of him.)

(Even if he did, he wouldn’t want it.)

(Shouldn’t want it.)

(Can’t)

Soap’s not usually this introspective.

He realizes that in the time he’s spent reminiscing, most of the team has already returned to the common area, giddy with anticipation. Seven impatiently grapples with one of the bottle’s twist-off caps, fingers clumsy and lacking purchase in the cold.

“Save me a glass- I’m going to chisel L.T. out of the block of ice he’s likely found himself in.” Soap says to the room, clapping his hand firmly on Seven’s shoulder once again. 

“Does the Lieutenant drink?” Seven asks, looking just a tad hopeful at the idea.

“Oh yeah,” Soap drawls, “One shot of bourbon and he’s dominating karaoke— believe you me.”

“That’s an interesting picture.” Seven says, tamping down a laugh.

“Well, Ghost’s an interesting guy.”

***

Chapter Text

The second he elbows his way through the door, Soap instantly regrets not grabbing a third parka. The wind is blistering and visceral, freezing him down to his core with no respite. He stomps over to the watch-point with new found urgency, using his arm to shield himself from the icy, pummelling snowfall, multiplied tenfold now that the sun has gone down.

As expected, he finds Ghost crouched in the improvised shelter, rifle trained on the distant tree-line. With his pale hood and scarf, partially obscuring the grim smile of his mask- he looks eerily ghoulish. 

Ghost doesn’t move as Soap approaches, doesn’t acknowledge him. The two blood-shot eyes peering out from under the skull, flickering for a split-second to John and then back to the scope, are the only indication that he’s alive and aware of Soaps arrival at all.

“Something out there, Sir?” Soap asks.

“Saw a rabbit… ‘bout two hours back.”

Soap scoffs. He wants to remind Ghost of his own orders- chew him out for overextending his shift, but doesn’t. There’s never any use in arguing protocol with the Brit, Soap’s come to discover- and if Ghost has decided to put himself in the sweet embrace of frostbite, there’s probably a reason. 

A tucked away, delirious part of Soap suspects it could be claustrophobia of the interpersonal kind— Too many eyes on him for too long. 

‘Keep your opinions to yourself, Sergeant.’

“Seven found a stockpile of gin.” Soap says, unsure of how to transition the conversation. Ghost sniffs- maybe a laugh- it’s hard to tell in the darkness.

“Good man.” The Lieutenant rasps, muffled through the mask and his scarf. “Take a break and enjoy it, Sergeant.”

“I’ve been breaking out for the past 7 hours, Ghost.” Soap huffs. “Besides, I was gonna ask you to do the same.”

“To take a break?” 

“Yes, Sir- and to enjoy it.”

Flexing his hands on the rifle, Ghost seems to consider that— A testament to how chilled he must be, to try his hand at socializing.

“Someone’s gotta stay on watch…” Ghost says, resolute, and then- “I don’t mind the cold.” as an afterthought. 

Soap makes a mental note to press him on that later. 

The wind picks up, a particular gust nearly knocking Soap straight off his feet.

“Simon-” Soap goads, watching a shudder wrack its way through his superior’s frame and suppressing a similar one, himself. He feels a smile ticking up at the corner of his mouth, but isn’t exactly sure why.

“Soap…”

“You know, if you close your eyes and hold your nose, Gin tastes a whole lot like whiskey.”

“I’ll be sure to schedule you for a psyche eval, first thing.” Ghost responds.

“Takes the paint off your stomach, just like mother used to make.” Soap pushes further, nudging his boot into Ghost’s for emphasis.

“MacTavish.”

“Aren’t you just a teensy bit chilly?”

“God’s sake- fuck off, Soap.” Ghost spits- and just like that, the tension snaps, the man’s patience having worn thin enough- and that’s good. Soap’s always appreciated Ghost’s volatile temper. It keeps their working relationship interesting, and it means that Soap can bypass civil banter and skip straight to his point.

“Come inside, talk to the men, have one god-forsaken drink.” He says- more a demand than a request. He’s nothing if not renowned for ignoring the chain of command, after all. “Unless you think the bunny rabbit poses an immediate threat to our survival”

Ghost cocks his head in Soap’s direction- and though his eyes are now purely concealed in shadow, Soap feels his piercing stare. A warning.

“You can finish freezing to death in an hour, and I’ll leave ya alone. Swear it.” Soap says finally.

Maybe it’s the determination in Soaps voice that convinces him, but Ghost sighs and brings his weapon up to a rest- acquiescing. 

“You’re a pain in my ass.” He says, but it’s fond.

“I aim to please- you aim too, please” Soap retorts, noting the muzzle of Ghost’s rifle and it’s direction— now pointed squarely at Soap’s heart. He can’t imagine how cold and exhausted the man is, for him to be neglecting firearm courtesy. 

“Sorry.” Ghost grumbles, rising to a stand and slanting the gun downwards. “You lead.” He adds, gesturing vaguely to the area of their base. With the flurries, Soap’s stunned to find that he can no longer see the door.

“Then you buy.” Soap concedes. 

Before he can think better of it, Soap grabs the lapel of Ghost’s parka and tugs- starting the daunting task of returning them both to the safety of the main building. Out of Ghost’s shelter, snow whips and pelts Soap’s face like it’s got a bone to pick, and about ten steps in, Soap fumbles his footing.

Ghost catches him with a hand on his waist, heaving Soap back to balance. 

“A’right, Sergeant. I lead- and you can buy.” 

Soap nods, not bothering to be embarrassed. 

“Could use a mask right about now— you don’t happen to have a spare…?” 

“Careful, Johnny- Wearing a mask can be habit forming.” Ghost remarks, and John laughs, not caring how much the wind abuses his face as he does it.

They reorient themselves until it’s Ghost who’s taking the brunt of the weather, and march.

—

Ghost and Soap are met with 11 pairs of wide, excited eyes when they manage to stumble their way back into the common room. 

Seven hoots, and the team stands at attention— the ones who are able, that is.

They waited, Soap realizes with startling affection. 

The commanding officers make quick work of shucking their outer layers, and it’s not long before Winchester is ushering a glass into each of their hands, bowing his head to Ghost in a way that’s pretty fucking comical.

The Lieutenant thanks him stiffly, and moves to sit in a discarded chair, suddenly looking much larger than he is… like he’s taking up more space than he means to. 

It’s a sight that Soap is familiar with, one that gives him a pang of traitorous heartache every time he sees it. He fleetingly wonders what could make a man weave ‘don’t get too close’ into the fabric of his being, and he’ll probably never know what’s happened in Ghost’s life that causes him to shrink away from companionship like he’ll get burned.

The personnel gather ‘round anyways, careful but amicable, still giving him enough space that Soap doesn’t need to worry about Ghost stealthily ducking out. If anyone is put off by Ghost’s standoffish attitude, they don’t show it.

Soap may well and truly freeze to death in this icy tundra, but he’s bleedin’ pleased to know that he’s in good company.

“Here’s to gin in the cellar.” Soap says aloud, raising his drink with a smirk.

“To gin in your belly!” Baker adds.

Pigeon nods along from his cot, a faint smile on his face.

“To slush in your boot,” pipes up Ahmad- covering medical due to being the only one who’d turned down the drink. 

“To freezing your nuts off.” concludes Ghost, lifting his glass to the company. 

Soap doesn’t miss how his eyes glimmer at the chorus of spirited ‘hear, hear!’s that follow. 

They drink, Ghost turning unobtrusively to the side and lifting his mask in order to accomplish the task. Nobody looks, they never do- and Soap’s first swig goes down sour. 

The gin burns his throat all the way, making his jaw clench and his eyes sting- and it’s absolutely fucking perfect. 

They all needed this more than any of them would ever let on.

—

Rodriguez dies later that night. 

Soap nods awake with a start, freezing and momentarily confused in his quarters. It’s Baker’s hushed but frantic expletives that rouse him, and he’s greeted by a troubling image upon entering the crude hospital set up.

Ahmad is performing standard CPR- his compressions a dull, repetitive noise against the fabric of Rodriguez’s tattered uniform. Soap’s first instinct is to run over and assist in any way he can- but is given pause when he registers the full situation, blinking away the foggy blanket of lethargy that sticks to him.

Ghost is already there, standing steady and unreadable by the bed- listening to Baker as she relays information.

“He just- he just stopped breathing, sir. He didn’t- I didn’t… he was getting better”

He’s already gone, and they all know it. 

It’s nobody’s fault.

Rodriguez was a dead man the second his small intestine got perforated in the crossfire of an AS Val in who-knows-where Siberia. The game is rigged- it’s always rigged- but they still fight and drink and work and hope that maybe the dealer’ll let ‘em off easy. 

“That’s enough.” Ghost finally says. 

Baker’s mouth clamps shut, Ahmad’s compressions slow to a halt, and Soap stands there and feels useless. For minutes, they make a haunting, stock-still tableaux in the yellow light.

The violent winds outside are loud, but the silence in the room is louder- and it’s a long time before their Lieutenant speaks again. 

“We did what we could.” Ghost says quietly- voice even enough that someone might think he’d sounded indifferent.

His arms are planted firmly at his sides, eyes fixed solely on Baker, and the words are about about as comforting as a tub of ice- but Baker visibly calms, her dismayed expression quickly softening into a veneer of professionalism. 

she nods.

After, the three of them work to conceal and move the body, agreeing that no matter what- Rodriguez will be returning home with them. It’s a conversation that Pigeon sleeps soundly through, somehow, undisturbed in his now singularly occupied triage. 

Soap watches the scene unfold, feeling dually like he’s not really there, and that he’s completely in the way. Black fog creeps slowly into the corners of his vision, even as he stands. 

Two hours of sleep in two days would do that to anyone, he thinks. 

“It’s alright, MacTavish- we’ll take care of this. Go back to bed.” Is what Ghost says to him, tone not unkind, and then-

“That’s an order.” When Soap makes no immediate move to leave.

A couple of the troops are awake when he does manage to steer his way to the general direction of his accommodations, sitting up dutifully in their liners, probably having heard the same commotion that drew Soap out originally. 

He can’t bring himself to talk, to tell them. not yet. 

(he doesn’t need to, they already know.) 

Instead, Soap gives a curt nod, trudging his way to the makeshift Captain’s quarters, and taking care not to wake the others. 

Their room, his and Ghost’s, is what was probably once an office, Arctic frigid and dusty as an abandoned nuclear war zone. It’s tiny— the old rotten desk and various supplies scattered about barely leaving space for their two cots— Still, the second his head hits the stiff canvas pillow, he melts into sleep like he’s at the Hilton. 

Morning will be the worst.

Tomorrow morning, they’ll file into the common room with stilted, hangover-riddled efficiency, and Ghost will inform the squad that they’ll be carrying on with only some of what they came with.

—

“Johnny.”

Soap blinks, cloudy eyes taking especially long to adjust. It is, in fact, still dark- so there’s really no reason for him to leave the easy comfort of his dream. He’s at Homecoming, dancing slow and awkward and blissfully with Harriet Masters, the first girl to ever break his heart.

The dream fades anyways— and instead of Harriet, the person in front of him is Lieutenant Simon Riley.

Soap can’t see him, not really. All he can make out is a towering silhouette against the inky black of his room, but he knows it’s Ghost anyways. 

“M’I on call?” Soap slurs. His brain isn’t at all up to forming full sentences yet.

“No.” Ghost grits out. “Sorry to wake you.”

“S’fine-“ Soap starts, before a sharp yawn rakes through him, effectively cutting off his own words. He’s still bone-deep exhausted, the kind that probably won’t wear off until he’s a week or two out of the country. 

He needs a vacation. Somewhere hot and sandy and preferably not war-torn. Somewhere he can stretch out in a fresh hammock and…

A wave of dilatory concern washes over him, and Soap realizes that he hasn’t seen Ghost go for an ounce of shut-eye since they got back from the damn mission. The over-working, over-performing bastard.

Ghost continues to loom silently, and Soap knows he won’t dare to ask—Too proud for that. 

(It’s not pride. It’s something else, something far more terrifying.)

With one clumsy swipe, John shoves his thin blanket to his waist and reaches over to let his gloved knuckles knock up against the lieutenant’s own, about as much of an invitation as he can muster up.

“C’mon, L.T.” Soap finally says, barely a whisper. He can feel himself fading fast, holding best as he can to consciousness as it slips though his fingers. “Sleep.”

Ghost complies without resistance, no-so-carefully shoving Soap to his side with a hand on his shoulder, before the cot dips and Soap finds himself neatly wedged between the solid form of his Lieutenant and the wall.

It’s not ideal. Soaps bed, a repurposed gurney on the floor, can hardly accommodate one full-grown man on his own— But then Ghost pushes an arm under Soaps head, serving as a better pillow than the usual military fare, moulds his body around the shape of Soap’s back, and suddenly the fit is just right. 

“All good?” Soap asks blearily, shifting his face up from the crook of Ghosts arm. It’s a stupid question. Ghost is helpless, livid, newly mourning the loss of another man under his watch, waiting for extraction from a foreign nation while men with chestfuls of polished metal calculate exactly how replaceable they are- wether they’re worth the fuel.

Soap knows that Ghost keeps the responsibility of all of them on his shoulders, holds sole accountability for every life and every mistake- even if he doesn’t have to. Even when he shouldn’t. 

The cot gives a shuddering creak as the Lieutenant shifts his body, knee bumping softly into the side of Soap’s shin. 

Soap gives in and tucks his legs under Ghost’s, offering up what little space he has for the larger man to curl in closer.

“‘Night, Johnny.” Ghost says, in lieu of an answer. 

Soap can feel his breath, hot on the back of his neck, and belatedly discerns that Ghost isn’t wearing his mask. 

Even though the room temperature is sitting below zero, Soap feels something spark warm and tight in his chest.

“Good night, Sir.” 

—

When he wakes again, Ghost is gone.

The energy of the common area is noticeably muted when Soap wills himself to lumber his way in. He guesses the news has been broken, if the sight of his cohorts is anything to go by, and he’s both unnerved and selfishly grateful for being allowed to sleep through it. Baker and Ahmad, similarly, are nowhere to be seen.

A few soldiers mill about, picking at MRE’s and making quiet conversation among themselves. Soap is pleased to see Pigeon sitting up and somewhat alert on the remaining ‘hospital’ bed, now placed closest to the burner so as to keep him warm. (The other cot is in the cellar, don’t think about it, he was already dead) Pigeon looks well, all things considered, playing some kind of card game with Diaz and Winchester. Seven and Umeh look to be disassembling and re-organizing weapons.

“Morning, Cap.”

Zima, a man he’s never really gotten the chance to talk to, hands Soap a steel mug of shitty powdered coffee as he passes, and Soap flashes him a half-smile. It’s all he’s got. 

Like the 141, some have taken to calling Soap ‘Cap', despite lacking the rank for it. It’s not protocol- and they could get in trouble for that kind of talk, but he lavishes the benefits anyways. He’ll be Captain one day, Price assures him, and he’s hoping to live long enough to take the man to task on that. Though, the thought that he may eventually outrank Ghost is an odd one.

(Soap once asked the Lieutenant if he fancied climbing the chain of command, and it’s the only time he ever heard Ghost truly, genuinely laugh.)

“Thanks.” Soap says, taking a swig and enjoying the heat in his throat much more than the taste. His hands ache, fingers numb from the cold, and he distantly wonders if a third pair of gloves might be practical.

“Is L.T. on watch?” he asks to nobody in particular. A couple heads shake ‘no’ in his periphery.

“Nobody’s going out today. Orders.” Says Umeh.

“It’s -53 out there.” Someone else explains, before Soap can inquire. 

“Sweet Jesus.” Soap hisses. That explain’s the frigidness, but not Ghost’s absence. 

After stumbling through a couple more half-hearted exchanges and morning pleasantries, he discretely shuffles out of the room, choosing once again not to worry about their relative vulnerability.

If anyone plans to attack in this weather, they probably deserve the win for tenacity alone. 

He finds ghost hunched over the radio, usual mask absent over his standard skull-printed balaclava. 

“The Russians have made me an offer.” Soap says to announce his presence.

“Yeah? let’s hear it, then.”

Soap strides over and leans against the table, placing down his empty mug with care not to jostle the equipment.

“Yessir. some brand-new thermal socks and a pot o’ warm stew, if I high-tail. They tell me I only gotta leak classified documents, not even highly classified. You in?”

It’s a dangerous joke to make, and he wouldn’t make it around anyone else.

“Throw in a hot shower and I’ll be packed in 10.” Ghost says, flat.

“That’s cold, Simon,” Soap gabs. “You’d turn on ol’ Lizzie for a shower?”

“A hot one.”

Ghost turns to him, expression soft and so close to hopeful, and just then John knows that whatever he’s about to say is going to sound like music. 

“Might not need to, though. Storm is clearing to the East,” Ghost tells him. “Laswell says they’ll be able to get someone over here before sundown.”

Soap can’t hold back the grin that breaks across his face.

“Well, that’s the best news I’ve heard all year- Do the others know?”

Giving a cursory glance to the closed door, Ghost stands straight.

“Not yet- waiting for confirmation.”

Soap kisses him then, pulling Ghost down by the shoulder and yanking up his balaclava just enough for access, and Ghost lets him. It’s a quick, hungry motion— Ghost’s teeth catch on Soap’s bottom lip and Soap sighs into it, smelling greasepaint and spearmint.

The scraping, shuffling sound of their heavy coats is impossibly loud in the small room, and he crowds Ghost against the wall best as he can, feeling hampered with the little mobility they’re granted. Something clatters to the floor, and is pointedly ignored.

They both are in desperate need of a shave, and Ghost tastes like toothpaste of the military surplus variety- it mixes strangely with the aftertaste of coffee that sits warm and bitter on Soap’s tongue.

A large, gloved hand grips around the back of Soap’s neck, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and Soap reaches down to nudge at the front of Ghost’s pants- praying he can feel it through the frankly ridiculous amount of layers.

Ghost grunts against his cheek appreciatively, but doesn’t reciprocate. 

“Too cold for that, Johnny.” He says, pulling back just enough that Soap has to chase forward after him.

“Thought you didn’t mind the weather…”

Ghost eases his mouth over the beat of John’s pulse, skirting across his jaw, nearly biting, and Soap can feel the stretch of a smile against his skin.

“…Don’t get smart, Soldier.” 

“A moment of silence for our Canadian brothers,” Soap replies, giving up and settling on shoving his hands under the fabric of Ghost’s coat- relishing the warmth he finds there. “The working conditions here are absurd.”

Simon hums, uses his leverage to catch Soap’s lips again, turning his face with a thumb to Soap’s cheekbone. The kiss is softer this time, deeper, and at odds with everything else Soap knows to be true about Ghost- what he likes- how he operates. 

John feels like he’s drowning and he doesn’t mind at all.

Static filters through sharp and intrusive and forgotten on the radio, a small warning before the screen sputters to life.

“Laswell here, we’ve been cleared for flight- estimated 03 hours until RV. How copy?”

Simon’s hand stays firmly planted on John’s neck, friction-warm palm anchoring him. Their teeth bump, and John presses closer, licks his way in to trace the curve of Ghost’s tongue. Ghost responds in kind— feverish, borderline desperate, and lets out a low, shuddering sigh that John wants to play on repeat for the rest of his life.

“Bravo… how copy?”

After an extended moment that doesn’t last nearly long enough, Ghost breaks away, breath coming out in a few short, laborious gasps before levelling out entirely.  A tug of his mask and he’s all work no play once again— two hundred and eighty-three pounds of cold-hearted, ruthless soldier— but a smirk is playing at the corner of his eyes, casting crows-feet. Soap can see it. It’s there.

“Solid copy.” Ghost calls in. There’s a peculiar roughness to his voice now, and Soap takes pleasure in imagining he had something to do with that. 

“Johnny.” Ghost says, deafening his side of the comm.

“Yes, Sir.” Soap answers, a little breathless.

“Let all personnel know to be packed for lunch. They’ll love to hear it.”

“Aye, Sir. Just give me a moment to iron out my seams.”

***

Chapter Text

Later, when they’re out out of fucking Siberia and sitting pretty in a 2 star hotel off the coast of New Zealand, Ghost gets his shower.

Soap doesn’t join him, even though he wants to, but he does make sure to slip in to Ghost’s room within reasonable time, and Ghost’s skin is still damp and steam-warm when Soap joins him in his bed.  

It’s a twin-sized, the Military spares no expense. 

They lay in tired, comfortable silence for a while, face to face. Face to mask, that is. It took a bit for Soap to shake off his instinctual judgement entirely, to accept that Ghost would near constantly wear the covering, and to not take it personally. 

Soap knows what he looks like— Cherishes the sharp angles of his jaw and slanted curve of his mouth, the wicked but faded scar that wraps around his throat— features that Soap will never quite understand the Lieutenant’s desire to keep hidden. He knows what Ghost looks like because Ghost has shown him. 

With time, Soap’s come to realize that Ghost treats the mask like an old analogue watch; impractical, but likes to wear it regardless. 

“Team did a bang-up job, Baker especially.” Soap eventually says, if only to hear Ghost’s response.

“True enough. They tell me Pigeon’ll make it just fine… Honourable discharge… Might get a medal or two.”

Soap breathes a sigh of relief at that.

The squad was dispersed only hours after their retrieval, which was not entirely unexpected, but Soap is privately disappointed anyways— It would have been nice to spend an hour with them in less dire straits, maybe he'd even finish telling his story. Soap will likely never see the folks that make up Task Force Bravo ever again, and it’s bittersweet, but he’s glad to know at least one of them is going home in something other than a casket. 

“Just a great fuckin’ job.”

Here, the night is warm enough that Ghost hasn’t bothered to redress, and the ambient light of the city filtering through the paper-thin curtains is just enough to see by.

The close quarters give Soap a decent excuse to let his fingers trace mindlessly along the expanse of Ghost’s skin, trying to commit the endless map of scar tissue to memory.

Ghost allows it, leans into it, even though Soap’s fairly certain he doesn’t particularly enjoy the skin-on-skin contact. 

John’s always touched Simon more than he probably should.

Each raised mark has a story, some of which Soap’s quietly grateful to know— a dark, jagged divot along his elbow from a tangle of barbed wire, a pale streak across his shoulder from a grazed bullet, and there’s a mess of dotted scars on his hip, remnants of a shotgun shell, that Soap had watched Ghost stitch closed himself— But most are, and will likely remain, a mystery.

Soap remembers a time when he looked at Ghost and only saw unknowns, when Simon Riley was a mystery, and finds himself smiling.  

“What’s on your mind.” Ghost asks, though it’s not spoken like a question; more like he’s gruffly pointing out Soap’s dazed loss of focus.

You- is what Soap wants to say- but that’s too fucking intimate. He would rather eat rocks than wax poetic about his Liuetenant superior friend coworker to his face, and Ghost would tease him endlessly for going soft.

(He wouldn’t- Not for that.)

(Sometimes Johnny can’t tell where his own internal dialogue ends and his father’s stern ‘voice of reason’ begins.)

A rumble of thunder makes itself known, rolling far away into the night.

It’s not storming, not yet, but fat droplets of water come and go, pelting the roof and streaking the window, dull pattering sound filling the dead space between Ghost’s question and John’s answer.

He enjoyed stomping in puddles, once- never minded the mud. Now, the rain makes Soap unreasonably homesick for a place that hasn’t been his home in nearly a decade.

“You think you’d ever go back to Manchester?” Soap asks, changing the topic and belatedly hoping it isn’t a sore one. He knows little about Ghost’s past, save for where he came from. Where he ran from.

“I’ll go wherever they send me.” Ghost says simply.

“When this is all over, I mean. When you get out.” 

“Get out?”

“You know, cashing in your chips and moving to the hills- That old song and dance.  Retirement, Simon.”

Ghost stares at him, eyes unyielding and unrevealing. 

“…That’s not how this story ends, Johnny.” He says.

Two men are arguing somewhere down the hall, the hushed baritone of their voices traveling dimly through the cheap architecture. Someone outside is playing music, and distantly, a dog is barking.

The rain taps a steady, relentless rhythm onto the window. Ghost’s breathing is measured and quiet.

“…Sleep tight, Sir.” Soap mumbles, and then shuts his eyes and pretends he can’t hear anything at all.

***

End

***