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Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1

"Buds in Spring"

Price was in an unusually good mood.

Humming along to some pop song blasting over the car radio, drumming his fingers in beat to the tune, he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. The music was the kind his team would bully him for enjoying, but he was currently alone, so the Taylor Swift song kept playing without the choir of groans he’d usually receive. (Although he swore he’d heard Soap sing this exact song in the barracks showers once.)

The landscape rolling by was painted in orange tones, as the sun rested gently on the horizon line. It would be dark once he arrived at his destination, around dinner time, just as he’d agreed with Ghost and Soap.

Getting several hours alone in his car wasn’t something that happened often, as usually transport had him cramped together with several loud and sweaty soldiers; it had its own charm, but he still appreciated the change of pace. It was why he’d chosen to drive all the way to the homely cottage in Scotland.

Orange gave way to twilight before he spotted the lazy curl of smoke rising from a familiar chimney. Within minutes, he was pulling into the gravel driveway and parking.

Soft light spilled from the windows, creating warm squares on the ground before the house. When Price exited his car, his ears were met with the sound of muffled music from inside, as well as impatient barking from the dogs that had undoubtedly heard the new arrival pull up. A Scottish voice was reprimanding the beasts, words becoming clear whe the front door swung open.

“-down, Vaquero, I trained ye better than this.”

Vaquero, the small, golden mutt, darted from its confines, practically squeezing through the door before it was all-the-way open. Price huffed an amused breath at the youngest dog, as it bounded excitedly towards him. Last time he’d seen it, the rescue had been barely bigger than a pup, but luckily it was still far too small to make a real impact when it crashed into the captain’s legs. The dog calmed down significantly as soon as he kneeled down and scratched behind its floppy ears.

“Steamin’ Jesus, sorry ‘bout that.” Price looked up from the dog and was met with the sight of a very sheepish-looking John MacTavish. “He’s still got all that puppy energy, somehow.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Price deadpanned. Then he stood, much to Vaquero’s disappointment, before wrapping his former subordinate in a tight hug. “Good to see you, John.”

“You too, John.” 

Soap was already wearing his shit-eating grin, which was far too soon in the evening for Price’s liking. 

“I think I preferred you calling me ‘captain’,” he said. A beast of a dog lumbered up to them at the mention of its name, which had both men chuckling. “Quite right, it would be confusing with two.” 

Price greeted the Irish wolfhound named Captain with a gentle pat on its head. Its resulting wagging tail dunked into Soap’s leg, almost downing the man with its force. Good thing Vaquero was the only animal that leapt at newcomers, Price mused silently.

“I’m seeing double,” Soap teased, moving carefully out of range of the happy giant. 

“I still haven’t forgiven you for naming him that, just because of his beard.” 

“Ye gotta admit, it’s uncanny, Price.”

Price very much enjoyed that Soap and Ghost had named one of their precious dogs after him, but he’d never tell.

“Where’s your better half?” he asked instead, looking around for the other beast he knew resided on the lot.

“Harsh,” Soap smiled. “He’s elbow-deep in some stew. Bravo is waiting for him to spill some, so that’s why she’s not part of yer welcome committee.”

“Understandable.”

Price vaguely remembered the story of the time Soap had spilled an entire meal on the kitchen floor, right in front of the border collie. The best day of its life, the Scotsman had said. It was impossible for anyone to cook without watchful eyes now, despite the couple’s best efforts.

It was a pleasant evening, the temperature mild, and Price found himself breathing deep, taking in the darkening surroundings while Soap tried to wrangle Vaquero back inside. Finally, he followed the man into the house, Captain trotting steadily beside him.

The house smelled of stew, funnily enough. It filled Price’s senses, bringing along that warm, cosy feeling he’d come to associate with the small cottage. The fireplace crackled, shedding light on a black cat that didn’t even open its eyes to acknowledge the newcomer.

After hanging his light coat, the one he used in the spring, he followed Soap into the kitchen. The music was louder in here, playing from the radio in the corner. Soap instantly started humming along, as he stepped beside the large man currently stirring a pot. 

Bravo trotted over when she registered the guest waiting on the kitchen threshold. The collie gladly accepted Price’s affection, rewarding him with dog slobber all over his hands, before dutifully returning to her spot beside the cook. Seeing it was now Soap stirring the stew, its tail wagged even harder in anticipation.

“Ach, ye cretin,” Soap scolded the dog without heat. “Dinnae think this is fer ye.”

Simon murmured something in the Scot’s ear, which made the other grumble fondly. Passing a hand softly over Bravo’s head, Simon went to welcome Price. 

The captain took in his former lieutenant, as the terrifying Ghost sidestepped several dogs in the small space. God, did retirement suit the man. Gone was the mask and black grease paint around the eyes, revealing all the old scars, most faded. Freckles dusted his cheeks, colour on his skin from having allowed sunlight to meet it. The grey staining the younger man’s otherwise strawberry blond beard and hair reminded Price of his own silver hair.

Simon rested a hand on his shoulder. Price decided the other looked calm enough that he probably wouldn’t mind, and therefore pulled him into a rare hug. When Simon quickly untensed and returned the gesture, Price still felt slightly relieved.

Ghost pulled back, looking his guest over, eyes almost amber in the soft light.

“You’ve gone even more grey, cap. It’s only been a few months.”

“Alright, good to see you too, Simon.” Price lightly slapped the other’s arm. “Besides, pot and kettle. Your temples aren’t exactly colourful.” 

“Hm, true. Hard to pretend you’re young in retirement. You on the other hand…”

“Yeah yeah, well I have a stressful job.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“Oh, you’ve probably never heard of it. It’s called the military.”

“Interesting. Sounds cushy.”

Soap groaned from the stove.

“Lads, please,” he said, exasperation almost hidden completely under the amusement. “Ye’re both very pretty. Silver fox is a good look.”

Simon returned to take over the cooking, pressing a quick kiss to the Soap’s forehead to placate him. Price was impressed that the small gesture still managed to bring a blush to the Scot’s cheeks. 

“I’m sure if you had any hair on your temples, it’d be matching ours,” Price teased, accepting the cold beer Soap pushed into his hand. “Hard to tell, when you cling to that mohawk like a lifeline.”

“If it ain’t broke. Cheers.” 

Soap clinked his own bottle to Price’s, and the two drank while Simon deemed the stew finished, moving it away from the stovetop. They filled their plates generously, moving to the table beside the big window. Bravo huffed in disappointment when it became clear no food would land on the floor this evening, before she joined the other animals in the living room.

“So, how’s that cushy military job treating you?” Simon finally asked, after they’d gone through their usual catch-up. 

“Gaz doing alright?” Soap tacked on.

Price stretched, leaning back in his chair feeling sated from the homemade dinner. He definitely planned on eating better. Maybe he could ask Ghost about some of his recipes. 

“Gaz is still soaring ahead, as always. Just came back from a big job, a risky one, and the kid managed zero casualties.” No one mentioned that Gaz was very much not a kid anymore. “He keeps impressing the higher-ups. He’ll be running the 141 soon.”

“Co-captains, eh? Think ye’ll manage tha’?”

“Hm, that’s actually part of why I’m here,” Price finally revealed. “I-”

The pitter-patter of paws interrupted him. The pets entered the room, having heard the sound of utensils cease, signalling their dinner-time. A lazy purr rose from where the black cat rubbed its head against Price’s leg.

“Hello Spectre.” The captain gently stroked the cat’s fur, before it quickly decided it was done with the interaction. “Feed your kids, I’ll tell you in a bit.”

“Cliffhanger,” Soap groaned, already standing and gathering their dishes while Simon headed to take care of the animals. They followed him like loyal disciples. Price felt his eyes crinkle at the domestic image.

“Go relax in the living room, old man,” MacTavish added over the sound of running water, as he cleaned the plates. “Coffee? Whiskey?”

“Both.”

“Irish it is.”

Price settled in the armchair near the fire, the one he knew had been dubbed his chair because no one else used it. His body ached in the soft cushions, reminding him how rare these moments of true respite were.

Captain was the first to join him in the small haven that was Simon and Johnny’s living room. The beast rested its head on Price’s lap with a content sigh, enjoying the fingers that threaded through its rough fur.

Not long after did the rest follow, Ghost stoking the fire while Soap handed out their warm drinks (two irish coffees and a tea for Simon). Captain had decided to fall asleep on Price’s feet, and Soap joked that the older man had planned that so he wouldn’t have to move.

The other men settled on the couch, Soap leaning into Simon’s side, and a quiet befell the house. The otherwise elusive Spectre was snuggled against her Scottish owner. He was her favourite.

“Alright, the suspense is killin’ me,” Soap finally broke. “Wha’ are the big news, cap?”

Price sat up a bit more straight, nursing his warm drink. Curiosity was shining in both pairs of eyes watching him, although Simon was more successful at subduing it.

“Kyle doesn’t know this yet,” Price began. “But I wasn’t kidding about the promotion.”

“Wait-” Soap lit up like a christmas tree. “You’re actually gonna be co-captains?”

“Or is he getting his own squad?” Simon followed up, eyebrows creasing in thought as he was already stuck in the practicalities. He received an elbow to the ribs for his efforts.

“O’course not, ya numpty,” scolded his partner. “That would mean Gaz leaving the 141. No way in hell.”

“The task force won't need two captains, Johnny-”

“Why no’? It did fine with two lieutenants-”

“We won’t be co-captains,” Price interrupted, despite enjoying the pair bickering just like old times. He’d missed this. Hopefully he could visit more often from now on.

“Oh.” Soap looked a little crestfallen. “Gaz is transferring?”

“I’m retiring.” 

The looks he received had Price chuckling. 

“Don’t know how that’s a shock,” he continued. “I’m getting too old for this damn job anyway, and now I know the 141 will be in good hands.”

Soap finally shook the initial surprise, his face splitting into a crooked grin. He leaned over to pat the captain’s knee, disturbing the snoring cat in the process who jumped away with an annoyed meow.

“Congrats, sir. Our dog is gonna outrank ya.” There was genuine joy in the Scot’s eyes at the news. “Guess I really gotta call ye John now-”

“Price will do-”

“Hard to imagine ye without tha’ job, to be frank. What will ye do without yer precious paperwork?”

“Get less grey hairs, for one.”

“Too late fer that.”

“Oi!”

Simon huffed a small laugh beside them. He was resting against the couch cushions, looking more relaxed than Price had seen him in a long time.

“Welcome to the oldies club,” he smiled at the captain.

“We all know I’m the only one here that’s actually old.” 

His boys were only in the beginning of middle age. Their early retirement had become an easy joke to make at expense of their age, the illusion helped along by Soap’s hearing aid and Ghost’s limp on frosty days.

“It’s gonna be hard to settle down at first,” Simon stated, not one for sugarcoating. “If you need help-”

“Or a distraction…” MacTavish added with mirth.

“I know where to find you.” 

They finished their drinks in unbothered silence, the news settling as reality. Surprisingly, it was Ghost that spoke first.

“Gaz will be a good captain.”

A tail thumped at the words 'good captain', making Price snort as he reached down to scratch the wolfhound's head.

“That he will.” As it usually did, pride swelled at the mention of the young man.

“As long as he won’t be too busy visiting his ol’ pa,” Soap teased.

“That’s what I have my other boys for,” Price shot back easily.

“So when are ye planning on tellin’ the new boss?”

“Soon. I have a final mission coming up. Once that’s done, Kate and I will tell Garrick about his promotion and I’ll have the honours of doing his ceremony, before I resign.”

“I love knowing stuff he doesn’t,” Soap grinned. “What’s this mission? When are ye back?”

“That’s classified.”

Soap chuckled, but sobered when Price didn’t elaborate.

“Wait, really?”

Usually, the team didn’t withhold information from Ghost and Soap, despite them technically being civilians now.

Ghost’s brow furrowed.

“Your last job, and it’s classified,” he said slowly. “Sounds dangerous.”

Price waved his hand, trying to ease the tension.

“No need to worry,” he hurried to appease. “It’s most likely nothing. I’m guessing I’ll be back in a couple of days, three at most. I’m not interested in dying this close to the finish line.”

Soap’s smile was a tad more strained, but he still nodded firmly at the captain's words. Simon worried at his lower lip.

“Thought we’d all die on the job.” 

Ghost’s sudden confession was tinged with heaviness, signalling he was getting lost in his own head. Soap hooked his arm in the larger man’s, interlocking their fingers.

“An’ I thought I’d never like dogs.”

“I never thought I’d be happy to visit Scotland,” Price said, moustache twitching at the playful glare sent his way.

Simon blinked, the faraway look disappearing.

“It’s good that things change, then,” the lad concluded, smiling down at his scarred hand, where it was dwarfing Soap’s.

“Aye.”

“Yeah.”

The next morning was somehow both rainy and sunny, making Soap vehemently rant in defence of Scottish weather when Price commented on it. 

Both men wrapped him in hugs when they were saying their goodbyes, Soap’s so tight it was hard to breathe. Each animal got a pet in farewell, Vaquero jumping up to lick at Price’s nose when he leaned down.

“That FNG better be well-behaved next time I visit.” It amused him how both men still straightened their postures like good soldiers at his words.

“Aye, sir.”

“And have your fancy clothes ready for Gaz’ ceremony.”

“We will.”

“And take care,” Price finished, gaze softening as he took in the domestic pair, still in their sweats under the raincoats.

“You too,” they both responded in sync, Soap adding: “See you soon for bridge nights and afternoon cake at the retirement home.”

Price flipped off the Scot, even as they were both laughing. It quickly turned into a wave, before he settled back in his car. The engine purred to life, gravel crunching under the tires. 

In the rearview mirror, two waving figures grew smaller, before disappearing as he turned a corner.

Warmth filled his chest at the prospect of the future. Once he had thought the job was his life; probably because it actually had been. He had resigned himself to an early, violent death on a battlefield. Recently, he had started accepting the chance at the opposite. 

Like the fresh buds on the trees rushing past the car window, Price felt a new start coming with spring.

A week later, Soap opened the creaky cottage door to a haggard-looking Lieutenant Kyle Garrick.

“Gaz? What're ye doing here?”

“It’s Price. He’s MIA.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 2

“Pictures”

Soap’s heart felt like it dropped into his stomach.

“What?”

Gaz’ eyes were bloodshot, shoulders hunched as he tensed against the rough wind blowing icy rain against him. Soap himself was starting to get drenched from his position in the open door, but he barely registered it.

“Can I come in?” Gaz’ voice was hoarse, almost lost to the howling of the storm. 

An echo of clarity returned to the stunned Scot when his visitor shuddered from the cold.

“Aye, ‘course.”

His legs carried him automatically to the kettle in the kitchen, which he turned on while listening to the rustling of Gaz shedding his coat and shoes in the hallway. His mind was blank while he watched the steam slowly start its ascent from boiling water. Vaguely, he noted Gaz leaning against the counter beside him.

“Coffee? Tea?”

“Tea,” the other man murmured, watching Soap fetch the mugs. “Where’s Ghost?”

It was strange whenever someone called Simon ‘Ghost’ nowadays, but Gaz had never quite shaken the habit. It brought John back to those first years of knowing the intimidating lieutenant in the skull mask, back before Ghost revived Simon again; before Makarov’s death. Before the honourable discharge and the wedding.

“Soap?”

“He took the dogs for a walk.”

“In this weather?”

“He likes it, likes taking long hikes in the hills when it’s pishin’ it doon. I think it's meditative fer him.” 

Soap almost always stayed at home on those occasions, treasuring some alone time. As much as he and Simon enjoyed each other’s company, they both understood the need for space.

“What about his leg?”

“Ye ken the man, he’s a stubborn bastard. Swears it only aches when the temperature is below zero.”

“Will he be back soon?” Gaz accepted the tea gratefully. The bags under his eyes were almost dark bruises. “He should be here for this.”

“Aye, It’s been an hour. He’s usually back in about 15 minutes.”

John studied his friend while they waited, absentmindedly sipping his coffee. He’d forgotten milk, he realised halfway through the cup. The silence between the two was uncommon, but neither had the heart to fill it with their usual banter.

Gaz looked like he hadn’t slept in several days, and his worry lines were more pronounced than usual. With the observation, Soap felt himself finally return to his body, shaking some of the gloom that had settled with Gaz’ news. He firmly grabbed the other’s arm, leading him to the living room. 

He all but pushed his friend onto the couch. Spectre slinked through the room from where she had been sleeping, to jump gracefully onto Gaz’ lap, rubbing her head against the exhausted man’s sternum.

“Looked like ye were about to collapse, mate,” he scolded.

Gaz chuckled mirthlessly.

“You’re not wrong.”

Just as Soap debated whether to sit or not, the telltale sound of several dogs running across gravel reached his ears. Abandoning the visitor petting the creature in his lap, John opted to temporarily leave the job of good host to the cat, while he headed back into the hallway. 

He finally relaxed to some degree upon seeing Simon shrugging off his wet raincoat, drops catching light from their place in his beard and hair. 

“Left the dogs to dry off in their shed,” rumbled the bigger man, while hanging his jacket. “There’s a car outside. Who’s…”

Brown eyes finally locked onto Soap. The usual warmth that resided there whenever they reunited quickly gave way to concern, Simon’s sentence trailing off. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked instead, stepping forward to cup a cold hand over Soap’s cheek. 

“Gaz is here.” His voice wavered annoyingly, and he cleared his throat. “It’s about Price. He’s MIA.”

Simon’s face flickered with emotion, before a stony expression fell in place. Soap’s heart ached. He hadn’t seen that expression in a long time. 

“What happened?”

“I dinnae ken yet. We waited for ye.”

“You should’ve called me.”

“Was only ten minutes, Simon.”

A rough thumb stroked over Soap’s cheek, catching on the stubble. He leaned into it, closing his eyes as they breathed for a brief moment. After pressing a kiss to his partner’s forehead, Simon led the way to the living room. 

Gaz looked lost in thought, eyes fixed on the armchair by the unlit fireplace. Price’s chair. Spectre was nowhere to be seen and Soap cursed the moody cat.

“Garrick,” was Simon’s friendly greeting, and John restrained himself from smacking the man.

“Ghost.” 

He might actually smack both of them. He knew things were tense, but that didn’t mean they had to revert to colleagues rather than friends.

Soap settled beside Gaz on the couch, while Simon dragged their second armchair forward, sitting close enough to John for their knees to touch. It was grounding.

“What’s going on, Gaz?” The Ghost never was one for beating around the bush, his question coming off sounding harsh. A stranger would think he was angry, but John knew he was scared. He hoped Gaz knew it too.

The lieutenant swallowed the last of his tea, placing the empty mug on the coffee table. He then finally met their eyes.

“A week ago, Price went on a mission. It was classified stuff, even to me. Only he and Laswell knew the details.” Gaz brought a hand to scratch at his beard scruff, a nervous habit he had adopted from their captain. “Laswell called me yesterday to tell me that she and her team lost contact.”

“Did she tell you about the mission?”

“Not much. She wants you two to come in and join the briefing.”

At this, Soap’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. Simon tilted his head.

“She knows we’re retired,” the large man stated. “Why would she ask that?”

“That’s the only thing she explained, actually,” Gaz hurried to say. “Said the mission was just rumours, initially, or so they thought… But with Price’s disappearance it’s clear they held weight. She said that the reason they had even investigated it was because if they were true, the 141 would be compromised. Including you two.”

Something heavy settled in John’s gut.

“Oh.”

“My guess is someone with a grudge has it out for us. It sounded like our information might be in enemy hands, so…”

“We can’t stay here.” Something dangerous was shining in Simon’s eyes. John reached over to take his hand, thankful when fingers curled around his own.

“Shite,” he said, simply.

They were doing so good. Their routine had settled, their old wounds had stopped acting up too much and the mask had been resting in a drawer for so long that Soap couldn’t even remember which cupboard it was in. He stared at the wedding bands glinting back from intertwined fingers.

“Sorry guys,” Gaz mumbled, as if this was somehow his fault. “After the debrief, I’ll find you two a proper safehouse and make sure to fix this mess as fast as possible-”

“Gaz,” Soap interrupted. “It’s okay. Me an’ Simon will pack up and make some arrangements. We’ll be ready in a few hours.”

“Alright.” Their visitor visibly untensed, but still looked lost. “Can I help?”

“Shed.” 

It luckily wasn’t Simon’s poetic way with words that John had fallen for. Gaz’ brow creased in confusion.

“Huh?”

“The dogs are in the shed,” Soap supplied helpfully. “Can ye take care o’ them, give them water and then bring them inside?”

“Oh, sure.” 

The man looked relieved to have something to do, quickly moving to complete his task. It left John and Simon alone.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

Soap laughed. “Got that right, Si.”

He adjusted to sit more in front of his husband, leaning forward to rest his heavy head against a firm chest. He melted slightly when a hand landed on the nape of his neck, tracing soft patterns.

“We’re both thinking the same thing, right?” rumbled the chest below him. 

“Aye, unfortunately, I think so.”

“You sure about this?”

“When the other option is waitin’ like worried housewives in some safehouse in bumfuck nowhere? Pretty sure.” John lifted his head to find Simon’s eyes. “But the real question is are ye sure?”

Simon sighed heavily.

“Fuck no, Johnny,” he admitted. “I left all that behind, and digging it back up…? Things will change. I’ll have to be Ghost again, if we do this.”

Soap swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“But it’s Price,” Simon continued. “And it’s some arseholes who’s got it out for us . And Gaz needs all the help he can get. We’re already a part of this.”

With both hands gripping tightly onto one of Simon’s, John tried to summon some confidence amidst his own fear.

“We’ve healed before. We can do it again, if it comes to that.”

Brown eyes swam with what was undoubtedly a deep sea of worries, before finally settling on resigned determination.

“One last job.”

They rested their foreheads together and John squeezed the hand he held, moreso for his own reassurance.

“One last job,” he agreed.

It was tough, saying goodbye to the small cottage that had been their home for the past seven years. 

Soap knew it was doubtful that they would ever feel safe there again, even with the threat eliminated, and it broke his heart to leave it behind. 

He took a last stroll around the building, followed dutifully by Bravo, whose nose dug into the familiar scents, unknowing that it would be the last time. His grandparents had owned a border collie as well, when they had lived in the same house. He remembered being herded around by the dog as a wee lad along the very route he was taking now.

He trailed his fingers over the skillful repairs he and Simon (mostly Simon) had done to the structure, mind replaying the memories of summer days working on the house together. They had both been absolute wrecks after the Makarov mission, but neither had been able to sit still any longer. They had been a pathetic display, navigating broken limbs and stitches, but thinking about it still brought a smile to Soap’s face.

He ended up on the bench behind the shed that overlooked the rolling hills. Bravo pressed against his leg with a shiver, drenched from the downpour.

“I want to stay home, lass,” he admitted to the creature who he knew wouldn’t tattle. “I don’t want things to change.” 

The dog whined softly, and he took pity on it, finally returning to the car where the others waited. 

After a shake, Bravo jumped in to join the other animals and Soap went to the front of the car. He stole a last glance at the place that had felt more like home than any other, before moving into the passenger seat. Simon sent him a gentle look from beside him. Soap reached over to caress the newly shaven jaw, already mourning the beard. 

It needed to be done. The mask waiting in Simon’s pocket was proof of that. It was uncomfortable on an unshaved face.

“Ready?”

Soap nodded.

They drove behind Gaz’ car, watching the well-known landscapes morph into the unknown. 

When they stopped by his mam’s house to drop off the animals, she held him in a tight embrace, surprisingly strong for her ageing body. She fussed in the few minutes they were there, and John couldn’t bring himself to tell her that he was going back into the field rather than a safehouse. Simon eyed him, but stayed silent as well.

Where Soap had lingered in his goodbye to the house, it was Simon that struggled to leave the animals. It ached in John to see him frozen to the spot when the creatures bounded away, blissfully unaware of the goodbye. The large man didn’t move until he was guided back to the car by his partner, this time situated in the passenger seat, while Soap got behind the wheel.

The rest of the drive was mostly silent.

He and Simon hadn’t been strangers to the 141. They had gone to see their old friends often. Sometimes it had been for celebrations, promotions or the like, other times simply because sitting at home had felt slightly suffocating, which would bring along a need to revisit the well-known walls and faces. Occasionally, it had been to come visit someone in a hospital bed. 

It felt different this time around. As if Captain Price’s absence had left a physical mark on the place.

Gaz led them to Ghost’s old room, which they always stayed in whenever they visited. The quarters were reserved for them, even after all these years. First time they’d realised it, Simon had grumbled something about wasting space, even as his cheeks had warmed noticeably. 

They dumped their light bags by the desk. Back at the house, Gaz had raised an eyebrow at how little they had brought along, but then again, they hadn’t told the man their plans. For all he knew, they were still heading to a safehouse afterwards.

“Get settled in,” Gaz said from the doorway. “Meeting is in fifteen. Price’s office.”

“His office? Guessing it’s just us, then?” Soap asked.

“Just us and Laswell.”

“Laswell’s here in the flesh?”

“Flew in last night with her wife. After all, they’re compromised as well.”

“Ah, right.”

Gaz gave an almost-smile (they had yet to see him give a real one since he arrived at the cottage), before shutting the door behind him as he left. 

Letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, John looked back at the edge of the bed where Simon was sitting down, eyes glued to black fabric between his hands. Gently, John let his own hands settle on the other man’s forearms, kneeling in front of him, floor cold against his knees.

“Hey, Si.”

“Hi Johnny.” Simon looked away from the mask, to take in his husband. Soap felt the familiar touch of a hand threading through his hair, messing it up even further than the rain had already managed. Simon’s expression resembled a kicked dog. Soap did what he did best and talked:

“Y’know, the first time I knelt on this floor I felt very differently than I do right now.”

The man before him snorted in surprise, tugging slightly at the mohawk. Soap grinned at his small victory.

“Your mind ever not in the gutter, MacTavish?”

“I think ye ken the answer to that better than anyone else, ol’ boy.”

Simon hummed, his touch moving from John’s hair to his jaw in a way that almost tickled. Despite Soap’s excellent attempt at dragging the man out of his own head, the glaze of thoughts quickly clouded dark eyes again.

“I remember that night.”

“Ye better,” Soap teased, pressing a kiss to the palm on his face. “I’d be offended if ye didnae.”

“I couldn’t sleep afterwards-”

“That good, eh?”

“Johnny, please.” 

John shut his mouth at the serious tone, sitting up straighter, resting his arms on the thighs around him. He nodded slightly to show he was listening. Simon sighed.

“Don’t think I’ve ever told this, but- I couldn’t sleep afterwards, because I was… scared. So scared. You were there in my arms, finally, snoring and drooling and perfect and all I could think in that moment was that I couldn’t lose you .”

“Oh, Simon…”

“I was scared like I hadn’t been in years, not even in the field. Closest thing I’d been was in Las Almas. And, thing is…” Simon pressed his eyes closed. “It’s that same fear now, if not stronger. I- We have so much to lose, now.”

Reaching up, Soap cupped the pretty face in both his hands, rubbing his thumbs over raised scars in soothing motions.

“Why didn’t ye tell me then?”

“Felt it would be a bit of a mood killer, honestly.” Simon chuckled darkly, sagging into John’s kind hold. “Besides, I was only that scared because I’d never been that happy before. Didn’t want to distract from that.”

“Thanks fer telling me now.”

Scarred lips twitched upwards. “Ghost was less adjusted. I’m not scared to tell you these things anymore.”

Soap held that tired gaze when it landed on him, trying to convey all the warmth that had gathered in his chest. He stood, ignoring his aching knees’ cruel reminder of waning youth, before wrapping his arms around the sitting man, who in turn buried his face in John’s belly. Strong arms pulled him impossibly closer.

“Am scared too,” John admitted in a whisper. “After our last mission, after Makarov-”  Hands bunched up the back of his shirt at the mention of the name. “Death never truly scared me before then…”

He trailed off. They’d talked about the mission that caused their early retirement many times, and he knew Simon understood.

“I was never afraid before you showed up.” The low rumble was muffled against his body. Soap’s breath hitched, and he dropped his lips to blonde locks.

They slowly untangled. Standing from the bed, Simon put his balaclava back in his pocket. Soap suppressed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t quite ready for the mask to go back on yet.

“It’s time. Let’s head out,” Soap beckoned to the other.

He went to open the door, but was intercepted as Simon pulled him into a deep kiss that left him slightly dizzy. He blinked up and wasn’t surprised to see the hint of a smirk.

“You still blush so easily,” Simon murmured softly, leaning closer until his breath ghosted over John’s ear. “Just like that first night.”

“Ach, shut yer puss.” Despite his best effort, he blushed even harder. Simon laughed and kissed his temple, before opening the door and stepping outside.

“Thought you said you were ready to go?”

With hands pressed to his cheeks to cool them down, Soap glared at the smug bastard. “I was.”

“C’mon then.”

He allowed the other to tug him along. The brief moment of levity was needed, but over almost as quick as it came when they reached a familiar office door.

‘Captain John Price’ the small sign said. Reality crashed over Soap in a brutal wave. His heart clenched almost painfully when he thought about that stupid moustache and the ever-present scent of cigars. 

“MIA doesn’t always mean KIA,” he whispered to himself. Knuckles brushed against his own in reassurance.

“We’ll get him back.” 

With that, Simon quickly knocked on the door before entering the office, Soap hot on his heels. 

Last they had seen Laswell had been on a video call on Christmas day, her face blurred by the shit quality of Price’s laptop. The boys, Gaz included, teased the older man plenty about it, and he had told them to buy him a new computer if they wanted better standards. Laswell had joined the smart remarks against the captain, asking if her appearance to her subordinates really mattered so little to him, to which Price had sputtered in surprise, until the woman’s face had cracked into a wide smile.

The smile that met them was starkly different from that, instead an almost sorrowful thing, only pulled into existence by a strong sense of social norms. 

“Hi boys,” Laswell greeted quietly.

“Hi Laswell.” Soap pulled the woman into a hug, noting how her grip around him was tighter than usual, the hug lasting a few more seconds than they normally did. Over her shoulder he spotted Gaz leaning on the desk, watching the interaction. When they pulled back, she held him by his upper arms as she looked him over. 

“John was right,” she mused softly. “Your crow’s feet, they suit you.”

Soap brought his fingers to trace the wrinkles by his eyes. They crinkled up as he smiled at the thought of Price talking about him to Laswell like some proud pa.

Simon held his hand out to their former superior, and she shook it, always understanding of giving space when needed. 

“Riley,” Laswell said, eyes scanning the bare face before her. “You’ve lost your beard.”

“Laswell.” The man unconsciously scratched at his shaven jaw. “Your observations are still sharp as ever.”

The woman huffed in amusement as John elbowed his husband.

“That’s how I got this job,” she simply shot back. She circled back beside Gaz, taking a cup from the desk and nursing it between her hands. “Please sit, boys.”

More chairs had been dragged beside the one that always stood before Price’s desk, and they all took their seats, Soap in the middle. Laswell sat down in Price’s chair on the other side of the desk after a second’s hesitation. 

Soap didn’t have a count of how many times he had sat where he did now. Times spent waiting for the captain to finish looking over a document before he could speak. He would always look around the cluttered office, making note of everything from the liquor cabinet in the corner to the box of cigars on the desk to the pictures on the wall of the 141 from different missions. 

There was a picture frame on the desk as well, with its back towards visitors, facing instead towards Price. One time Soap had snuck a look; it was a picture the old man had taken after the Hassan business, when they had all gone to the pub. 

All of the people in that picture were currently sitting in this room. Soap wondered if it was still that same image in the frame after so long, or if the captain had changed it.

“So, you know why we’re here,” Kate began. “Or, well, the basics.”

“Hopin’ to hear some details, aye.”

Laswell sent him a look that said ‘getting there, be patient’. John sat back in his chair, restraining himself from drumming on the armrest. 

“I guess there’s no point dragging this out,” she sighed, rubbing at her forehead. “Yesterday at noon I lost radio contact with Price when he entered the target location in a small facility near the Russian border. He was following up on some rumours we received from Yuri-”

“Yuri’s still an informant for you?” Simon asked.

The young Russian had become their inside source during their last conflict with Makarov, but he hadn’t seemed keen on continuing the lifestyle after the death of the ultranationalist leader. The task force only heard updates about the young man from Nikolai.

“He- no, he hasn’t been, but he stumbled upon something that he thought we might be interested in. You remember how Makarov used to keep tabs on everyone in the task force, Yuri finding files on all of us?”

“Aye, it forced us outta our homes, and I had to bother me mammie and put her in a safehouse…”

The only positive side effect of those tumultuous events was that afterwards both he and Simon had been left without places to stay, making them recover in a safehouse together. There they had realised how much they preferred living together.

“Well, naturally, we destroyed all those files back then, both digital and physical copies, but according to Yuri, he’s been bothered by a strange occurrence. Said there’s been activity around one of the facilities where Makarov used to keep information. He didn’t want to engage alone, and while there was barely anything to go on, John and I agreed to check it out.”

“Why?” Soap asked. Laswell was right, that was nowhere near enough reason to fly out to Russia.

“Well, John couldn’t take on a big job so close to retirement, so this seemed fitting. A final nail in Makarov’s coffin, so to speak. And while it seemed almost certain that there was no weight to these rumours, he also wanted to make absolutely sure that you boys were safe.”

“Why didn't he tell us?!” Soap’ voice was much louder than he’d intended, his companions all flinching in surprise. He lowered his volume before continuing: “I asked him about this job, and he just said it was classified, but then it’s something where we’re quite literally involved?”

“See it from his perspective, Soap,” Laswell said. “Mentioning Makarov to you two, to any of you, dredging up all those old nightmares, all for what? We truly believed this would be a wild goose chase.”

“But it wasn’t.” Simon’s growled statement was quiet, but still cut through the air with its harsh reality.

“No,” Laswell sighed, closing her eyes briefly with a defeated expression. “It no longer looks that way. Just talked with Nikolai today. Yuri is also missing.”

“Fuck,” Soap whispered. 

A heavy silence fell over the group. Soap’s eyes darted over the only picture on the wall that included Yuri. Price and Nikolai stood in front of Nik’s helicopter, celebratory cigars in place, Yuri under Nikolai’s arm with an awkward expression. He had clearly been dragged into frame at the last second. It had been taken before the two Russians flew home, a couple of weeks after the last conflict had ended.

Price looked exhausted, but there was a sense of peace around him, a relief that it was finally over. He had been to see Soap and Ghost earlier that day, Soap remembered. Then again, he’d been to see them in that damned hospital every single day after the Makarov mission.

“He’s retiring?” Gaz croaked up in the still room. 

“Oh,” Kate sighed, verbalising John’s own reaction at the words. “Right, you didn’t know. Sorry for springing it like that, Kyle.”

“He wanted to surprise ye,” John added mildly. 

“But who’ll lead the 141?”

The three others shared a look, before, surprisingly, Simon spoke up:

“You.”

The expression that crossed over Gaz’ face was a mix of so many feelings that Soap felt dizzy on his behalf.

“I’m not ready.” Gaz slumped uncharacteristically in on himself. “I can’t do this without him, yet.”

“Price thinks you can.” John placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Was pretty damn certain when we talked about it.”

“You’re more than capable, Garrick,” Laswell added, voice firm. “But let’s find our missing idiot, so he can tell you that himself.”

“Aye,” Soap agreed in time with Simon’s affirmative hum.

Gaz shifted in his chair, rubbing a hand roughly over his eyes as he collected himself. He looked somehow more run-down than before, but there was renewed determination sparking in his eyes.

“Right,” he sniffled. “Most of the team is currently dealing with some business in Mexico, but I can gather enough people to leave tonight.” He looked at John and Simon, adding: “Laswell has promised to figure out your safehouse situation, but you might have to stay on base for a few days-” 

“Actually,” Soap interrupted. He caught Simon’s eye, the large man giving him a tiny nod. “We’ve decided we’re coming with you.”

“What?” Gaz asked incredulously, while Laswell leaned back with a contemplative frown. 

“We’re not sitting this one out.” Simon’s statement left little room for objections, danger lining his low timbre.

“It’s Price,” Soap said, honestly finding those two words to be reason enough on their own, but still continuing: “It’s our information, our home and life.”

“Besides, you need us. We may not have been active for almost seven years, but we’re still the best duo this task force has ever had, apart from maybe you and Price.” 

“No offence to the rest,” Soap added with a smile, to soften Simon’s sharp words.

Gaz glanced at Laswell, and the two shared a silent communication. It was so similar to watching Price and Laswell interact and it only further solidified Soap’s resolve to find the captain, his absence glaring. 

“You two sure about this?” Kate asked sternly.

“Wouldnae say it fer fun, ma’am.”

The older woman scrunched her nose, watching them for a few seconds more.

“Leave us to figure this out, please.”

The pair in question nodded, moving to stand. Soap knocked over a cup with pencils onto the floor seemingly accidentally, and gave a sheepish smile to the others as he quickly cleaned it up. When he put the cup back, he got a clear look at the picture on the desk, just as he’d hoped.

Price had changed it. John’s throat constricted when emotions suddenly flooded him.

The new picture was from the day he’d married Simon. It was after the quiet ceremony was over, and the small group of people who had been present had arrived back at the cottage, enjoying the rare Scottish sunshine. 

Simon had an arm slung over John’s shoulders, face bare and sporting a newly-grown beard which was pressed against his husband’s temple. Soap was practically beaming, arms gesticulating as he talked excitedly with Gaz and Alejandro. Rudy was kneeling with his hands in Bravo’s fur, as he looked up at the conversation taking place beside him. 

In the background Laswell was resting in a chair with her eyes closed against the sun, a black kitten in her lap. Her wife was draped over her shoulders from behind the chair, head resting atop Kate’s. 

Soap had never seen this picture. Price must’ve sneakily taken it when no one was looking.

Blinking against the sting in his eyes, Soap hurried out the office after Simon’s retreating form.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 3

“Old Friends, and New”

For maybe the tenth time that day, Simon felt along the seam of the black fabric in his hands.

The skull that stared back at him almost seemed to mock him, the Ghost whispering in his ear: “Finally, you face me again. Finally, you come crawling back where you belong. To who you truly are.”

That was all it was, Simon reminded himself; whispers of the past. He didn’t deem them worthy of a response. He knew once the mask sat back on his face, the whispers would become harder to ignore, literally caressing his face and stealing away his features.

The mask had been a safety, once. Some days he would still miss the shield, when he felt too bare, too unprotected in the view of the world. When those days rolled around, he’d don a black surgical mask, leaving his upper face and hair uncovered. It did the job these days.

Logically, he knew he didn’t have to wear the mask again when he went back into the field, but he couldn’t bring himself to do what needed to be done as Simon rather than Ghost. 

He could practically hear his therapist, the too-sensible dr. Cheng. She’d level him with a stern look, and despite never cowering once in his entire professional career, he would feel the sudden urge to avert his gaze and hide in himself. In those moments he always missed his mask.

“You speak as if Ghost is another person from Simon,” she’d said. “How is that different from when you ‘killed’ Simon to become Ghost?”

She hadn’t pushed that line of thinking too much (yet). Almost as if she knew that whatever fragile normalcy Simon had built for himself would begin to crumble if he tried to blur the lines between himself and the murderous phantom.

He shoved the mask back into his pocket, the visage of the haunting depths of black, empty eye holes lingering on his retina. He adjusted the rest of his gear, the weight of it familiar and almost grounding even after so many years. 

On the other side of the bathroom door, he could hear Soap bustling around their room, humming and talking under his breath as he prepared himself for their mission. It was incredible how the man was practically incapable of being still, instead moving like the flames left behind from one of his explosions, constantly in motion, mesmerising, catching your eye with their beauty even in the face of destruction.

Simon looked up from his own unmoving position standing in the middle of the small bathroom, catching sight of his face in the dingy, little mirror opposite him. He swallowed.

Seeing himself was still hard, even after everything. It was worse without the beard.

His soft, brown eyes, the set of his brow and the colour of his light hair were thankfully all from his mother. Even the small freckles that had come to reside on his cheeks were just like the ones she always got in summer, although he had rarely seen them as they were often hidden under her concealer.

The scars had never bothered him, not truly. He’d lived an unforgiving life and they were proof. He had only cared about the many lines and imperfections when he had started wondering what Johnny would think of them, and those fears had left the instant he had seen the Scot’s expression fall into a look of near-reverence the first time he’d seen the face under Ghost’s mask.

His jaw was his father’s. His nose had been his father’s as well, before it had been broken into a crooked imitation. 

The beard had softened the sharpness underneath, hiding those reminders of a man he’d rather stayed forgotten.

“Yet another mask." Dr. Cheng’s voice sounded in his ears. 

He left his reflection in the bathroom, stepping back outside into the present.

Soap stood with his back to him, adjusting the straps of his gun holster, the rest of his gear already in place, clean and new, just like Ghost’s own. Their old uniforms had likely been burned, no way of salvaging them.

Seeing that gear back on his husband left his mouth dry. Images entered his mind of the last time he had seen him wearing it: the tan colour had been completely gone as the world around them burned, and in its place only red, red, so much red, how was there so much blood and was Johnny even still breathing-

Johnny’s bright smile was a flash grenade dropped into his mind, burning away the shadows hiding even in its darkest corners. Something indiscernible flickered in blue eyes as he took in Simon in this outfit, but it was gone before he could attempt to read it. Instead, the smile turned cheeky, a low wolf-whistle leaving the other’s lips.

“Always did like a lad in a uniform,” Soap said, winking suggestively. 

“That why you decided to spend your life surrounded by them?”

“Maybe.” The smaller man strolled over casually, pulling Simon down into a kiss by his vest straps. “Worked out pretty braw, aye?”

“Hm, except for the part where we ditched the uniforms.”

“Naw, call tha’ a worthy sacrifice. More interested in what’s underneath, anyway.”

“Flirt.” He flicked Johnny’s cheek, which only stretched further as his smile widened.

“Now we ken how fast ye can get yer gear on… wanna see how fast ye can take it off?”

Simon huffed an amused breath. That Scot was insatiable. “No time, and you know it.”

Soap pouted. “Simon-”

“No puppy eyes. You remember packing your batteries for the hearing aid?”

“‘Course I did, what d’ye take me for? I rather prefer not bein’ half-deaf.”

“Good. Wheels up is soon.”

Despite the rush he spoke of, he still found time to press a sweet kiss to Johnny’s lips, satisfied to see the pout replaced by a love-dumb smile when he leaned back.

“Copy that, Lt.” Soap whispered, the old nickname rolling out easily, landing naturally between them. “Ye’re also missing one last thing.”

Simon scrunched his brow in confusion, allowing himself to be led to the chair by the desk. Soap leaned down to search one of their bags, letting out a pleased “aha!” before he stood back up, presenting his find: a familiar brand of black face paint. 

“Gotta raccoon ye up before take-off.”

He sat back, watching Soap dip his fingers in the paint before looking to him for confirmation. Simon nodded, closing his eyes. There was something calming about fingers rubbing those familiar patterns along his eyes, like he had done for himself a million times. Soap handled him with a gentle care he had never given himself.

“There we are.” He opened his eyes to Johnny leaning up, blackened hands raised so as to not stain anything. “Scariest raccoon on the block.”

Simon reached out to lightly hold Soap’s wrists, tracing his thumbs over the man’s pulse points, watching as he relaxed from the touch. Soap’s guard was completely down when Simon quickly pushed paint-covered hands to the Scot’s face, smearing it messily over his cheeks and brow.

“Simon!” the other yelled in surprise, glaring at the man in the chair. “Thought ye said we were busy, ya numpty.” 

“Guess you’ll just have to keep it on, then,” Simon smirked. “Now we’re ready for a raccoon-aissance mission”

He gracefully ducked out of the way when Soap swiped a hand at him.

“Ye’re actually awful.”

Johnny scurried into the bathroom to clean up. Simon stood from the chair, listening to the running water and his husband’s mumbled, Scottish curses.

Once more, he took the mask from his pocket, fiddling with the fabric, tracing the small cracks in the hard skull. Such a small thing. Incredible how much weight it held.

“Simon is dead and buried,” Ghost had sneered at Johnny. “You’re chasing a dead man.”

“I don’t believe that.” Johnny had looked hurt, but still didn’t back off. He never knew when to just quit. He was supposed to quit. “You dinnae believe that either, do ye, Lt.? Not really.”

He hadn’t noticed the water shutting off, before a strong body entered his field of vision again. A clean hand gently lifted his chin up to meet an inquisitive gaze.

“Where’d ye go, mo cridhe?”

Simon silently shook his head, releasing a heavy sigh. He placed the mask in Johnny’s hands. Another unreadable expression crossed his partner’s face, as he held the skull in a careful grip.

“The mask,” Simon murmured, smiling weakly. “Put it on.”

Soap blinked, lips twitching. “Hide yer face?”

“Affirmative.”

“But ye’re so bonnie.”

“Quite right.”

“Hm.” In an unusual display, Soap was hesitating. 

Simon brought a hand to the back of Johnny’s neck, lightly petting the mohawk before guiding the head forwards, resting their foreheads together. Soap sank against him.

“I’ll miss yer mug.”

“You’ll see it again.”

“Dinnae-” Soap stopped himself.

“What?”

A shaky breath. “Dinnae forget yerself. There’s room fer both Simon and Ghost in tha’ noggin o’ yers.”

And there it was. Said so simply, the one thing that caused his foundation to shake so easily, built upon pillars of sand. A lump rose in his throat.

“I’ll try, Johnny.” He opened his eyes, to see blue depths inches away, already watching him. “But even if- Shit. My brain deals with this shit in weird ways.”

“Ah ken.”

“There’s one thing that won’t change. No matter Ghost or Simon, I love you.”

“Because they’re both you, ye beautiful wreck of a man.”

Simon shook his head, moving it into the crook of Johnny’s neck. “Maybe,” he agreed against his own beliefs.

“Love ye too. Dinnae lose yerself.”

“I won’t,” he promised.

With that, he stood back, motionless as Johnny carefully pulled the mask back over his face with fingers that only shook a little. 

Laswell intercepted them on their way to take-off, about to head out to get her wife to a safehouse. She'd be back on comms once they would reach the mission location, but she still wished them good luck. 

When they joined the rest of the team by the helo, Ghost and Soap looked every bit the duo they had been seven years prior. 

“Woah,” Gaz whispered under his breath, once they got within earshot. “Forgot how scary you are.”

“No you didn’t,” Ghost stated. His bare-faced glares had been enough to send Kyle running multiple times.

“Yeah, you’re right, I didn’t.”

The two newest team members looked slightly peaky at the sight of the skull-faced arrival. One of them was craning their neck to look up at him, while the taller lad was on eye-height. 

“Right.” Gaz stepped back, gesturing to the two youngsters. “Meet our newest members. Privates Robin Turner and Connor McPherson, call signs Eggs and Toast. They already know who you two are.”

“The Breakfast Duo,” Price had called them when telling about the recruits with the most potential. “The Hangover Cure,” Johnny had smartly replied. 

Soap grinned widely, holding out a hand. The smaller, Eggs, practically leapt to shake it. 

“Where’s Bacon?” Soap joked, looking amused at the eager handshake he was receiving. 

Realising they had been shaking his hand for too long, Eggs stepped back with a sheepish smile full of crooked teeth. When they spoke, it was with an Aussie accent. “Believe it or not, sir, but we received these call signs before we ever met. Pure coincidence.” They elbowed Toast. “Or destiny, eh, Toasty?”

Toast cleared his throat, shaking Johnny’s hand with much more restraint. A quiet boy, but built like a mountain. Ghost could relate to that.

“McPherson?” Soap asked Toast. “Gaz and Price finally missed having a Scottish presence around?”

“Aye, sir.” Toast said simply. 

“Well, young Connor has the decency to translate the few times he slips into Scots, unlike some.” Gaz raised an eyebrow at Soap.

“Oh, haud yer wheesht, Gaz. Ye sound old.” 

Toast looked slightly horrified at the insult slung at a superior officer. Still very new, then, Ghost mused. It didn’t take long in the 141 before manners went out the window.

Eggs seemed to gather their courage, stepping up to Ghost with an outstretched hand.

“It’s an honour to meet you, sir,” they greeted. “You’re a legend.”

Looking down at the hand, Ghost let it hang in the air for a few seconds while Eggs started looking more and more unsure. Silence stretched uncomfortably. 

“Ach, Ghost, ya bampot, stop bein’ an arse,” Johnny scolded, punching his arm. Ghost relented and shook the hand briefly. “Kid just called ye a legend, which, Amnae sayin’ I’m insulted not ta hae been called as well, but I will have a good cry about it later-”

Eggs flushed brightly, a nervous smile in place. “You’re both legends, I didn’t mea-”

“They’re pulling your leg, Turner.” Garrick took pity on the FNG, patting their back. 

“What about the rest of the team?” Ghost gruffly directed the conversation away from banter. “This job seems a weird pick for newbies.”

Eggs and Toast eyed each other, the smaller fidgeting.

“Like I think I mentioned, everyone is currently out on missions,” Gaz explained. “Roach is in Mexico, assisting Los Vaqueros, Alex is helping Farah and the ULF and KorTac’s busy as well. Nikolai is meeting us once we land, Laswell is overwatch. Eggs and Toast may be new, but they’re handpicked by Price. They’re capable.”

“And, ye have us now,” Soap smiled confidently, hands on his vest straps. “More than enough help to find a bald Russian and an old man who’s probably fallen and can’t get up.”

The forced levity in the words did little to soften the reminder of what was at stake. 

“Alright, if everyone is ready, let’s head out.” Kyle ordered, his words instantly setting the breakfast kids into motion, Ghost and Soap following behind with less frantic urgency.

“See, Gaz,” Soap whispered. “True leader material.”

“They’re so fresh, they’d take orders from a parrot, if it worded it strongly enough,” Gaz shot back. 

“Well, as much as I’d love to see a parrot run the task force, ye’re still my first choice, bud.” 

They settled in, Ghost absentmindedly falling into the seat he always used to take back in the day. Soap copied his action, sitting right next to him, their positions a clear echo of their helo-ride in Al Mazrah, and every ride after.

“Save ye a seat, sir.”

Soap nudged his leg with his knee, giving a soft smile while the others were busy strapping themselves in. Ghost squeezed the knee briefly.

Soap spent most of the flight chatting casually with Eggs and Toast, slowly coaxing his fellow Scot into speaking longer sentences by talking about their homeland. It didn’t take awfully long for the two men to be engaged in a passionate discussion, words devolving into something that could no longer be called English.

“What are they saying?” Ghost heard Eggs ask Gaz, who only could respond with a tired shrug.

“Just assume it’s rude.” The private looked almost startled when it was Ghost that answered their question instead. “Then you’ll be correct ninety percent of the time.”

“Away’n bile yer heid, Lt.,” Soap took the time to say, slapping at his arm.

“Means ‘go fuck yourself’,” Ghost explained tonelessly to Eggs, who lit up like a damn Christmas tree. 

“You weren’t wrong, lieutenant,” they grinned. 

“Lived with a Scot in Scotland for seven years, unfortunately. You learn a thing or two.”

“‘Unfortunately’,” Johnny repeated with a mock-wounded look. “Here I thought we had it good.”

“Clearly we do, I placed myself in Scotland for you.”

“Aye, tha’ ye did.” Soap got a smug twinkle in his eyes. “My greatest achievement. Well, that an’ the missiles.”

That spawned an eager line of questioning about the whole Hassan debacle, which lasted the rest of the ride. Gaz took a much-needed nap, while Soap entertained his enraptured audience with grand arm gestures. Ghost occasionally murmured corrections, but was mostly content to just watch Johnny in his element.

Nikolai stood ready to welcome them by the landing strip, sunglasses hanging from his collar despite the nighttime and sub-zero temperatures. 

As soon as the icy winds hit them, Ghost felt his leg act up, dull twinges shooting up from his shin. It was annoying, more than anything. His steps faltered for less than a millisecond, but it was long enough for Johnny to give him a searching look and walk closer, their arms brushing.

“Nikolai,” Gaz greeted, holding out a polite hand, which was ignored as the Russian pulled the younger man into a crushing bear hug.

“Sergeant Garrick-”

“It’s lieutenant, still-” 

“It’s good to see you, despite the nasty reasons.” He turned to the rest, eyes lighting up when he saw who else had tagged along. “Soap, Ghost!”

Soap didn’t even bother with professionalism, meeting Nik with an enthusiastic hug of his own. Simon had to suppress a chuckle when Johnny’s feet practically lifted off the ground with the force of it; Nikolai never did do things halfway.

“You look much better than last I saw you.” 

“Aye, well, I was dying last ye saw me, Nik.”

“Da, right, good excuse.” The pilot reached up to ruffle at the mohawk, Soap just barely dodging it. “Ty vse yeshche pokhozh na petukha.”

There was a teasing tone to the Russian words. Soap scrunched his nose.

“I still cannae speak Russian.”

“Your loss, Mylo.”

Ghost tensed under Nikolai’s arms when he fearlessly wrapped the masked man in a hug as well. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Eggs and Toast looking at the strange sight with almost gobsmacked expressions. If the pilot wasn’t one of few valuable allies, Ghost might’ve misplaced a knife in his jugular.

Nik pulled back, completely unaware of the scowl directed at him from under the mask (or more likely, completely aware, but uncaring of it).

“Who are these children?” He gestured at the last two people of the group. Eggs face scrunched up at being called a child, but they cleverly didn't comment on it.

“Newest teammates, Eggs and Toast,” Gaz introduced.

Nikolai snorted. “Keep up, pups.”

“Where do we start?” Soap asked as the group started moving on Nik’s signal, following the Russian, who led them towards where the Chimera base kept its ground vehicles.

“Yuri’s cabin,” Nikolai replied. “I haven’t been since I lost contact, and it’s on the way to the facility anyway. Maybe he has something lying around that will give us insight on the mission details, or his disappearance.”

“Or maybe he’s at home, napping?” Soap tried hopefully.

“That would be nice.” Nikolai’s lips quirked for less than a second, briefly breaking the worry becoming increasingly obvious on his face. “But unlikely. Paranoid is such a strong word, but maybe not entirely wrong for Yuri. He has several burner phones, and he always picks up. I’ve called all of them. He is not at home, not at base, and he tells me when he goes somewhere else. And with Captain Price’s disappearance, well…”

“Sounds like the kid’s changed since last,” Ghost observed bluntly, gauging Nikolai’s reaction. The pilot stopped by a snow jeep big enough for the whole group, fidgeting with the keys while answering.

“Da . After Makarov… It left its trace on him. But you two would know, hm?” He gestured at Ghost and Soap. 

“Hm.” It didn’t surprise him, really, that Yuri had been so affected in the aftermath of Makarov’s death. The kid had been in the middle of that shit-show for years. It stood to reason that he had gotten a bit paranoid.

They entered the jeep, Nikolai behind the wheel. Rubbing at his shin, Ghost appreciated the car heater relieving some of his aches.

“He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Everyone’s attention fell back on Nikolai as the man continued their conversation after a few minutes on the road. “He couldn’t find calm, even after he stopped working full-time. Kept watching Makarov’s known bases and facilities. I told him it was over, that he could relax. Guess I lied.” 

His voice grew thick on those last words, and he cleared his throat before letting silence fill the air once more. No one broke it. 

Feeling eyes on him, Ghost looked up to see Johnny watching him carefully. The Scot smiled faintly when he realised he’d been caught staring, leaning closer, lending his warmth.

Ghost knew why Johnny was keeping an eye on him. The explanation of Yuri’s troubles sounded eerily similar to his own struggles in the first years after they retired; the paranoia, the inability to rest, the certainty that the other shoe would drop. It had felt too good to be true, their little safe haven in Scotland, both of them alive. How could someone like him get to not only live, but love. He had lost countless nights of sleep due to the fear that when he woke, it would all have been a dream and he would be right back in his old life.

With time and, to his dismay, healthy communication, those fears had slowly been laid to rest. Not completely. Never completely. But almost.

They had flared up again the second he had seen Johnny’s broken expression in their hallway this morning.

Fingers stroked over his gloved knuckles, lifting the haze of thoughts gradually. Instead he focused on the ring on Johnny’s finger. It was still real. Being back in the field, mask clinging to him like a second skin, it was too easy to convince himself that nothing had truly changed, that it really had been a dream.

He moved his own hand to fiddle with the ring on his husband’s finger, Soap letting it happen without question. It had been real. It would be real again. As long as they didn’t fucking die in Russia, like they’d almost done last time, which had been the whole reason they had left the military, and now they were back and-

“Here we are,” Nikolai announced. Through the windscreen the group could skim a dark cabin through thick snowflakes. 

Soap squeezed his hand, before putting his own gloves back on.

They exited the car and trudged the last distance through the knee-high snow. Gaz took point, signalling for Soap and Ghost to follow him inside while the others waited. 

The cabin was small, only consisting of three rooms. A fine layer of dust coated every surface in the unlit house. Ghost headed to check the kitchen, rifle resting comfortably in his hands.

“Bedroom clear,” Soap whispered over comms, followed immediately by Gaz’: “Living room clear.”

Ghost lifted his hand to his own comm unit, about to declare the kitchen clear as well, when he paused. His ears picked up on a sound other than the wooden walls creaking in the wind; a scratching, followed by a low whine that was nearly indistinguishable from the howling wind. Careful not to make noise, he stepped towards the source.

In a quick move, he opened the backdoor, rifle at the ready. He was met with the sight of an empty backyard. It wasn’t until he looked down he found his culprit: A big dog with snow clumped in its fur was looking up at him with a tail that wagged hard enough to shake its whole body.

“Ghost?” Soap’s voice held a hint of worry.

“Kitchen clear,” he hurried to reassure, clicking off comms again as he knelt down to greet the mutt. “Hey, boy. What’re you doing out here?”

Unsurprisingly, the dog didn’t answer. It seemed delighted, however, when gloved hands found their way to pet its head. It rewarded the skull mask with a sloppy dog kiss.

He heard the rest of their group enter the house in the other room, while a singular pair of steps approached the kitchen. The sound made the dog perk up.

“Steamin’ Jesus, Simon. How do ye always manage to find strays?” Soap knelt beside him, flinching slightly as the dog tried to move towards him, held back by Ghost’s firm grip.

“He’s friendly,” Ghost said, but didn’t let go of the excited beast. While Soap had come to love their dogs at home, he still held a fair amount of fear for the creatures in general.

“Ye dinnae ken that,” Soap shot back, subconsciously rubbing at the scar on his chin. After a second’s thought, he gave a few experimental pats to the dog’s head, which had its tail wagging impossibly harder. 

Soap stood back up, still looking wary, even if the fear had dimmed a bit. 

“Poor thing,” he murmured. “It looks starved.”

While Johnny started going through the cupboards to find something to feed the beast, Ghost led it inside, shutting the door against the draft. The dog shook itself, getting wet snow all over the two men in the kitchen. Soap cursed loudly.

“Everything good in here?” Gaz’ voice piped up as he entered the already crowded kitchen. “You’re taking your ti- why is there a dog?”

“Cabin’s only resident,” Ghost explained. Seriousness bled from Gaz’ face when the dog bounded over, free from Ghost’s hold. Some of the worry lines that had been plaguing the younger lieutenant’s face smoothed out when he had his arms full of wet dog.

"Gross," he chuckled.

Soap ended up sacrificing some of his rations, as the kitchen was too sparsely packed. The few items in the fridge were past their expiration date. They rejoined the others in the living room, where they had started searching through Yuri’s belongings. Soap looked annoyed when the beast stayed on his heels.

“You fed it,” Ghost murmured to the Scot. “Never getting rid of him now. We’ll have to bring him home-”

“No more dogs, Si,” Johnny scolded without heat, and Simon chuckled.

“We’ll see.”

“I’m serious. This is exactly what happened in Mexico, but this time I wilnae let ye talk me into this.”

“Whatever you say, Johnny.”

That earned him a sour look.

“You’ve found Beast,” Nikolai interrupted, nodding at the dog. At the sight of an apparently familiar face, Beast left Soap’s side to greet the pilot, although it was back in place seconds later. Soap crossed his arms.

“It’s Yuri’s dog?” 

“It’s a stray that I told Yuri not to feed.” Nikolai trailed a finger through the dust on a shelf, frowning at the grey patch. “Told him it’d keep coming back for more. And here it is.”

“What do we do with him?” Eggs asked. Johnny moved away to give the kid space to pet the dog. 

Nikolai groaned, pursing his lips while he regarded the dog thoughtfully.

“Take it with us, leave it in the car while we do the recon. I’ll bring it back to base after.” 

Simon had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at Johnny’s incredulous expression when Beast once again moved to stand pressed against the Scot.

“He’s yours now.”

“Shut yer puss. We're nae stealin' Yuri's dog.”

“Mm. What do you call a magic dog?”

“Don’t-”

“A labra-cadabra-dor.”

“I want a divorce,” Johnny huffed, visibly fighting a smile.

They spent around fifteen minutes looking through the cabin, but it quickly became apparent that there were no clues to be found, not even in the secret compartments Nik knew about. 

“Weird,” the Russian mumbled. 

“Well, it didn’t sound like Yuri knew much to begin with.” Gaz adjusted his gear, looking out the window at the snow that had started falling heavier. 

“Right. The sooner we check out that facility, the sooner we’ll get an idea of what’s going on,” Ghost reasoned. The rest of the group stood straighter at his words, all itching to get moving. 

Gaz hummed in agreement, before opening the front door to the white world outside. 

“No time to waste, then.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 4

“Hell Awaits You”

The heavy snowfall was making it nearly impossible to see the grey facility standing nearby: Makarov’s old archives. The building stood at the edge of a small town that had been evacuated of all citizens during the war against the ultranationalist. A ghost town. (“Ye the mayor, love?” had gotten Soap an amused crinkle in the black paint on Ghost’s face.) 

It had been a library, before it had been repurposed to hold sensitive files. It was where Yuri had originally found out that Makarov owned files on everyone in the 141. Everything had been purged in the aftermath of the war, leaving the building emptied and abandoned once more. The town never regained its lost residents.

They had already scouted out the surrounding area, finding it quiet and undisturbed. It did little to put the group at ease. This was still the location where contact with their captain had been lost.

Ghost and Gaz were standing slightly off to the side, discussing the final details for entry with Laswell over comms. They had easily slipped back into the roles of co-lieutenants. 

Eggs was pestering Nikolai with questions about being a pilot, something that they clearly had a passion for. Judging by Nik’s face, he was trying very hard to stay only mildly interested in the conversation in an attempt not to get too chummy with an FNG, but when it came to aircrafts, the man could talk for hours and hours. His eyes were giving away his excitement at finding someone willing, even happy, to listen.

Soap leaned against the jeep, pointedly ignoring the dog nose pressed against the window right next to him. His eyes darted to the last of their group; Toast was fiddling with his vest straps, eyes carefully watching the old library. If he were to guess, Soap would wager this mission was one of the biggest the two privates had been on in their careers so far. 

“Gettin’ the pre-mission jitters?” he asked the lad.

Toast’s head snapped towards him. Cheeks already pink from the cold turned even redder. “... not great at hidin’ that, then?”

“Oh, no worries, mate.” Soap gave a reassuring smile. “We all get those. Never quite goes away, ye just get used to it. It’s only good with some healthy nervousness, keeps ye alert.”

“Ye’r nervous too?” Toast dared.

“Haven’t been in the field for nearly a decade. Bet I’m nearly as fired up as you.”

The kid’s hands stopped fidgeting at that. His eyes flickered to Ghost’s intimidating form. “And him? He doesn't look the type to get nervous?”

“Positively shittin’ himself,” John joked easily. He looked towards the masked man as well. He truly looked unbothered, steady in the face of danger. The light clench of his left fist was his only tell that he was worried, one that no one but Soap knew about. “Naw, he’s just very good at handling it, but he’s human, too.”

It was strange how finding out your superiors also felt fear could relax someone, but Toast released some tension with the knowledge. Those clever therapists would say something about validating fears, tethering anxiety to reality. 

“Why-” Toast hesitated. 

“Shoot.”

“Why aren’t ye…?” The private made a vague gesture to where Gaz and Ghost were talking. 

“Oh, I just prefer yer company.” Soap winked, grinning when cheeks once more flamed red. “But I’m also, technically, their subordinate. Never made lieutenant myself. Price had plans to promote Gaz and me both, together, but I landed myself on medical leave. When I returned, shite went down, and there was no time for official ceremonies while we hunted for Makarov.”

“Oh.” 

“Hm. Didnae bother me much, though. There was certainly a time it would’ve, but… priorities change. All that mattered at that point was the mission and the team. And blowing shit up.”

The kid’s posture loosened, eyes lighting up. “Aye, you’re a demolitions expert, right? Me too. It’s actually how I got my call sign. Made some enemies, erm…”

“Toast! Fuck, yeah.” Soap laughed. “Man, Price must’ve really missed me, if he went out to get a new explosive Scot. Try to be better than me, though, and keep a healthy distance from the booms.” He tapped his hearing aid gently. “Or ye’ll end up with one of these.”

“Got my work cut out,” Toast said sincerely. 

“That you do,” Ghost had said in Las Almas.

“That ye do,” Soap echoed, the warmth in his chest fighting bravely against the icy winds around them. “So, is Eggs’ call sign also clever, or…?”

Toast’s smile turned almost mischievous as he glanced towards his smaller friend. 

“It’s a good story,” he whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. John leaned forwards as well, listening raptly as Toast launched into a story about a nest of eggs, an angry emu and a recruit forced to hide in a tree for several hours, covered in yolk and feathers. 

Soap was still wheezing by the time Ghost and Gaz walked back over to them, hands on his knees. Gaz’ grim expression softened slightly at seeing the usually quiet Toast chuckling beside him.

“Y’alright there, Soap? Sounding a bit like a dying mule,” Gaz greeted, unfazed when his response was a middle finger.

“Jus’ keeping the spirits higher than that time Ghost got pumped up on painkillers.” Soap stood, stretching until he heard a pop. At the warning grunt his comment received, he gave Simon a too-sweet smile, which earned him a light pinch to his side. 

Nikolai ushered Eggs over to rejoin the group, not ending his explanation about some type of fighter jet, until the pair had fully reached the others. Soap had no clue what Nik was spewing, but Eggs was completely enraptured. 

“Alright,” Gaz began. Attention naturally fell on him once they were gathered. “Building has two points of entry, so we enter from each side in pairs of two. Soap and Toast are team Bravo. You take the one in the back. Eggs, you’re with me on team Alfa. We go through the front doors.” 

The people in question all nodded affirmatives. 

“There’s a main floor, a first floor and a basement. Once the main floor is cleared, you two-” Gaz gestured at the Scots. “Go into the basement, while we head upstairs. Nikolai will be waiting here, keeping watch over the surrounding area from this side, while Ghost will take up a sniping position on the opposite side.”

“Like old times, Lt.” Soap smiled up at his partner, who briefly brushed against his side in response.

They said their goodbyes to Nikolai. Beast began scratching pitifully at the window when Soap started walking away. “Not a word,” he warned Simon, who practically emanated smugness at the dog’s antics. 

The building became clearer as they approached it, helped along by the morning light making itself known over the horizon line.

“Hm. Be nice if the snow would ease up.” Ghost’s voice was gruff as he looked up at the snowflakes falling steadily around them. 

“Eh, yer eyes luckily haven’t gone with age.”

“I’m not even fifty yet, Johnny.”

“Dinnae even look a day over twenty-five to me.”

“That’s just a blatant lie,” Simon huffed, a smile lining his voice.

“This is it, Ghost,” Gaz cut in, stopping up. Soap scrunched his nose, giving them both a questioning look.

“This is where we split up,” Ghost elaborated, body more stiff than it had been a second before.

Oh. Something uncomfortable suddenly squirmed in his belly.

“Meet up with us at the treeline, Soap,” Gaz ordered, understanding clear on his face. He gestured for the breakfast duo to follow him, leaving the couple alone. 

John took his husband’s hand and pressed it gently. Simon swallowed audibly. 

“Well,” Soap said. “See ya soon, love.”

“Be careful.”

“Me? I’m always careful, Si-”

“Johnny.”

Soap paused, looking into those dark eyes he knew so well; the only part of Simon’s face he had been allowed to see for a long time. There was a shine to them.

“I will be,” he finally promised, cupping a masked face in his hands. “You be careful too, ya numpty.”

Simon leaned into his hands with a sigh. “I will.”

Leaning up, resting on the tip of his toes, he placed a small kiss on the skull, right between its eyes. He tapped the clothed cheek twice. “Get movin’ now or we’ll stand here all day.”

Ghost grabbed him by the back of his head, pressing a kiss of his own to John’s forehead, through the balaclava. He leaned back, looking intently at the Scot. “Hey, Johnny?”

“Aye?”

“Why did the ghost keep coming back to the library?”

“Simon,” he groaned. “How do ye have a joke ready fer literally everythin’? Fine. Why?”

“He went through his books too quickly,” Ghost whispered, eyes warm.

Soap snorted, shaking his head. “Steamin’ Jesus.” He lightly pushed the other backwards. “Go.”

He looked after the large, retreating form with an amused smile, forcing down the worry writhing underneath. The snow quickly made the figure hard to make out. Soap made his own way back to the rest of his group, trying not to think about how tightly Ghost’s left hand had been clenched when he walked away. 

“Toast, on me.” Soap gestured for the younger lad to follow him as they moved to the door at the far end of the main floor.

“Aye, sir.”

He clicked on his comms. “Alfa One, we’re going to the basement now.”

“Copy that, Bravo One,” Gaz’ voice sounded in his earpiece. “Watcher, we’re moving to phase two.”

“Copy,” came Laswell’s crisp response. “Overwatch Two, any signs of movement outside?”

“Negative, Laswell,” Ghost stated. He’d sound almost bored, if it weren’t for his teeth clacking.

“Keepin’ warm, Lt.?” Soap smirked, imagining the big man laying in a snow dune, getting absolutely covered in white. As long as he didn’t catch a cold; the man was miserable when he was ill.

“Freezing my nuts off, sergeant. Focus on your own problems.”

“Dinnae want me thinkin’ about yer nu-?”

“Stay tactical, boys,” Laswell chided, cutting Soap’s sentence off abruptly.

“Forgot how insufferable you are on comms,” Gaz whispered. “Don’t know why I missed you.”

“Ye missed me? That’s just embarrassing, Gaz.” 

Soap bit down a laugh when the comms went silent after that. 

The basement’s archives stretched out before them when they entered, the place designed almost like a small labyrinth of shelves upon shelves. Toast looked to him for his next orders. 

“Stay on my six for now, Toast,” he murmured, eyes darting around for anything out of place. So far, there had been no signs that Price had even been here.

The pair carefully slinked between shelves, checking the tags underneath the few places there were still files. Nothing of importance. 

When they found a side door, they situated themselves on each side, firearms at the ready. Toast nodded when he was i position, and Soap pushed the door open, immediately aiming his rifle into the room; rather, into the closet. The kid beside him jumped slightly when a broom fell over with a clattering noise. Soap gave a teasing smile at the embarrassed look that fell over Toast’s face.

“Toast, meet Broom,” he said, while putting the object back in place. “He’ll be helping us do a sweep of this place.”

A surprised, breathy laugh left his companion. “Tha’ was pure rubbish.”

“Ah ken. Dinnae tell Ghost I'm stooping to his level.” 

Soap closed the door and clapped the lad’s arm, before they continued their search through the tall shelves. The basement was impossibly big, seeming to stretch farther than the library itself.

“Nothing on the first floor.” Even with the radio crackle, the disappointment was crystal clear in Gaz’ voice. “How copy, team Bravo?”

“Solid. Still nothing, but the place is huge,” Soap responded. “Think we can see the end wall now, though.”

“Copy that. We’ll be waiting on the main floor.”

Soap wondered what they would do if they found zero clues pertaining to what happened to Price. The possibility hadn’t really occurred to him before now. How would they find him then? What if they never did, and he truly just disappeared off the face of the earth, leaving no closure as to how it happened? And Yuri as well?

His eyes caught on a file tag on the second to last shelf, and he stopped up. Toast kept moving past him, towards the wall, seemingly having spotted something strange as well.

On shelf ‘141’, in place number ‘627’ there laid a single file. The tag underneath was blank, unlike the rest of the tags in this place. Soap took the file and flipped it open. There was only one sheet of paper inside, and on it was printed a single sentence written in cyrillic.

ад ждет тебя

Soap froze. For the first time in his entire career, his body locked up and his brain turned static, despite the way his heart picked up pace so fast it bordered on being painful. He didn’t know cyrillic, but he had a very good idea what the words before him meant. He dreamt of them almost every night; and of what followed them. 

“Sir?” Toast’s voice sounded uncertain. “I think there’s something behind this wall.”

Soap’s vision was swimming, glued to the words on the page. Somewhere in his mind, he was screaming at himself to get it together, to warn the others. To run. 

“Sergeant?” the kid called again. “Soap?”

He took a shuddering breath, looking up through the empty shelves where Toast was standing with a hand on the wall, worried eyes on his superior. As quick as it had stopped, Soap’s body responded again, panic flooding his senses.

“Toast, get awa-!”

The wall imploded. Soap was blasted backwards, head colliding with the shelf behind him. Even while the world collapsed around him, darkening as consciousness started slipping, his mind was still stuck on those three words from the page:

Hell Awaits You.

“Th- everywhe-!”

“-ohnny?! How co-”

“Too many o- take cov-”

“They fou- location, I’m compro-”

“Nikolai, get out o- We- up later!”

“Jo-ny, how fucking co-”

“-oys, how ma-”

“Laswell? Laswe- lost conta- gone-”

“-ivate, with me now!”

“Bu- about Toast? Is he-”

“Johnny, please, how copy?!”

Soap woke with a rattling cough. His head was pounding. In one ear, the sounds of his surroundings were practically silent, as if someone had stuffed a wad of cotton deep inside it; in his other, his teammates were yelling frantically. Something was pressing down on him. Flames were licking at rubble nearby.

He had been here before.

Eardrum burst, a trickle of blood tickling the side of his face, he had come to in a world on fire. His sternum had burned, the wound reopened, and around him, voices were yelling, voices he knew, voices of people who needed him awake and on his feet. Simon’s had been the loudest. Simon-

“Simon,” he croaked out, blinking dust from his eyes alongside tears. His vision blurred, but relatively quickly came into focus again. It was a different view that met him than he’d expected. It took a long second to remember what mission he was currently in the midst of, as he studied the collapsed shelves and burning papers. His hearing aid was in pieces before him. There were sounds of bullets and shouting through the comm unit in his functional ear.

A sheet of paper lay directly before him, orange eating away at cyrillic, leaving ash to float upwards. The words on the paper had frozen him, he remembered sluggishly.

He hadn’t responded to his team yet. He scrabbled for the correct button, before assessing anything else. “Simon?”

“Johnny,” came the strangled response, accompanied by a chorus of different, relieved voices. “Thank fuck. Status, now.”

Soap coughed again, fighting to regain his senses completely. Status? He didn’t even know. He moved his body carefully, surprised when no sharp pains greeted him, only dull aches. The shelf above him held debris at bay. It was leaning on another shelf, creating a small space mostly untouched by the explosion; a space John had miraculously landed in. 

“Mm. M’heid’s mince, but otherwise I’m… surprisingly okay. No breaks. The ceiling is still intact,” he added, noting the fact with wonder. The blast must’ve been relatively small, concentrated just on their segment.

Their segment. Wait, someone was with him-

“How about Toast?” Eggs' anxious voice spoke his worries into reality. “Is he okay?”

Swallowing only grated his dry throat, as he gingerly climbed from his spot towards the rubble that used to be a wall. It was a slope now, leading to a small opening showing the white sky. Stray snowflakes fell into the archives.

One of them landed and melted on the pale cheek of the still figure pinned beneath the collapse. 

“Soap?” Gaz asked, out of breath. His friends were fighting someone outside, many someones by the sound of it. He should be helping them. Should move, should answer. Should never have come here.

But all he could do was stare at the dead body of Connor “Toast” McPherson, kind, brown eyes now empty, staring unseeingly back at him.

“Soap, how copy?!” Gaz yelled, shots sounding in the background.

“Johnny?” Ghost’s voice overlapped. 

“Dead.” He choked the word out like it had been lodged in his chest. “He’s dead.”

Gaz and Eggs’ comms turned off, but Soap caught the cut-off beginning of a mournful whine from their youngest teammate. Ghost, however, was quick to ground him:

“Fuck. Okay. Listen, I’m on my way towards you already, a little delayed due to-” The words paused, as sounds of a struggle met his ear, over in seconds. “Some fucking cunts who came outta nowhere,” the lieutenant continued. “Try to make your way out, I will meet you. Understood?”

John drew in a shaky breath and wiped a hand roughly over his wet cheeks. “Solid copy, Si.” 

White specks were filling the air; snow falling and ash rising. 

With trembling hands, he dislodged the dog tags from the body, sliding them off the young man. The kid. How old was he? He had to be in his early twenties, all green and starry-eyed, following Soap with complete trust. Toast had been his responsibility. And he’d frozen. 

John placed the silver chain in a pocket on his vest, closing it carefully.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I’m so sorry.” 

Lastly, he gently closed the glassy eyes, before resting a hand on short hair. There was nothing more he could do for Connor McPherson. 

Staggering to his feet, he shut his eyes tightly against the dizziness and nausea. Whether it was caused by his head injury or grief, he didn’t know. He didn’t open them again before he had turned around, away from the sight of the corpse of his subordinate. He couldn’t look back. His legs might give out if he did.

“Johnny, I’m almost at the library. What’s your status?” Ghost. John clung to that familiar rumble when it sounded in his ear. Once again guiding him through hell, just like Las Almas. Just like every mission after. 

The need to see Simon overwhelmed him so suddenly, it nearly took his breath away. The need to be held in his arms, with that deep rumble not over a radio, but there, with him. He willed his legs to move, starting his journey back through the dim and dusty maze. 

“On my way, Si.” Soap’s voice was unsteady, vulnerable. All because of that damn file; those words and what followed. “I found something. About Price.”

A comm clicked on, followed by Gaz’ desperate voice: “What? What did you find?”

“A file. There was a sentence written in cyrillic, but-” he swallowed, focusing on putting one foot ahead of the other, rather than the re-emerging panic. “I think I know what it said.”

“What, Johnny?” Simon asked, so gentle. So, so gentle for him, even while stuck in a firefight. John blinked against the fresh sting in his eyes.

“‘Hell awaits you’,” he whispered, as if it would lessen the weight of the words if they weren’t spoken too loud. The responding silence was brimming with tension.

“Shi-” Gaz’ voice was cut off, as the steady, underlying hum of the comm unit disappeared. For a second, Soap wondered if his other ear had stopped working as well, but his faltering steps sounded the same. 

“Simon, Gaz, how copy?” he tried. Nothing. He tried changing the channels, but the silence stayed unchanged. A chill ran down his spine. A fucking EMP. 

He picked up his pace, heart beating so loud it almost drowned out his hurried footsteps. 

If his good ear had been the one turned to the side door, then maybe he would’ve reacted in time. Maybe, he could have outrun them or fought for long enough for Ghost to reach him. Instead, he only registered the figures behind him when it was already too late. 

There was a sharp pinprick sensation on his neck, as something was pushed into his system through a syringe and he growled, a guttural thing. It didn’t sound like him at all, the noise more akin to a cornered, feral beast. Some of his attackers even stepped back in surprise.

With all of his fading strength, he gave as much of a fight as he could. A satisfying crunch rang out, when his abused head connected with someone’s nose. The blood splattering onto the floor made the pounding pain behind his eyelids worth it. Two others attempted to grapple him, but even with the drug starting to take effect, he managed to wrestle them off, before he set off in a sprint towards the door leading up to the main floor. 

A little further. The world was turning fuzzier. So close now. There were angry voices behind him, echoing steps not far behind his own. Only past five more rows of shelves. His legs felt like jelly, weakening rapidly beneath him. Just get to Ghost. 

With his hand outstretched, the door handle almost within reach, his body gave out.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 5

“Move Faster”

Ghost had survived on rage, once.

Revenge was the first thing to fuel the Ghost, as he took apart everyone and everything that had killed Simon and his family. A vengeful spirit had taken the body of the man that once was, and used it as nothing more than a tool for completing the last will and testament of the soul left behind in the coffin.

When there was nothing left to take out his vengeance on, he let that residual fire of rage keep him going, dragging his body over battlefield after battlefield, through gunfire and blood, explosions and death; through war. He let it burn him from the inside, fully intending to let it keep on until he was nothing but ashes. A funeral pyre for Simon Riley.

Simon’s corpse was puppeteered by the Ghost like this for many years. But rather than burn out, or get shot in the field, Ghost somehow survived to the point that the fire simply flickered to cooling embers. The corpse had kept on, but nothing was left to fuel it, to stoke the flames.

Johnny had brought warmth back, had stoked the fire, but it hadn’t been with rage. No. It had been something much, much stronger. And rather than burn him, it instead breathed new life into the dead body, and somewhere in the ground, Simon had stirred again. Simon had found hands waiting to drag him through muck and worms and rot and dirt, and back onto the surface. He had taken shuddering, hacking breaths as he lived again, and he had fallen into the arms of his saviour with ease. Together, they had managed to grow new life in the barren, burnt down planes of his heart.

Now? Now, everything was burning again, with rage, and Ghost paid little mind to how the flames licked painfully at Simon and everything he had built. 

Everything had gone tits up, all at once. An explosion had gone off underground, and just as Ghost’s mind pieced together that ‘that’s where Johnny is-’, the snowstorm had revealed an ambush, figures dressed in white coming in on all sides. Eggs and Gaz had both exited the library at the comotion to provide cover fire for their allies, making their way to assist Nikolai.

Their Russian ally had been overrun almost immediately. It became clear that they couldn’t reach him in time, and Gaz had ordered the man to get in the jeep and get out of there. He had done so after no small amount of argument. With the roar of an engine, they were left without exfil.

It took every last bit of self-control and lifelong military training to keep Ghost rooted to his position, rather than run immediately towards the library. When the bomb went off, his rational mind had shaken precariously, screaming at him to find Johnny, now. He needed to know he was okay, that he was alive.

But the tactical choice for Ghost was to stay concealed, sniping as many hostiles as possible before they honed in on his position, and he would help no one by running recklessly into the open. All he could do was try to reach his husband on the radio, hoping the howling winds would conceal his calls from their enemies.

Through the heavy snowfall, he squinted in search of the figures clad in white. His shots rang out, raining crimson onto the icy ground when they impacted. 

Somewhere along the way, Laswell stopped responding, which had Gaz scrambling. He had pulled Eggs to cover, helped by their skull-faced guardian taking down anyone who came too close to the pair.

Over comms Simon waited for that Scottish lilt to fill in, until he practically begged in the form of a hoarse: “Johnny, please, how copy?!”

As soon as he was spotted, he yelled at Gaz and Eggs to cover him in turn, as he began his sprint towards the library, finally. The snow was a blessing as much as a curse, the bullets directed back at them missing widely. 

Halfway to the grey building, he joined with his two teammates, and not a second too soon, as he caught sight of a stealthy figure approaching the private who was focused on taking out the enemies behind Ghost. In one smooth motion, the lieutenant’s knife had left his belt and found a new home in the throat of the attacker with an ugly gargle. Eggs looked up at him with wide eyes, gratitude shining through the fear.

In that moment, Johnny’s voice had filtered through comms, trembling, weak, but alive alive alive. His responses were slow, which was explained when he reported his most severe injury to be to his head. Eggs asked about Toast, and the next pause was even longer. Anxiety rolled in Simon’s gut.

He prepared to cover the last stretch to go get Soap, when the shaky voice came back with the damning words: “Dead. He’s dead.”

Gaz grabbed ahold of Eggs beside him, quickly turning off both their comms when the small figure in his arms whined in their misery. He levelled Ghost with a steady look then, an admiring feat with the gunfire around them, the kid in his arms and the grief in his eyes.

“Go get him. I’ll cover you.”

He hadn’t needed to be told twice. He ran, trusting his friend to have his back.

Standing at the corner of the building, waiting for the people on the other side to run out of ammo in order to take them out so he could reach the doors, he had spoken to Soap again. The responding voice sounded small. Johnny didn’t sound like that, hadn’t sounded like that since he had told Simon he didn’t want to fight anymore; when they decided to retire.

“I found something,” Soap told them. “About Price.”

Ghost’s pulse picked up. Maybe this wouldn’t be for nothing, maybe they would at the very least gain some clues to the whereabouts of their lost captain.

“What? What did you find?” Gaz voice was back in their ears. There were no heart-wrenching cries in the background, signalling Eggs had calmed down enough, keeping their emotions in check until the team was out of danger. 

“A file. There was a sentence written in cyrillic, but- I think I know what it said.”

“What, Johnny?” Simon asked, trying to keep his voice steady for the others. There was a pause in the gunfire, and he dispatched the soldiers blocking the doors.

Then Soap whispered three dreaded words, and it made sense what had him so rattled: “Hell awaits you.”

Makarov’s slimy voice was brimming with sick glee, as he spoke three words in Russian. Ghost locked eyes with Soap, understanding passing between them; the same look they had shared eight years earlier, when Graves had turned. 

Soap pushed Yuri out the window first, the selfless bastard. Ghost would’ve let the traitor die without a chance to explain himself. Together, they leapt from the building as the bomb went off, scorching heat licking at their backs before they tumbled towards the ground, their fall broken by scaffolding. An iron bar caught his leg wrong mid-air, and even with wind and blood rushing his ears, Ghost thought he could hear it snap. After what could only be seconds, but felt like eternity, they impacted painfully with the streets below. Soap’s still form was lying under debris and rubble, not far away, almost within reach. Consciousness slipped Ghost momentarily, until Price’s agitated yelling broke through-

It was Gaz’ voice that brought him back to the present. Whatever the other lieutenant was about to say over the radio was cut short. He no longer had the man within his sights after having turned the building corner, so he couldn’t check his status, but instinctually, Ghost knew an EMP had fried their equipment. He wrenched the doors open, not waiting for his teammates to catch up. Without communication, they shouldn’t split up, but Soap was so close. Simon needed to see him, feel him breathing, hold him in his arms.

All he found in the archives was a small splatter of blood, a collapse, the corpse of a teammate who died too young, and no sign of Johnny anywhere. With a broken hearing aid clenched tightly in his left hand, Ghost burned with unbridled rage. Whatever was going on, whoever had killed Toast, and had taken Price, Yuri and now Johnny-

He was going to hunt them down, and make them wish they had never brought back the Ghost of Simon Riley.

Soap was floating, just out of reach of awareness.

Despite his mind floating, his body felt incredibly heavy, like the ground was having a magnetic pull, drawing him to it. Whenever he had enough mind to try moving, none of his limbs worked. He pulled and pulled, at his body, at his consciousness, but like grains of sand, they slipped between his fingers, falling further and further away. He couldn’t move. Why couldn’t he-

Move! Move! Move!

His mind begged him, but all he could see was those words on the page. Makarov’s voice read them aloud to him, close enough that Soap was convinced that if he turned his head slightly, he would see the sharp features of the terrorist. But he couldn’t turn his head to check, because he couldn’t bloody move.

His eyes just stayed pinned on those words on the page, stayed there as the paper slowly burned away between his fingers. Even as the flames kissed his fingertips, he was still frozen. 

With the page gone, it had revealed the world behind it. Toast stood, hand against a wall made from bricks of C4. Earnest brown eyes were looking at Soap, pleading, as the lad asked him to, “Move. Move, please, sir. Save me. Please save me. At least warn me. Tell me to run.”

But Soap couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, could only watch as the white of the explosion ate his new friend, ate everything. Only Soap was left unharmed. Toast was broken, gone, but the unmoving sergeant was alive, here. How unfair. How incredibly unfair.

“I froze,” a new voice rumbled to his other side. Makarov kept whispering in his right ear, but it was slowly tuned out as the ear stopped functioning. All that was left was this white world, and the familiar rumble next to him. If only he could turn to look.

“I couldn’t fucking move, Johnny,” the voice continued. Simon. Oh, how he wished he could turn his head to see him. “Stuck on isle four of the corner shop. All because some teens set off a firework outside. How fucking embarrassing.”

“Oh, love,” Soap heard his own voice say, strangely disconnected. He remembered this conversation, remembered stroking Simon’s hair after he had been triggered in their local shop. John had never tried freezing like that, but he thought it sounded awful.

Simon’s hands hadn’t stopped shaking for a long time. He had said he preferred it to no movement at all.

“At least this shit never happened in the field.” A bitter laugh followed Simon’s statement, ecchoing in Soap’s ear. “That shit would’ve gotten people killed. Especially as a CO. At least I already decided to retire before this started happening. Imagine if I’d gotten someone killed because I froze. Fuckin’ hell.”

“Well, at least that’s not a risk anymore,” John had soothed then.

In his frozen, white world, Soap wanted to scream. He couldn’t even do that.

The small trail of blood had led Ghost to a broom closet in the archives, broom falling over loudly, as if it had been resting against the door. When Gaz and Eggs joined him, he had already found the correct mechanism that opened the back wall of the closet, revealing an escape tunnel. Two twin trails in the dirt amidst regular boot tracks, showed someone had been dragged along the ground. Johnny.

Sounds of people spilling into the library on the floor above them allowed no time to linger in the basement. Gaz grabbed Eggs by the arm when the kid stopped up at the sight of the collapse. There was no time to mourn, no time to dig out Toast’s body and bring him home. Ghost was already far ahead, like a hound who caught the scent. He still had a chance, maybe he could intercept the people who took Soap. Just a bit faster.

His teammates were struggling to keep up. There was a great chance that the soldiers who ambushed them knew about the tunnel, but no one entered behind them. Ghost’s pace never slowed. After fifteen minutes, they finally reached a ladder leading to a trapdoor above them. With his team covering his back, Ghost was the first to exit.

There was no one waiting above ground where the trapdoor led to. It was located between some bushes in the snowy forest near the ghost town, far enough away that it was impossible to make out any of the buildings. Distant talking from their attackers carried to the location; not a safe distance away, yet.

The tracks continued in the snow, leading away from the town, and Ghost was moving before Gaz had finished helping Eggs up the steps. 

He was aware of Gaz trying to talk to him, voice still low to avoid detection from possible enemies, but every second counted, and the blood rushing in his ears drowned out the other’s voice. Both of his teammates were smart enough not to interrupt his hunt, and eventually fell completely silent as they followed behind him. His old leg injury was acting up, occassional twinges turning into a constant, sharp pinch in his shin. It swiftly became bad enough that he couldn’t hide his limp. He could feel concerned eyes burn into his neck.

The trail led to a small road in the woods, where the footsteps disappeared, tire tracks taking their place. The rage in his chest twisted and roared, a feral growl escaping his lips. 

He wasn’t fast enough. 

He wasn’t fast enough. 

Price had been the one to tackle Shepherd before the former general could take the shot. Soap had been the one to throw the knife that killed the bastard, after digging it out of his own chest. And Ghost hadn’t been fast enough. Hadn’t been there to help, hadn’t prevented the gaping wound leaking blood onto the ground beneath Johnny.

“Ye’re thinkin’ too loud, Lt.”

He looked up from his spot beside the bed in the impromptu medical room, looking up into blue. Soap’s eyes seemed clearer than last time he’d woken. Maybe the infection was finally dying down. Letting his ungloved hand land gently against the sweaty forehead, Ghost was pleased to note the fever had indeed turned from an inferno into a more manageable temperature. 

“Feelin’ me up, sir? Scandalous,” Johnny chuckled, leaning into the cool hand. Simon moved it down to rest against his cheek, stroking a thumb over the unkempt stubble.

“Your fever’s gone down.” He unscrewed the cap of a water bottle, and helped Soap drink with an arm supporting under his shoulders. “Slow down,” he had to admonish, and Soap drank less greedily, before leaning back with a small gasp for air. He already looked more exhausted than he did when he woke, his eyelids drooping.

After helping Soap lay back down on the cot, Ghost adjusted the thin, ratty blankets around him. He wished they could go to a proper hospital, but they were lucky that Nikolai even knew this place and had been able to get Johnny help as fast as he had. Everyone else had been fast enough; everyone except Ghost.

“Looks painful,” Soap rasped. He appeared to be physically fighting off sleep, determined to talk to his bedside guardian. 

“What does?”

“Thinkin’ as hard as ye’r doing. Must be big thoughts to have ye tha’ tense.”

“You wouldn’t know.”

“Ouch.” A weak grin spread across Johnny’s face. “Ah dinnae need more woundin’, Lt.”

He took Soap’s hand in his own, looking at the way they fit together. Rough and scarred, but made to hold each other. 

“Ghost?”

He took a deep breath, before finally spilling over: “I should’ve been faster. Should- If I had just been there, you wouldn’t-”

“Gho-”

“I wasn’t fast enough-”

“Simon!” Soap’s voice was firm, and when Ghost looked up, the blue eyes had a steel to them he rarely saw. “Ye’re a right daft eejit, ya ken? I’m still here, aye?”

“Yeah.” Simon squeezed the hand in his. “You’re still here.”

“Ye’ve saved me time and time again, Si. Ah ken ye’ll always come for me, as fast as ye can. If it’s ever too slow, then it wilnae be yer fault.” Johnny smiled. “Now, get on this shitty bed with me, an’ take a nap. Ye look dead on yer feet.”

Simon huffed a laugh, already getting onto the too-small cot. “Well, that makes sense, seeing as I am a-”

“-ost? Ghost? Hey, mate, you with me?”

Ghost blinked, static lifting slowly as he looked up into Gaz’ searching gaze. The younger man looked rough, holding on by a thread. Under the mask, Simon imagined he looked the same, if not worse. Dead on his feet.

“We need to go to Yuri’s cabin,” Gaz continued, when he was sure Ghost and Eggs were both listening. “He had all those phones. We’ll be able to contact Nikolai and Laswell and figure out what the hell our next move-”

“I’m going after Johnny.” Ghost’s interruption was met with nonplussed looks.

“Of course we are. We’re not giving up on him, or Price and Yuri. But right now, we’re in the middle of nowhere with no way of-”

“Those tracks lead to where they took him.”

Gaz frowned. “Yes…?”

“I’m going that way.”

“Ghost.” When realization dawned on the younger lieutenant's face, so did something verging on anger. “Be reasonable. Help me out here.”

Ghost was already turning away, ready to begin his trek down the road. A hand grabbed his arm, and he spun around, fist instinctually flying towards the offender. Gaz quickly caught it midair, before it could connect.

“Let. Me. Go,” Ghost sneered. 

Gaz was fuming now. “This is pointless! The snow’s gonna cover those tracks within the hour and we have no idea how far they’re driving! Stand. Down.” 

The tone used on those last two words sounded so much like Price, that it briefly rattled the rage seething in his chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Simon knew he was acting unreasonable, that he wouldn’t help Johnny by going rogue. 

Gaz was still holding tightly onto his wrist. The anger slowly simmered down, but his expression stayed fierce, although sympathy shone through. And finally, so did utter helplessness. “Simon, please. I need your help here. I can’t do this alone.”

Gaz rarely called him Simon, even after all the years without the mask. In this moment, the first time he felt more the Ghost than Simon in a long, long time, the use of his name shook something loose within him. He let go of a shuddering breath, and let the fight drain from his form. Relief swam in Gaz’ eyes.

“You with me?”

Ghost gave a tiny nod, grinding his teeth together. 

Eggs wasn’t focused on their superiors’ display, luckily, instead staring off into the distance, lost to their own thoughts. The private’s demeanor had gone through drastic change within the last hour, grief heavy in their body language, like waterlogged fabric.

Ghost was acting selfish and rashly. They had all lost someone, and he was lucky that he still had a chance at getting Soap back. He squared his shoulders, and gave Gaz a more resolute nod. “I’m with you.”

“Okay.” Gaz took a deep breath, collecting himself. “Okay, good. Then we better get going.”

“It will take us all day to get to Yuri’s place,” Ghost pointed out.

“If you have a better idea, then I’m all ears.”

A half-formed plan was already taking root in his mind. “I have an idea, but you’re not gonna like it.”

“... what?”

“The soldiers who ambushed us.” Ghost glowered when he mentioned of the people who had kept him from reaching Johnny in time. The plan already started tasting better at the thought of what he’d get to do to them. “I say we go back and find one to have a little chat with.” 

Soap thought he’d know exactly what awaited him when he woke.

He expected to wake up strapped to a chair or dangling from chains. He expected his mysterious captors to greet him with a bucket of icewater, before beginning a barrage of questions, followed by whatever punishment they saw fit when he answered in clever non-answers and the occasional “Go feck yerself”. That was usually the procedure when he was kidnapped, after all.

He was very surprised when he instead came to slowly on an almost-soft surface, his hands and legs unbound and a cool cloth resting on his forehead. His head was throbbing, and his tongue felt too big in his cottonmouth. His mind was moving through molasses as it collected itself, still affected by whatever drugs had been pushed into his system. Careful not to make noise, in the hopes that he wouldn’t alert his captors of his wakeful state, he pried his sticky eyes open and took in his surroundings.

A cell. Well, that made sense.

It wasn’t some dingy dungeon cell as seen in medieval movies, with rivulets of water running down the walls and moss in the corners, but it wasn’t entirely far from being that either. No moss or moist walls, but still a sparse, little room with stone walls, floor and ceiling. The door was metal, and actually had iron bars covering a square window in its center. Soap wouldn’t be surprised if his captors turned out to be wearing armor and swords, if this was the aesthetic they went with.

There were no other windows or interesting features to make note of. It was rather depressing, really. They hadn’t even put chains on the walls or blood on the floor to scare him. The cell’s closest thing to furniture was the thin mattress he was laying on.

He was thankful for how dark the room was, with the concussion he was sporting. His head had had worse hits, far worse, but that didn’t make it less unpleasant to wake to the confusement and naseau. The back of his head felt sticky, probably with blood. Someone had attempted to wrap it though, he noted curiously. 

Someone, who might be the person leaned against the wall right beside him, snoring lightly. Soap tried to move his head to get a better look, and cursed himself when he wasn’t quite able to bite down the groan the action forced out. The man beside him roused immediately.

“Soap?” a heavily accented voice asked, sounding familiar. In the dark of the room, it was hard to make out the man’s features, but as his eyes slowly focused, he got a good idea who it was. Although he wasn’t as bald as last time Soap had seen him.

“Yuri?” he mumbled, still a little unsure. The figure nodded, laying a hesitant hand on John’s shoulder.

“Da,” came the confirmation. Soap groaned again when he tried to sit up, and Yuri was quick to push him back down. “Stay still. Your head is hurt.”

“How long was I out?”

“Few hours, I’d say. Hard to tell time here.”

“Ye ‘ave hair.”

The surprised laugh seemed out of place in the gloomy space, but wasn’t unwelcome. “Mmhm. Beard’s growing in, too. They don’t seem to keen on giving me a razor, weirdly enough.”

“Hah,” Soap huffed. He squinted to take in his old friend’s appearance. Yuri had certainly seen better days, looking malnourished and scruffy, a dark bruise on his stubbled cheek. It seemed to be a few days old, fading. “And ‘they’ are…?”

Yuri shook his head, looking towards the door. “Since you are here, I hoped you might know something, Mylo. I’m afraid I have very little information to share, despite how long I’ve been here-”

“Price,” John interrupted suddenly, grabbing hold of Yuri’s wrist. “Where’s Price? Is he- is he still alive? Did you meet up before you were taken?”

“Captain Price?” Yuri’s brow was pinched in a puzzled expression. “Is he here as well?”

“What do you mean? You were the one that sent for him?”

“I- I didn’t send for Price, my friend.”

“What?” Soap attempted to sit again, and when Yuri realised he wasn’t going to agree to lying down, he instead helped him up against the wall, removing the wet cloth from his head. “But you contacted Laswell and Price about the archives. Price was supposed to meet with you.”

“Soap, I haven’t spoken to Laswell or the captain since… for at least five years. Nikolai made me join his video call to congratulate you and Ghost on the wedding, and that’s the last time I’ve spoken to any of you. Except Nikolai, of course.”

With a heavy sigh, John let his head fall back, resting it against the cold stone wall behind him. It all fell into place. He’d had his suspicion’s since finding that file, but this confirmed it: “It was a trap. From the start.” 

This wasn’t about someone getting their hands on personal files on the 141. Price hadn’t stumbled upon something he shouldn’t have in that library; no, he had found exactly what he was supposed to, or rather, he had been found exactly like he was supposed to. The captain, and probably the task force as well, had always been the target of whoever was behind this.

Yuri looked pale. “They used my connection to the task force to trick Price to come here. And now you… I am so sorry, friend.”

“Hey, hey.” He poked Yuri’s cheek, breaking whatever spiral he had gotten stuck in. “None o’ that now. Wasnae yer fault, ya bampot.”

“How will Price ever trust me-?”

“Ye proved yerself back then, when ye helped take down Makarov. Price is a smart man, he’ll ken ye didnae have a part in this.”

Trust was a sensitive subject with their youngest Russian ally. Back then, seven years prior, Soap had almost died believing that Yuri had betrayed them, and even after hearing Yuri’s side of the story, both Price and Ghost had remained very icy around the man. Too late had they found out that Makarov knew Yuri was an informant for the task force. The terrorist had fed him the wrong intel, which then landed the team in that fateful explosion. 

Soap had been more forgiving than his teammates, but most of his energy had been spent keeping his blood in, so Yuri hadn’t had much support apart from Nik. It had taken him proving his trust over and over again, even taking a bullet for the captain, before he had been fully accepted by the team.

And now his name had been used to mislead them all, landing them in a trap yet again. It seemed almost purposeful.

“What happened?” John asked gently, trying to calm his friend. “With you? How did you end up here?”

“They came to my cabin. Must be a little over a week ago, now, maybe two. I was sleeping, woke up to a needle in my neck and next thing I knew-” He gestured to their depressing surroundings. “I was here. And you?”

“Price went on the mission a week ago- well, a week and a few days, now. He started out by clearing some of Makarov’s other ol’ facilities on the way, finding nothing. When he went to meet ye, to scout out the library, Laswell lost radio contact.”

“So she put together a bigger team, and had them come here to find him.” 

“Aye.”

“But why are you here, Soap?” Yuri asked, eyes worried as he looked him over. “You don’t work anymore, right? I thought you and Ghost retired, after…”

“We did.” A lump formed in his throat, thinking about the safety of that cottage they'd left behind.

The morning on the day Gaz arrived bearing bad news, he and Simon had woken in their own bed. Soap had grumbled about being cold when his husband had left the sheets first, like he always did, and had received a light kiss to his cheek, beard tickling him. Like always. Simon had offered letting the dogs onto the bed to keep him warm, and John had scolded him, eyes still closed. 

“No dirty beasts on the bed, Si, ye ken this-”

“Hm. No complaints last night.”

“Ach, ya menace. Git gaun, let me snooze.”

The rain pattering against the window had lulled him right back to sleep, alongside Simon’s muffled talking to the dogs downstairs. That hadn’t even been 48 hours ago.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. The sensitive information on us- that was probably pure rubbish too.”

“These people have files on you?”

“Well, we thought so. It’s why Ghost and I left home, why we even- fuck!”

Yuri recoiled out of reach as Soap angrily punched at the worn mattress, uncaring of the pain pounding against his skull. Breathing heavily, he glared at the wall opposite them, fists still clenched tight. 

Yuri carefully reached out, but stopped before he touched him, eventually letting his hand fall back to his side. “The false Yuri told you that there might be more personal files in Makarov’s old facility, which then forced you away from home. Without a place to stay, and with Price gone, you and Ghost decided to help out and come here as well. Is that what happened?”

Soap nodded, defeated. 

“They must have known,” Yuri continued, forehead creased in thought. “But why? Why lure Price here, and then you? Who else is here?”

“Simon. Gaz, Nikolai, two new-” Soap cleared his throat, blinking rapidly against the sudden sting in his eyes. “One new team member, Eggs. There was another kid, Toast, but he- When they got me, down in the archives, he- there was an explosion…”

“Oh.” Yuri eyed him sympathetically. This time he let his hand land on Soap’s shoulder, giving a squeeze. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.” He sniffled, before sitting up straighter. For the first time since waking he looked down at himself, taking in his bruises and dirtied form, but most importantly, his vest. They’d taken all his weapons and his med kit, but his vest was still there, covered in soot, dust and blood. He dug his hand hurriedly into a small pocket, and breathed a sigh of relief when his fingers met cool metal. He pulled out the tags and let them rest in the palm of his hand.

“His tags?” Yuri asked softly.

“Got worried I lost them.” He traced a finger over the name engraved in metal, before this time putting them around his neck alongside his own. Who knew when they’d take his vest. His wedding band also still sat on his finger, and he breathed slightly easier at the sight.

“This has something to do with Makarov.” Might as well bite the bullet and say it out loud. “There was a file in the archives. It said ‘hell awaits you’. Or at least I think it did, it was written in cyrillic.”

Beside him, Yuri stiffened, breath catching. “He’s dead. I saw- I saw him die, he’s dead.”

“Aye, he better fuckin’ be. Price made damn sure.” Soap could hardly fault the Russian for the tremble that had entered his hands, considering his own reaction to the file. “What do they want? Have they done anything to ye while you’ve been here?”

“Net. Nothing. They bring me one meal a day, that’s the only time the door opens. Roughed me up when I tried to escape one time. I overpowered the guy who comes with food, and got all the way out the building-” Yuri’s eyes brightened suddenly. He shook Soap’s shoulder excitedly. “They caught me when I reached a wall because I couldn’t climb it, but, Soap- with you here-”

Soap felt hope flickering in his chest. “Ye think we could get over it?”

“Definitely. We don’t know what they plan with us, but not being here to find out sounds a lot better, da?”

“That’s fer fuckin’ sure.” Soap’s limbs fired up with that familiar adrenaline of pre-mission jitters. Nervous, but with new purpose. “No sign of Price on yer way out?”

“Sorry. No one but me and the guards.” 

“S’fine. We get out, find the others, bring them back here.” Soap grinned at his friend. “Tell me everything I need to know. We’re getting out of here as soon as we get a chance.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 6

“Hellhounds”

Getting their hands on one of the soldiers from the library ambush had been laughably easy. A gangly man in white had gone into the cover of the trees to take a piss, oblivious to the danger he put himself in. Then again, why shouldn’t these people think that the 141 had made a run for it as soon as they slipped out of the gunfight. It was definitely the logical choice.

And so, the stringbean soldier never even registered the threat until a gloved hand covered his mouth before he had gotten a chance to unzip his pants. There was a muffled attempt at a call for help, which ended the instant that one of Ghost's cold blades kissed the bare skin of the man’s neck in warning.

“Give me a reason,” Ghost snarled into the man’s ear. “I will end you right now and leave you here to paint the snow red and yellow. Just make a sound.”

The frightened soldier cleverly kept his mouth shut.

Gaz and Eggs waited where he had left them, two pairs of eyes lighting up in relief at the sight of his big form coming towards them with new cargo.

“Any trouble?” Gaz asked, eyes roving over the trees where Ghost came from, looking for any possible tag-alongs. 

“None.” Ghost pushed their captive to the ground. He had already been stripped of all weapons and means of communication. Despite knowing it wouldn’t work, Ghost had still tried to contact Laswell on the devices, but as suspected the EMP had left their enemies without working equipment as well.

Stringbean was looking up at the three people around him with apprehension, lips still glued together, no doubt replaying Ghost’s earlier threat in his mind. 

The blizzard had eased up while the trio had planned their next move, and they had been forced to wait over an hour for it to pick back up before Ghost headed out to grab their lucky winner. The flakes that fell around them now were thick and many, making it the perfect condition for enacting their plan. Their newest addition seemed to understand that as well, defeat showing through the cracks as he watched how fast the tracks in their wake were covered.

“He speak English?” Gaz nodded at the man on the ground. 

“Seemed to understand my friendly warning well enough.” Ghost kicked Stringbean’s leg, earning him a startled jump. “Didn’t you?”

After a small moment of contemplation, their captive nodded a slow up-down.

“Answer me.”

“I understand,” the man spoke, Russian accent coating his words thickly. Grey eyes stayed firmly planted on the skull mask. 

When Ghost knelt before him, Stringbean audibly gulped. Apparently, Ghost had picked a fragile target, and he doubted it would take long before their new friend would spill any and all beans. Only question was how much he knew.

“Here’s how this is gonna go.” Ghost reached over and corrected the other’s vest straps in what could almost be described as a friendly manner. He ignored the flinch the action received. “I’m going to ask you a few questions. You’re going to answer them. If you don’t…” He let the words linger, holding eye contact for an uncomfortable amount of time. “Well, you’re a smart man, aren’t you? I’m sure you can guess the rest.”

The trembling man on the ground stayed silent, lips pressed together once more.

“Answer me,” Ghost commanded, voice never changing cadence or rising in volume. Still, the other tensed further.

“I understand.” 

“Good. What’s your name, soldier?”

That earned a perplexed look, but a sure reply: “Gustav Ka-”

“Just Gustav will do,” Ghost interrupted. “So, Gustav. Why did your squad attack us?”

Grey eyes flickered to the two spectators on either side, as if searching for a way out, a sympathetic glance or a weak link. 

Gaz showed no emotion, still as a statue. Eggs' face was twisted in an uncomfortable grimace, but they didn’t look away or move either. Ghost tried his best to ignore his audience, in case things turned ugly. He didn’t look forward to snuffing that spark of admiration in the private’s eyes.

The silence stretched on. Once again, Ghost appeared almost friendly as he took Gustav’s hand in his own. He slowly started removing the other man’s glove.

“What- What are you doing?” 

When the glove was gone, Ghost held the hand, just tight enough that it couldn’t escape his grip. “I asked you a question.”

The ungloved fingers against his own gloved palm reminded the lieutenant of the last person whose hand he’d held; of a gold band glinting back at him in the car, a brush of knuckles while Gaz went over the plan, a gentle squeeze before they parted in the forest.

This was a sick parody of that touch.

“Answer me.” His voice was still toneless, calm. “Or I’ll cut off your fingers and feed them to you until you chew or choke.”

To emphasise his point, he moved a knife to rest against Gustav’s pinky. Shaky breaths were visible in the air between them as wide eyes locked onto the blade. 

“I- I-”

“It’s your choice.” The knife pressed hard enough for a single drop of blood to dot the snow.

For a second, Ghost thought the man would actually prove his initial assessment wrong and refuse to answer. He almost hoped he would.

Instead the words suddenly tumbled out of Gustav’s mouth, and once the waterfall began, there was no stopping it. 

“We were told to expect people at the library and that once the bomb in the archives went off, we were to attack, not to kill, but to capture-”

“But you did kill,” Eggs interrupted, voice cracking. They ignored Gaz’ stern glance. “The bomb killed one of us, how can that be?”

“Eggs-” Gaz warned, but he was interrupted by the newly cooperative Russian.

“They didn’t care about the new ones, you and the boy,” he told the kid, who paled considerably. “They only wanted the old ones alive, you two were just… in the way. Your friend was collateral.”

The statement was almost made worse by being just that: a statement. There was no mocking in Gustav’s voice, just indifferent fact.

“Fuck you!” Eggs lunged, but was intercepted by Gaz who forcefully dragged the private away.

Ghost waited until the pair was out of earshot, his eyes never straying from the man before him. 

“Why do they want us, the ‘old ones’?”

Gustav shrugged slightly, still seeming very aware of the knife on his finger. “Ya ne znayu - I don’t know,” he quickly translated when Ghost’s eyes narrowed. “They don’t tell us anything, we’re just muscle. But my guess is revenge.”

“Revenge? Who do you work for?”

Closing his eyes briefly, Gustav seemed to quickly come to the conclusion that he had already said too much, and that he might as well lay in the grave he had dug. “Does the name Vladimir Makarov ring a bell?”

Ghost sneered at the man before him. “Of course it fucking does.”

“These guys are some of his old inner circle, led by a right hand man. I don’t know much, but if you played a part in his death…”

“Then they hold a serious grudge.” Ghost leaned back, finally releasing the ungloved hand. Gustav immediately held it against his chest, watching his masked captor carefully as Simon mused to himself. “But why now?”

He bit his lip hard. It didn’t fucking matter, he reminded himself. All that mattered was getting Johnny back, hopefully along with Price and Yuri as well, before blowing the fuckers behind this to pieces. 

“Where’s their base?”

Apparently having his hand in a safe distance from Ghost’s knife was enough to give Gustav some of his initial stubbornness back, as if he hadn’t already marked himself a traitor to his team. 

“That’s- I won’t tell-”

In order to keep their location completely undiscovered, Ghost was smart enough to cover Gustav’s mouth before he drove his knife deep into the meat of the Russian’s thigh. The muffled screech was still loud enough to grate at Ghost’s nerves.

“Listen, Gustav . I’m having a bad day, and I’m really not in the mood to play games. Where. Is. Their. Base?”

Pained sobs filled their surroundings when he removed his hand to let the other answer. In jumbled words, Gustav gave him the location, the information too detailed and said too fast to be a lie.

“See that wasn’t so hard. Will they have taken Soap there?”

“S-Soap?”

“The guy they took in the archives.” Ghost twisted the knife minutely, but still enough for the other to lurch forwards with a pathetic whine.

“Yes, yes, that’s where they would take him. Please, please , let me live, let me live-”

“Oh, away n’ bile yer heid,” Ghost growled, cutting off Gustav’s pleas alongside his vocal chords. Alongside anything in his throat, really. 

He didn’t stay to watch the betrayed, shocked grey turn dull.

At some point, Gaz and Eggs had returned quietly. He hadn’t noticed, but he couldn’t bring it in himself to care that their youngest teammate had already been exposed the reality of the Ghost.

However, there was no fear or disgust in the kid’s eyes, as they looked upon the growing stain of blood. Ghost saw nothing but the same cold satisfaction he felt himself. Fuckin’ hell.

Soap was surprisingly calm as the time to execute his and Yuri’s plan snuck closer. It seemed that just having a plan, a sense of direction, was apparently enough to keep his nerves settled.

He had always managed best with a clear objective before him. In Las Almas, he had scrambled, panic rising in his chest as he was all alone on wet cobblestone, but the second Ghost’s voice had filtered through with an order, cool professionalism had fallen over him. He had followed his lieutenant’s instructions carefully, and had made it through to live another day.

If he’d done that, he could do this. Even without Ghost’s terrible jokes in his ear.

A hand fell on his right shoulder, and he startled slightly. Yuri looked apologetic.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he whispered.

Soap sighed. He hadn’t heard the other approach at all. “Not yer fault. My ear doesnae work well on tha’ side.”

“Oh.” Yuri chewed on his bottom lip in thought. “I better stay on your right side when we go. Cover your flank.”

Soap warmed in gratitude. He had missed Yuri, and his ability to observe those around him, adapting to their needs. “Ye should visit sometime.”

“What?”

Okay, fair, that had been a drastic subject change. “In Scotland, me and Simon’s place. Ye’re always welcome. It’s been too long without seeing you.”

Yuri looked surprised, giving an awkward half-laugh. “Lucky to meet you here, then.”

“A positive side effect in a shitty situation, eh?” 

The other man shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips.

Soap tapped his knee in anticipation, watching the door. The wait was the worst part. “I’m serious, y’know? About ye visiting.”

Yuri blushed. “I haven’t been… out much, since- I just haven’t.”

“Feel free to bring Nikolai. And ye like dogs, right?”

“Da. There’s a stray-”

“Beast,” Soap grinned. Yuri looked up, perplexed that he knew the mutt’s name. “We found it at yer cabin. Big fella, very friendly. Nikolai’s got him.”

Yuri let out a small sigh of relief. “That’s good.”

“Ye can also bring Beast to Scotland, if he’s fine with other dogs. Oh, and a cat.”

There was no answer for a while, and Soap assumed the conversation was over. Since he was still sitting on the sergeant’s deaf side, Yuri’s soft whisper almost went unheard. “I’d like that.”

Soap beamed. He opened his mouth to respond, pausing when his cellmate’s head shot up to view the door. The footsteps heading their way soon became audible to Soap as well, and he watched as Yuri stood up and positioned himself next to the door. Getting in position as well, Soap tried not to be too bothered by the freezing stone floor beneath him. 

Through the window bars, a pair of eyes looked into the cell, and the guard saw exactly what he was supposed to: Soap, sprawled on the floor, unmoving. The Scot did his best to stay completely still, listening to muttered curses and jangling keys, as the door to the cell was yanked open. The guard rushed into the room. What a fucking idiot.

Yuri was on the bastard in seconds, hand over his nose and mouth as the larger man struggled against the hold. Soap sprang from the floor to help his friend, holding down flailing arms and legs. The struggles gradually turned sluggish and weak as Yuri’s hands kept oxygen from reaching the unfortunate guard’s lungs. Finally, misty eyes rolled back and the man went completely limp. 

Soap patted down the uniform (sadly not mediaeval armour, but instead a pretty standard white military get-up), and his hands found a knife, a gun and of course the bundle of keys used to get into the room. Yuri didn’t release his hold until Soap was ready to go, making sure that the guard wouldn’t wake again and sound the alarm.

Soap pressed the gun into Yuri’s hand, the man only accepting it after he explained: “I’m the one with a concussion. Doubt my aim is better than yers right now.”

In his own hand, the knife rested comfortably. He’d just have to rely on Ghost’s lessons on handling a blade. He could do that. Simon had even told him that he was impressed with how skilled Soap had gotten, praising the knife throw that had killed Shepherd, so long ago.

He was probably a bit rusty now, but hopefully it was like riding a bike. The handle certainly felt like a natural weight in his palm.

They leaned the body against the door, before closing it, creating a natural obstacle if anyone tried entering the room. It would only buy seconds, but sometimes seconds made all the difference. Soap glanced down at the tray with two bowls of slob, and he grimaced in disgust at the green-grey colour of the food.

“This is what they’ve been feeding ye?”

Yuri looked up from where he’d been checking the gun’s clip and scrunched up his nose, nodding. “Would almost have preferred if they’d just tortured me.”

Soap snorted, before following Yuri down the hall with silent steps. 

His eyes darted around for signs of danger, and at one point he had to pull Yuri back, both men waiting with bated breaths for a group of guards to pass. They stayed unnoticed, waiting a few seconds before Yuri started moving again, Soap on his heels.

The building appeared to be some sort of old fort, which explained the cell’s design. It meant it was well protected, walls thick and impenetrable. It also meant there were plenty of dark nooks and crannies for the escapees to slip into whenever they risked being spotted. No alarm had sounded by the time they reached the door to the empty yard.

The two men looked at each other, nodding resolutely. Soap’s initial calm was giving way to a quickening pulse. Once they were outside they would be much more exposed, but in order to reach the wall and escape, they needed to get across that open stretch. He tightened his grip on the stolen knife and focused. Yuri settled on his right side, as promised.

They waited for an extra beat, ears perked for any sign of approaching steps, and when there were none, Yuri opened the door with a large, metal key that clearly fit the large keyholes of the doors leading outside. Relief still spilled over the pair, as the door moved open after a small click. Yuri only opened it enough for them to slink their way through, the hinges groaning with age.

Once outside, the Russian wasted no time locking the door behind them. 

It wasn’t the main entrance, but a side exit leading to a small, snow covered courtyard. Opposite them waited a tall wall of weather worn bricks, and beyond it, icy forest and freedom. Yuri had been right: alone, the wall was too tall to scale, but with both of them it was doable.

“Alright,” Soap murmured, looking at the windows facing the open space. He found no watchful eyes. “Let’s move.”

They still stuck to the shadows, but changed their pace into a proper run. If they were spotted here, they would be sitting ducks for anyone with firearms and a half-decent aim.

The alarm sounded just as they reached the wall. Yuri looked at him with wide eyes, both expecting gunfire to rain down on them if they had been spotted. None came. There were no figures in the windows.

“No one’s seen us,” Soap concluded, folding his hands together and bending at the knees. “They must’ve found our friend in the cell.”

Yuri nodded, placing a gross boot on Soap’s bare hands, tensing in preparation for the jump he had to make. With a forceful shove, Soap had the other man practically flying upwards, pleased to see that he reached the top of the wall. Yuri manoeuvred himself to sit securely before he reached down a hand. 

John was thankful that he had kept in shape after retiring, frequent morning runs making his own jump powerful enough to reach the outstretched hand. Yuri groaned as he pulled up his weight, and Soap helped as much as possible, finding footholds in the uneven side of the wall, occasionally slipping on ice. They were panting when Soap swung his own body next to his friend’s.

There was no time to celebrate their successful climb as a bullet pinged off loudly right next to Soap’s leg. In the window, a person with a rifle had finally found them, yelling angrily into their radio while they fired.

They didn’t wait around for the bullets to hit, leaping off the wall at the same time. Soap’s legs twinged when they hit the ground hard. Thankfully, nothing sprained, but the rough landing rattled his concussion, dizziness slowing him down. With how fast Yuri was back on his feet, he had clearly escaped the jump unscathed. He pulled Soap along, guiding the sergeant while he regained his composure. Biting down nausea, Soap stumbled a little as he blinked against his aching head. It took precious seconds for him to recover and keep pace with his ally.

Their pursuers would have to group up and leave through one of the main exits, which gave them a head start; one they needed to take advantage of. They sprinted through the pine trees, ignoring the burn of straining lungs and legs. Under the cover of the trees, there was no thick snow to leave their footprints on, nothing for their enemies to track. 

After a while they could no longer hear the yelling behind them. They didn’t stop.

They didn’t stop until Yuri’s legs physically gave out beneath him, his body running on prison food and sleep deprivation. Soap wouldn’t have made it much farther himself. The two of them heaved in breaths, sitting on some rocks under cover of pine branches. Soap patted Yuri’s arm.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” he gasped. “I cannae believe we’re actually outta there.”

“What? You seemed certain we were gonna make it when we planned it.”

“Och, naw, I was sure we were gonna bite it within ten minutes.” Soap grinned at the way Yuri’s face twisted at the confession. “M’just good at keeping spirits up, mate.”

Despite their situation, Yuri choked out a breathless laugh. “Oh, you’re a- what is it you Brits say? A ‘bloody wanker’?”

“Aye, Simon’s fond o’ that one. Careful calling me a Brit though, even if ye’re technically correct. I dinnae associate with the English.”

“You married one.” Yuri raised a playful eyebrow. The euphoria of actually escaping was making both men giddy.

“Every rule needs an exception,” John defended, heartbeat finally settling into something less akin to a gallop. “Besides-”

A howl interrupted him, splitting through the still air. Then several others followed. The sound originated from the direction they had just left. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, icy fear spilling down his spine.

Yuri looked at him with dread that was undoubtedly mirrored on his own face. 

“Wolves in these parts?” Soap asked hoarsely. 

“Those are dogs.” Yuri was already on his feet, Soap right beside him. “Dog howls.”

“Theirs?”

“Maybe. Let’s not find out.”

Ignoring his body’s protests, Soap willed his legs to keep moving quickly through the forest. The sun had started setting, the snow falling so lightly now that orange spilled through the clouds, painting their surroundings in a soft glow. It was a pretty sight, one that he would stop to admire if he couldn’t hear barking gaining on them, closer by the minute. Dogs. Why did it have to be dogs?

“Meet Riley.” Ghost gestured to the German Shepherd beside him. “He’s being borrowed to us for a few weeks to help out.”

“Riley?” Gaz teased, his eyes giving away his excitement at the new development.

“A coincidence.” 

In a rare display, Ghost seemed to smile under the mask when Gaz greeted their newest teammate, getting dog slobber all over his face for the effort. Soap shrank back, regarding the scene carefully. His fellow sergeant didn’t appear to be in mortal danger, and deep down, John knew that was a silly concern. 

Then the creature noticed him and made its way across the room with a wagging tail. Heart in his throat, Soap excused himself before rushing out of the room, unaware of the worried looks directed at his retreating form.

Simon found him not even ten minutes later, joining him quietly on the bench overlooking the training area. They sat in silence for a while, watching the setting sun stretch shadows over the field. It was just them, as training was over and most people had headed to dinner in the mess hall.

“What happened?” the masked man eventually inquired, for once being the one to break the silence.

“Sorry,” Soap muttered, scratching at his stubble. “Didnae mean tae run out like some FNG. Just- Dogs aren’t- M’not their biggest fan, Lt.”

“You’re scared of them.”

“Aye, that’s another way o’ putting it, sure. Leavin’ my pride in tatters, sir.”

Ghost huffed, eyes crinkling. It made John’s stomach do that fun, little jump it always did whenever he made his lieutenant smile.

He pointed to the scar on his own chin. “Got this one from a dog. Kinda put me off the beasts, starin’ into the maw of one, thinkin’ I’d lose my bonnie mug.”

To his surprise, a gloved hand came up to grab his chin, moving it to get a better look. Soap suppressed a shiver at the gentle act.

“Always wondered where you got that one,” Ghost murmured. “Mission?”

Soap shook his head, movement restricted by the hold on his face. To his disappointment, the hand fell away. 

“Got it as a wee bairn- small child,” he translated out of habit, although he suspected that Ghost had learned enough Scottish to follow along on his own. “I was about seven or eight and wasnae smart enough to think before petting a big geezer at the park. Thought I was gonna die. Couldnae even be in the same room as my grannie’s dog after, and I used to play with it all the time before tha’.”

Ghost listened intently, as he was wont to do, and Soap couldn’t help basking slightly in the attention. 

“Also got bit on the job, though.” Soap lifted his t-shirt, revealing the faded mark of fangs just above his hip. “Cartel guard dog. Came outta nowhere, took me by surprise. Had to get a rabies shot along with a tetanus shot, and ye ken I hate needles too. Couldnae decide which was worse, the dog or going to medical after.”

“You have terrible luck, MacTavish.”

“That’s fer sure.” He tucked his shirt back in his pants. He thought he saw Ghost’s eyes linger at the spot, but blinked and it was gone. Probably wishful thinking.

“I love dogs,” Simon admitted, leaving the statement without further elaboration.

Hearing the word ‘love’ spill from Ghost’s lips did something strange to John’s heart. Bourbon and dogs. He needed to find more things his lieutenant loved, to hear the word in that low rumble again.

“What happened to ‘half a dog’?”

“That was different. Your life was on the line.” 

“Aw,” Soap cooed. “Ye do like me.”

Dark eyes squinted down at him, amusement twinkling in their depths. Ghost didn’t deem the jab worthy of a response. Soap grinned, taking it as a victory.

“It’s not that I hate dogs. Used to adore them, actually. Dinnae ken tha’ I hate any animal.”

“I hate snakes,” his large companion confessed, bitterness coating the words. “Deadly afraid of them.”

“With due respect, sir, ye dinnae have to work with a snake.”

“Worked with Graves for a while, didn’t I?”

Soap giggled before he could stop himself, the sound decidedly non-masculine, and he quickly bit it down, cheeks already flushing red. However, when he looked up, Ghost didn’t look like he was about to tease him. Instead his eyes had softened, expression fond. John could get lost in that look.

“I promise that Riley is friendly.” After a moment’s hesitation, Ghost once again let his thumb brush over the scar on John’s chin. “You’ll have to work with him, but I’ll make arrangements to keep you separate if it’s too much?”

“Naw, I’ll try first.” Soap leaned into the touch, smiling up at his friend. Feeling brave, he added: “I have a way with Rileys, after all.”

The long shadows in the darkening woods concealed the root until it was too late. Soap’s foot caught on the damn thing, having him spread on his belly over wet dirt, sticks and pine digging into his cheek. Yuri stopped up to help him up, and they were quickly moving again, but the incident had cost them more seconds. 

The next bark was way too close. Out of the corner of his eyes, Soap spotted a dark shape behind them, moving fast enough to reach them within the next minute. The thick underbrush and the close tree trunks made it redundant to try shooting at the speedy target.

“A river!” Yuri yelled, abruptly changing direction, Soap again following his lead. “They will lose the scent if we cross. Hurry!”

What did he think Soap was doing if not hurrying? Oh yes, a lovely stroll in the woods. His response amounted to a: “Copy that!”  

With a few extra seconds at their disposal, they would have gotten into the icy water in time. The hot breath against John’s heel let him know that he wouldn’t make it, just a moment before sharp teeth sank into his calf.

A scream tore from his throat, hot fire licking up from where the dog had a hold on his leg, the beast viciously dragging him backwards. Yuri was yelling, but it was hard to focus on anything other than the pain. A loud gunshot rang out, echoing through the trees. The pull on his leg stopped. More barking sounded nearby.

“Soap,” Yuri gasped, prying the dead dog’s jaws from their place in the sergeant’s leg. It sent another shock of fire through him, and he clenched his eyes together as he whimpered.

“Go,” he rasped. “Go, now.”

“No no-”

“My fucking leg, Yuri. Ye still have a chance. Go!”

It was another thing he liked about Yuri; the man knew to listen to logic over heart when it counted. Soap shook his head at the offered gun, instead untangling Toast’s tags from his own and pressing them into Yuri’s hand. 

“Take care o’ these fer me.” Another bark, so close. “Dinnae freeze to death.”

“Don’t die either, friend,” Yuri ordered, squeezing Soap’s arm. “I’ll bring help.” 

And then he was gone.

Soap dragged himself to the nearest tree, leaning against it with his knife held tightly in his hand. The sun had set, the dark blue making it hard to make out details in his surroundings. 

At first he didn’t see the dark shapes around him; then he spotted the several bright dots of eyes watching him. Even with one ear out of commission, he could pick up on the low growls. The air smelled of his own metallic blood, cloying his nostrils. He saw one of the prowling beasts lick its bared teeth, each one glinting like sharp blades. 

Soap only had one blade of his own, but he would sure as hell make it count.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 7

“No Surprises”

Soap’s hand shook as he lined up the throw. The air was filled with the sounds of flesh connecting with bone, Shepherd’s fists leaving Price’s face a bloodied mess, but the gruesome ambience drowned in the static that had settled in Soap’s ears when the general’s blade had sunk into his chest. All that mattered was this next throw; his captain’s life depended on it. 

He could practically hear Simon’s guidance from one of their training sessions. Large, warm hands had rotated Soap’s hips to the best position to throw from. The sergeant never seemed to get it right on the first try. It wasn’t until many years later, tangled in each other’s arms in a soft bed, that John confessed that he had gotten it wrong on purpose so that Simon would touch him. 

The correct throwing position didn’t matter much from his spot on the ground, but the old scene still brought calm with it. Focus.

With pain shooting through his limbs at the action, he sent the knife flying in a neat arch, where it finally landed in Shepherd’s eye with a satisfying thunk. His darkening vision never left the two other men, watching as Shepherd toppled down, dead, and Price slowly stirred, alive. As it should be. Soap had done good. He could rest now.

All his limbs burned as he let the bloodied blade fly from his hand. Two dogs laid dead by his side already, and a third had started its dash towards him, drool dripping from glinting canines. Blood loss had black dots swimming in Soap’s eyes, and he figured he might as well just toss the blade before he lost consciousness. 

The knife buried to its hilt in the creature’s head, making it drop instantly, the hound never even reaching the growing pool of red around the downed sergeant. In the distance, more barking made itself known, alongside shouts from the people he’d thought he had escaped. 

What a shitty way to die. John “Soap” MacTavish, “Johnny” only to one: Dog owner, dog hater, devoured by dogs. It would almost be poetic if it wasn’t so stupid.

The dark trees blurred further, and he sagged against the trunk behind him. At least he didn’t suspect he’d be awake for the next arrivals. Several scratches and bites had joined his initial leg wound, and feeling had started ebbing away with his lifeblood. He was cold to his bones, although that could easily be blamed by night temperatures in Russia. He wondered if his spilled blood would freeze his body to the spot.

Footsteps and panting hounds were the last sounds that filtered through his hazy mind, before he let go of consciousness.

Yuri had gotten away. He would find Simon and the others, and together, they would save Price. As it should be. Soap had done good. He could rest now.

Trudging through thick snow in complete silence for hours on end turned out to be a terrible decision for Ghost’s brain.

Convincing Gaz to have them split up had felt like convincing someone to stick their hand in boiling water. The fellow lieutenant’s gut reaction involved more cursing than Ghost had heard from the man before, some of the expletives sounding suspiciously like those Price favoured.

Eventually, however, Gaz had to agree with his skull-faced friend. They needed to contact Nikolai and Laswell as soon as possible, and the only place they knew of with working communication was Yuri’s cabin - which was in the opposite direction of where Gustav had told them Soap had been taken. There was no way in hell they could send Eggs alone, and there was no way that Ghost was walking in a direction that wasn’t towards Johnny.

So Gaz had gritted his teeth, and reluctantly agreed, on one condition:

“Do not fucking engage until we arrive with backup, Ghost. You scout it out and that’s it. Alright?”

“Affirmative.”

He had walked for hours, watching the sun occasionally peek through the clouds from new places as it travelled the sky. The snowfall thinned until there were no flakes in the cold air, and Ghost hoped that his tracks had gotten covered far enough that the soldiers from the ambush wouldn’t be able to track him down. Although he wasn’t completely opposed to some mindless killing at the moment, it would still slow him down, and that wasn’t an option.

The white forest was deceptively beautiful. Johnny would like it. Back when they were camped out in places like this on missions, the sergeant had always been sure to dig out his journal and start sketching their surroundings with a concentrated expression. He would completely forget the cold biting at his nose and cheeks, so enraptured in his art that he would startle when Ghost handed him something warm to drink. 

When a journal had been lost in the frantic months between Shepherd and Makarov, the Scot had somehow found the time to complain more about that than the wound in his chest. Seeing as it had been the journal covering the beginning of their more romantic pursuits in each other, Ghost could understand why Soap’s reaction had been so strong.

As soon as they'd woken up in that hospital after Makarov’s death, Price had dumped a new journal in the sergeant’s lap. The second the cast came off Soap’s wrist, he had been sketching furiously again. Ghost’s world had tilted slightly back into place at the sight.

Ghost wondered if Soap’s old injuries were acting up like his own leg. Hopefully he was kept somewhere warmer than this.

“Feckin’ baltic,” the lone traveller muttered under his breath, knowing that the Scot would say the same if he was walking beside him. 

His mind was ruthlessly imagining what Johnny could be enduring while all Ghost fought was the cold. The images he conjured were so disturbing and detailed, that they stole his breath away. His own memories only added plenty of easy fuel to the wretched fire of worst case scenarios. He walked faster.

It was just about an hour past nightfall when his thoughts were ripped forcefully from the cloud of anxious imaginings by the sound of something stumbling through the woods.

Ghost slinked easily into the dark of the pine trees, waiting there for the new arrival. In his hand, one of his trusted knives rested readily.

Whoever was hurrying his direction was doing a shitty job at stealth, branches snapping, breaths loud and shaky. They hadn’t spotted him. The smaller figure went straight past him, and Ghost narrowed his eyes at the strange sight that met him: The man was trembling from head to toe, clothes clinging to his thin form, dripping water into the snow. He looked seconds away from collapsing.

Ghost made his decision. He silently left the cover of trees, approaching the stranger without alerting him - until he brought one arm around the man, holding him firmly rooted in place. His other arm lifted its blade to rest against the other’s throat. The stranger stilled in fear, although shivers still wracked his frame.

“Who are you?” Ghost asked, voice low and threatening. The stranger perked up despite the steel against his skin.

“Ghost?” came the unexpected response. “That you?”

Ghost paused before stepping back, knife still at the ready, pointed at the figure in the dark. The other turned to face him. 

“Ghost?” was asked again, and finally the lieutenant recognised the person before him.

“Yuri?” 

The first thing Soap registered was that he was, in fact, still alive. That realisation alone was enough to keep his mind occupied for quite a while.

What followed was a search through his mind to figure out why he thought he’d be dead this particular time. Initially, he felt certain that he was waking from the whole Shepherd ordeal, yet the more he thought about it, the more it felt wrong; the pain in his chest was dull, barely-there. It was just the regular ache it had been in the years following his stab wound, rather than the fresh burn he had woken with back then. 

The pain that made itself known instead was a sharp throbbing from his leg, and hot irritation from various places on his torso and arms. At least he wasn’t cold anymore. The surface beneath him was no longer wet dirt, but something soft and warm that felt suspiciously like a bed. Curious.

For a second he considered that maybe he really was dead, but that idea vanished as his body hurt with every shallow intake of air. There was no familiar fuzziness from painkillers, so he was quickly regretting waking up at all.

Memory slowly trickled back to him: library, Yuri, escape, blasted dogs -

Steamin' Jesus.

Someone was humming nearby. The voice was unfamiliar, but the tune wasn’t. It was Simon’s favourite, the one he would occasionally play on the guitar on quiet evenings in the cottage. Every time he did, John felt as if the entire world settled down, just for a second. It always reminded him of that first time Simon had played it, back in their safehouse when everything was still new and fragile, but exciting.

“You play?” Soap knew he was doing a pisspoor job of hiding his elation at the idea of Ghost with an instrument in hand; one that didn’t deal death at that. Or, well, he was certain that Ghost would find a way to kill someone with it, if prompted.

Ghost pulled back his hand from where he had softly passed it over the guitar on the wall, quick as though he had been burnt. “... no.”

The response came just a millisecond too slow, and Soap’s grin widened.  “Ye do.”

“No.”

“Then why did Price make sure we have a guitar? Isnae fer me.”

“Probably came with the place.”

“Right,” Soap said, not fooled one bit. “Normal wall decor, unrelated to the fact that Price and Laswell actually put effort into preparing this place for us?”

Ghost walked around to inspect the rest of their new, temporary apartment, before finally rejoining John by the offending instrument. Soap cocked his head at the larger man, who in turn sighed deeply.

“You’re going to keep annoying me about this, aren’t you?”

“Yup.” Soap popped the ‘p’ exaggeratedly.

“Christ. Fine. Should never have told the old man about it.” Ghost crossed his arms. “Yes, I play a little. No, I won’t play for you. And no - you’re not changing my mind.”

John hummed, unconvinced. “Yes, sir.”

Later that evening Soap had a hard time sitting still on the couch while his lieutenant tuned the guitar he had sworn he wouldn’t play. The other man was muttering under his breath, something about ‘stubborn Scots’, which only made the Scot in question even giddier.

A pleasant strum rang out, the instrument tuned. An unmasked face looked to Soap, cheeks slightly redder than usual as Simon cleared his throat awkwardly. 

“What do you wanna hear, then?”

Easy. “Yer favourite.”

Ghost huffed, looking away, forehead creased in thought. Finally, he uttered a quiet: “Fine.”

Trained fingerpicking filled the room with a familiar tune, and Soap tried to keep his expression neutral. It wasn’t the song he had been expecting. It was far more soft and melancholic, instead of the various rock or metal songs he had been preparing for.

Then, to his absolute joy, a rough, deep voice started singing the lyrics, and Soap fell even deeper in love, if that was possible. He felt he was in a trance until the final chord rang out, the room falling completely silent for a beat.

Brown eyes looked up at the entranced audience of one, and an unusual emotion was flickering in their depths; nervousness, Soap realised. The Ghost was nervous. Then again, it felt a bit like he had laid his so-called cold heart on display in an unknown living room for his subordinate to see.

“Uhm-” Ghost drummed his fingers on the wooden body of the instrument. “So-”

“Radiohead?” Soap asked. “Always took ye for a metalhead.”

“I am,” Ghost muttered. “Just- that one is my favourite. But I swear to God, MacTavish, if you tell a living soul-”

“Aye, Ah ken, ye’ll skin me alive an’ send the bones tae me poor mammie.”

The other snorted, body relaxing. “Was just planning on telling everyone on base about the frankly embarrassing amount of sketches of my face in your sketchbook, but-”

“I’ll take the bloody murder, please,” John interrupted, cheeks flushing scarlet. Leaning back in his armchair, Simon smirked, nervousness completely bled from his posture.

“How’d you learn to play?” Soap diverted the conversation.

A surprisingly tender look crossed over scarred features, as Ghost gazed upon the strings resting under his still fingers. 

“My mum,” came the confession. “She used to play, and whenever we had some time alone, she would teach me.”

“Oh.” John hung onto every word. Even after years of knowing each other, it was rare that Simon opened up about his past, especially his family. Thinking about it, Soap realised this was the first time it happened without any alcohol involved.

“Stopped learning for a few years, though. Her guitar… broke, after my sweet ol’ pops found me practising once. Never heard my mum play again, but- well, I brought my own guitar home as an adult, after kicking my dad out. She always adored this song, so I learned it.” The pained expression that had befallen Ghost’s face gave way to a small smile. “She cried when I played it. Hugged me afterwards and, well… it became my favourite.”

He blinked then, as if noticing where he was for the first time since he started talking. Soap’s chest warmed when he saw no sign of regret on the other’s bare face, despite sharing something so vulnerable. 

“Teach me?” he asked, eager as ever.

Something twinkled in Simon’s eyes, then.

“Alright.”

Soap was ripped from his pleasant memories and placed back in the painful waking world when the unknown voice suddenly changed the humming into soft singing.

“I’ll take a quiet life, a handshake of carbon monoxide.” The singing was pleasant, the stranger’s voice like silk, but still sent shivers down the sergeant’s spine.  “No alarms and no surprises.”

Steps sounded, bringing the voice closer. The singing stopped.

“A nice sentiment, hm?” The silk voice said, just beside Soap’s good ear, and he jerked away instinctually, groaning as the motion pulled at his fresh injuries. 

He finally opened his eyes and was met with an unfamiliar man’s face in way too close proximity. The stranger smiled, a wide thing that didn’t reach his dark eyes. 

“I wouldn’t move too much if I were you, I just finished stitching you up. You can’t afford to lose more blood, sergeant.” The man’s English was good, the Russian lilt almost unnoticeable. “Did you have nice dreams? I figured a familiar song might help on that front.”

“How’d-” Soap coughed, his throat scratchy around his words. The stranger simply waited, making no move to get water for his patient. That was clearly what Soap was to him. A white lab coat adorned a slim frame. The new gashes in the sergeant’s skin were covered in bandages.

“Yes?” he asked when Soap’s coughing fit died down.

John blinked against his heavy dizziness; add blood loss to the list of reasons why his world spun easily. 

“How do ye know about- what song-?” he croaked.

The doctor tapped a finger against the side of his nose knowingly. “Ah, that’s my little secret, John.”

Soap scooted further back, the other still leaning too closely over him for his liking. He studied the round face and the almost-black eyes that contrasted ash blond hair, but didn’t find anything recognizable about the man before him.  

“Who are ye?”

The stranger smiled again, with too many teeth. For a second, Soap was reminded of the bared, sharp canines that had torn into his flesh in dark woods. 

“My name is Solovyov. Simeon Solovyov.” He patted Soap’s cheek with a cold hand, causing him to flinch back again. “You do not know me, so do not worry your pretty head about who I am. You will learn.”

“Are you- Are you the one behind all this?”

“Me and some comrades. They listen to me, follow my word, so yes. I suppose I am.” Solovyov scratched his chin in thought. “I would not consider myself our leader, but our leader is… indisposed.” The word was spat with sudden bitterness, which was quickly hidden by a too-amicable facade again.

“Makarov,” was John’s guess. Before he got an answer, he knew he was correct from the nearly feral glint that briefly entered black eyes.

“Yes.”

“Where is Captain Price?” Soap asked, attempting to sit up straight despite his body’s vehement protests. There was no way he could take on the doctor in this state, but his hands still itched with an urge to cause harm to the smug expression that settled on the other’s face.

“He is in my care, same as you.” As he stepped back (thankfully), Solovyov waved a hand dismissively at Soap’s beginning insults, interrupting them quickly. “He’s fine, don’t waste your breath. I haven’t had all the tools I needed to properly cause him any harm, so he has been mostly left alone.”

The sick smile that settled on the other’s pale face caused Soap’s stomach to turn.

“Tools?”

“Hm. I have waited many years for this, Sergeant MacTavish. I didn’t mind waiting a few extra days after finally getting my hands on Vladimir’s killer.” The doctor brushed down his white garb, before smiling politely at the bedridden prisoner. “Would you like to see him?”

Soap frowned, mind sluggishly trying to keep up in its pounding skull. “What’s the catch?”

“Nothing. Might as well allow you to catch up before- well, all in good time. It will change nothing if you see him or not. Do you want to?”

Soap swallowed. The thought of seeing a friendly face was overwhelming. “... yes.”

“Wonderful!” Solovyov clapped his hands together, the loud sound reverberating in John’s abused head.

The doctor poked his head out the door to the small room, speaking rushed Russian to some guards as they entered. Only a second before it happened, did Soap understand that he was about to be torn from the comfortable bed. It was worth it if it meant he’d finally see Price, but that didn’t make the flames of agony licking through his leg any better when the guards pulled him to his feet. His pathetic whine was ignored and when his legs buckled after a few steps, the two soldiers simply continued walking, dragging him down the hall. Ahead of them, a white coat swayed where Solovyov led the way.

He knew he should be taking note of the building’s layout, but it was all he could do not to pass out, so he quickly gave up on that endeavour. All he gathered was that they still appeared to be in the fort that he and Yuri had escaped from; a completely different part of it, but the construction was the same.

Being dragged like a sack of potatoes did little to help Soap’s pride, but whenever he tried to get his legs under him to walk, black edges threatened to eat his world. Thankfully, the embarrassing journey was over in five minutes as the small group reached another door with a new guard beside it. Solovyov gave Soap another false, friendly smile, before opening the door and stepping inside the room alongside the third guard.

“Captain!” Soap heard the cheerful greeting. “I bring you a gift today. Wrapped it up and everything.”

Soap eyed the bloodied bandages on his slumped body. And ye did a shite job, doc.

“What are you playing at, Solovyov?” responded a familiar growl, and something lifted from John’s heart. Price was truly alive. 

“No games. You two, drop off our friend.”

Soap was dragged into another sparse room, akin to the one he'd woken up in. He lifted his head at the sharp intake of breath he heard, but before he could pinpoint the captain’s location, the guards threw him forward.

Warm arms saved him from an unhealthy impact with the hard floor.

“Soap?” 

Soap sagged into the safe hold, energy well and truly sapped. The grip tightened around him protectively.

“What the fuck is this? Why is he here?”

“I’m sure that’s something he can tell you, captain.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Me? Nothing, except save his life by stitching him up. My hellhounds on the other hand…”

Hellhounds. What a pretentious prick.

“Sick bastard,” rumbled the chest under Soap’s head. 

Solovyov chuckled lightly from the threshold. “I’ll leave you to it.”

The door clicked shut.

Soap was carried over to the bed in the corner and laid down carefully. He blinked blearily at the face that came into view, silly moustache and all.

“Hi Price.”

The captain was looking positively rattled, face set in a tight grimace. 

“Soap. You- Why are you here?”

“Saving ye.” The sergeant couldn’t help but laugh weakly at the irony of that statement. Price’s face fell even further.

“Saving-” A gentle hand smoothed down Soap’s messy mohawk. “You stupid muppet. You should’ve stayed home.”

“Aye, but who would keep ye company then?” Soap joked, ignoring the way his heart clenched at the clear worry he was causing the older man. “Are- are ye hurt, cap?”

“Me?” The hand not currently carding through matted hair rose to rub at tired eyes, as Price sighed deeply. “You absolute- I’m only sore. The guard has a cattle prod. I tried my hand at an escape, which is how I found that out. Otherwise, they haven’t done or said anything, and it’s honestly infuriating. This is the first thing that’s changed, and it’s them dumping my sergeant, who is supposed to be retired and safe in another country, in my arms. And you look half-dead at that. What the hell is going on?”

“Ye try lookin’ good after being mauled by dogs,” Soap scoffed in mock offence. When Price’s mood grew visibly worse at the words, the sergeant dropped the light tone. 

“Ye have water?” he asked around his dry tongue.

“Yeah.” There were sounds of some rummaging before Price returned with a bottle, which he lifted to Soap’s lips. He drank slowly, not wanting to spill his stomach's contents on the clean floor. The captain helped him back down.

“Five star retreat, this?” Soap said in a clearer voice, nodding to the water bottle.

“Hm, like I said, they’ve treated me fine, despite hating my guts.” Price scratched at his beard scruff, eyes never leaving his new arrival. “What happened, son?”

Soap took a deep breath. Then he filled in the captain on everything that had happened, right from the moment Gaz arrived at the cottage front door. 

When he reached the part about the library, his voice caught in his throat.

“Soap? You went into the basement and…?”

“Shite,” the Scot said hoarsely. It was hard to repress the memory, and the gnawing guilt it caused him, if he had to keep recounting it. “I- Well, the bloody end wall was rigged tae blow. Toast was right next to the damn thing.”

“The kid’s dead?”

Soap blinked, looking away. “Aye.”

There was a shuddering intake of breath beside him, and after a brief moment, the captain spoke again, voice forcefully steady. “What happened then?”

Soap kept staring at the boring, grey wall while recounting the next events. Only when he was wrapping up, did he feel ready to face his captain again.

“-but Yuri got away, it seems. That’s something, right?” he concluded breathlessly. 

The older man seemed deep in thought, brows pinched together. “I don’t know, son. I hope so.”

Soap didn’t see how Yuri getting out could be bad, but he was leagues too exhausted to question it. 

Price’s focus returned from whatever insightful contemplations he had about what Soap had told him. With careful hands, he started peeling the bandages off to inspect the damages, and Soap bit his lower lip to keep from making noise.

The stitches in his calf were luckily still in intact, but a few scratches on his chest had reopened. 

“Some doctor,” Price murmured bitterly, ripping off part of the bedsheet before applying pressure to the gashes. This time Soap couldn’t keep from letting out a wheezing gasp, making the captain whisper quiet apologies and then the question: “Why is it always you, Soap?”

“Ah ken what ye mean,” Soap groaned. “An’ dogs, of all things? Mah fuckin’ luck.”

“Hellhounds.” Price corrected with a strained smile.

“Aye, what a right pile o’ horseshite tha’ is. Dramatic bawbag, that doc.” Soap quieted down then, remembering his unsettling wakeup. “He knew the song.”

“What?” 

“Simon’s favourite song. Not even you know what tha’ is, but Solov-what’s-his-face did.” Soap swallowed harshly. “How is that?”

Price’s eyes were wide. The poor man seemed at a loss for words, before he eventually had to admit defeat. “I don’t know. That- I don’t know shit here. Fuckin’ hell.”

Reaching out a hand, Soap let out a heavy breath when the captain grabbed it tightly. “At least ye’re alive, Price. I was worried- well. MIA an’ all that.”

Price’s eyes softened. “Still alive for now. Let’s keep it that way.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 8

“Fever Fire” 

The cold metal in his palm glinted in the moonlight that filtered through pine. His ears were ringing, echoing Yuri’s words.

The shivering man before him finally broke the heavy silence that had fallen after his tale.

“... Ghost?”

“You left him.”

It shouldn’t have been possible, but the Russian paled even further. “To find you-”

“He was bleeding, hunted by dogs, and you left him with only a knife to protect himself with,” Ghost said slowly, eyes still on the tags in his hands. “Did I get that right?”

“They captured him alive the first time, so it’s doubtful they would let him die now. It was a calculated-”

Ghost sprang up, pinning Yuri under him in seconds, finally meeting the wide eyes looking back at him. The pressure from his forearm on the other man’s throat was bruising.

“A calculated risk?” He growled, seething. “Johnny could be dead where you left him, mauled by fucking dogs, and you’re trying to tell me it was logical. Why do you still have a gun?”

To Yuri’s credit, his voice was surprisingly steady after Ghost’s arm lifted enough for him to talk. “He wouldn’t take it. I didn’t want to leave him, but we would both have been-”

“Why should I believe you? When you are the whole reason we’re here.”

“I told you.” Yuri took a careful breath, hurt flickering in his eyes at Ghost’s accusation. “I didn’t know about this, didn’t even contact Laswell to begin with. And the gun… that’s just what Soap is like, da? Please, Ghost, believe me. I’m not- I wouldn’t betray you, please-”

The fire in Simon’s veins was returning like an old friend; the rage that ate and ate, uncaring of its victims. It was taking every last bit of his strength not to let it claim Yuri at that moment.

Back then, when Makarov’s voice had filtered through their comms in that smug tone, he had been ready to tear their informant limb from limb. Ghost knew betrayal intimately, and while Yuri’s story had appeased the team enough to let him live, he had never quite earned back Ghost’s trust the way he had Soap’s and eventually Price’s. 

Johnny would never forgive him if he took out his anger on Yuri now.

“Dinnae lose yerself,” Soap had pleaded before placing the mask back over Simon’s face.

“I won’t,” he had promised.

He released the man completely and sat back. The rattling cough from the other did nothing to earn sympathy. 

“You’ll show me where you left him,” Ghost ordered tonelessly, after the coughs died down. “Then you’ll wait for Gaz and Nikolai to arrive with backup in my place.”

“You’ll go in alone?” Yuri had the nerve to question. “Is that a good idea? I don’t think Soap would wan-”

“Careful,” came the low warning. It shut the other up efficiently. “You’ll lead me to the right place, then you’ll return here, stay warm, and tell Gaz everything when he arrives. Give these to the young private with him.” He handed back Toast’s tags. “Oh, and Yuri?”

“Da?”

“For your sake, hope we don’t find a body where you left him.”

Something fierce twisted Yuri’s expression. “I already hope we don’t. Soap is my friend.”

“Hell awaits you.”

The familiar words made every muscle lock up inside his body. He watched shock overtake Toast’s face as he stared back at him. The private tried to pull his hand away from the wall, but it was stuck, slowly eaten by the bricks before him. 

“Hell awaits you.”

Soap wanted to run to assist as Connor McPherson screamed for his help. Instead, his fingers curled around a strange object in his hand; something that would help Toast, that would free him.

“Hell awaits you.”

It wasn’t Makarov’s voice ringing out between the two Scots. No. It was Soap who was speaking the words. He could feel them tear from his throat, condemning the kid before him. He lifted his hand, viewing the object that would free his subordinate from the hungry wall; a detonator. No. No no no-

He pressed it and the world disappeared, alongside Toast’s terrified pleas.

“-oap! Son, breathe, c’mon.”

He couldn’t, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think-

“You’re alright, you just need to wake up.”

He sobbed, a breathy, whiny sound, as strong arms circled him, pulling him against a warm chest. Under his ear, a heartbeat made itself known. It beat in time with the words mumbled into the top of his head. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay-”

The steady heartbeat acted as a guide for his own, his breathing slowly settling down as well. The fabric beneath his face was damp, and embarrassment flushed Soap’s cheeks as he realised where he was; crying into his captain’s chest. Slow circles were being rubbed into his back.

“There you are,” Price’s voice sounded distorted from the ribcage under Soap’s working ear. “Slow breaths. Almost ripped the rest of your stitches.”

“Sorry,” Soap murmured, still burrowing into the solid form. While the captain wasn’t his first choice to wake up to, he was doing a bloody good job as a substitute. 

“None of that now.” 

The nightmare still had claws in his brain, even as he became aware of the waking world. Toast’s face stood clear, memory and imagination mixing into one sharp image of youthful terror. “I am sorry.”

“For what? Didn’t even wake me, Soap, I was already-”

“I killed him.”

The hand on his back paused its motion. The drumming in the chest below him picked up marginally.

“Who?”

“McPherson. I killed him.”

Gently, Price untangled him from his arms, instead holding Soap’s face in front of his own. Serious eyes watched him as a few extra tears rolled over the sergeant’s cheeks.

“How so?”

“He- The explosion was small. I was fairly close, but only got scratches. If he hadn’t been so close…”

“I don’t see how that makes it your fault.”

“There was time, time to run away, but- I couldnae… Move. I couldnae move or talk. I should’ve saved him. Instead I just- Stood. Watched him fucking die-”

“Calm,” the older man chided, as Soap’s breathing picked up again. “Calm down.”

A kind hand wiped the wetness from his face. It then felt his forehead. Soap leaned into the cool relief.

“Shit,” the captain whispered.

“Am sorry-”

“No, stop that. You have a fever, Soap. No wonder you’re so out of it. Lay back down for me.”

He let Price guide him back against the single, thin pillow on the bed, still damp from his own sweat. He barely registered as the other man started checking over his bandages with occasional muttered curses. His head just swam with heat and guilt as he swallowed against the lump in his throat, fresh moisture gathering in his eyes.

“Alright.” Price didn’t sound alright at all. “Okay. I’m gonna clear out the infected wounds with water and re-bandage them. Maybe I can get that shit doctor to do something about this. Just breathe for me, Soap, yeah?”

Soap nodded weakly, watching the captain’s motions out the corner of his eye. He focused solely on his breathing, still as eager to follow his superior’s order as when he was a fresh FNG.

“You froze.” Price’s statement was said without any hint of ire, the man not looking up from where he was working. “It happens. Usually I would have to send you to a psych eval once we get back, but since you’re already retired, well… That’s already solved, eh?” 

A shaky breath was all the response John could muster. A battle-worn hand squeezed his arm briefly.

“Don’t blame yourself. We can’t afford that in this line of work. You know that,” Price said, catching the sergeant’s eye. “You’ve lost men before, Soap. I know it’s been a while, but this isn’t different than then. You’re just not used to that shock anymore. I'm happy you’re not, honestly. Retirement worked out, saved some of that humanity.”

“I never froze before,” Soap croaked, wincing as cool water made contact with his calf. “I lost soldiers, but… It was never because my brain gave out on me.”

“I know.” There was a lull in conversation, while Price bandaged him back up. Finally, the man returned to sit next to the bedridden man, cool hand back on a sweaty forehead. “You didn’t choose for this to happen. Toast happened to die in that basement due to many factors. You freezing? That’s one of them, sure. So is my clever decision to go alone to Russia. He also wouldn’t have died if Gaz didn’t deem him ready for this mission. We can all play the self blame game all day long, but where would that get us?”

“Early retirement?”

Price huffed, a small smile twitching his beard. “Right.”

Eyes heavy with fever, Soap spent longer than usual focusing his sight on his haggard captain. “Came ‘ere tae save ye, an’ now ye’re the one having tae look after me. Bloody useless.”

With a furrowed brow, Price leaned forward, holding Soap’s eye. There was a fiery conviction in the captain’s gaze, one that he had missed seeing there.

“Even bleeding out and out of practice, I’d pick you over most soldiers I know. You’re a right stubborn prick, who will fight ‘till the bitter end. You’ve proven that time and time again. It causes you to nearly die way too often for my old heart to handle, but even then, you keep on. You’re no burden, son.” 

Soap didn’t dare look away from the intense fire in Price’s eyes, even as the world blurred with new, hot tears. Thank goodness that he could blame the emotional display on the infection.

“Understood?”

“Aye,” John whispered.

“I do wish you weren’t here, but it sure as hell isn’t because you’re not capable. I just-” Price’s words caught, his face scrunching up in regret. “I wish you were safe and I hadn’t fallen for this damn trap.”

“Playing the self blame game, sir?” Soap managed, with some semblance of his usual cheek.

Price shook his head fondly. “Right. Quick bastard. Even with a fever frying your brain…”

“Cannae keep me down.” The statement was severely undercut by the pathetic display Soap undoubtedly made in sweat-soaked sheets, flushed and trembling with fever-hazed eyes. Price was kind enough not to mention it.

“For now, let’s keep this fever down. I need you on your feet for whatever Solovyov has planned.”

“Isnae gonna be nice. Seemed right miffed about Makarov.”

“Hm, that’s an understatement. The times I’ve mentioned our old friend, Solovyov’s looked about ready to end me there and then.” Price poured water on some cloth before dabbing it over Soap’s brow. “We need to stay smart, keep him calm. Hopefully, backup will arrive and end this before it begins.”

John sighed, heart twinging at the mention of the people coming to get them out. “If ye had told me jus’ a few days ago I’d be back in Russia, fighting Makarov’s men…”

Price’s lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Even in death, Makarov still gets the upper hand.”

“Simon’s hauling arse to get us. I kno’ it.”

“No doubt about that.” Price smiled warmly at him, gloom lifting a bit. “He’d move mountains to find you. What’s a few measly walls?”

Soap grinned back. He was fighting a losing war against droopy eyelids.

“Simon will get us,” he mumbled.

“Rest, son,” he heard, suddenly far away. “You’ll need it.”

John stared slack-jawed at the sight before him. This couldn’t be real. 

Meanwhile, Simon was getting redder by the second, looking like he was regretting every decision he had ever made, the longer the silence stretched out.

“It’s- I mean, I’ll understand a ‘no’, Johnny, but really, just say anything.” The words were unusually jumbled and insecure. Cute. “You never shut up any other day, and this is the one time I really need feedback.”

Oh, right. Soap was supposed to do something right now. However, his mind was effectively out of commission. He still attempted to talk.

“Grnshlh,” was vaguely the sound that left him.

Simon looked completely flabbergasted. “What?”

Honestly, who could blame him for needing a second to catch up with reality? Simon Riley had just popped the question, even though John had made his peace with that never happening. While he had dreamt of a married life, he’d had full understanding that it probably wouldn’t sit well with the man he loved. John had never pushed.

Seeing Simon present a ring to him on a regular Tuesday, stumbling over the words that followed it, had officially fried his brain. Bravo looked at them from the corner of their living room, and Soap was tempted to think the damn dog looked amused.

“I can just… take it back, then?” The crestfallen man before him began.

“Yes!” Soap finally managed the full word he had been building to. The timing could use work, though.

“Yes… I should take it back?” 

“No, no-”

“Johnny, the signals you’re giving are very mix-”

Soap shut the idiot up with a desperate kiss. Simon was smiling against his lips. Bastard knew exactly what was going on.

“Fucking yes , I will marry ye. Eejit.”

When Simon kissed him again, John doubted he had ever felt as warm and content in his entire life.

The warmth morphed into something far more unpleasant as the memory faded. The fever was doing its best to burn him up from the inside, it seemed.

“Soap,” someone was saying urgently. “Hey, hey, open your eyes for me.”

He really tried. He really, really tried, but his eyelids were sticking together, and even just drawing breath was taking most of his focus. 

“Fucking hell, you’re burning up.” 

He felt bad for the floating voice. It sounded worried. 

The presence beside him disappeared, steps sounding as the person walked away in a hurry. Soap wanted to grasp out, wanted the other to stay. His flopping hand motion sapped the last remnants of his energy completely. The same voice from before was shouting something from further away now. The tone was angry, even while pleading for help.

The sun was beating down at them angrily, merciless. John wiped a hand across his sweaty forehead, blinking against the sting of stray drops. 

“You doing okay there, hermano?” Rudy asked from beside him.

“Aye,” Soap reassured, straightening his back with a pop. “Jus’ longing fer a cool beer and maybe a dip in a pool.”

“Here.” Rudy handed him a water bottle. “Don’t want you getting a heatstroke. That’s serious stuff.”

He had been excited to be back in Las Almas, jumping on the job offer when Price mentioned it. Working with Alejandro and Rodolfo again was something he had hoped for ever since last time, despite the clusterfuck that had turned out to be. Los Vaqueros had been more than welcoming to their old allies. 

Then Ghost had volunteered to go as well, and Soap had struggled to contain his excitement. The old gang was back together.

However, he had forgotten how bloody hot Mexico could be. Doing a stakeout under the scolding rays was dampening his high spirits. At least he had been paired up with Rodolfo, the kind man still proving to be good company.

“Never been told I’m too hot before. Ye’re a real charmer, Rudy.”

The other man shook his head with an amused smile. “Once this is done, you and Ghost should come along to Alejo’s ranch. There’s plenty of cold beers, and a lake nearby that’s good for swimming.”

“Really? That sounds right braw. Getting the Lt. in some swim trunks will be interesting.”

“Hah, good luck with that, Jabón,” Rudy snorted. 

“Why haven't I heard about his ranch before?”

“We don’t go there much anymore. Rebuilding Las Almas, chasing Valeria… Not much room for downtime. Alejandro’s probably turned it into another safehouse by now.” 

There was a faraway look on his friend’s face, tinged with sadness, almost hidden as he looked back through his binoculars. Soap caught it, though.

“Ye miss it?”

“Sí.”

“Eh, well, tell Alejandro, maybe he’ll-”

“Soap,” Rudy interrupted, looking back at the Scot. He seemed to search for his words for a few seconds, gnawing at his bottom lip. “It’s- It’s complicated. Alejandro fights for Las Almas, always have. It’s all that matters.”

“And you?” Soap asked gently.

“I fight for Alejandro. And Las Almas, by extension.”

Soap hummed softly, turning the words over in his head. Before he could respond, his radio crackled to life.

“Rudy, Soap, how copy?” Speak of the Devil.

“Solid, Alejandro,” Rudy responded with a click of his own comm unit. 

“Any changes on your end?”

“Nothing here.”

“Except a severe sunburn,” Soap added. 

“Told you to wear stronger sunscreen, Johnny,” Ghost’s voice joined.

“Aye, ya ol’ nag, ye’re always right. Bet ye’re sweatin’ in yer getup.”

“At least I don’t have any burns.”

“Ye’d turn tae ash if yer pale arse was exposed to this sun, ya vampire-”

Rudy looked amused at the familiar banter, the seriousness from before slowly bleeding away. He expertly cut them off at a small pause: “I promised Soap a cold beer once we’re done. Maybe at the ranch?”

“Buena idea, Rodolfo.” Alejandro's tired voice lit up with excitement. “It’s been too long. For now, I’ve sent people to take over your position. We could all use a rest.”

That received relieved affirmatives. The radios were turned off, before Soap and Rudy started collecting their stuff. 

Soap rested a hand on the other’s arm, earning a questioning look.

“I don’t believe Las Almas is ‘all that matters’,” the sergeant said with conviction. “He fights for you too, Rudy.”

Rudy blinked in surprise, before smiling softly.

“The sun really cooked your head, amigo.”

“Aye, no doubt.”

“Fuckin’- Let me come with you-!”

“You want my help, captain? Then be good and stay put. I’ll fix up your friend. Can’t have him dying just yet.”

Soap was being moved. He managed to crack his eyes open a sliver on this try, just in time to see Price’s grim expression as they locked eyes. The older man mouthed his name silently, before the door to his room closed, hiding him from view once more. 

Everything swam in and out for a while, his consciousness dragging through molten lava. Boring grey walls were replaced with Mexican sun or desert missions. 

When he was really lucky, he landed back in that cottage living room, pressing soft kisses to blushing cheeks. The fireplace nearby warmed the room as he and Simon held each other, the sweet words whispered in his ear only serving to make him even warmer. He rested his head in the crook of a neck, soaking up the body heat. He could stay here forever, he thought.

When he was less lucky, the heat instead stemmed from blistering explosions. Time and time again he failed to warn his subordinate to run. Time and time again, he watched the fire eat the young kid whole.

Then he would be further back in time. There, he pushed Yuri from a window, and felt the flames burn his back as he fell. He knew Simon was falling too. He wished he could reach for him or hear him, know that he was okay. All he heard was fire and rushing wind.

He had always loved explosions before then. They all replayed now, as the fever burnt like every close call. 

“Beautiful, bright and dangerous,” had been his explanation, said with a wicked grin, when Ghost had inquired about his obsession.

“Like you, then,” the lieutenant had spoken absentmindedly, going rigid once he realised his words.

Soap had beamed. “Aw Lt., ye think I’m beau-”

“ -Pretty house, and such a pretty garden- ”

Once in a while he blinked into a colourless room, catching glimpses of Solovyov as a silk voice sang familiar melodies.

“ No alarms and no- ”

“Surprise!”

“What… is that?” Simon asked.

Soap smiled widely, holding the kitten out slightly for the other to see. “A cat.”

“Yeah, I see that.”

“It’s ours.”

“What?”

“Ach, come off it.” John placed the small thing in large arms, and then stepped back to view the comical visage. “Ye got us a dog. I’ve always wanted a cat, and I found this wee one at the shelter. She’s perfect. Guess her name.”

Simon had lifted a hesitant hand, petting the black fur. The cat was batting playfully at the gentle fingers. 

“Just tell me.”

“Guess! Trust me, it’s perfect. She even reminds me of ye, all dark and mysterious.”

The former lieutenant sighed deeply. “... Ghost?”

“Aye,” Soap cackled. “Feckin’ amazing.”

“You adopted a whole living creature just because it was called Ghost?”

“Naw, Ah was already planning on it, swear. Just moved it up my schedule.” John bit at his lip when the kitten started climbing Simon’s hoodie. “Look at you two. Two peas in a pod.”

“Her name is not gonna stay ‘Ghost’. It’s too confusing.”

“I’m sure we’ll think of something new, then.”

“Do you ever just do things at a normal pace?”

“Oh, ye love that I’m impulsive.”

Simon often forgot that his face was on display these days; he smiled softly as he responded: “No.”

God, he was so beautiful. He was just standing there in sweats, struggling to keep up with a dexterous kitten, yet he was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen. Heat crawled up into his cheeks. Thankfully, Scottish weather provided a cooling breeze. 

“You alright there, Johnny?” Simon asked the lovesick fool.

“Aye,” he said. “Just got lightheaded for a second.”

Soap jerked awake with a gasp.

“And he’s back,” came a cheerful sing-song. Doctor Solovyov smiled down at him. “Just in time for the fun.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 9

“Alarms and Surprises”

Ghost narrowed his eyes at the sight of an old fort up ahead. Just like Yuri had described it.

In his mind’s eye he still saw the frozen pool of blood that had surrounded the base of an unassuming pinetree, once he had reached the place Soap and Yuri had split up. There had been a lot of the solid crimson. If Johnny hadn’t gotten help, there was a fair chance he was… 

There hadn’t been a body. Until Ghost saw a body, he would assume Johnny lived, still. He had to.

Blending in with the shadows, he slinked silently forwards, prepared to carve his way to the man he loved.

Soap took a few heavy breaths as he blinked fully awake. Every inch of him felt clammy and gross, but the fire of infection was finally gone, his head clear again. His clothes were sticking to him uncomfortably, and he wrinkled his nose at the salty smell he emitted.  

“Mm, you’re not a pretty sight right now. Could stand to take a shower, too,” Solovyov kindly commented. 

He lifted his heavy head to look at the doctor. The action alone was exhausting. His body ached like it had gone fifty rounds against Ghost in the sparring ring after pissing the lieutenant off. Ah, simpler times.

He wasn’t waking in a soft bed, this time. No, this was much more like his original expectations. Leather rims were securing his arms, legs and torso to a metal chair that had been welded to the floor. This room was a new one, white walls hurting his adjusting eyes

Solovyov was smiling a little too pleasantly at him. A few people in uniforms were milling about, one of them kneeling in the corner while fiddling with something Soap couldn’t see. 

“Soap, are you okay?” a new voice piped up. Soap quickly found Price’s concerned face from where the man was sitting a few feet beside him in a similar chair. They were both facing the same direction, to where their captor was leisurely walking around.

“Price?” His voice was cracking, throat dry once more. “How long…?”

“I’d say six hours, almost. Your fever got worse.”

“Aye. Gathered as much,” John rasped. “M’okay.” That was almost true.

He looked back at the doctor, who was humming again. “Ye keep savin’ my life? Why?”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Yet ye’re the reason I’m injured in the first place.”

“Well, I didn’t expect you to be so bad off, just yet,” the other explained in a conversational tone. “Don’t be mistaken, your demise is very much in the near future. I’ve just spent so long on this plan, I would hate to lose a key player before time. I miscalculated how far you would run in those woods, and so, how much my hounds would tear into you.”

“Ye knew we’d run?”

“Oh, I planned on it. Even let the traitor have a test run to scope out the route.” Solovyov sighed, a tad too loud to be genuine. “Didn’t know you’d kill the poor guard, but I suppose it makes us even for the kid in the library…”

The sergeant bristled, pulling on his binds, itching to punch the man before him. Solovyov simply laughed at his poor attempt.

“Aren’t you wondering ‘why’?” he asked. “Are you not curious about what I have planned?”

Sharing a look with his captain, Soap clung onto the steady presence as the older man gave a reassuring nod. They had to bide their time. 

“Why then?” Soap played along.

“Let’s start with that little escape, hm? I’m honestly a little offended that you thought it would be that easy, that you didn’t even consider foul play.” Solovyov tsked in disappointment. “Then again, you lot always underestimated Vladimir as well. I suppose it tracks.”

“Why did you want them to escape?” Price asked, saving his sergeant’s poor throat from asking the same. 

Solovyov tapped the side of his nose, like he’d done before in the room where Soap had first met him.

“Hellhounds,” he said. “I trained them specifically for the sergeant here. I also needed Yuri to get out, but that’s another story. I’d much rather start with the dogs.”

Then, Solovyov dug a small, leatherbound book from a pocket in his white coat, and Soap’s heart sank. It was worn and burnt at the edges, but still so painfully familiar.

After flipping to the correct page, the doctor cleared his throat dramatically before reading aloud.

“Got a new teammate today. Riley. No, not that one. This one is a lot more furry, with sharper teeth. A damn dog. Told Lt. about my fear of dogs and he convinced me to give Riley a chance. That man could talk me into anything, though.”

Solovyov flipped to the next page and continued.

“Turns out I actually like the dog. Then again, I’ve never met a Riley I didn’t like. Guess not all dogs are terrifying beasts out to get me.” The doctor looked up, smiling. He turned the journal around, showing some old sketches of a German Shepherd, along with a few of a skull-masked lieutenant. “The artwork in this is lovely, sergeant. You have a real eye for it.”

It was the journal he had lost during the conflict with Makarov, thought to have been burnt up in rubble in some unknown location; now it was here, in enemy hands. While Soap never shared sensitive information about his job on the page, this particular book was from the time where he was writing about some other sensitive matters; stemming from a time where he was tired from the eternal conflict and war, while hopelessly in love with his superior officer, this journal held more vulnerable information about Soap’s heart than any other.

“That’s how ye knew the song,” he whispered brokenly.

After the sound of rustling pages, a new paragraph was read out.

“Holed up in a safehouse with Simon.” Solovyov’s lips curled up as he enunciated the name slowly. “He played me his favourite song on the guitar. No Surprises by Radiohead. Who would have thought? A cold heart, my arse. His mask was off, too, I could barely focus when he tried to teach me to play - Then there’s a small note under the chords to the song,” the doctor added. “ No alarms and no surprises. A nice sentiment. I wouldn’t mind that anymore, I think. I wonder if Simon would be opposed to a quiet life…”

Soap flinched at the loud sound of the book clapping closed in Solovyov’s hand. 

“Vladimir promised you hell. I intend to keep that promise on his behalf.” The doctor had a devilish glint in his eyes as he looked at Price. “Of course, you are the main goal here, captain. After all, you were the one to kill my friend. But since your personal hell is simply being helpless to do anything as your team suffers, I had to get creative.”

He waved the journal in front of them. “This book made for a wonderful guide on MacTavish’ weak points, I barely had to do any work. I simply trained a few dogs to know his scent so they would find him in the woods. And after reading just a few pages, well, let's just say the Ghost's weakness also quickly became apparent.”

“And Yuri?” Soap asked.

“What do traitors fear more than losing trust? He will die knowing he led his allies into a trap one final time, knowing that they all believe him to have betrayed them.” The man before them looked at his wristwatch. “Next trap is set to spring soon. Yuri stopped up after running for a few hours, stayed in place for a while, then he returned to where the two of you parted ways, probably to check for your body, before going back to wait for backup-”

“What are ye talking about?”

“Disgusting food has to go down quickly. He never even noticed the tracker in his last meal. It’s temporary, of course, but I’ll know his whereabouts for as long as I need to.” 

Solovyov nodded to himself before he moved to talk in low Russian to the man in the corner who was still working on something.

Price had one of those looks on his face; the kind where he was going through every possible plan in his head, trying to figure out a winning scenario. By the looks of it, he wasn’t succeeding. 

There was a strange emotion dancing in the older man’s eyes, one that Soap rarely saw there. The last time he had, had been after Makarov’s bomb had gone off and Price, Yuri and Ghost had carried their sergeant through a burning city. Soap had started choking on his own blood, and the captain’s eyes had almost spilled over with that emotion: Fear.

The doctor returned, walking around to stand behind Soap’s chair, his cold hand landing atop his head, carding through the mohawk almost gently. The Scot suppressed a shiver, watching Price, since he could no longer see Solovyov. The captain was craning his neck, glaring at the man in the white lab coat. 

“So what’s your next step, doctor?”

“That man, over in the corner, is my demolitions expert Antonov.” Solovyov tugged slightly at the hair between his fingers, and Soap gritted his teeth. “You’re already familiar with his work, right sergeant?”

His eyes were now firmly on the man in the corner, who was still turned away. His practised motions as he worked suddenly had Soap’s heart thrumming faster, muscles threatening to lock up. 

That was the man who rigged the explosives in the library basement, now working on something new, and from the looks of it, much bigger.

“What? All this, just to blow us up?” Price asked, doing an incredible job not letting any of that fear shine through in his voice.

“Oh, no no no,” the doctor reassured quickly. “Not you, captain. You will be the last to die.”

Finally, the hand let go of Soap’s hair as Solovyov moved away to stand before them once more. 

“Yuri will lead the team here, I will see him coming when he does. They will enter and find your sergeant right here, but you and I, Price, will be long gone. You will watch as I kill your soldiers. After all…” The smug bastard walked towards Price and dug something out from a pocket on the captain’s vest. The object appeared to be a folded paper, which Solovyov then unfolded and showed to the pair: A picture. “They are all that matter to you. Losing them will be your… Hell. Right?”

It was the picture that had once stood on Price’s desk, the one taken at the bar after the Hassan mission. So that’s where that had gone. Price kept it on him, even after all this time. The captain paled, lips thinning.

“The taskforce is much bigger than the team sent here. The others will come for you, they will never stop hunting you-”

“Oh, I’m counting on that,” Solovyov whispered dangerously. He leaned closer to the bound captain. “Why do you think I made sure to keep them busy now?”

“You- What?”

“I have had seven years. I know I don’t have enough manpower to take on all your allies in one go, so I made sure your Vaqueros, the ULF and Kortac were all preoccupied, so that I could burn your world a little at a time. Piece by piece, starting here, as I-”

Price’s head suddenly butted forward when Solovyov had moved too close, and a satisfying crack rang out as the doctor staggered back, holding his nose. Several soldiers pointed their rifles at both captives.

“Don’t!” The doctor croaked out. Red was staining his white sleeve. “Stand down.”

Soap laughed, enjoying the pained tears that gathered in their captor’s waterline. “Nice one, Price!”

Price was still fuming at the doctor, although his lips quirked up slightly at his sergeant’s cheerful compliment.

“You-” Solovyov began with a sneer, but whatever threat was about to be hurled out was forcefully interrupted by the room’s singular door slamming open. A young soldier burst in, panting, a frantic look on his face.

“Doctor!”

“What?”

“Someone has taken out the guards by the east wall. There’s a hostile inside the fort.”

John’s heart started galloping, as he instinctively knew exactly who had come to ruin Solovyov’s carefully-laid plan. He looked to Price, whose eyes glinted with the same recognition. Ghost had come for them.

“What?!” The doctor growled. He scrambled to look at his phone. “But Yuri is still- Dammit!”

Antonov turned around, walking hurriedly away from his corner to talk in fast Russian to his superior. Where his form had been in the way beforehand, explosives were now revealed, just as expected. 

Solovyov’s brow furrowed at the demo expert’s words, before he nodded resolutely.

“It will have to do,” he said. Then he addressed two burly guards that had been standing behind Price and Soap: “Grab the captain. We’re still proceeding as planned, we will just have to kill the rest later.”

An echo of affirmatives sounded from around the room. Price thrashed against the hands on him, but the guards kept their noses at a safe distance, the recent display still fresh in their minds.

“Soap!” the captain yelled as he struggled against strong arms.

Solovyov stepped forward, this time stopping before Soap. A bloodied hand grabbed his face, keeping it still as black eyes bored into his. Red was smeared across pale features, dripping down onto the floor steadily, making the doctor look like a wild beast.

“It was a pleasure, Sergeant MacTavish. I mean that. Thanks to your diary, I knew you the best. You will burn brightly one last time, with your Simon.”

Soap didn’t deem the doctor worth these precious few seconds, and he instead looked over the man’s shoulder to watch where Price was being dragged off. The fear now stood clear in his face.

“Price,” Soap said firmly, swallowing against the feelings threatening to overwhelm him. “Give them hell. It was an honour.”

“Soap-” was all the captain managed to whisper with wet eyes before he was pulled from the room completely. His angry yells echoed through the halls until the man was too far away to be heard.

The slick fingers on Soap’s face abandoned their grip. Solovyov looked down at him, something almost akin to pity flickering across his expression. Without another word, he left the room as well, leaving Soap alone with a ticking bomb and a lone photo forgotten on the floor.

All of his senses were tingling, shouting with alertness as Ghost journeyed deeper into the building. The hallways had lacked any sign of life for the past several minutes, and at the back of his mind, a notion of wrongness was taking hold. He never slowed, however. Above all the flashing warning signs and alarms, there was a much more important feeling conquering his full attention; he was getting close.

An angry, bloodied guard had spat at him, muttering insults with his dying breaths. Ghost hadn’t paid much mind until the Russian had sneered something in broken English: “The doctor should’ve let your friend become dog food.”

Inadvertently, the guard had spent his last act easing that cold dread that had clawed at Ghost’s mind since the woods. Now he knew that Johnny had survived the dog attack.

And so, he continued down empty hallways with a single minded purpose in his steps. 

He sensed he had reached the right room before even seeing the inside. Maybe it was the small droplets of blood in front of the door or the fact that the room number was ‘141’. Maybe it was the thrumming of his heart picking up pace, as if the fragile thing could tell that the person it belonged to was almost within reach. The ‘why’ didn’t matter much when he broke down the door without hesitation.

Wide, blue eyes met him after his dramatic entrance. They softened immediately with recognition.

Ghost stilled for a second. His eyes raked over the bruised form in the chair. He took in the maroon bandages and many scratches, the dark eyebags and the hair sticking to a pale forehead. He took in the blinding smile that slowly stretched those ragged features. That was his Johnny alright, and he was alive .

“Simon,” Soap interrupted his reverence. “Ah ken I’m a real looker, but we need tae get gaun. Fast .”

He was across the room in three big strides, immediately working a knife against the leather rims keeping the other in the chair. 

“Johnny,” he said, just to say it. 

“Si,” Johnny breathed in return.

When the last binding gave way, Ghost was quick to catch his husband when he listed forwards. Soap took a shuddering intake of air, before righting himself, quickly moving to stand on shaky legs. 

“No time, love,” he interrupted before Ghost even had a chance to open his mouth. He nodded to the corner of the room, and for the first time, Simon noticed the cause of their rush. A goddamn explosive. 

“Fuck.”

“Oh, I’ve missed yer insightful observations,” Johnny grinned weakly. He then squared his shoulders and took the mad decision of limping closer to the bomb. 

“Soap-” Ghost instinctively reached a hand out, but stopped before he could yank the other backwards. “What’re you thinkin’?”

“Where in the building are we?”

“Dead centre.”

“Alright.” Soap knelt before the weapon that would most likely blast them both into oblivion within a few minutes. “I think- think our best shot is if I can disarm this.”

Ghost stepped closer as well, kneeling beside the one person he trusted above all else. “Okay.”

“I don’t-” Johnny licked nervously at his lips as his nimble fingers got to work. “I don’t suppose I can convince ye to start running outta here, just in case it doesn’t work?”

Simon shot him one of his signature glares at the stupid question, and Soap chuckled breathlessly. 

“Aye, didnae expect tha’ to work.”

“No man left behind.” He rested a hand to draw slow circles on Johnny’s back. The motion worked like a charm, muscles unclenching noticeably beneath his palm. “Together or not at all.”

“Sap,” Johnny teased, before turning sombre. “Always suspected I’d accidently blow us up one day.”

“You won’t.” Ghost believed that wholeheartedly. He had watched Soap work his magic with too many explosives, had even seen him dismantle bombs for pure fun. His own pulse never wavered as he watched the trained motions of the demolitions expert beside him.

“Ye have too much faith in me,” Johnny murmured, brow pinched in concentration.

“With this, yes. Wouldn’t trust you with changing a lightbulb, though.”

Soap snorted. “That was one time, Si. How was I s’posed tae ken ye should turn off the power first?”

“Everyone knows that.”

“Agree to disagree.”

Soap paused his movements, taking a measured breath as he looked at the wires in his hands. “Real dangerous part now.”

“Well, no rush,” Ghost deadpanned, making Soap huff a tired laugh.

“I’m kissing ye silly after this, just so ye kno’.”

“I’m counting on that.”

Simon’s hand stayed in place on Johnny’s back while he watched the Scot dive back into action. With steady fingers, Soap manoeuvred the wires into place, taking another deep breath to prepare himself. 

Ghost looked away from the device that could easily kill them within the next ten seconds, instead choosing to look at Johnny’s face. His eyes traced familiar features, noting every new bruise and cut. He wanted to press soft kisses to each and every one. 

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a sharp movement of Soap’s hand, and… Nothing happened.

Soap let out a relieved sigh. “Steamin’ Jesus.”

“It’s disarmed?”

“Aye.”

Ghost immediately hoisted his mask up over the bridge of his nose, taking Johnny’s surprised face in his hands before surging forward to finally kiss him. It was hurried, full of the fear of the past day, but also the relief of being reunited and alive. Johnny practically melted into it, and when they pulled back, there was a dazed look in his eyes as his lips pulled into a true smile.

“Ye beat me to it.”

“You were taking too long.”

“Sorry, love, next time I’ll ignore the bomb to make out with ya-”

“There will never be a next time. We’ll go home after this and we’ll bloody stay there.”

Soap’s expression softened with understanding, his hand coming up to stroke the still-exposed chin. “Had ye real scared, eh?”

Ghost swallowed audibly. “You have no idea.”

“Think I do,” Soap said, adjusting the mask back in place. “Now, let’s get the fuck outta here.”

Ghost helped the other to his feet, not letting go once they were both standing. Soap couldn’t put his weight on one of his legs, so the larger man brought his arm around him, taking hold of his belt to keep him up, looping the Scot’s arm around his waist. Once he had a good hold, they started moving gingerly forward. Soap’s pallor turned several shades whiter as they walked. 

“How copy, Johnny?” Ghost asked, worry churning in his gut. 

“Had an encounter with some dogs.”

“Yeah, I heard. Yuri told me.”

“He’s okay?” Soap asked eagerly, eyes lighting up.

“Cold. Breathing. He’s waiting to meet with Gaz and the others.”

“Need tae find them. Yuri is being-”

A deep rumble from around them interrupted whatever Soap was going to say, the well-known sound of explosives going off registering instantly. Ghost met scared, blue eyes, realisation dawning in them both; there had been more than one bomb in the building.

The floor trembled beneath them as they sprinted forwards, Soap being half carried when his leg gave out from the strain. They were getting closer to the exit fast, but not fast enough. When Ghost saw a crack split the wall beside them, he moved without thinking, curling himself around the smaller form against him. 

He heard Johnny shouting his name as the walls crumbled and the floor gave out beneath them.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 10

“Coffinmates”

Simon was having a nightmare again. 

These days, his dreams often resided in that final mission; in the moment they knew it was a trap, in the fall, in the burning streets where he had tried so desperately to keep Johnny’s blood from painting rubble.

Tonight, however, he was back where the Ghost had been created. He hadn’t dreamt of that coffin in years.

The thing with nightmares about having difficulty breathing, was that even after waking up, Simon’s lungs still constricted as if he was stuck underground. 

He thrashed, tangled in sweaty sheets, gasping like a fish out of water. It felt like intruding on a stranger when he heard his own broken sounds, his mind struggling to catch up and realise that it was him making them. Even with open eyes, he still saw a scratched coffin lid, rather than the quaint bedroom that was quickly cast into a soft light as someone clicked on the bedside lamp. 

Then, somewhere beyond his grating heaves for air, another sound slowly trickled in; a soft murmur by a voice still tinged with sleep, gravelly and familiar. 

“-’re okay, Simon, you’re safe,” it soothed, a Scottish lilt coating the words. “We’re at home in our bedroom. You’re alright, love-”

The voice never let up, keeping a constant stream of reassurances coming for Simon to latch onto, acting as a light breaching the dark earth of his mind. Gradually, as he dug his way out, his other senses started waking up as well. Fingers were drawing repetitive motions on his chest. His eyes blinked away dirt, instead opening to his and Johnny’s small bedroom in the cottage. He tilted his head with great effort, and saw the Scot himself.

“There we go,” Johnny praised with a small smile. “Breathe with me.”

Simon followed Soap’s lead, stuttering gasps dying down as his breathing steadied.

When he felt fully awake, he released a heavy sigh, eyes shut hard enough that he saw starbursts. “Fuckin’- fuck.”

“Aye,” Soap agreed. The man moved even closer, chin coming to rest on Simon’s chest. Opening his eyes again, the bigger man looked down to meet the gaze watching him carefully.

“Hi,” he croaked, earning another warm smile.

“Hi, Si. Do you need anythin’? Water or-?”

Johnny shifted as if he was about to move, and Simon quickly latched his arms around him, keeping him in place halfways on top of him. Soap huffed a soft laugh, going lax again without complaint.

“Jus’- Just need you right now.”

“Ye have me.” 

Holding the other firmly, Simon continued focusing on his breathing for a few minutes, treasuring the easy supply of oxygen entering his lungs. With Johnny so close, he could feel the warmth, the heartbeat, the life emanating so effortlessly from his husband. 

“Was back in the ground,” he finally admitted in a whisper so low that Soap would probably have missed it if he wasn’t keeping his full attention on the man below him.

“Oh. That one’s been awhile, huh?”

“Hm.”

“But ye used tae need space after those?” Johnny mused, brow creased slightly. “Thought cuddlin’ was off-limits after coffin dreams?”

Simon just hugged him a little tighter for a moment, his thumb brushing back and forth over a bare shoulder blade. He could feel the muscles and tendons move under his hand with each of Johnny’s breaths.

“Simon?”

“You were there. Or, well- Your body was there.”

An understanding hum left the other, brow smoothing with clarity. 

“I’m here, alive,” Soap reminded him in a hushed tone, leaning up to pepper small kisses onto a bearded cheek. “We both are. We’ve got plenty of room to move, too. It must've been crowded with both of us.”

Simon released the last tension in his body, melting into Soap’s sweet ministrations. “It was.”

Please, let this be another nightmare.

Ghost let out a painful cough, his ribs loudly protesting the jostle. His eyes were still adjusting to the dark space. The very small, very dark, very… coffin-like space. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck-

He squeezed his eyes shut promptly, attempting those breathing exercises he used to do after bad nightmares or occasional flashbacks. It usually worked better when Johnny did them with him. His heart’s speedy beats struggled to slow down this time, as every sense that trickled back to him were like his worst night terrors realised. 

His mouth tasted like dust and blood. His nose quickly filled with an iron smell, alongside that of his own musty exhales caught in the balaclava. The sound of his shaky breaths seemed so incredibly loud to his own ears, and he was painfully aware that each intake of air was leaving behind less oxygen in the closed space.

When feeling slowly filtered back, so did the sharp sting of unknown injuries.

His heartbeat wasn’t slowing. He needed to get out. 

Luckily, Ghost’s mind instantly supplied him with a plan: use a jawbone to break the old wood of the coffin lid and then get digging-

The plan came to a quick halt when his eyes forced themselves open again. There was no coffin lid. This wasn’t a grave in Mexico, this was the rubble of an old fort in Russia that he had attempted to escape with Johnny. 

Johnny.

Despite his body’s protests, Simon craned his neck to view the space around him, and more importantly, the limp figure he could skim with his adjusting eyes, still pressed firmly against his side. 

“Johnny?” he rasped, instantly breaking into another cough. Neither the movement nor the noise made his companion stir. 

Ghost swallowed thickly, trying, and failing, to soothe his dry throat, while he started testing the mobility of his limbs. All things considered, they had gotten away lucky. His body felt like one big bruise, and his ribs hurt with every breath, but otherwise the collapse had created a small pocket of space around them.

Well, some would call that lucky. Ghost would have preferred a quick death over this accidental parody of a coffin.

His left arm was currently pinned beneath Soap, but his right one had room to move freely within the space of their entrapment. He used it to find the correct pocket on his vest, pulling out a glow stick which he cracked in his fist. Sickly green light fell over his surroundings, finally allowing him to take stock of his newest grave. 

He wasted no time looking back at his roommate.

Soap’s already pale face looked almost translucent in the green glow, and the sticky blood coating the side of his face appeared black in the unnatural light. Ghost’s breathing hitched. He carefully balanced their light source on a jagged piece of broken wall, before working his glove off. He placed his bare fingers against Johnny’s neck and waited for what felt like a lifetime, but was really just a second, before detecting the strong thrum of a pulse. Simon sagged in relief. He brought his hand further up to gently stroke a stubbled cheek.

“Johnny, please,” he tried again, voice wavering. “I’m so- so incredibly out of my depth here. I need you.”

He wanted to continue his attempts at waking his only company, but he knew that talking would use up their limited supply of air. He breathed as purposefully as he was able to, while continuing tracing his fingers over Soap’s cheek.

It wasn’t dirt blocking their way out, but bricks, rebar and stone, so there were no jawbones breaking wood nor any possibilities of digging their way to freedom. The odds of their team not only coming to their aid in time, but then also finding the exact place they were trapped, were near non-existent.

This time, it seemed Simon Riley was buried for good.

Soap’s eyes stayed closed. A low keen sounded in their little chamber, and with a start, Simon realised it was himself that had uttered the noise. Of all the ways he could have died, of all the countless close calls, this was truly the most cruel way for the world to kill him.

Then again, was it not exactly what he deserved? Wasn’t this just a fitting retribution? The other shoe finally dropped.

Soap didn’t deserve this, however. Not Johnny. Ghost had dragged him down with him one last time, this time all the way into the ground, into their final resting place. 

He had told Johnny not to bury him, if he were to die first. It had been one of those post-nightmare talks, after sleep had been too elusive in the wake of a horrid wakeup. They’d sat in their kitchen nursing tea, and Simon had been so exhausted that he didn’t even tease Soap about drinking ‘hot leaf water’ with him.

“If I die first, Johnny-”

“Simon,” Soap had stopped him, expression pained.

“Please.”

“...Okay.”

“If I go first, don’t put me in the ground. Don’t put me in a box. Hold a ceremony if that’s what you need, but use an empty casket in that case. Even my ashes, Johnny, don’t bury them, I- I-”

“I understand.” Soap reached over, interlinking their fingers. “You will never have to go into the ground again, Si.”

Ghost was aware that tears had started escaping his eyes, dampening his mask. Even as he fought to keep his breaths slow, his body trembled with grief, with panic. With resignation.

Another wounded noise left him involuntarily. Soap stirred.

“Johnny,” he begged once more, desperate.

The body against him moved slightly as Johnny roused, a weak groan signalling his waking state.

“Careful, love,” Simon warned, not wanting the other to hurt himself further, even if it wouldn’t make much difference in the long run. “It’s- It’s pretty crowded in here.”

The Scot frowned, clearly struggling to open his eyes. Ghost temporarily removed his hand from the sweaty face in order to pull the mask off of his own. The dust in the air felt even heavier without the fabric in the way, but it was worth it to press chapped lips against worry-lines. 

“S’mon?” Johnny slurred, managing to crack his eyes open. 

“M’here.” He smoothed down the unruly mohawk as he rested their heads together. 

“Hi.” 

Simon chuckled wetly. “Hi.”

“S’green. In here. In- Where…?”

“Needed to use a glow stick. The fort blew up, remember?”

There was no response for a few beats, Soap’s eyes blinking rapidly. Then understanding bled into his expression.

“Right,” the Scot sighed. “Guess- Shouldnae have stayed to disarm tha’ first one, eh? A wee bit pointless.”

“Hm, we didn't know.” Ghost kissed the other’s forehead softly again, but the frown there didn’t go away. “How copy?”

Soap drew in a measured breath before he started testing his limbs like Ghost had done earlier. The larger man waited patiently, watching the face before him twitch in discomfort. Johnny let go of his held breath, meeting Ghost’s gaze again.

“Well, m’heid’s pure fuckin’ mince. Hopefully still a looker?”

“Of course,” Simon said, a weak smile tugging at his lips. He elected not to say that he would find Soap beautiful no matter what, and that his face was currently covered in a macabre mosaic of blood, sweat and grime.

“All’s right w’the world, then.” Johnny’s brief grin was strained. “My leg is on fire, but that’s the damn bite. It better no’ get infected again.”

“Again?”

“Mm, s’been a braw day. Otherwise, jus’ aches, no breaks. But then again-” Soap pinned him with a surprisingly stern look. “Someone acted as my human shield. How copy?”

“Surprisingly solid. Think- think I have a few bruised ribs, maybe broken.” Simon wetted his dry lips nervously. “Worst is my head.”

“Ye hit yer head?” Worry was thick in Johnny’s voice. “How bad?”

“No- no, it’s… not physical.”

Realisation dawned on Soap’s face. 

“Fuckin’ o’course.” The other man snaked his own arm up to hold onto the hand on his cheek, giving it a firm squeeze. “You’re doing so good, love. We’ll get ye outta here, aye?”

Simon shook his head, a few extra tears trailing through black face paint, dripping onto debris. “I can’t see how, Johnny. I- I don’t think we can.”

“I- Sure we can- Or at least try-”

“We’ll just be wasting air,” Ghost mumbled. “We already are. Not that it matters much-”

He was interrupted by lips on his own. 

“Ye’re spiralling, Si,” Johnny said against his mouth. “Stay w’me, please.”

“This is my worst fuckin’ nightmare, Johnny-” 

“I know,” was the gentle response. “I know, love. Breathe with me?”

“Can’t-” 

“You can.” Soap took deliberate, slow breaths, leaning back to watch as Simon struggled to do the same. It burned his lungs, but he tried. For Johnny, he would always try.

Eventually, the rising and falling of their chests synced up, and Ghost was rewarded with a warm smile. The fog in his brain seemed to clear slightly, but when the panic receded, that earlier hint of resignation bloomed in full. The lovely face before him only cemented his helpless grief. 

They would never get to go home, would they?

Soap’s smile faded, as he quickly caught the emotion that must have etched itself onto unmasked features. The Scot’s hands came up to cup Simon’s face after a small shimmy to get his other arm free from underneath himself.

“Simon,” he whispered, eyes darting between Simon’s own, searching. “Talk to me, please.”

“Talkin’- it uses up air-”

“Well, screw that,” Soap said lightly, doing his best attempt at a shrug. “You said we’re fucked anyway, right?”

A strangled sound tore its way from Ghost’s throat and he pulled Soap into an even tighter embrace, despite how it made his ribs scream, tucking the other’s head under his chin. 

“Tell me what’s in tha’ noggin o’ yers, Si,” he heard mumbled into his chest. Ghost hesitated only for a moment before acquiescing to Soap’s request. 

“Maybe- Maybe it was always gonna end like this. All the things we’ve done, Johnny, all the people we’ve killed-”

“Dinnae say that. We deserved to rest.” Soap’s hand landed in Simon’s matted hair where it started untangling knots, trembling slightly. “Still do. This isnae some grand justice of the universe, it’s just- jus’ pure, rotten luck.”

Ghost’s mouth tasted like iron and salt; blood and tears. His next words only made the taste stronger.

“We should have stayed home.”

Johnny sagged heavier against him with a sigh.

“Aye. I’m just happy for the time we got, love.” In his words was that same resignation that had been digging sharply into Simon’s chest. It sounded wrong coming out in a familiar Scottish lilt. “It was good, yeah? You an’ me?”

“The best,” Ghost agreed quietly. “The only good thing I’ve done.”

Soap scoffed into his neck. “You’ve taken down several terrorists. Saved countless lives-”

“War. Death.” Simon angled his head downwards, kissing the top of Soap’s head. “It’s only with you that I found purpose without those things.”

“Not true. An’ besides, we wouldnae‘ve met withou’ war n’ death.”

Simon didn’t have a response for that. He could feel Soap’s lips twitch up into another small smile against his neck.

“Not a bad point, eh?”

“I guess not. Pretty fucked up, though.”

Soap nodded almost imperceptibly. Ghost closed his eyes and breathed in Johnny’s scent, hidden under tangy blood and dust, but still there, still him. If he ignored the dull throb of his injuries and the presence of rocks above them, he could almost imagine he was back home in their bed like this. Maybe he could trick his mind into believing they were simply falling asleep in the security of their room, the animals snoring downstairs, their team safe back at base. It felt strange to know that that had been their reality not long ago. 

“Are ye feeling lightheaded too?” Soap asked, muffled in the embrace.

“Mm. That oxygen’s a problem.”

“...Right.” 

Johnny’s voice sounded so incredibly sad. It had Simon squirming back to look at his husband again, his hand coming up to rest on the Scot’s grief stricken face.

“Do you know why I wanted to be cremated, Johnny?”

Soap’s expression scrunched up in confusion. “... Aye, because o’-”

“So I could have a smoking hot body one last time.”

Fondness filled Ghost’s chest as he watched the joke slowly register in the other man. Johnny’s body shook as he choked on a surprised laugh. It was a strange sound in this doomed space, but certainly not unwelcome. It quickly devolved into coughs, but the smile stayed firmly in place on Soap’s face, just like Simon had hoped.

“Ya bampot,” the smaller man snickered. “That’s awful.”

“You laughed.”

“You caught me by surprise.” Soap’s smile turned mischievous. “Hey, Si?”

“Mm?”

“Ye ken why I agreed not tae bury ye?”

“Why?” Simon indulged.

“Didnae want to let ye down.”

Soap grinned proudly, eyebrows raised. This time, it was Ghost’s turn to huff a small laugh.

“And you called mine awful-”

“Like, let ye down into the ground-?”

“I got it, Johnny,” Ghost interrupted with an amused tone. Green light showed the way Soap smirked, self-satisfied with his terrible joke, and the next sentence escaped Simon without fanfare: “Oh, I love you so much.”

Johnny’s gaze softened, eyes twinkling with affection. 

“I love ye too, Simon.”

They didn’t say that phrase a lot. They’d never needed to, instead showing their love in everything they did; it was shown in soft touches and easy silence, in post-nightmare care and in terrible jokes. It was shown when Soap gave dogs a chance or when Ghost picked up on Scottish phrases. 

But if there was ever a time to say it…

They stayed there, smiles falling back into something sombre. Simon stroked a thumb over Soap’s cheekbone, watching the Scot’s eyelids grow heavier and heavier, both of them helpless to stop it. His own breathing was getting wheezy, spots dancing across his vision.

A howl sounded above their heads.

Johnny’s eyes shot open in terror, his whole body tensing at the sound.

“Hellhounds,” he croaked, fingers scrabbling at Simon’s vest, pulling him closer. “Tell me- Tell me I imagined that.”

Barks followed the initial howl. By the sounds of it, a singular dog was above them, alerting others that it had caught the scent; that it had found them.

“I hear it,” Simon hissed, ignoring the many aches shouting at him when he wrapped himself protectively around the man beside him. “They won’t touch you. I won’t give ‘em a chance to.”

Muffled, hurried steps and voices joined the barking creature, making it quiet down, and soon after, the sound of shifting rubble joined the fray. As Soap burrowed further into his chest, Ghost couldn’t help but feel selfish relief at the sudden possibility of leaving this grave. He would much rather be eaten by dogs than suffocate. He still scrambled to ready a knife, prepared to go out swinging. He felt it as Johnny easily found one of the other blades in his belt, momentarily making room so the sergeant could get it free.

It was strange that the people who blew them up in the first place would want to dig them out, Ghost pondered just a second before-

“Ghost! Soap!” 

The voices got clearer as more debris was moved, and that voice was-

“Yuri?!” Johnny shouted back, previous horror shifting into incredulous relief.

“Soap!” 

Never before had Ghost been so happy to hear their Russian ally, and it felt like he could breathe easier already before more rubble shifted to let in a small beam of light, and with it, precious air. In the small opening, a familiar face showed itself, and in that moment Simon decided to never doubt Yuri ever again.

“We will get you out,” their friend assured firmly, expression serious as he viewed their undoubtedly pathetic display.

“Steamin' Jesus, are we happy tae see ye,” Soap said. 

“You too. Yell if something moves wrong-”

Yuri was interrupted, pushed out of the way as a new face peeked down at them.

“You two idiots scared the fuckin’ shit outta me!” the new arrival reprimanded, despite the big grin stretching his features.

“Gaz,” Soap exclaimed so excitedly that it caused another coughing fit. 

Patting his husband’s back gently, Ghost greeted their friend with a more soft-spoken tone. Guilt wriggled in his chest, remembering how he had directly disobeyed the last order the other had given him.

“Sit-rep?” Gaz called down as if he could sense the discomfort. Maybe he caught the way Simon’s face twitched. 

“Soap’s hit his head, probably has a small concussion,” he quickly reported while the sergeant in question caught his breath. “He has dog bites that risk getting infected, and we’ve both been without much oxygen for- quite a while.”

“And you?” Gaz asked, a little strained as he helped dig their escape. More people were talking in the background, Yuri and… Nikolai and Eggs. It was good to know they were all still kicking.

“My ribs are bruised, maybe broken. Mostly I need to get the fuck out.”

“Copy that.” A sympathetic look crossed the other lieutenant’s face. “Almost there.”

When Ghost was hoisted onto the surface, he could have sobbed. He opted instead to draw in clear air, taking care not to aggravate his chest too much, while keeping his eyes sharply on where Soap was lifted up beside him.

Gaz immediately wrapped the Scot in a tight hug, fingers losing colour from how hard he clenched the fabric on Johnny’s back. 

There was a soft whine from where Beast was straining to go to Soap as well, held back by Yuri’s firm grip around the big dog. Considering how Johnny might just stab the well-meaning creature if it surprised him, Simon was very grateful for Yuri’s understanding of the same fact. The younger man was quickly gaining his respect. All it took was digging him from a grave.

Eggs was standing awkwardly off to the side, looking unsure of their place in the reunion. Two pairs of silver tags rested against their chest.

A small smile spread on their face when they got eye contact with Simon, although they quickly averted their eyes. It took him a second to remember that this was their first time seeing him unmasked.

Ghost would later deny the way he jumped when a hand landed on his arm. Nikolai chuckled, but had the good grace not to mention it just then, instead just giving a friendly pat. To the lieutenant’s relief, the pilot had enough sense not to attempt a hug as well. Ghost needed space. Even the brief contact was enough to have the hairs on his neck stand up. The only person he would allow near him right now, scratch that, needed near him was…

“Johnny,” he rasped.

Soap was with him in an instant, carefully cradling his face.

“We’re out. We’re out, Si, you're out-”

Safe arms circled him when Simon could no longer hold back the sob that had been lodged in the back of his throat. He was painfully aware of their audience and was incredibly thankful for the way Johnny hid him from view. Soothing nothings were whispered into the top of his head.

He stayed there, ear pressed against a firm chest. The steady heartbeat was there, was real. He could listen to it forever. Vaguely, he was aware of Gaz reporting to Laswell over his radio. 

It seemed to bring Soap back to their current situation.

“Price is alive.” The words were loud, rumbling under his head. 

Simon leaned back enough to view the others, keeping a hand on Johnny’s hip. He wiped his face hurriedly, smearing paint, blood, dirt and tears even further. It didn’t matter much. All eyes were on Soap.

“You saw him?” Gaz asked, posture straightening with fresh hope.

A nod. “He’s uninjured, and they’re keepin’ him alive. They’ll only kill him as an absolute last resort.”

The choir of relieved sighs was almost a comical sound.

“That bastard captain,” Nik laughed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Why?” Eggs piped up. “What’s their goal?”

Soap shook his head. “I’ll tell ye everything, but we have tae be quick. Right now we have the advantage, fer the first time since this shit-show started.”

Simon squeezed lightly where his hand rested. “How so, Johnny?”

The feral grin that lit up blood covered features was addictive.

“They think you and I are dead. That’s what’s gonna kill them.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 11

“Planning a Trap”

“How did you find us?”

Soap looked up when Ghost asked the question that had been similarly nagging the sergeant. The voice was almost too loud, after he had spent days with only half his hearing. When Gaz had presented the backup hearing aid from his bag, Soap had wrapped the man in a tight hug. The world had shifted a little back into place when the noises around him evened out.

Still recovering from the shock of their underground tomb, John and Simon were leaning against each other, absolutely exhausted; they couldn't rest yet, however. There was more to come, and Soap had a sneaky suspicion the pair of them still had parts to play. The plan that had started forming in his mind needed them both in order to work.

He was sneaking glances up at Simon. He’d missed that pretty face, and when he had offered the dirty mask back, the other had vehemently refused. He said it had something to do with airflow. It probably also had something to do with the things inside that troubled head, although John kept that theory to himself.

They had all moved to the treeline, where there was a slight safety in the cover of pines. While being tended to, Soap had started telling his side of the latest events, albeit a simplified version for the sake of time.

His leg had been rewrapped, and new bandages were tight around his head. Ghost’s ribs had been examined and thankfully they only seemed to be bruised; while painful, it removed the risk of a broken rib piercing a lung at a wrong movement.

The group were all digesting the new information in the wake of his short brief about Doctor Solovyov, and the plans their enemy had made the mistake of revealing to a man he thought would be dead before he could relay them. 

Yuri, who had looked a little sick when told he was being tracked, was the one who answered Simon’s question with a tired smile.

“Beast,” he simply explained, scratching behind the dog’s ear. The mutt had stopped struggling to go greet its favourite Scotsman, but still watched him with big eyes. At the mention of its name, the thump of a big tail was heard.

“We had just reunited with Yuri when the fort blew,” Gaz elaborated. “We could hear it from where we were and rushed to figure out what happened. When we got here, well-” He gestured to the rubble before them. “We thought…”

Soap reached over to pat his friend on the shoulder. There was a wobble in Kyle’s voice and he quickly cleared his throat, blinking rapidly. His voice was steady again on his next words.

“Then Beast came out of nowhere while we were trying to figure out what to do.”

Simon shifted beside him, looking towards Nikolai. “I thought he was with you?” 

The pilot shrugged, alert eyes darting over their surroundings. He was the only one still standing, allowing the others to take a break while he kept watch.

“The mutt jumped out the car back at the recon at the library. Figured it just ran off and died in the wild.” He looked back briefly at the dog and its owner. “Then it showed up here and practically tackled Yuri. A loyal beast.”

“Still think I shouldn’t have fed him?” Yuri asked, a smug glint in his eye.

Nik huffed, lips twitching into a smile. “... It’s proving useful.”

“Then he found us?” Soap asked.

“Yep.” Gaz confirmed. “Good thing he loves you, Soap. He led us right to where you were.”

Soap smiled weakly, eying the large dog. He had sat far away from the animal, unable to stop the small tremble in his hands whenever it got too close. He knew Beast was good, knew it wouldn’t hurt him, but whenever he looked over at the dog he just-

Gnashing, sharp teeth sinking into his muscles and tendons, powerful jaws locking into place in his leg, while the rest of the hounds were approaching to do the same-

He just felt a little-

They would tear and shred and pull his body apart in an uncaring, soulless frenzy, and none of his fearful, desperate yells would earn even a second of hesitation or pity from cold, beady eyes-

He just felt a little off. 

He hoped it wouldn’t continue being a problem once he got home. He loved his and Simon’s dogs. What if he felt this same panic around them? Would Simon understand if he couldn’t live with the dogs anymore? John didn’t want to be the reason that that man lost more of the few good things in his life.

He was startled from his muddled thoughts by a strong arm curling around him, as Ghost pulled him into his side. Ghost, who had just gone through his worst nightmare, had sensed his unease and was the one comforting him . 

John went boneless in the familiar hold. Oh, he was so tired. His head pounded in beat with his pulse.

“So what now?” Eggs was the brave soul who asked what they were all thinking.

Gaz hummed, lips thin. He looked back to Soap.

“You seemed like you had a plan?”

“The beginnings of one,” he agreed, sitting up straighter again. “But, well, ya ken my plans…”

“They’re risky as all hell,” Gaz smirked. “But better than nothing, which is what I’ve got currently. What’re you thinking?”

“Until now, Solovyov has held the advantage. Everything’s been part of his initial plan: Fakin’ Yuri’s call fer help, Price’s disappearance, the library… But now he’s left scrambling to figure out something new, and I bet he sucks at that. If he was an intuitive, quick-on-his-feet kinda guy, it wouldnae have taken him seven years to set this shitshow into motion.

“But we have the upper hand now. He thought he’d get us all with that bomb, but failed tae account fer one Simon fuckin’ Riley.” John poked Simon’s cheek lightly when the man scoffed. “I’m no’ happy with ye going rogue and entering without backup, love, but it certainly fucked up the doctor’s big scheme.”

“Eggs, don’t take that as a lesson,” Gaz warned the young private. “Following my orders is normally a very good thing.”

“Yes sir.”

Soap looked back to the former fort, now a debris pile.

“For the first time we have cards to play that he doesnae know about.”

Ghost lifted his head from where it had rested atop Soap's. “Us.”

“Aye. And because they dinnae ken Simon an’ I are still alive, they have nae clue that we’re aware that they're tracking Yuri. I say we lay a trap for those bastards this time, give ‘em a taste of their own medicine.”

Yuri leaned forward, face set in a resolute expression. “I will be bait. Lead them somewhere we choose.”

The sergeant nodded. “We need a place we can navigate, somewhere with few entrances-”

“The basement.” All eyes fell on Eggs and they swallowed nervously. “The library basement. We know the layout, there’s few points of entry, it’s nearby, and- and they would think we’re there to retrieve Toast’s body.”

The kid’s voice was thick, but their eyes shone with determination. Soap thought it over, nodding slowly as the pieces of his plan fell together.

“Fuckin’ brilliant idea.” He stumbled to stand, staunchly ignoring the sharp stab of pain that shot up from his calf. Ghost was right behind him, steadying him. “That means they won’t even question it. The basement only has two entrances: The stairs and the escape tunnel.”

“Also, even if they had cameras set up, those would’ve gotten fried by their own EMP,” Nik added. 

“So we can lie in wait with an ambush without them knowing,” Gaz concluded. “Okay, that’s a good start. Yuri heads into the basement, the rest of us take position inside the library. But what about the tunnel?”

“Do we have any explosives?” Soap asked, fingers itching to blow something up in retaliation to having been blown up twice within the last few days. “Or anything I can make explode.”

Gaz looked at Nik in silent question, but the older man shook his head. 

“Net.”

“Sorry Soap, me neither.” Kyle looked slightly crestfallen, mirroring Soap’s own expression. The plan would’ve worked perfectly with-

Ghost started walking towards the destroyed fort.

“Wait, Simon?” John called after him, immediately limping to catch up. Nikolai, who was already next to him, reached over and helped the sergeant walk. The others scrambled to follow.

Ghost was heading to the centre of the building, where the destruction was less noticeable, a few walls even still standing. Soap’s breath caught when he realised what the other was doing.

“O’ course.” 

“What?” Gaz asked, quickly leaping over rubble to assist Nik with supporting the Scot, although John thought it was frankly unnecessary. His leg disagreed, pain easing up with both men helping him.

Ghost was shifting rocks and bricks briskly, standing smack dab in the middle of the ruins.

“Is it there?” Soap called out to his husband instead of answering Gaz’ question. No need getting the group’s hopes up in case they were wrong.

Ghost grunted, before pulling out a beautiful block of intact explosives and showing it off. His dirtied face split into a rare smile. Soap beamed in response.

Gaz and Nikolai both tensed and stopped up.

“Ach, dinnae be such wussies,” Soap teased. “It’s defused.”

“How do you know?”

“I defused it.”

Ghost navigated his way through the ruins back towards them. “Will this do, Johnny?”

“Absolutely perfect, Si,” he laughed breathlessly. “Guess it was a good choice to waste time on it after all, eh?”

Simon chuckled, pushing the bomb into the arms of a miffed Gaz, taking the younger lieutenant’s place by John’s side. He guided him over to one of the two steel chairs that still stood intact, lowering the Scot into it gently.

“Well, we have a bomb, then. Apparently.” Kyle inspected the object, turning it in his hands carefully. “So you’ll make it work again and rig it to the tunnel?”

“Mm,” Soap agreed. “Then I’ll stay where I can see the outside entrance to the tunnel, and when they enter from that side, I’ll wait until they’re underground and then-” He mimicked an explosion with his hands. “Ka-freakin’-boom.”

“I’ll wait with you.” Ghost’s voice held no place for argument. “I’ll snipe any stragglers.”

“Aye an’ when that’s done, we’ll move tae help in the main fight in the library.”

“Or, y’know-” Gaz looked up from the bomb to view them with a contemplative frown. “Don’t.”

“What d’ye mean?”

“I mean I don’t want either of you in any actual physical combat. Have you seen yourselves?”

Soap scoffed. “I-”

“I agree.” Ghost interrupted. “Well, Soap definitely shouldn’t.”

“Hypocrite,” John grumbled. 

“Both of you,” Gaz said, tone stern. 

“Aye aye cap’n.” Soap sighed, picking his brain for ideas. “What if we stay far away and jus’ snipe hostiles outside the building?”

The two lieutenants shared a look, weighing the idea. 

“I’ll think about it on the way there,” Gaz said, scratching at his beard scruff. “We need to get moving. If we stay here too long, Solovyov will simply attack us here.”

A chorus of affirmatives sounded. Ghost helped Soap back up.

“Do we have a better way of getting there?” The large man asked. “It took me half a day to walk here, and that was with working legs and lungs.”

“Callin’ me out?”

“And myself, Johnny,” Simon murmured. “I’m not at a hundred either.”

Soap gently patted the arm around him. 

“We will have to walk a bit, but only to my helicopter,” Nik reassured. “It’s near the place we met up with Yuri.”

Yuri walked closer, and John was very aware of the large creature beside him. He pushed the irrational fear down, angry at himself at how silly it was. Of all the things he had to be scared of at that moment, Beast was not one of them.

“It’s a good plan, but-” Yuri began hesitantly. “What about the captain?”

“I was wondering the same.” Gaz caught Soap’s eye in question.

“Like I said, this whole thing is all to fuck wi’ Price,” he explained. “I dinnae ken where Solovyov will end up in this mess, but he will stay with Price, and they’ll be there to watch. The doctor wants him to see us die.”

“Sick bastard,” Gaz growled. Soap couldn’t hold in a snort.

“Price called him the same, to his face,” he explained at his friend’s puzzled look. It morphed into something proud at that. “Also, I’m pretty sure he managed to break the doctor’s nose, so that’s a way of identifying ‘im. If the pretentious lab coat isnae enough.”

“Broken nose and lab coat. Gotcha.” Gaz nodded. “As soon as we find out where Price and Solovyov are at, we all head there. You two-” he gestured to Ghost and Soap. “Stay hidden and keep your sniper sights on the doctor when that happens.”

“So we get tae fight then?” 

Gaz sighed, although amusement glinted in his eyes at Soap’s excited tone. “Yeah, alright. Sadly, we’ll need your help.”

The sergeant reached out to punch the other’s shoulder, which he dodged nimbly. John couldn’t see it, but knew that Ghost rolled his eyes from his other side. 

“Alright, I’ll update Laswell. We have extra comms for you two back at the heli.” Gaz said, answering Soap’s unasked question. 

The younger lieutenant walked a bit further away, talking into his radio with a professional demeanour in place; back straight, appearing collected even amidst still-smoking destruction. Soap found himself thinking that Price had been correct: Kyle was more than ready to captain the 141.

“Si,” he mumbled to his large support pillar. “Ye really shouldnae waste yer strength holdin’ me up. Let the others do that.”

“No.”

“Your ribs-”

“Johnny.” He felt the hand on his vest clench. “I need this. Need you close.”

John looked up at the man, noting the tense jaw that was usually hidden by either a mask or beard. It would be hard for others to tell, but the Scot knew that Simon’s composure was balancing on a thin thread, and had been ever since they were dug from the rubble. 

“I understand,” he whispered. “Honestly, I prefer ye close as well.”

Simon didn’t answer in words, but simply tugged him closer.

By the time they reached their transport, Soap was sweating from exertion. He hated to admit it, but maybe Gaz was correct to want him far from the upcoming action. Ghost’s breaths were also slightly wheezy, and at the very least John could find some calm in knowing they’d be together where they could keep an eye on each other.

After being situated in the aircraft, the pair gratefully accepted the radios Eggs handed them. A familiar underhum of static filled Soap’s ears when he turned it on. Gaz told them what channel was their shared one with Laswell, which they both switched to immediately.

“Watcher One, this is Soap MacTavish reportin’ fer duty. How copy?” 

“Solid copy, Soap,” Kate Laswell quickly answered, a smile evident in her voice. “Good to hear you in one piece, sergeant. Is Lieutenant Riley there as well?”

“Affirmative.” Ghost sounded worn. Soap rested a hand on his thigh, receiving a tired smile in return.

“Oh, am I glad to hear you boys again. Garrick’s filled me in on the situation and your plan. I’ve contacted the rest of the task force and updated them as well. They’re all wrapping up their missions, and like you said, Soap, it was all set up by this Simeon Solovyov figure. Everyone is heading your way to assist as fast as possible, but the earliest anyone can be there is in at least half a day…”

“So, whether or no’ we have backup depends on how fast Solovyov acts,” Soap concluded grimly. “And he probably knows that time is running out.”

“Exactly. I’ll be on comms the whole time and keep you all updated.”

“Unless they set off an EMP again… right?” Eggs asked. They then paled slightly. “Actually, how do we know they won’t do that while we’re in the air?”

“We don’t.” Gaz was strapping himself into his seat, seeming calm despite his words. “Like Soap said, this plan is risky. But it’s what we’ve got.”

“I don’t think they will set it off,” Yuri spoke up, settling into his seat beside Soap. Beast was practically glued to the man’s side, trembling at the unfamiliar space. The former stray had probably never been airborne before, so at least Soap wouldn’t have to worry about having a shred of its attention on him.

“They better not,” Nik grouched from the front of the heli. “Haven’t crashed this one yet, still no scratches on her.”

Yuri’s lips were a thin line. “What I mean is- well, an EMP would fry everything. Including-” His hand twitched over his stomach. “Including my tracker.”

“Solovyov wouldn’t do that,” Soap agreed firmly. “Only as a last resort. He can’t risk losing our location.”

“Like the captain always says,” Gaz smiled, despite the tense atmosphere. “EMP stands for-”

“'Every Motherfucker’s Problem’,” Soap and Ghost finished in sync with their teammate.

“Well, keep your parachutes close, still,” Nik said in a chipper tone as the heli spurred to life. “Just in case, da?”

With the risk of crashing weighing on everyone’s minds, no one got any of the rest they otherwise needed. 

Soap blinked against drooping eyelids. His head spun, the nausea caused by his concussion only worsened by being in the air. He was resting against Ghost’s shoulder, reminded of the many times he had done the same in the past when they were returning home from tiring missions. He was pretty sure Price had a picture of the first time it had happened.

In order to keep himself awake, he focused on the voices talking at the front of the heli. 

It was a strange role reversal of the talk the two had had outside the library, when Nikolai was the one to initiate conversation with a quiet Eggs. He was explaining the many different functions of the buttons and levers on his dashboard. Once in a while he would search for words that Soap knew he’d never forget in a million years, just to have the young private speak up with the correct names. Soft bastard. Soap would have to tell Price about it, knowing the captain would never let Nik live it down.

It was nice to see the kid slowly light up as they talked about something they were passionate about. It slightly quelled the guilt that would squirm in John’s stomach whenever he looked at Eggs. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was to blame for the way grief swam in those young eyes.

He chanced another look up at Simon. The man had been staring dully into the air for the whole ride, his head undoubtedly a mess of heavy thoughts tangling impossibly into each other. Once they got home, both of them would need to untangle the knots together. It would take the rest of their lives, but that was always part of their agreement.

“We’ve healed before. We can do it again, if it comes to that.”

He’d said that when they decided to go on this job. It was always easier to say such clever words than it was to live them.

He wished he could reach into Ghost’s brain and remove the hurt, but in the crowded hull of a helicopter heading towards yet another life-threatening mission, all John could do was softly press the hand laying in his own. He sighed in silent joy when it pressed back.  

Relief was palpable in the small space when the helicopter touched down without incident. Gaz looked like he couldn’t quite believe that they hadn’t met the ground in a more violent manner, and Soap bit his inner cheek not to grin at the expression.

“Completing a whole helicopter flight without trouble?” Soap asked while unbuckling his seatbelt. “Must be some sorta record for ye?”

Kyle blew a raspberry, reaching over to flick the Scot’s forehead from where he had gotten to his feet. In his mind, Soap heard Price’s exasperated “Children, please” clear as day. The older man would roll his eyes in order to hide the fond look in them, before smacking Soap over the back of his head, causing the sergeant to complain loudly about favouritism.

But there was no stern voice ringing out to reprimand the interaction. Kyle seemed far away as well, perhaps lost to the same memories. Soap’s mood fell back into the gloom that had started plaguing him on the ride, although he busied himself with his straps in an attempt to keep his mind off of it. 

Mind muddied, he failed to account for the deep bite wound in his calf when he rose to his feet. 

He yelped in surprise at the pain that came back with a vengeance. The leg buckled beneath him and he registered the metal floor rushing up to greet him. It never got the chance. Three different pairs of hands shot out simultaneously, stopping his descent and saving him from the extra aches the fall would have caused him.

Gaz and Yuri helped him upright, while Ghost moved to stand before him. Gloved hands cupped his face, Simon coming into view. The brown eyes were no longer glazed over in faraway thought, but were instead firmly locked onto Soap. 

“You solid?” was asked softly from unmasked lips. 

Soap nodded hurriedly, which he regretted when his head complained. With clenched together eyelids, he responded: “As a rock.”

His cheeks heated at the attention he had drawn to himself. Something ugly curled in his chest when he could practically feel the pity emanating from the people around him. 

“You sure, man?” Gaz asked. The ugly thing grew, stealing his breath.

“I’m fine,” he snapped. Hands loosened their grips hesitantly when he wriggled out of them. “Stop coddlin’ me.”

Gaz’ frown deepened. “It’s not coddling. You’re injured, Soap, and we need to know that you’re up for this.”

“Or what? You’ll rig that bomb yourself?”

“You know none of us can do that.” 

Soap opened his mouth to shoot back a scathing retort, but was interrupted.

“Toast could’ve rigged it.” 

The bitter mumble from their youngest member almost went unheard in the tense interaction, but to Soap it was louder than a gunshot. He looked towards Eggs who quickly turned their head down, but not before he saw that very anger he had feared; anger at him. Anger at his inability to save the private’s best friend. 

Fight left him quicker than air left a popped balloon. He tilted forwards, caught in Simon’s waiting arms. 

They were all talking around him, words unintelligible in the static that settled in his brain. The chest against his head moved when Ghost said something that effectively silenced the others. There was a sound of boots against metal as steps retreated, the team leaving the aircraft. 

Finally, it was only Soap and Ghost. 

“Johnny?” was murmured into the top of his head. 

Soap sank even further against the strong body, mindful not to put pressure on the ribs. 

“What happened there?” Simon asked, somehow patient despite the unknown amount of time they had. They needed to set up their trap, needed to get into position, yet all John wanted to do was crawl into Ghost’s chest and hide away against his beating heart.

He shook his head instead. “Dunno.”

“You’re always telling me to talk. Your turn.”

Soap huffed his best semblance of a laugh, which ended up sounding like a heavy sigh. 

“I just- I’m tired, Si.” He didn’t know what other words to use. “I’m jus’ so tired.”

“Me too,” the other agreed in a low timbre. John’s head was moved back gently, cradled in Simon’s large hands. “We’re almost done. For better or for worse. And then we’ll go home, together, and we’ll rest, yeah?”

“Will we?” His voice broke on the words. It was usually his place to assure Ghost of these things, yet in that moment his stubborn optimism was failing him, chipped away by the last few days. “No rest for the wicked, right?”

“Oh, Johnny,” Ghost said, his expression impossibly affectionate for a man with blood smeared on his face. “We’re not wicked. We deserve to rest, you said so yourself. Remember?”

“I did, didn’t I?” 

“And you were right.” 

Soap let his head be guided forwards to rest against his partner’s. 

“I thought we were going to die suffocating underground,” Ghost whispered. “I thought it was some sort of twisted retribution. That the ground I escaped all those years ago would finally get to eat me. But it didn’t. It’s strange, but it’s like some of that dread that’s lived in me since the first time I dug my way out of that coffin just- disappeared when we were pulled out. My worst fear happened, but we survived it.”

“Here I thought ye were spiralling.”

“Sounds like you’ve been instead,” Simon observed astutely. “You’ve been there to tell me I deserve to live without fear and guilt every step of the way, right from when you first met me. Maybe it’s simply my turn to tell you the same?”

The words alone dug in and untangled something tender within him. He’d be okay. They both would. 

Soap reached up to trace dried tear tracks in black face paint, his lips pulling into a small smile at the way brown eyes watched him intensely. 

“My bonnie raccoon,” he said. 

Warmth trickled into his chest when black paint crinkled at the corner of Simon's eyes. The bigger man leaned down to connect their lips in a soft kiss.

“My bloody idiot,” he said fondly against Soap’s mouth, before pulling back again. “Let’s get a move on, sergeant.”

“Aye, Lt.,” Soap agreed breathlessly. He allowed the other to hold him up without complaint. “Just gotta blow up a tunnel, save an old man and kill a mad doctor. Easy peasy.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 12

“Springing the Trap”

“Guess ye went through the books too quick, eh?”

Ghost cocked his head at Johnny’s question, pulling his eyes away from the small trap door he knew was nestled between the dead bushes they were scouting out.

“Wha’?”

Soap scoffed. “Cannae even remember yer own joke.”

Simon searched his memory. Amusement filled his chest when he realised what the Scot was blabbering about.

“Why did the ghost return to the library? Right.” He shook his head with a small smile. “You’re the only person who actually remembers my jokes.”

“A sad accomplishment.”

The skies were clear, sharp sunlight reflecting off of the fallen snow. Soap’s eyes were shut against the bright light that was undoubtedly sending spikes of pain through his concussed head. Ghost had made sure to settle himself in a way that made his shadow cover the smaller man, hiding him from the sun.

They were in position, just the two of them once more, the rest of their small group situated back at the library. Nikolai and Beast were outside the building, while Gaz and Eggs had taken up positions on the first floor balcony, which had a perfect outlook of the entrances and the door to the basement. Nik had grumbled about babysitting the dog again, which was undercut by the dog in question licking his hand without repercussion. 

Now all they had to do was wait and see if Solovyov would take the bait. The ‘bait’ was currently waiting alone in the archives at the other end of the tunnel Ghost and Soap were watching. Yuri had looked determined, ever ready to prove his loyalty, but Ghost knew his tells; had sniffed them all out during the time they worked together seven years prior. The small twitching in their Russian ally’s left hand didn’t pass him by.

After escaping Soap’s crushing hug, Yuri had nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand wearing a skeletal glove had landed on his shoulder. Simon had settled on a curt nod rather than words, hoping his meaning came across regardless: Thank you for digging us from the ground. Sorry for accusing you of betrayal yet again. I trust you.

The other man had visibly gulped, returning the gesture with a tiny nod of his own. 

He had looked small between the shelves as the hidden door shut behind them.

Of course, Soap snidely commented on the lack of communication once they were in the tunnel, something about “stubborn, emotionally constipated men” , but underneath he seemed pleased that the pair had finally reached an understanding with each other. 

It also made for an easier subject matter than the lifeless body still nestled between rocks at the end of the archives, now covered by a spare jacket. Simon indulged heavily accented rambling as Johnny distracted himself on their way through the tunnel. The demolitionist seemed to refocus once he started tinkering with the explosive at the halfway point, hands moving in practised motions. A tripwire had been carefully strung out, before they’d headed onward.

The pair had been waiting for well over an hour now, huddled close to keep warm. Soap’s head dropped with sleep more than once, but he quickly startled awake each time, despite Simon’s reassurance that it was okay if he took a kip. 

Oh well, if he wouldn’t sleep, then he could answer something that had weighed on the lieutenant’s mind since their bomb had been placed.

“When you told Gaz that you needed to be here to set off the explosive,” Ghost said, earning Soap’s attention. “That wasn’t actually true, was it?”

Johnny blinked in surprise. “Why? What do ye mean?”

“The tripwire, Johnny.”

“Ah.” The smaller man squirmed slightly under Ghost’s reprimanding stare. “Well, maybe we don’t need to be here to set it off, exactly, but it’s good tae have eyes on the situation, aye?”

The winning smile following the words had Simon’s stern facade melt away easily. 

“Stubborn fool.”

“Ye know I hate bein’ benched, Si,” Soap defended with a dramatic arm gesture, immediately wincing when he pulled on one of his recent wounds. Ghost rolled his eyes. “Besides, we’re small in numbers. Each one of us counts.”

“True. Even two injured and retired, not to mention mentally unstable and emotionally compromised ex-soldiers.”

“Now you’re getting it,” Soap grinned enthusiastically, clearly choosing to ignore the dry sarcasm lathering Simon’s statement. The grin only grew when Simon cracked a small smile of his own.

“Well, until backup arrives, you’re right. Each one of us-”

“Sorry, what was tha’?”

“What?”

“Ye just said somethin’ incredible, Si, I’ll need tae hear it again.” 

Ghost sighed. “I said ‘you’re right’, Johnny.”

“Ha, there it is,” Soap cheered quietly. “Could get used tae tha’.”

“Would say it more if it wasn’t so rarely true.”

“Och, shut yer puss,” Johnny chuckled, burrowing back into his spot against the warm body beside him. His nose and cheeks were pink with cold, despite working with a smaller supply of blood than usual. The battered form was more susceptible to cold after the ordeal it had been through, and Simon had accepted his role as personal heater. Usually it was the other way around.

“As I was sayin’,” Ghost continued. “I agree that we’re useful here while our numbers are so small. But if backup gets here in time, you an’ me are getting the hell out. Understood?”

“Sir, yes sir,” came the muffled reply from the face pressed against his winter jacket.

With a small hum, Simon lifted his hand to rest on the back of the other’s head. Layers of clothing separated them, preventing him from carding his fingers through the dumb mohawk like he wanted to, but he still felt the body against him relax at the contact. Maybe the stubborn Scot would finally succumb to sleep.

The winds were biting at his own bare face. It shouldn’t feel strange, not after years of civilian life without the fabric hugging his features, but it was different when he was wearing his gear. The get-up seemed incomplete without the mask.
He hadn’t been lying when he told Soap that it was due to airflow; even now, his lungs were still greedily lapping up the oxygen he had so sorely missed. But it wasn’t the whole truth. 

Ghost had risen from the grave way back then. He needed Simon to be the one to do so this time.

“Hey, Si?” Soap sounded much too awake. His mind was probably as restless as Ghost’s own.

“Hm?”

“Thank ye fer findin’ me. Thought for a second-”Johnny swallowed when his voice thickened. “Really thought my last words to ye would be- would- That would’ve… I couldnae stand that.”

He didn’t need to say the words. Ghost knew all too well what he meant.

“A file. There was a sentence written in cyrillic, but- I think I know what it said.”

“What, Johnny?” 

“Hell awaits you.”

The EMP had cut off their communication then, had stolen Johnny away, leaving his final words to ring in Ghost’s head like foreboding. During his long trek through snowy forest, the sentence had played like a broken record. He had strangled that nagging fear at the back of his mind that he would never hear Johnny’s voice again; that one day, all he would remember of that Scottish lilt would be how wrong it sounded curled around those words.

In the end, Ghost would have torn apart the world in his search, if it meant that Soap could drown out his senses with that voice again. 

“I’ll always find you.”

He met Johnny’s eyes with steadfast conviction, when the man leaned back to look at him. Whatever Soap found in the dark eyes staring back had him smiling softly. 

“Aye. You will,” he said. With a teasing glint in his eye, he added: “Sap.” 

“Mm, that’s your fault. I was very cool before we met.”

“Right. Nothin’ cooler than having fifty dad jokes ready to go.”

“Worked on you, though,” Ghost winked, relishing in Soap’s fond eye roll. 

“Lucky fer you tha’ I have terrible taste.”

“Likewise. I fell for a grown man with a mohawk”

“Aye, embarrassing,” Johnny chuckled. “M’happy it didnae scare ye off.”

“Me too.” He pressed a kiss to Johnny’s forehead.

“ Sap. ”

In the beginning, Soap had been the only one between them to utter such sincerities. Rather than the mohawk, it was those vulnerable moments that had nearly scared Ghost off. 

He had been the first person to attempt to pry into the enigma of the Ghost in many, many years. Well, the first to succeed.

Price had done his own fair share of well-meaning poking at the walls around his heart, but had eventually accepted that he would never get to see Simon. Not truly. At least, that was what Ghost had led the old man to believe in the few years before the task force was created. It was what he had believed himself. 

That had been before one John ‘Soap’ MacTavish. 

“It suits you.” 

The captain’s low murmur sounded loud in the still night air. He didn’t elaborate, instead taking another drag of one of his many cigars.

It was just the two of them; just Ghost and Price standing outside their current safehouse. Their latest mission was a success, surprisingly. Shepherd was dead. He had nearly taken Johnny with him.

But he didn’t , Simon reminded himself. The wounded Scot was alive and resting. If being pestered by Gaz and Roach could be qualified as rest. The infection cleared up, the fever had broken. 

Price had all but dragged Ghost outside with him. 

It was the first breather they’d had in days, so naturally they chose to breathe in corrupted air through their respective vices. 

Ghost blew out smoke, brows furrowing.

“What suits me?”

Price’s eyes followed the rising smoke as it disappeared into the starry sky. “‘Suits’ might be the wrong word. Hasn’t been pretty these last few days…”

“What’re ya on about, old man?”

“Opening up. Letting us in.” Price shrugged lightly, as if the words didn’t steal his breath. “Never thought I’d get to see that, but that Scottish muppet actually managed it.”

Ghost grinded his teeth, pointedly ignoring when knowing eyes fell on him. Instead he took an angry drag of his cigarette. 

“Dunno what you mean,” he finally grumbled, still very intrigued by his own shoelaces.

“It’s not bad, Simon,” the man beside him reassured, quietly. Steadily. “It’s- Well, like I said, it hasn’t been pretty lately. But nearly losing someone you love? That fucks you up. It makes sense that you’ve been outta your mind a bit. We all have, to be fair.”

Love. 

He did love Johnny. He knew that very well and had known it for months. 

Years. 

But he hadn’t told Soap, and he certainly hadn’t told their captain. 

Thinking back on the last days, it wasn’t a complete mystery how the man had figured it out, though. There had been crying, there had been touches, there had even been begging. The feared and respected Ghost, lieutenant of the infamous 141, begging for a mohawked Scot with a gaping chest wound.

Yeah, that might’ve given the captain an idea of what relationship his subordinates had. 

“I can practically hear your brain overworking itself,” Price’s voice broke through, not sounding unkind. The smaller man turned to face Ghost fully, somehow still seeming larger. “I’ve known for… quite a while. Honestly, sometimes I thought maybe I knew and you two didn’t. It’s good to know that’s not the case.”

Simon swallowed against a lump in his throat when a strong hand held him by his shoulder. He willed himself to meet his superior’s eye.

“I always hoped that I would get to meet Simon Riley.” Price smiled at him. It almost made the dark bags under his eyes disappear. Almost. “The real one. When I first met you, I tried to coax you back by- by giving you some of that humanity you had been missing, I guess. And I saw glimpses. But never more than that. It’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made, I think, teaming you up with Soap.”

Leaning into the hold on his arm, Simon sighed. “I know you tried. I never- I never thought I could-”

I never thought I could love anything or anyone again. But now…

The words were still too big on his tongue. Too big in his mind. Maybe one day, after his heart was thawed even further, he could say them; or at least dare to think them.

The words weren’t needed, luckily. Warmth still bloomed in those crinkled eyes before him.

“The closest I got to a breakthrough, to a… friendship with you, back then,” Price speculated slowly. “Well, that was probably those horrid jokes.”

Memories swam to the surface of Simon’s brain. Scenes that could almost be remembered fondly, if it weren’t for the fact that they happened in a time of his life so completely stained with terrors. His time with Roba seeped into almost every moment of the years following his capture, sticking to him like the blood he had found crusted in his hair for months after it was supposedly over. No matter how many showers he took, scrubbing his skin red and raw, he could still feel the caked blood, rot and dirt on him. In the end, he had buzzed his head; had put that mask on.

But he had known he would never escape what happened to him in Mexico, nor what happened when he came home.

Yet, Price had tried. The bastard had been persistent, despite never finding what he was digging for. The captain had been the first person to make him laugh again.

Not a real laugh. Never a hearty guffaw or a belly laugh, but still a sound that had escaped the lieutenant unwillingly. It had made that bushy moustache move into a proud smile. 

“Hm, what was it you said?” Simon smiled softly, looking down at the embers eating their way down his cigarette. “Something terribly distasteful, if I recall.”

“Would you have laughed if it wasn’t?” Price shot back, leaning back into their original position side-by-side. “Let’s see…”

It had been recently after Simon had gotten back into the force, after Price and Shepherd had pulled a million strings for it to happen. Ghost, full gear, had stood like a dark cloud in front of a newly-appointed captain. 

There was to be a funeral for the murdered Riley family, Price’d told him. Simon Riley would be buried alongside them in an empty casket. And despite all the hard work of keeping him legally dead, Price had asked if Ghost wanted to go to the early service, held at 6 am. 

When he had declined, cool and emotionless as ever, Price had asked-

“Not a mourning person? That’s what I said,” Price recalled, shaking his head. “Bloody Christ, that was a bit distasteful, wasn’t it?”

Ghost snorted. “It’s still funny. Not as funny as the guilty look on your face after, though.”

“It slipped out. Had it been anyone else, they would’ve never spoken to me again. Instead, you laughed. Absolutely bonkers.”

“Never claimed I was anything else.”

“Lucky that the lad inside is just as strange,” Price smirked, tilting his head towards the house. Towards Soap. 

“More like he has no self preservation.”

“Oh, he’s proven that many times. The man gets a kick out of blowing shit up. You’re not the most dangerous thing he’s chased.” Price finished his cigar, before pinning Simon with yet another too-knowing look. “Even though you try to tell him you are, to scare him off. It won’t work.”

Simon coughed, choking on smoke. “What-”

“I know you,” Price simply said. 

As he looked after the captain’s retreating form, Simon shook his head, affection unfurling in his chest. At that moment, it struck him that he could never repay that man.

But if they both lived long enough, if they survived the fire of the world and the smoke in their lungs; he’d try.

“There’s movement,” Nikolai’s voice sounded in their ear pieces. 

Soap jerked up next to him, eyes snapping open. He had finally managed to doze off, and internally, Simon cursed the timing. Soap really looked like he needed about a week’s worth of sleep.

Another part of him sparked with that familiar excitement of finally seeing action, of finally getting to unleash some of that anger that coursed through him. For better or for worse, this was it. The end of this mess.

“What do you see, Nikolai?” Laswell responded. 

“Figures heading towards the town. Their uniforms are the same as the soldiers we fought last time, so it’s them.”

“Can you spot Price?” Gaz asked.

“It’s hard to make them out, they blend in with the snow.”

“Price was still wearing his own uniform last I saw him,” Soap informed quietly. His eyes were scanning their surroundings. If they were wrong and no soldiers were sent to attack from the tunnel, they would be useless where they were. “He should stand out.”

“Seems they’re setting up a temporary base in one of the houses nearest the library.” There was a pause, before Nik drew in a short breath. “There’s- I thought maybe they were carrying a bag, but… it could be the captain. If it is, he’s out cold.”

Soap frowned and gave Ghost a confused look. “Solovyov wants him to see this. Why would he knock him out?”

Ghost could only shrug in response, but an uneasiness wriggled in his stomach.

“They’re waiting for something,” Nikolai whispered. “But they look ready to charge the library.”

“Any movement on your end, Ghost?” Laswell asked, tone clipped. She probably hated the ambiguity of this mission. Ghost did too.

“None yet.” He still prepared his rifle, settling into position as he scouted the quiet area. Soap followed his lead. 

“Nikolai, you keep an eye on Price at all times,” Gaz ordered.

“And if you need help inside?”

“I’ll let you know.”

A stillness had fallen over the wooded area when Soap and Ghost had first arrived, the natural noises of the forest quieting down. The longer they had sat mostly unmoving, however, small sounds had started trickling back. Birds chirping and small paws pattering over snow and fallen pine needles. 

It had fallen completely silent again, now.

Looking at his partner, Simon was pleased to see Soap nod in understanding. They had both caught the shift in the air. Something was coming.

A fairly large group approached the trap door, talking in whispers, occasionally letting their eyes drift over their surroundings to make sure they were alone. A few times, they would look directly at the spot where Ghost and Soap were hidden, and Ghost’s trigger finger would twitch, ready to act. 

But none of them noticed their spectators.

“We’ve got company,” he whispered into his radio.

“Is your position compromised?” Laswell responded immediately.

“No.”

“It’s definitely Price,” Nik suddenly added. “He’s awake. They injected him with something, probably a stim shot.”

“Do you have eyes on the doctor?” 

“Maybe. I think I know which one is him. But no clear shot. Should I take the shot if that changes?”

“No,” Gaz said quickly. “Not before we can get to Price. They might have orders to kill him if Solovyov goes down.”

“Copy that.”

The soldier who looked to be in charge of the group by the trap door was talking into his radio. He nodded resolutely. The group got in position, lining up to follow their leader into the tunnel.

“They’re about to enter,” Ghost informed the team.

“Yuri, how copy?” Soap added. 

“Solid,” came the reply from the otherwise quiet man. “I’m ready.”

“If the bomb for whatever reason doesn’t work, then get the hell out.”

“It will work. But copy.” 

Soap looked touched at the unwavering faith Yuri had in his plan. They all knew that if it didn’t work, then Yuri was practically a dead man, trapped as he was between the two groups of assailants. He had placed his life in the demolitionist’s hands without a moment’s doubt.

Simon hoped they wouldn’t lose another friend in those archives.

“They’re moving.” Nik’s voice crackled through the comms, in the same second as the trap door was opened and the small group started filtering into the ground. It was strange to watch people unknowingly step into their own grave.

Four people stayed behind, guarding the small exit from the library. 

“They’re entering the tunnel,” Soap reported.

Once the explosives would go off, all they had to do was take out the remaining four stragglers. They had probably been stationed there just in case someone from the 141 slipped through the tunnel to make an escape. 

In his mind’s eye, Ghost saw that other scenario. The world where he and Johnny had died in the fort. Their team would have had to fend for themselves, still in the dark about what was even going on. He imagined Gaz or Nik or Yuri or even Eggs trying to escape through that small hatch, only to be mercilessly executed by the men waiting for them.

He had no qualms about doing the same to them.

Even with the distance between them and their team, Ghost could feel the tension coiling as they slowly crept up on the moment all hell would break loose. It felt as though even the trees were holding their breath. Beside him, Soap was doing the same, eyes glued to the ground where their enemy had disappeared.

If the bomb didn’t work, their odds of success would become so incredibly small. 

The silence stretched out, long enough for doubt to tickle in the back of his brain. They knew the plan was risky, that it depended on many unknown factors, but he had-

The first gunshot from the library cracked through their comms. Only a second later, a much louder sound followed.

Ghost watched glee light up Soap’s face as the ground imploded on itself, burying a large part of Solovyov’s allies. Chaos erupted.

The four people were shouting into their own radios, confusion and shock practically emanating from the scene. Calmly, Ghost adjusted his rifle, looking down its sight.

“Take the ones on the left,” he mumbled.

“Copy,” Soap grinned, keeping his movements steady despite the way he clearly wanted to jump with excitement.

Almost in perfect sync, two shots rang out. Two soldiers fell. The remaining pair nearly didn’t have time to register what had happened, before they, too, dropped to the ground. The forest was still again, apart from the smoke and dust still settling near the large indent that had appeared in the dirt where the tunnel had collapsed.

“Fucking beautiful with that bomb,” Gaz cheered, gunfire ringing in the background. “They’re headless chickens right now, it’s chaos.”

“Yuri, your stupid dog ran off again,” Nikolai growled.

“Don’t worry about him.”

“I wasn’t worrying -”

Soap laughed breathlessly, looking more alive than he had since the first library incident. 

“We’re on our way,” Ghost told the team. He guided Soap to his feet, and together they stumbled to the destruction they had caused.

Checking their handiwork, Ghost couldn’t help the swell of satisfaction at the clean kills. Even after years in retirement, he and Soap still worked seamlessly. He was just about to say so when he heard a single voice stutter out a string of Russian behind them. 

They both swung around, seeing a lone soldier halfway out of the dirt. He was talking rapidly into his radio, eyes wide and focused on Soap. 

Ghost didn’t hesitate to cut off the voice with another well-placed shot. 

They stood still, watching the disturbed ground, but no other survivors crawled out. That soldier had probably been the furthest from the blast.

Soap cursed. It made Simon tear his eyes from the unexpected arrival to look him over.  Johnny’s face was set in a grim frown.

“What?”

“He was one of the guards from the fort,” the sergeant explained. “He recognized me. I bet it’s no secret that we’re alive anymore. Solovyov- he knows-”

Soap’s chest rose with quickening breaths. Ghost held him by his shoulders, earning his full attention.

“It doesn’t matter,” Simon stated. “The bomb worked, his men are caught in the ambush, we even know where Price is - that’s the most important part. He was bound to find out.”

Johnny slowly nodded and resolve glinted like steel in his eyes. “Right. Now all that matters is catching him before he slips away. And getting Price back.”

“Exactly. C’mon.”

They settled against each other in a position that was becoming increasingly practised, leaving the red snow and collapsed ground behind. They made impressive speed, even half-hobbling, urged forwards by the sounds of combat in their ear pieces. Their friends were still holding their own. Yuri had joined Gaz and Eggs upstairs, while Nik stayed undiscovered from where he rained death outside. 

It was a good sign that no soldiers met them on the way. It meant Solovyov no longer had men to spare, concentrating his attack on the library. 

He had something else to unleash, however.

The first howl that split the air made Soap freeze in place, eyes growing wide. More howls followed. It definitely wasn’t Beast this time.

“Fuck,” Ghost muttered, leaning the other man against a tree before readying his rifle. “We can take a few dogs, Johnny. Stay with it.”

“They know my scent, they’re trained for-”

“Yep, can’t outrun ‘em, I know. It doesn’t sound like there’s too many of them. We got this.” With a quick motion, he radioed the team. “We’re going dark,” he informed, cutting off the responses as he turned off the line to their friends. His full attention was needed here.

To his relief, Johnny straightened up, readying his own firearm after turning off his comms as well. Despite the fear that stood clear on his face, his hands stayed unshaking. Sniper’s hands. 

“Attaboy,” Simon murmured. His ears were picking up the patter of quick paws now. Looking down the barrel, Ghost silently swore that no hellhound would get their teeth in Johnny ever again.

The first form that darted out from the underbrush took a bullet to its skull instantly, Ghost’s finger tight on the trigger. A second shot rang out a millisecond later, as Soap took out the one behind it. 

They weren’t lucky enough that the dogs emerged one at a time. They could have picked them off one by one, their aim true. Instead, the hounds all emerged at once, the remaining four of them leaping over their fallen packmates. Two more fell before Ghost dropped his rifle, as the last pair got too close for the long distance weapon to make sense. 

Both dogs were heading for Soap, just as they were trained to do. The sergeant was pulling out his knife, stance wide and prepared for impact. 

Ghost snarled. A blade in his own hand, he barreled into the first hound when it leapt for its target. It yelped in surprise, thrashing under him. It went still when his knife sank in between its ribs. 

There was a yell behind him, and he twisted around. Fear gripped his heart. Soap was on his back, both hands holding the dog above him by its throat, keeping its snapping teeth inches from his face. His knife sat in the flank of the vicious animal. The pinned man couldn’t reach it without allowing the gnashing teeth access to his own throat. 

Simon was moving like a man possessed, heart hammering in his whole body. 

When Johnny’s arms gave out, a sickening realisation spilled over him like ice water: He wouldn’t make it in time.

It was like falling from that damned building all over again. The rush of air in his ears. The way the world seemed to slow. The all-deafening terror of impending loss.

A blur of motion happened in the corner of his eye, moving faster than himself. Something slammed into the dog, brutally forcing it off its prey.

Johnny’s small gasp almost went unheard in the sudden tumultuous noise of fight, whines and growls echoing through the trees. To Simon, it rang louder than a gunshot.

He didn’t look at their mysterious saviour, full focus on the man on the ground gasping shaky breaths. Blue eyes met his, blown with panic but alive. Simon touched the intact skin of Soap’s throat, his hands patting around hurriedly in search of wounds that weren’t there.

A loud SNAP! forced their attention to the newest arrival. Still growling, looking more his namesake than ever, Beast stood victorious, the last hellhound hanging limply from his jaws. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon whispered.

“Good dog,” Soap wheezed, now full-body trembling. He let Ghost gather him in his arms, both still sitting in the disturbed snow. Ghost didn’t pay mind to the fingers digging harshly into his forearm.

The praise made Beast wag his tail, the feral look leaving dark eyes. The dead hound was dropped to the ground, forgotten. The good dog in question trotted towards them with a visible limp, an injury oozing crimson down his hind leg. 

To Simon’s surprise, Soap lifted his hand and urged the dog closer. A happy whine left Beast when the man who had steered clear of the big mutt since their reunion finally scratched behind pointy ears. In return, Beast laid down and rested his head on Soap’s chest. Even more blood was smeared onto the tac vest, but it would undoubtedly be trashed after this mission anyway. 

“Good dog,” Johnny repeated quietly. His body was slowly relaxing again, pressed between his husband and their fluffy friend.

Simon shut his eyes tightly against the sudden sting that prickled in them. That had been too close. Again.

Always too close. Always too slow.

“How copy?” Soap rasped, the hand not currently threading through fur coming up to stroke Ghost’s cheek. He shook his head, leaning into the kind touch.

“I think- I think I have new respect for your fear of dogs.”

Soap’s breath hitched in a surprised laugh. “Well, I have new respect for your fear o’ bein’ buried alive. What a valuable couple’s retreat we’re on.”

Simon chuckled roughly. The thumb on his cheek caught the stray tear that slipped out. “I’ll recommend it to Dr. Cheng. She can use it for couple’s therapy.”

The pair giggled at the absurdity. It was a strange sound, out of place at that moment, but near-death experiences tended to rattle the mind. Soap manoeuvred his way up to give a quick peck to Simon’s lips. Beast stood up, shaking blood out of his fur before giving them an eager look. 

“He’s right, we’re wasting time,” Soap said. The whole encounter had barely taken a minute, but time was of the essence. 

Ghost let his eyes wander over his husband’s form one extra time, making sure that he was truly unscathed. Satisfied with what he found, his heart finally stopped drowning out his mind as focus returned. He nodded at Soap. Only then did he remove the hand that had been clasped around the other’s wrist, lifting it to click the button on his radio.

“This is Ghost, how copy?” he asked the shared channel. 

A chorus of “solid”’s met his ears, no voices missing from the response. Everyone was still kicking. He shared a relieved look with Soap.

“Sit-rep?” Laswell demanded.

“We ran into some trouble, but we’re solid. Beast is with us.” Ghost ran a hand over the mutt’s head. “We’re still moving to the library. Same instructions?”

“Head to the town,” Gaz instructed, sounding out of breath. “Nikolai had to move inside to assist us. We have no eyes on Price anymore. Need you to go find his location, but from a distance.”

“Got it, Gaz. We’re the picture o’ careful,” Soap quipped easily. “No reason tae worry.”

“There’s always reason to worry about you, idiot.”

“Ye sound like Price.”

“He’ll tell you the same thing soon.”

Soap grinned. “Undoubtedly.”

“We’ll find him,” Ghost added, changing his course slightly to aim for the town rather than the library. 

In their earpieces, the noise of gunfire became increasingly scattered, as their team took down the hostiles in the library. Meanwhile, Ghost led Soap and Beast towards their destination with a determined pace. He ignored Soap’s grumble as he shouldered most of the other’s weight to help ease the strain on the man’s mangled leg. His own leg’s old injury groaned in protest. What a pair they made. A limping Beast completed the pathetic display.

The cold was chased away by Soap’s warm body at his side. It was a brief relief, as Ghost realised that Johnny was running a tad too hot. They’d known that infection and fever were lurking around the corner with the injuries the smaller man had sustained, yet Simon had stubbornly hoped that particular problem would wait until this mess was over. There wasn’t much he could do but push forward.

The sooner this was done, the sooner Johnny would get help. The sooner they would rest.

Through the thinning trees, dully-coloured blocks of familiar buildings became visible, paint peeling off the walls with age. In the distance, the library still stood darkly against bright skies. The sounds of gunfire echoed down the hill, now reaching them from more than just their radios. 

With Soap pressed close to him, supported by his tiring arms, Ghost turned to the ghost town before them. It laid eerily silent in contrast to its loud counterpart at its edge. 

“Ghost,” Soap whispered urgently. 

His eyes followed where his partner pointed to. His hand squeezed Soap’s waist gently in confirmation when he spotted what the other had seen first.

Partially obscured by the buildings, a small group was making their escape through the town. Two burly soldiers had a firm hold of a struggling figure in a well-known uniform. Even muffled by a gag, the anger and desperation in Price’s low yells shined through. A weaselly man kept looking behind the group, seemingly scanning for dangers, and Ghost quickly dodged behind the house they had reached nearest the treeline. Soap had a hold of Beast, keeping them all hidden.

The footsteps faded, almost out of earshot as Simon risked another look. The weaselly man wasn’t looking in their direction, but back at the library. When he lagged behind, a sharp voice hissed at him, making him jump and hurry to keep up.

Ghost zeroed in on the owner of that voice, the last member of the small group. Clad in a white lab coat and with a bandage over his brightly-bruised nose, Solovyov made for an underwhelming display compared to the monster Ghost had built up in his head. He was short, a good deal shorter than Price, and his body was tense with nerves as he directed his men. Yet, this was the man who had caused all this grief, who had nearly taken everything from them; he was the man who made Soap press even further against Ghost for comfort.

They couldn’t let him get away. Not when they were so close. 

He caught Johnny’s eyes. The feverish shine did little to subtract from the resolute fire that danced in there, and understanding immediately flowed between them as they nodded at each other. Simon shifted his weight, preparing to move again.

His eyes never left their retreating targets, even as he spoke quietly into the receiver on his radio. “We have eyes on the doctor. He’s making a run for it. We’re in pursuit.”

Time for a hunt through a ghost town.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 13

“Ghost Town”

Price’s world had become a living hell. And it was his own damn fault.

Just a quick, last mission, he’d thought. Check up on some intel from Yuri that was probably nothing, fit in a little goodbye tour for Makarov in the process. Maybe a visit to see Nik and tell him about the retirement plan, get called old in the process, before heading back home and passing the mantle of captain to a well-deserving Kyle Garrick.

What could go wrong, right?

He should have seen it coming a mile away. In his time as captain for the 141, there were more missions that went off the rails than not. They’d always had to roll with the punches. It was what made him so damn proud of his squad.

Yet he had walked right into a set-up, complacent so close to the finish line. He hadn’t had to worry about Vladimir Makarov in seven years. He should’ve known that was too good to be true. 

And now Ghost and Soap were dead. 

They were crushed under an old fort in Russia, after coming to clean up his mess. KIA, despite having left action years ago.

He had never felt a hollowness like the one that was currently threatening to swallow him whole.

He had lost count so very long ago of how many soldiers had died in his time in the military. Friends, acquaintances. Fresh faces alongside long-time allies. He still remembered the first times it happened clearly, of course he did. No one forgot the first deaths in the field, be it those caused by your own hand, or the ones by the enemy’s. 

With time, a grim acceptance settled in his very bones. With every loss, every death, it all blurred into one. Terrible each time, but… expected. 

But his team was different. This was different. 

“Playing the self blame game, sir?” Soap had mumbled back in that cell, quick and cheeky as ever, despite fever-glazed eyes.

So maybe Price was a hypocrite. He had told Soap not to waste his energy on where he’d gone wrong, yet at this moment, all Price could think of was all the ways he had failed his men. Like father, like-

Grief twisted its blistering blade even deeper in his chest, the pain near physical. His mouth tasted like static.

Having favourites was frowned upon, but it was no secret that there was a special bond between the members of the 141. They were more than colleagues, brought together by facing impossible odds together and coming out on top. 

Gaz, Soap, Ghost… They were Price’s family. 

He had seen the fort go up. He had felt the earth shake beneath his feet with the force of the explosion. 

They weren’t supposed to be here . Yet, they were. For him. To save him, Soap had said.

Fiery and sweet John, always ready with a reassuring smile in even the most horrible times. Even when death clung to him and his eyes were red-rimmed and sporting dark bags, he had always been ready to keep up spirits. Loyal to a fault. Stubborn to it, too. So selflessly brave that it toed the line of reckless stupidity, despite being a smart lad in every other sense.

And strong, steady Simon. The man who was plagued by so many demons, that Price had marvelled at how he even kept standing. Yet, he did. Level-headed, despite all the things that should’ve broken him. Surprisingly soft in the rare glimpses he showed those he trusted. Protective of his team, of the few people he had allowed into his heart.

Something had just clicked with them. Simon steadied Soap just enough that his head left the clouds so that he could view the world below more clearly. John never stopped digging until he could drag Ghost from the earth, wiping the dirt gently from his eyes so that he could see the blue skies above once more.

What a dangerous profession for love like theirs. It went beyond all that fraternisation bullshit, even more so once the war truly ripped normalcy and structure from their grasp. Price’s fear of losing them had grown alongside their increasingly obvious affections. He’d realised that losing one meant losing both .

Then he’d heard Simon Riley laugh, really laugh again. He’d noticed a calm in the otherwise perpetually restless John MacTavish. Price would never have traded that for anything.

When they’d left the task force and the military behind, abandoning the edge on which their lives had so precariously balanced, their captain had felt none of the disappointment he’d expected at losing two of his best soldiers; instead he’d felt the deep rooted worry for them leave his body, knowing they were safe. 

Those two deserved gentle things, despite the way the world had moulded them for violence. Maybe even because of it.

They were gone .

He knew he played right into Solovyov’s plan, only stoking the doctor’s satisfaction, when he yelled and screamed and thrashed. This was all for Price, after all. His hell. 

But he couldn’t stop. Didn’t stop fighting until he ached, didn’t stop shouting until his throat was raw, his voice used up. The anger that had distorted the doctor’s face since he’d found out Ghost had ruined his carefully laid plan smoothed out slowly, replaced by sick glee at Price’s reaction. Straight, white teeth in a face still covered in drying blood, glinted back at the grieving captain. Taunting his predictable emotions.

Price couldn’t bring it in himself to care, as he watched flames lick the rubble of his friends’ grave.

When Solovyov and his men started moving him, Price hadn’t even noticed. Only when the smoke from the wreck disappeared from view, did reality wash over him like an icy shower.

Ghost and Soap were gone. 

The rest of the team were still searching for him. 

Gaz was leading a search party, a rescue for their captain. None of them saw the string dangling him like mere bait. Yuri was being tracked, and they were unaware of the danger they were in. The parts they had yet to act out in Solovyov’s twisted play for an audience of one.

He had to do anything in his power to prevent that from happening.

Possibly the grief had a hand in Price’s next decision. Although, to be fair, it wasn’t an entirely illogical decision. Almost seemed clever in that instant. The doctor was putting on a grand show for him, but it seemed improbable that it would play if there was no one to see it. 

His captors had taken care to keep him away from anything that could harm them, but not anything that could harm himself. After all, why would he?

Price picked out a solid-looking tree trunk, and, uncaring of the shocked voices around him, banged his own head against it as hard as he possibly could.

“Always with the strays, John.”

8-year old John Price gave his mum a crooked grin, hands full of slimy frogs. He got a fond head shake in return.

The creatures between his fingers were wriggly, dirty and brilliantly alive. He’d already named them all: Jumper, Leaper and Croaker. It made his mother call him a silly boy, and made his sister tell him he was unoriginal, but the frogs didn’t care. He liked that about them. They were much nicer than his stupid sister or the older kids at school. 

Despite being loud and difficult to keep ahold of, they fit so nicely in his hands. There was no fear in them, carefree as they jumped on him. They didn’t know that this small giant needed only to clench his fist if he wanted them to be no more; as if they instinctively knew he’d never hurt them on purpose.

He was supposed to set them free that same day. He didn’t.

Apparently frogs weren’t meant to be kept in a child’s bedroom.

His mother’s scolding had stopped at the sight of wet eyes staring at three small, still forms. Then she had started scolding his sister instead when the teen had wickedly joked that the frogs ‘had croaked’, making John cry even harder.

So, a shoebox was dug out from his mother’s closet and padded with paper towels. “For the frogs’ comfort,” she’d explained. He knew the frogs wouldn’t care either way, comfort no longer a concern to the dead. He was 8, not stupid. He also knew it was the woman’s attempt at making death less scary, so he shut his mouth about it.

A small grave was dug in their garden. He carefully placed his toy soldiers to stand guard at the funeral. It was just as silly as the paper towels, in retrospect. Then again, he was 8, not yet infallible. His mum said a few kind words, sheepishly correcting herself after getting the names wrong. She asked John if he wanted to add anything.

Staring at cold, unmoving dirt,  there was only one thought filling his head.

“I don’t want them to be dead.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He was guided into a soft embrace, as his mum spoke into his messy hair. “No one wants anyone to be dead-”

(19-year-old Private Price made his first kill ruthlessly, never hesitating to consider the irreversible turn his life took in that moment. The enemy’s brain had gone all sorts of places, including all over his shocked teammate. Rather someone else’s brain and blood in your hair than your own. His fellow private had thanked him profusely.)

“-but that’s just how it goes. All we can do is take good care of each other, and try to keep others safe. But everything has its time.”

(Later that year, 8-year-old John Price had buried her, too.)

He never did remember to remove those toy soldiers from the frogs’ grave. He wondered if the next owners of the house found them smushed face down in the mud. He wondered if they’d found the shoebox underneath, or if they had let the frogs rest.

Something was jabbed into Price’s chest. He lurched awake with a gasp. 

It turned into a hacking cough, icy air filling his lungs uncomfortably. Adrenaline was rushing artificially fast through him, the quick rouse to wakefulness that of a stim shot. Nothing new.

The faces before his bleary eyes weren’t friendlies, though. That was new. He jerked up, ready to fight even as his brain still struggled to put the world back together. He instantly tumbled due to his bound limbs. Rough hands grabbed him and held him still.

“Calm down, captain,” someone reprimanded. “We don’t want a repeat of your dramatic party trick. I want you awake.”

He recognised the voice and clenched his eyes shut in frustration. His head pounded as a reminder of his fine attempt at slowing the doctor’s plan. Of course they had a stim ready to wake him. Useless. All he had accomplished was a nasty concussion and a too-fast heartbeat.

He opened his eyes to Solovyov’s smug smile, face too close for comfort, and he immediately started searching for new ways to knock himself out once more. If they kept waking him with stims, his heart would give out eventually. Maybe they’d leave his team alone, then. 

The eyes before him were knowing.

“Quite a performance,” the doctor nodded. “Won’t let that happen again, so you might as well save your energy. Viktor and Misha are keeping an eye on you.”

The two brutes on either side of him grunted in agreement. In his head he’d named them Big-nose and Forehead-tattoo. He didn’t know which was which. Not that he needed to; all he needed to know was that their biceps were the size of his head and he had little-to-zero chance of overpowering them.

His eyes scanned his surroundings; old buildings, uninhabited for years. A snowy church tower in the distance, in the centre of the town. To the other side stood a familiar grey building, one he’d been in not many days ago. He frowned in recognition.

“The town…”

“Yes. Seems your friends have returned to retrieve their teammate in the archives,” Solovyov explained, standing up from where he’d knelt before his captive. “It’s very nice of them. I chose that location to begin with because of how easy it was to lay out an ambush. It will be quite easy to trap them and finish my plan, despite the hiccup at the fort.”

Price bit down the emotions the mention of the fort brought up. Instead he focused on the ember of hope that timidly woke in his heart.

Gaz was a capable leader. Otherwise, Price wouldn’t have planned to make him his successor, favouritism be damned. He knew how Gaz worked, how his plans were structured; he knew that returning to the archives in the middle of a mission to retrieve a body was completely nonsensical, and not something Garrick would be dumb enough to do without good reason.

Gaz had a plan. He had something up his sleeve. That had to be the case.

Otherwise, all was lost.

The fear that stretched Price’s face was only slightly for show, as he revealed no outwards signs of his realisation. 

Solovyov bared his teeth in the semblance of a smile. “Are you ready to lose more, Captain Price?”

He clung to that tiny hope. For Soap and Ghost, he had to keep fighting till the bitter end.

“I’ll kill you,” Price growled, vitriol dripping from his words. “Somehow, I will end you. Just like I ended your beloved Makarov.”

The doctor stepped forwards, anger contorting his face for a brief second. He caught himself, took a deep breath and straightened up. 

“Good luck.” Solovyov was deceptively calm, like a lid just above boiling water. “I’d like to see how you’d accomplish that.”

“You will,” Price promised.

On Solovyov’s signal, a group of white-clad soldiers approached the library up the hill from the edge of town. He then spat the same order into his radio. 

Two groups were attacking the library, and at least one was a decent size. Gaz better have a plan. Please have a plan.

Price waited with bated breath, watching the distant figures slip through the library doors. 

Only three people stayed behind with him and Solovyov: Misha, Viktor and the demolitionist, Antonov. 

Perhaps his team planned to attack this small group and escape before a bigger fight could occur. It would be four against four. Three against four. Yuri’s tracker put him in the library. Of course, if Price got loose, it would even the playing field. It needed to be done fast, before the troops could intervene. 

Solovyov held the upper hand by having Price as a bargaining chip. He needed to figure out a way to help with that. If he could somehow free himself, so he couldn’t be used against-

The earth rumbled, shaking with an explosion. 

Solovyov’s face fell into an expression of shock. The small hope in the captain’s chest sparked into a thriving inferno. 

He tried to keep up with the scrambling, tinned voices yelling through Solovyov’s radio, but only had any real luck understanding the doctor’s terse replies in Russian. 

“How copy? I repeat, how copy? Everyone in the tunnel? How did they know? Keep pushing forwards! You still outnumber them! A sniper outside?!-”

Oh, it was music to his ears, the way that silky voice turned fraught with rising panic.

Then a jumbled voice reported something Price couldn’t quite catch, cut short by a gunshot. It only stood out due to the shock that twisted the doctor’s features. The viscous anger that hardened his dark eyes sent a shiver down Price’s spine. The next words only worsened it, as little as they made sense:

“Release the hounds.”

In the distance, barks and howls made themselves known, before they faded as they got further away. Solovyov’s grip on his radio was white-knuckled, as he watched the chaos at the library unfold, the soldiers outside dropping like flies. Gunfire was slowly dying down.

“Sir?” Antonov asked carefully, stepping forward. “What do we do? Do we kill the captain?”

Price tensed.

“And lose our last advantage?” Solovyov snapped, making his ally stumble backwards from the sheer venom in the words. “No, we… retreat. Re-organise. Try again.”

“And the troops?”

“They will distract them long enough for us to slip away unnoticed.”

Antonov’s mouth turned downwards at the blatant disinterest in the lives of their troops, but the lad smartly stayed quiet, opting to nod curtly.

“Don’t look so happy, captain,” Solovyov addressed him, switching to English. “This will do nothing but prolong the inevitable.” 

“Right,” Price scoffed. “All according to plan, this?”

The next second, his face was held in a painfully tight grip, Solovyov close enough that Price could smell the blood from the man’s broken nose.

“I’ve treated you much too kindly, in order to keep your head clear for what was to come.” Dark eyes promised hell. “I will make you wish this ended as quickly as I first intended.”

Price was pushed forcefully backwards into the burly figures behind him, his vision swimming, head pounding. Solid arms didn’t wait for his world to come back into focus before they pulled him upwards and started dragging him. He stumbled to follow their pace. As expected, his struggles against their hold were futile.

Solovyov led their small group speedily through the town, walking as if he knew the layout of the buildings like the back of his hand. Price cast desperate glances back towards the library. It grew smaller and became obscured by buildings.

The gunfire had stopped, he realised. He hoped it was a victory earned without casualties to his team. Further casualties.

Shit, this was bad. How would Gaz even locate him? Maybe Nik could jump in his heli to locate them from above, but the odds of that happening before Solovyov had gotten too far away… 

He could almost imagine that this town had been cosy, once. Bustling with life in its twisting streets, warm glows emanating from the small houses lining them. The baker’s sign that now only held flecks of red paint on its rotted wood, once a freshly painted beacon to hungry townsfolk. The door chiming each time it opened, spilling the smell of freshly-baked bread into the streets, luring in new customers. 

The school milling with kids, bundled up and red-cheeked from the cold, spending break hurling snowballs at each other. Fighting over getting to use the single swing set that now stood decrepit with rust, one chain broken.

The church that resided up ahead tolling the bell to signal noon, sunday mass or special occasions. While small compared to churches of larger cities, the building still towered over the rest here, clearly a valued place of worship once. It stood proudly as the town’s centrepiece. Despite the broken windows and the cracks running up its walls, it was still an impressive structure.

They had nearly reached the church. The world was eerily quiet, unsuited for the situation. 

Maybe the quiet was what made Solovyov hesitate. Maybe it lulled him into a calm he couldn’t afford to feel.

He stopped to view the tall building before them, a faraway look in his eyes. 

“Sir?” Antonov asked, looking restless. “What-?”

The familiar loud crack of a gunshot split the air.

Suddenly Price was pitching forwards, dragged down by a heavy weight. Pain shot through his shoulder from the strain of being wrenched back from the fall by a strong arm. 

“Viktor!” Big-nose, apparently Misha, yelled in alarm as his friend dropped like a sack of potatoes. Red pooled from a hole in the middle of the dead man’s forehead tattoo.

“Inside!” Solovyov ordered, already sprinting to the church doors. Price was all but carried along by a frantic Misha. His attempts to wriggle free were rewarded with a strong jostle, effectively disturbing his tender head enough to blur the world.

They entered the abandoned church. Antonov immediately shut the doors and started dragging furniture over to block the entrance. Solovyov grabbed Price, so that Misha could lend his strength to the demolitionist. 

A cold muzzle pressed to his temple, the telltale click of safety being switched off sounding near his ear.

“Don’t fucking try anything,” the doctor sneered.

“What do we do?” Antonov asked frantically, as if the man behind this mess still had answers. 

Solovyov’s breathing was heavy, quick. Price could feel the puffs against his face, drying the blood splatter from Viktor’s shocking demise.
An excellent shot. He wondered who had pulled the trigger, knowing any of his teammates had the skill, except maybe Eggs. The kill was executed in a painfully similar fashion to Ghost’s usual M.O.. 

An image of Soap sprang to mind; the side of his face had also been painted red in the immediate aftermath of Hassan’s death. 

The grim splatter of crimson had made the sergeant look downright spooky as he stumbled onto the main floor with a limp. Price slipped away from reprimanding medics, ignoring his twinging back as he hurried over to support his young subordinate. A tired smile met him, and then Gaz a second later. The two guided Soap towards the medics.

When a tall, dark figure in a skull mask became visible in the distance, rushing towards their little group, Soap grinned so brilliantly that one almost forgot the display of gore decorating him. He looked so young then.

“Hell of a shot, Lt.”

After examining the sergeant and noting that the injuries weren’t severe, Ghost’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. 

“I missed. Was aiming for you.”

Soap choked on a surprised laugh, grinning throughout the resulting coughing fit. Price patted him on his back while he caught his breath.

“Ye’re aff yer heid, Simon,” Soap finally managed in a delighted wheeze. 

Solovyov’s grip tightened around Price, pulling him back to the shitty situation he was currently in. He blinked the image of Ghost and Soap from his mind. He could grieve after. For now, he needed to make sure that there was an after. 

It was not an ideal position he was in for that to happen, yet the relief of his team gaining the upper hand was vastly overshadowing the fear he probably should be feeling. 

He needed to get free of his bindings. 

“Doctor?" Misha now inquired, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen inside the church. There were footsteps outside. Yells, too, from voices familiar, but hard to make out. 

“We…” Solovyov hesitated, grip almost crushing. “The captain is our advantage.”

“They will not let us go if we trade him,” Antonov hissed. The lad was shaking. “At best they will take us prisoner. We killed their friends. It might have been your command, but those were my bombs. I do not wish to be at their mercy.”

The small group was moving as they talked, past dusty pews and towards the altar. Away from the door that they all kept looking back towards as if it might explode. Maybe it would. Soap would’ve liked that.

There was broken, stained glass on the floor. It had been there a while. It crunched under their boots.

Misha and Antonov were both watching the doctor expectantly, both with rising fury as they finally started realising that their leader had doomed them. Price could hear the heartbeat of the body behind him thrumming as fast as his own, but without the assistance of a stim. Solovyov was at the end of his rope. The noose of inevitability was tightening around his neck. 

It would have been more satisfying if he wasn’t also holding a gun to Price’s head.

The footsteps outside had stilled. It was completely silent once more, the air tightening around them in preparation for what was to come. Price tensed, senses on high alert. Caught in their infighting, the men around him didn’t notice the shift in the air right away.

Then he watched the two pairs of eyes before him widen, and heard the doctor’s breath hitch near his ear. 

A gunshot split the thick tension, echoing in the big room. It was close, aimed near Solovyov’s head. Meant to scare him rather than hit flesh, probably for fear of hitting the captain.

It worked. Solovyov instinctively ducked, covering his ears, and Price took the opportunity to wrestle free. He landed heavily on glass-covered tiles. 

There was shouting bouncing off the old walls. Figures were leaping through the broken church windows, moving fast. Price’s vision was swimming, but still his heart leapt with joy at the familiar outlines of his team as they smoothly moved into action.

He was yanked upwards again. Solovyov wasted no time dragging him backwards towards a side door to the side of the altar. Using the chaos of his allies’ demise as a distraction yet again. 

Price watched as Antonov let out a cry when a small figure leapt at him. Eggs drove their blade repeatedly into the demolitionist’s chest in a frenzy, rage emanating from their young form. 

Simon Riley had come back different. Angry. Violent. Price watched the man back in action for the first time, and bile rose in his throat at the unadulterated rage behind the way the Ghost drove his knife into a hostile. It hit him in that second, truly, that Simon was dead. Only Ghost remained. Would anything ever bring him back?

Red pooled in the cracks beneath the viscous scene. Price tried to shout a warning as Misha leapt for the kid. It all disappeared from view as he was pulled back, obscured by a closed door. The gun was back at his hairline, pressing painfully into his skin. 

“No tricks,” was sneered into his ear. 

Price struggled to get his feet to obey him, as he was suddenly pushed up stairs. The sound of chaos behind them petered out, done after a few gunshots. His heart was in his throat. Who had those few bullets hit? 

When they were a fair distance up the winding staircase, they heard the door get flung open where they’d come through. Rushing footsteps followed. 

“Faster.” Solovyov spoke in Russian, probably unaware of that. Panic tended to make people revert to their mother tongue, and there was no doubt that the doctor was indeed panicking now.

Price had no choice but to obey if he wanted to keep his brain on the inside of his skull. 

He was careful not to fall, worried that he would drop the small object in his hand. In the tumult, he had managed to grab a piece of the stained window shards. It was dulled by age, but was still sharp enough that it bit into the skin of his palm. Sharp enough to cut through his binds, with a little time and effort. 

He couldn’t start working on his escape yet. Between a pounding head and the run up winding, uneven steps, all of his focus was currently occupied. 

The people on their tail were gaining on them, but had yet to catch up when Price was pushed through a new door and out into cold air. The doctor shoved him forwards onto the floor. Price blinked dark spots from his eyes at the rough motion, unable to catch his fall with his hands behind his back. 

He watched Solovyov drag a chest over to block the exit. It wouldn’t hold the team for long. 

When Solovyov pulled him back in his position of human shield, Price took a moment to take in their surroundings. He couldn’t help but feel confused. 

A giant bell was the centrepiece of their newest location. Rope pooled on the floor near it, one end connecting to where the ceiling met the top of the rusty bell. Icy winds were whipping at them from the open sides of the platform, only short fences standing between them and the drop to the ground far below. They were in the bell tower. 

Solovyov had only managed to buy himself a little more time, trapping himself completely in the process.

“What the bloody hell is your plan here?” Price managed. His hands carefully moved to position the glass shard against his binds, hoping his words would help distract his captor from noticing.

There was a loud bang on the door. The chest scraped slightly across the ground.

Solovyov winced, moving backwards. “I’ve worked too hard on this. I can’t lose.”

“You’ve already lost.”

Another bang, someone’s heavy form battering against the door. This time the chest moved significantly. The rope around his wrists slowly gave way under glass.

“Everyone who still fought for Makarov’s cause are dead now, except you-”

“His cause?” Solovyov snarled. “Damn his cause! It was never about that.”

BANG! 

The chest skidded across the floor as the door flung open. It knocked against the bell, causing a hollow clang to ring out. 

“It was only about Vlad. About making you pay.”

The binds snapped, freeing Price’s hands. 

Out the corner of his eye, he saw the quick blur of Solovyov’s gun as it moved to aim at the open door. At his team, whom the captain had yet to spare a glance. 

He brought his aching head backwards sharply, satisfied by the crunch as it connected with the doctor’s already broken nose. He pushed the arm with the gun. The shot went wide, slamming into the church bell.

The cacophony of loud sounds mingled with yells and hurried footsteps. Price was tugged backwards, towards where a small fence was the last defence before an impressive drop. Solovyov’s intention was clear. 

With quick hands, Price got hold of the rope hanging from the bell, twisting around to face his assailant. 

He felt, rather than saw, the thick wire in his hands, still busy blinking blood from his eyes-

The doctor struggled with all his might, his face set in a sneer. His strength didn’t match Price’s. He was no soldier.

Makarov snarled at him, clawing at his hands as Price wrapped the wire around his neck. The ground beneath the cracking glass ceiling was so far down-

Through the rage in Solovyov’s face, Price saw fear. He continued wrapping the rope around his neck. Their bodies pushed forcefully against the railing.

The glass shattered-

“Hell awaits you,” Price growled in Russian, before pushing. 

A hand darted out, quick as a viper, wrapping itself painfully tight around the captain’s wrist, and suddenly he, too, was falling forwards-

Midair, he wondered if this fall would kill him; if his last act would be ridding the world of Vladimir Makarov.

“Price!”

Several strong hands caught him.

He watched dark eyes beneath him widen, the hold around his wrist slipping off as gravity took effect. His heart beat loudly in his ears. For a moment it was the only sound he could hear as he watched the doctor fall. It pounded so hard he felt it against his ribs, as he realised he wasn’t falling alongside him. 

The rope went taut. A single bell toll split the air. 

Price let out a shuddering breath.

Then he breathed in. 

Breathed out.

Simeon Solovyov dangled motionless on the side of the church. 

Price drew in fresh, cold air in wonder. In. Out.

Concerned voices around him started filtering in. He was guided backwards, away from the edge. He was sat down, gently. There were still hands on him, now flitting over his form, checking him for injuries. He blinked against the daze and looked up.

He was met with worried storm-blue eyes and a tousled mohawk. He was met with an earth-brown stare framed by unmasked, scarred features. 

Maybe he was still falling after all. 

Then a third face swam into focus, mouth moving as words were spoken to him. Chocolate eyes and an old scar on one cheek. Gaz. 

Had they all died, then?

There was less fire and brimstone in hell than he’d imagined.

The hand on his shoulder squeezed tightly, starting a chain reaction as his body remembered how to feel again. His head was splitting with each heartbeat. The palms of his hands were wet with blood where they had slipped on glass while he’d cut himself loose. His body felt chewed-through as the adrenaline of the stim-shot started wearing off.

He felt painfully alive. 

“Price,” Gaz said quietly. “Please talk to us. Are you broken?”

Price lifted a shaky hand, putting it lightly against Garrick’s warm cheek. His thumb traced along the divot the scar made in flesh. The other man sat still, watching him. He felt real under his palm. 

Alive.

“You’re alive,” he finally stated, no less confused.

Gaz’ lips twitched into a relieved smile. “Yeah. So are you.”

“But…” 

Price finally looked back to the other two. 

They were still there, not just brief figments of a scattered brain. Ghost and Soap. Simon and Johnny. Covered in soot and dirt and blood, but breathing .

There was a small spark of realisation in Simon’s eyes.

“We’re alive, too, old man,” he reassured. The hand on his neck squeezed gently.

“Oh,” Soap breathed, eyes widening. He leaned forward, hands fisting in the straps on Price’s vest. “Ye thought- O’ course. We- we’re still kicking.”

“So is Nik and Yuri and Eggs,” Gaz added, still watching the captain like a hawk. They all were. “We’ll be needing some medical attention, but we’re okay. Backup is here in ten, they’ll take us.”

Something was lodged in Price’s throat as the words slowly started truly registering. This was real.

“They’ll be pissed they missed all the action,” Soap joked with a weak grin. “Ding dong, the bitch is dead, ey?”

Swallowing the sob in his throat took effort. He substituted it with a rough chuckle. His eyes were wet. 

“John?” Simon was the one to ask. So careful. So caring.

They were alive.

He tugged three surprised, but willing soldiers into an embrace, holding them as if they would slip through his fingers at any moment. Like they would jump right into a shoebox in the ground if he didn’t keep them close.

The arms around him held him just as tightly in return.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 14

“Toy Soldiers”

“You look like hell, captain.”

Nikolai’s words were immediately followed by a crushing hug. Price allowed himself to sink into it. 

His head felt like that damned church bell: Rung a few too many times. 

The climb down the spiral staircase had been kinder than the trip up, Gaz guiding him with a firm hold. Behind them, Ghost and Soap walked just as slowly. Price kept looking back to check they were there.

They had re-entered the nave quietly, but were still discovered immediately due to their teammates already looking anxiously at the door. The echo of relieved sighs from both parties was almost comical. Nik handed off gauze to Eggs, then clapped Yuri’s shoulder before standing to greet the returned captain. Eggs took over the job of stemming the blood flow from Yuri’s arm. A quick scan reassured Price that it wasn’t a life-threatening injury.

He was confused by the dog sniffing worriedly at Yuri’s hand, though. A great, fluffy beast, whose origin he couldn’t begin to guess at. 

He stayed in Nik’s embrace longer than he normally would have. The usual grumble of “touchy bastard” went unsaid as well. Just this once. 

The pilot pulled back, keeping his hands on Price’s shoulders as he studied him. The big grin was tinged with worry, not that either felt like addressing that particular detail. 

“Almost went,” was Price’s belated answer to Nik’s charming observation. The other laughed breathlessly. 

“Da, close one.” Nik finally let go. He searched his pockets for a short while, before pulling out a familiar piece of fabric. The bucket hat was placed gently atop the captain’s head. “Good to have you back.”

Price adjusted the hat, mindful of his pounding head wound. He gave a tired smile in return. “I don’t plan on taking any more impromptu trips without telling you.”

“That part, who cares?” Nik waved a hand dismissively. “Just don’t ever make me babysit ever again. Old fool.”

A real laugh escaped Price at that. 

“No promises.”

Price swept his gaze over the interior of the old church. Over his team. Old and new. Bruised, bleeding, breathing. They all looked like they needed soft beds, and the majority probably wouldn’t mind some painkillers along with that. That could be arranged, luckily. They would go home as soon as backup arrived.

In his newly acquired earpiece, Kate promised that it wouldn’t be long before they could leave. Thank God for Kate Laswell and her unwavering stability. He would buy her and her wife so many flowers after all this was over.

When Farah and Alex arrived with a sizable team, they still had sand in their hair and clothes, alongside fresh snowflakes from outside. Price warmed at the sight. It spoke of the speed of which they had dropped everything to come to their aid. Even if they had ultimately missed the action. It wouldn’t surprise him if the rest of the 141 showed up within the next 24 hours.

Gaz lit up at the sight of the pair, beating everyone else to the greeting. The worry-lines in his face smoothed. On a regular day, Price had no doubt Soap would happily partake in the teasing of their latest arrivals, as Gaz good-naturedly jabbed at them for “joining the party after it was over.” 

As it stood, the Scot stayed leaning against his large guardian. He had a small smile on his face at the joyful reunion, but Price didn’t like how peaky he looked. Peely wally, as the lad would say.

He didn’t hear what Soap murmured to Ghost, but he definitely saw how the man subsequently collapsed. In hindsight, it was impressive how long he had kept standing on that mangled leg. Ghost caught the other before he could impact the hard tiles. 

The display spurred everyone into action once more. A reminder that they weren’t out of the woods just yet, even if they weren’t being actively hunted through them anymore.

“He had to make it about him. Didn’t get enough attention,” Gaz joked to Price, much later, once the fear for their teammate had finally been quelled.

“Oh, absolutely,” Price agreed lightheartedly. “The 40 degrees fever had nothing to do with it.”

Before long, they were sitting pressed together in the evac. The heat emanated off Soap to the point that Price swore he could feel it from his position beside Ghost.

The larger man was cradling their unconscious Scot, worry carving deep lines in his face, visible even through the layers of grime. A gentle hand was wiping away blood from a fresh cut in Soap’s cheek. Price was impressed that the field medic that had arrived with Farah’s team didn’t as much as flinch under the intense stare that Ghost was giving her. The man watched her every move closely.

Gaz’ leg was bouncing against Price’s. The captain bumped their shoulders together and gave what he hoped was a calming smile. The leg stilled.

When the medic could do no more, and all there was left to do was wait until they reached whatever hospital they were heading to, Ghost opted to stare down Soap’s lax face instead. 

“He’ll be okay,” Price said quietly, only for Ghost and Gaz to hear. 

To his surprise, Simon’s shoulders started shaking. Panic rose briefly in the captain’s chest. If Ghost started crying, he wasn’t sure how to deal with it in such a crowded place. 

Then the sound met his ears; subdued laughter. Price and Gaz shared bemused looks. 

“Simon?”

“Oh.” The large man wiped his eyes with the back of the hand not resting in Soap’s hair. “Sorry, I’m- Yeah, he’ll be fine. He’s just a bloody wanker.” 

“He’s tough,” Kyle added. He was clearly trying to gauge Ghost’s mood, same as Price.

“He’s an idiot, is what he is.” Simon shook his head with a fond smile, looking down at the man in his arms. “He turns to me an’ goes-” The following impression of Soap was impressively accurate: “‘Wanna hear a joke, Si? What did the puppet do after its strings were cut?’ And then the bastard passes out on me. Fuck, I love him.”

The other people in the transport looked whiplashed from the sudden barks of laughter that erupted from the three men. Perhaps they laughed a little harder than the joke warranted. Maybe the stress of the past few days played a hand.

But Soap was looking slightly better already, Ghost was smiling and Gaz’ shoulders had lost their tension. And Price finally started believing they had made it.

Soap wasn’t a stranger to waking up in a hospital bed. On the contrary, his injury proneness had become a bit of a running joke amongst his friends and family.

Long before the 141, even before enlisting, he had already had a fair share of visits; broken bones as a result of climbing where he shouldn’t, a pulled muscle in his knee after a football incident, the chin wound after his dog encounter. He had been a rowdy kid and a rowdier teen. Fireworks and roughhousing and hitching rides on the back of his friends’ bikes. It was no wonder that the doctor back home had become a family friend, even invited over for Christmas one year.

When John had told his mammie he would join the military, one of the first things she said was, “Wi’ yer rotten luck, lad? Now ye wan’ folks shootin’ at ye as well? Ye’re aff yer heid.”

She’d been right, of course. She usually was. Adding explosives, gunfire and active hostility to the mix had him laid up more often than he liked, but he was always quick to get back on his feet. And somehow, he never got shot in the head or blown to smithereens. He was a slippery bastard like that, and foolish enough to keep heading back into the fray.

Then he joined task force 141. Then he met Ghost. 

Suddenly his visits to medical became rarer. (Not that anyone who didn’t know him from before believed him when he said so.) He was still just as unlucky and reckless, but suddenly, he had skilled people watching his six; people who cared quite a bit whether or not he got hurt.

Despite the frequency of them, John never got used to his stays in hospitals. It never stopped being the fucking worst. There was the pain, obviously, but most of all it was due to the mind numbing boredom that followed. And the isolation. Apart from brief visits, most of his time there would be spent alone. He didn’t do well alone. He had gotten used to it.

Until Ghost.

The first time he woke to find Ghost at his side, he had blinked several times, convinced that the doctors had given him a hallucinogenic. Yet, the skull mask stayed in place, alongside the unimpressed glare the lieutenant had levelled him with.

“When I say ‘don’t run into the building that’s rigged to explode’, that’s the part where you don’t run into the building that’s rigged to explode.”

“S’rry Lt.,” he’d slurred, unable to stop from smiling. Waking to that mask, and the man beneath it, made the experience much more bearable. 

Ghost had stayed for longer than Soap expected. He kept a close eye on his sergeant’s recovery. He also chewed him out once he was well enough to handle a bit of shouting, but Soap thought that was more than a decent deal.

He expected it to be a one time thing, Ghost’s presence by his hospital bed. Then the lieutenant was there the next time. And the next. And the next. And so on and so forth. Staying close, scolding him for getting hurt while never quite managing to erase the worry underneath. Soap often thought Ghost was the most expressive person he knew, despite the mask. It turned out no one else shared that particular opinion.

Only one time did Soap wake to find himself all alone, just like he used to. That had been the point that the sergeant realised how deeply he had come to rely on that steady presence of his masked visitor. Every hurt and bruise seemed to ache much more deeply the second he noticed his bedside was empty. Laswell had been the one to visit him that instance, explaining that the rest of the task force were still stuck on the mission, hunting down the people who had landed a hit on him. 

When Simon finally returned, the man went directly to Soap, not even bothering to change out of his gear. Both were able to breathe again, then, after days of worrying for the other. Ghost held his hand.

It went both ways, of course. Ghost simply had much better odds of getting out relatively unscathed, due to his tactical nature and stealthy approach. The myriad of scars on the man spoke to a rough life where that hadn’t always been the case. It took a long, long time before John was privy to the tale of their origin. 

Simon looked surprised the first time it had been his turn to wake in a hospital bed to find a sleep-deprived Scot waiting; as if he hadn’t expected that it went both ways. Soap held his hand tightly and didn’t leave him until he was fully healed.

Even in those last years of their career, on the brink of a world war, the other was always there in the aftermath of close calls. Fingers interlacing even when they weren’t alone, as they became increasingly uncaring of fraternisation and regulations. Every day was a fight to survive. Little else mattered, and it wasn’t like Price or the team gave a damn anyway.

On one occasion during those years, Soap had woken in a bed that was decidedly not a hospital bed. It was a ratty, small cot in a safe house far away from everything. His burning chest told him that it was a damn shame he wasn’t in a hospital. But Simon was there, still. Even then. 

In that shitty, uncomfortable bed, a few days after John’s fever had broken, Simon had clambered in beside him. He smelled like smoke and fresh air. He’d been outside with Price. They could hear their friends’ muffled rummaging around and talking through the walls against their room. 

Mindful of the injury, Simon pulled him close. He looked into his eyes with a contemplative expression. 

“I love you,” he whispered suddenly. “I love you, Johnny.” 

They’d never said it. Soap’s chest wound burned from the force of his heartbeats.

“Ya walloper,” he choked out tearfully. “Ah wanted tae say it first.”

“You snooze, you lose,” Ghost murmured with a warm smile. 

The kiss that followed was the kind of gentle and unhurried that they hadn’t had time for in months. Soap could disappear into it. 

“I love ye too.”

When Soap awoke this time, it was like hearing an old song for the first time in ages and still remembering the words. Despite the many years without hospital wakeups, the steps felt familiar; the smell of antiseptic, the scratchy sheets, the beeping of a heart monitor. The weight of a hand in his own.

He was met with brown eyes. Blond hair that seemed almost red in the evening sun. Scarred lips pulling into a relieved smile.

“Hey Si,” John croaked. The hand in his squeezed.

“Hi Johnny.”

He had been unconscious for two days. Considering his past experiences, that wasn’t all that bad. They’d even managed to save his leg, although there had apparently been talk of amputating in case the infection had continued to spread. It hadn’t. So all was dandy.

Not liking to linger too long on the case of the almost-missing-leg, Soap simply didn’t. Joking about it was much more fun, anyway, and there were plenty of leg-related puns. He and Simon had had talks about that particular coping mechanism of his before, and would undoubtedly have them again after this whole mess. The irony of a stern lecture about mental health from The Ghost wasn’t lost on either.

He had yet to be left alone at any point since waking. It made welcome warmth take root in his chest, knowing that his friends were aware of how adverse he was to solitude. Then again, it wasn’t like Simon or Price had better things to do, stuck in the hospital as well. 

Nearly the whole team made rounds in the days after Soap came to. There were the Russians, of course, since Yuri was being kept for observation for his GSW and Nik didn’t have anything better to do than bother them all (as Price put it fondly). Those two flitted in and out of their room regularly. 

When Alejandro and Rudy dropped by, it ended with John and Simon promising to visit Las Almas before the end of the year, after endless pestering from the Mexican pair. They’d had plans to do so anyway for a long time. Alejandro had even nudged their captain, extending the invitation with a, “seeing as you’re about to be a retired old man as well now.”  

Price scoffed, but looked rather happy to be included. “We’ll see.”

Gaz and Eggs had left sometime while Soap was still sleeping, both heading back to finish the last of the mission. Gaz dropped by whenever he could. It didn’t really surprise anyone that Eggs didn’t. 

Laswell had scheduled her visiting hours, fitting them into her calendar between meetings. She’d taken it upon herself to clean up the mess that Solovyov left behind, her and Gaz working alongside the local law and military in an attempt to avoid starting any more conflicts. Apparently, it made everything move at a snail’s pace, but kept the waters calm. She practically whispered that to the three men stuck in the hospital, in her this-is-confidential voice. It reminded John of when his mammie would talk shite about their neighbours to him when he was seven, making him swear to, “never tell a livin’ soul, John MacTavish, or Ah’ll throw ye in the loch.”

It was one of Laswell’s scheduled visits that evening. To everyone’s pleasant surprise, Gaz trailed in after her with a tired grin. They both dumped into spare chairs around Soap’s bed. He felt rather like some dying king in this position, with everyone in a circle around him, but kept that amusing thought to himself. Gaz and Laswell both looked run ragged.

“Any progress?” Price asked as soon as everyone was seated. 

“Och.” Soap reached over to lightly slap the captain’s arm. “Wha’ happened tae ‘hello, how nice tae see ya’?”

“Yeah, cap, where are your bedside manners?” Gaz immediately chimed in, making Soap pleased to have his partner-in-crime back with him. “Been on my feet all day. Not even a hug for your long-lost soldier?”

“You were here two days ago, Kyle,” Price reminded. “But my apologies. Let me reiterate: Hello, how nice to see you. Want some tea? Maybe a massage? Oh, and by the way, any progress on the work you have been losing sleep over that nearly killed half our squad?”

“Moodkiller,” Soap mumbled, flinching slightly as Ghost pinched his side.

“Why, a cuppa would be just lovely, cap’n-” Gaz replied easily.

“We do, actually. Have progress.” Laswell interrupted. The stern look she sent Gaz earned her a sheepish smile in return. It was a testament to her own fatigue that her false scowl melted away so easily. “We’re wrapping the mission up today. Only paperwork left now, which means…”

“We can head home,” Price finished for her. 

“When you lot are cleared to leave, yes.” 

Soap thought it was incredibly kind of her to say ‘you lot’, as if Price and Simon hadn’t been medically discharged several days earlier.

“Well, that’s actually our good news,” Soap announced cheerfully. “Was cleared earlier today. I’m in tip-top shape.”

“Hm, seem to recall they told you to take it easy and do weekly check-ins with our local hospital-”

“Simon.” John slapped Ghost’s arm this time. It was nice to be situated within reach of everyone. “Haud yer wheesht.”

“Speak English,” Price and Gaz groaned simultaneously. Laswell’s lips tugged into a smile from where she was watching.

When Simon chuckled, John lifted their joined hands to press a kiss to scarred knuckles. Gaz made a retching noise, avoiding when Soap kicked his good leg after him.

“Oi, we nearly died, mate. We’re goin’ tae be clatty about it.”

“Clatty? Seriously, how have you become more Scottish-?”

“Means disgusting. Figured you’d ken that one, Garrick.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? And are you saying you’ll be more gross than you already were? Because that’s actually impossi-”

“Children, please,” Price admonished, instantly quieting the room. Soap had missed him. “Let’s hear what Kate has to say, instead of your endless bickering.”

Soap leaned back against his pillows with an instinctual, “aye, sir.” 

When Price looked away, he sneakily stuck out his tongue at Kyle, who in turn flipped the Scot off when neither Laswell or Price were looking at him. Simon murmured something that sounded suspiciously like, “two grown men.”

“Thanks, John,” Laswell smiled, eyebrows still raised. “Seeing as you two-” She gestured to Soap and Ghost. “Aren’t in the force anymore, I’m actually not supposed to tell you any of this.”

Soap put on his most winning smile. “But since ye love us, you’re makin’ an exception?”

“If you behave.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Soap nodded seriously. “Cannae believe Price wasted all this time on pleasantries when there’s work to be talked about.”

Aside from Price’s nose wrinkling, his comment went ignored. Fair.

“This last week has been spent investigating and tying up loose ends,” Laswell explained. Her demeanour settled into practised professionalism. “Figuring out what contacts Solovyov had, and if there were others ready to take his place after he was KIA. You’ll be pleased to know that’s not the case.”

“He was a lone operator?” Ghost asked. 

“It didn’t go higher than him, no. And he didn’t have a team, at least, not anyone closer than the few people that followed him to the church.”

“Nothing but lackeys,” Price added. “How’d you find out? Thought you couldn’t find anything on this guy.”

“It took a while. But then-” Laswell sent Price a look that Soap couldn’t quite decipher. “We found that thing you asked us to look for. Haven’t been able to bring it here before now, because, well… it turned out to be a goldmine of information.”

She reached into the bag she’d brought, digging around for a bit. It was silent while she did, the tone of the room having shifted to match the serious subject. 

Laswell finally pulled out a familiar object. She held it out to Soap, her eyes kind as he gingerly took it.

He cradled the leatherbound book tenderly, thumb tracing its burnt edges. It looked almost unsalvageable. Some of the pages were crusty with old blood, several of them stuck together. But with a bit of work and care, he could separate them.

When Soap had lost the journal, he had only managed to fill out half of the pages, leaving the rest blank; at least, they would’ve been if the last half of the book hadn’t since been removed.

“Sorry about its state, Soap,” Laswell spoke softly. “We had to remove the last pages for evidence, otherwise they would never have let me take it with me.”

“Why?” Price asked.

Soap thumbed through the journal as they talked. There were still plenty of drawings and blocks of text that stood clear, his own old writing staring back at him. There was also a foreign handwriting on the pages, written in ink. The text was cyrillic, scattered across the paper. Just small notations, with drawn arrows to parts of John’s own text; a little block of Russian remarks beside a sketch of a German shepherd. Circles around the chords to ‘No Surprises’. The most disturbing display was one of his drawings of Price, where the man’s eyes had been angrily scribbled out. Bile rose in Soap’s throat.

“Solovyov clearly studied Soap’s journal closely. It was pretty much the only clue he was left with after Makarov’s death. He obsessed over it. Wrote some notes here and there on the pages that were already filled. Then when he reached the blank ones… he filled them himself.”

“What, he- he journaled his plans?” Ghost asked, his voice harsh. Then again, he had a pretty good view of the violated art in Soap’s hands. “You’re kidding.”

“I said the same,” Gaz chimed in. He then put on a Russian accent that would’ve made Nik cry from shame: “Dear diary, today I thought about killing Captain Price yet again. I will write down why I am a tortured soul who is completely justified. It all started in my childhood-“

“I hate to admit that Garrick’s horrible impression is pretty accurate,” Laswell sighed. “After having it translated, we learned quite a bit about the doctor. Most importantly, though, we can now say that he won’t be an issue anymore. It was revenge. Pure and simple.”

“It was only about Vlad,” Price murmured. His eyes were far away.

“Yes.” Laswell cleared her throat. “Yes, he was very… dedicated to Makarov.”

“Why?” Soap finally looked up, closing the book slowly.

Laswell studied him closely. “You sure you want to know? He’s dead and gone now.”

“I want tae know. He knew so much about me, after all. Read my half o’ the book. Only seems fair, aye?”

Laswell looked to Simon and Price as well, who both nodded their assent.

“Alright, then.” She pulled up a file from her bag and flipped it open. “Little was known from old files. He never appeared publicly with the rest of Makarov’s right hand men. We have since found him in the background of a few old pictures from ultranationalist gatherings.“ 

She then read aloud: “Doctor Simeon Solovyov. Military training: None. Grew up in a small Russian village, alongside one Vladimir Makarov. They were altar boys together. He finished his studies to become a medical doctor at age 26, after which he went off the grid, never settling into a clinic. It has later been revealed he worked as Makarov’s private medic. During the war, the town they grew up in was evacuated, as it was too exposed to the conflict. Makarov decided to use its library and archives to store sensitive files.

“In his writings in Sergeant MacTavish’ journal, Solovyov revealed that he never had any stakes in the ultranationalist cause. His descriptions about Makarov are as dedicated and emotional as the greatest fanatic, however.” Laswell looked up from the paper. “These were the translator’s notes. I also have the full translation verbatim, but I doubt any of us want to sit through several hours of Makarov worship.”

Gaz made a small noise of agreement. The room fell silent again, each individual processing what the file had said.

Soap thought of a ranch near Las Almas. He thought of Price’s countless pictures of his team. He thought of Eggs tearing ruthlessly into Antonov, blind to any danger. He thought of a burning city, of Simon’s trembling hands covered in Soap’s blood as he promised they would retire together. He thought of dogs and their unquestioning loyalty; be it those in Scottish cottages, or Russian hellhounds.

“Makarov fought for his own cause. Solovyov fought only for Makarov.” Soap didn’t even really realise he’d spoken aloud, until there were quiet hums of agreement around him.

“He loved him,” Ghost stated. John had a hard time reading the emotion in those words. 

“Whether he realised it or not, is the question,” Price mused, still lost in his own thoughts. “Seemed the repressed kind of fellow, that one.”

“He’s the dead kind of fellow, that one,” Laswell said, a lot more icy than usual. “And good riddance. Had me going grey with stress and worry. Rather him than any of you.”

“Aw, Laswell, you do like us,” Gaz teased good-naturedly. 

“You’ve grown on me like ‘clatty’ fungus.”

Soap forcibly shook off the gloom at that comment. He gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up at the use of the Scottish term.

Laswell patted his good leg, before checking her watch.

“What do you boys say we get you back to Britain bright and early tomorrow?”

“Sounds wonderful,” Price agreed. The sentiment was echoed by his men. 

Bag repacked, Laswell stood, slinging it over her shoulder.

“I’ll see you then. Kyle, do you want a lift back?”

“Yeah, I need my beauty sleep.”

“Ye sure do,” Soap jabbed at the easy opening.

“Dickhead,” Gaz grinned. He finally got that hug from Price, before he headed out after Laswell. 

Both waved as the doors closed to the room. Then they were gone, leaving only the room's original residents. The air was heavy in a way that Soap had hoped to avoid, tinged with the weight of their latest escapades. He supposed it was his own fault for asking what had been written in Solovyov’s journal entries. He tried to catch Simon’s eye, but the man was looking vacantly into the middle distance.

Lightly thumbing the edge of the dirty book resting in his lap, he marvelled at the fact that Price had asked Laswell to find it for him. Old sap. Then again, who was Soap to speak, when-

“Oh, right,” he broke the silence. Two pairs of eyes were on him, then. “Si, do you have my stuff? The things from my vest an’ such?”

Simon nodded. “Mmhm, hang on.”

“I completely forgot,” Soap mumbled vaguely to Price, before he started rummaging through the backpack Simon brought over. He could practically feel the two others share a look over his head. Probably exasperated. Possibly fond. “Aha! There it is.”

He held out the folded paper to Price. He waved it around a bit, urging the other to take it when it was only met with a puzzled expression.

“It wilnae bite.”

The captain grabbed the offering, slowly unfolding it. Much like Soap’s journal, it had blood stains at its edges and a few lines where it had torn. Still, Price looked as though Soap had just handed him the purest gold. 

“When did you have time to grab this?” he asked quietly. Reverently. 

John grinned at the shine in the other’s eyes.

“Oh, ye ken.” He shrugged. “Defuse a bomb, pick up a photo before booking it from a rigged building on a fecked leg. Same ol’, same ol’.”

It always felt like a victory when the captain’s eyes almost disappeared in smile crinkles. Soap didn’t even swipe at the hand that ruffled his already messy and overgrown mohawk.

“Stupid muppet.”

“I didn’t even realise you picked that up,” Ghost said, looking baffled. 

“In yer defence, love, ye were a little preoccupied.”

“You were the one defusing a bomb.”

“True.” Soap grinned. He put his journal into the backpack, which Simon put away. With his hands free again, he easily slipped one back into his partner’s. “I guess I’m jus’ braw like that?”

“You’re a bloody wanker, that's what you are.”

“Dinnae let Yuri hear ye say that. He’ll accuse me of fraternising with the British.”

Price snorted, carefully placing the photo in his chest pocket. “And you aren’t?”

“I did ye a kindness, ol’ man. Lay off for a bit, aye?”

“Didn’t realise my silence was being bought. Also, as much as I appreciate the gesture, I do feel the need to tell you that I have that photo saved in the cloud. Could’ve printed a new one.”

“Och, piss off.”

It was a sunny day. There was always something that felt off, when funerals took place on beautiful days. Such occasions called for thunder and downpour, as if the world itself should cry for the fallen.

But it was a sunny, beautiful day in late spring, and the air felt nice on Price’s bare arms.

He wouldn’t admit to hiding. That would be extremely unbecoming of a captain, even if he only held that title for one more week.

No, he wasn’t hiding. He was simply taking a smoke break outside the venue where the reception was being held. And maybe he happened to be standing near the car park, in a spot in between some shrubbery that conveniently kept him covered unless anyone specifically came looking in that very direction.

But he wasn’t hiding. Just… breathing, for a bit. Through a filter.

He wasn’t usually one to slip out of arrangements like that. Maybe he really was getting old. 

It was easier to blame it on age, rather than think of the real reason he had made his sneaky exit; it had taken a bit out of him when Toast’s younger brother had asked about the military in depth with a familiar glint in young eyes. Decked out in full uniform, rows of glittering medals adorning his chest, Price knew he would’ve been a hypocrite no matter what he answered. He hoped the casket they had lowered earlier that day would scare off the kid on its own.

“Hiding too?”

He couldn’t help the slight jerk of his body. Damn Ghost and his stealthy approaches. 

“Gonna give me a heart attack one of these days, Simon.”

“A final stealth kill to my tally.” A small twitch of scarred lips. “If I had count. Can I bum one?”

Price held out his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. After a telltale click and a waft of smoke, he pocketed the items again.

“Those things-” 

“Will kill ya,” Ghost interrupted, more smoke leaving his mouth with the words. “Yeah, I know, old man. We’re otherwise known for making healthy decisions.”

“Touché.” 

Silence fell between them, comfortable as it had become with time. Not like the first years where the captain’s mere presence agitated Ghost until he would snap, demanding to know what Price wanted. The response, “Just keeping you company, lad,” would earn disbelieving scoffs back then. 

Sneaking a glance at his large companion, Price inspected the unmasked face; the greying hair was getting long enough that it had started curling at the ends, scruff was signalling the start of another beard, and the sun had made freckles more visible across a crooked nose. He didn’t look as healthy as he had before their trip to Russia. There were still a few yellow, fading bruises and scabbed over cuts on his face, and his eyes held that haunted edge that had been otherwise blissfully absent for a few years. But he still looked… okay. 

In the hospital, while keeping vigil by an unconscious Scotsman, Kyle and Simon had informed their captain of the events he had missed. They had expanded on the details he hadn’t gotten from a feverish MacTavish in that cell. Then they told him what happened after the fort blew.

Simon’s explanation of his and Soap’s time under the rubble was short and controlled. His voice was deceptively calm. 

The knowledge that Simon Riley had been buried yet again had made something searing and ugly curl in Price’s gut. It made him want to bring Solovyov back to life just so he could break his neck once more. 

He’d expected the worst; had been sure Ghost would burrow right back into the safety of his old, destructive tendencies.

Hidden (but definitely not hiding) near a car park in the aftermath of a funeral, Simon watched the sky with relaxed shoulders, and Price knew that for whatever reason, he needn’t have worried. He’d given the man too little credit. Things were different, this time.

“How’s your boy?” the captain asked.

“Hm.” Ghost blinked, clearly returning from wherever his own mind had wandered. “He’s saying his goodbye’s inside. Insisted he could do it himself without a ‘mother hen’. We’ll see if he makes it all the way out here on that leg of his, the stubborn git.”

“He lasted long today, for someone who should be resting.” Price shook head. Stubborn git indeed. “Heading straight home?”

“Aye. S’only half an hour from here.”

The funeral had taken place in the town where Toast had grown up, which meant the majority of the task force had made their way to Scotland. Most of them hadn’t had a chance to meet the kid, but he had still been one of their own. 

They’d all be gathered again in a week, for Gaz’ promotion. And then Captain Price would be done; he’d go home to his shabby flat while he searched for a proper place to live. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it.

“Was a good speech,” Simon said. “Johnny thought so too. Had him tearing up. Although, don’t tell him I told you that.”

Price snorted. “Was the same old rubbish. Never know what to say at these things. It always ends up sounding the same, all… Flowery and pointless.”

“It didn’t.” There was a furrow in Simon’s brow as he levelled the captain with a serious look. “I know you lost sleep over it. Caught you passed out next to the open document when we were in the hospital.”

“Ah. I knew it wasn’t a nurse that tugged me in and packed my laptop.” Rubbing his eyes, Price couldn’t help the small smile on his lips. “Sneaky bastard.”

“It was fine, John. You’ve always been good at speeches.”

“It just feels empty. It’s all-” Paper towels and toy soldiers. “Meaningless platitudes. Kid’s still dead at barely 23.”

“Wasn’t meaningless to his family, what you said.”

Price thought of the family of redheads, eyes shining with tears as they thanked him afterwards. An elderly woman with Toast’s kind eyes had shaken his hand with a firm grip. It had made him sick to his stomach. 

He had told Soap not to waste time blaming himself. Faced with the ones left behind, knowing that they wouldn’t have lost their child if Price hadn’t picked him for his team… He was a hypocrite. He would retire soon, while kids he sent into war would never know that life. 

At least not all of them. 

“Soap’s been shaky,” Simon admitted, as if he’d read the captain’s thoughts. “Been having nightmares lately where he can’t move. Could barely look at Eggs today, as if he killed their best friend personally. Doesn’t matter that he saved their life.”

“Huh? When?” Price hadn’t heard this part.

“In the church, before the belltower. Eggs was… distracted.” The twisted, bloodstained face of the formerly cheerful private hadn’t left Price’s thoughts yet. “They didn’t see the big guy. Soap was fast, pulling them out of the line of fire. Eggs almost took his eye out, thinking he was hostile.

“That’s how he got the scratch on his cheek.” Simon gestured vaguely to his own face. “Nothing serious, but the kid has apologised about a billion times. I honestly think it was a healthy lesson in how fast things can go when you lose your head in the field. They even said sorry for blaming Soap. For what happened to Toast. But the moron still won’t stop blaming himself ”

Price hummed, deep in thought. It cleared up the odd dynamic he had picked up on between Soap and Eggs. Their youngest teammate still seemed angry, but probably didn’t know where to put it anymore. It was dangerous in the field. He wanted to figure out a solution before just handing the problem off to Gaz. 

As for Soap, and the pinched look of desperation on Simon’s face…

“Give him time,” Price murmured, stubbing out the sad remains of his smoke. He placed a hand on the other's arm. “It’s still fresh. You’re both shaky, son. “

“I just- guess I just can’t figure out what to do now.”

“I don’t think any of us can.” 

Price looked to the blue skies above. With retirement around the corner, he most certainly didn’t know what to do now, either. The job had been his life. A tiresome, often painful and stressful life, although not without its rewards. A purpose. Always something to fix when the world was burning, always practical solutions to be found.

He had never slowed down. Now was his time to try.

“Maybe… Don’t be so fast to fix things right away. Just be there,” he suggested thoughtfully, tasting the words for himself. He shrugged, adding, “I’m always a phone call away in any case. And if you’re needing stuff to do, occupy your mind and such- well, I’m sure I’ll be needing plenty of help getting settled. A frail old man like me.”

Simon cocked an eyebrow, a small, amused smile tugging his lips upwards. “Still putting me on jobs even now, sir?”

“Habits and such.”

“Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” There was a grateful shine to Simon’s eyes, even if the words went unsaid. “I might take you up on that offer. Pretty sure Johnny was already planning on pestering you, but now we can say you invited it.”

“Muppets,” the captain huffed, looking down to hide his own pleased expression. 

Maybe he could find a new purpose in retirement, after all. Or at the very least, he wouldn’t be left to flounder all alone.

“Speaking of needing something to do,” his large companion piped up, taking a last drag of his own cig, before stubbing it. “Find something. Some hobby or something you’ve wanted to try. For me it was the dogs. Well, and Johnny, obviously.” There was a pink tint to unmasked cheeks. There always was when Simon dared to bare his feelings so openly. “It just- it’s easy to get lost in your head with all that spare time, so… Keep your hands and mind busy. Lingering in- well, all of it, it never really helps.”

“Sound advice. I don’t remember ever having any interests that didn’t involve-” He gestured to the uniforms they were both wearing. “The job. If I ever did, I’ve since forgotten it.”

“Eh, we’ll help you figure something out.”

Price bumped their shoulders together. “Thank you, Simon.”

The pink tint turned more saturated. The other suddenly seemed to find the clouds above very interesting.

“Yeah yeah, don’t mention it,” was the gruff reply. Price chuckled to himself.

Where Ghost had snuck up on the captain after easily finding his not-hiding spot, the next arrival was vastly different. Small muttered curses and slow steps echoed by the taps of a crutch gave Soap away long before he found them. Simon put a finger to his lips, a teasing glint in his eye. Price had never involved himself in his boys’ mischief.

He just happened to stay silent of his own accord, was all.

“Where the- Absolute tadger-” Soap was muttering, walking right past them and stopping up to look over the cars parked before him. “If that bastard left me here, I will make him sleep in the shed, I swear-”

“Now, that’s not nice, Johnny.”

The way the man before them practically leapt into the air, grasping his heart, had both Price and Ghost cackling. Soap scowled at them once his breaths returned to him.

“Steamin’ Jesus, ya weapon!” Simon didn’t bother dodging the punch thrown at his shoulder, still heaving for breaths as he wiped his eyes. Soap was clearly fighting very hard to uphold his angry expression. “Coulda killed me, I swear. Attacking a wounded man like that-”

“Thought you said you were ‘just fine’ and that your injuries were ‘practically healed already’ -” 

“Well, I was just fine, until some maniac jumped me in from a bush-”

Simon's face was open and grinning, and for a moment Price found that the dark circles under his eyes seemed to disappear while he was looking at a fuming Scot. 

“Sorry, Johnny,” Simon apologised, not sounding sorry at all. Soap’s frown smoothed out, lips curling up as he inspected the two men still recovering from laughter.

“Are ye hiding out here?” he directed at Price. The captain folded his arms, standing up straight.

“Hiding?” he scoffed. “I’ve been in active warfare for most of my-”

“You are,” Soap interrupted smugly. “Scared that Laswell will corner ye an’ ask about that paperwork that needs to be done before next week?”

“Well, not all of us have medical orders to take it easy, MacTavish. Can’t just leave early,” he admitted reluctantly. 

He considered telling them about Toast’s younger brother; about the next generation of soldiers, about the wheel that would keep spinning on and on, and about how he didn’t quite know how he felt about that, even after dedicating his whole life to it. Part of him wanted to tell them that most nights he couldn’t sleep, because he saw all the times their bodies had been broken and near-dead because they followed him straight into hell, no questions asked. Maybe he should tell them that sometimes he still thought he was falling, a rope or a wire clutched in his hands.

They were still smiling. They hadn’t done that a lot since they got back.

“Think I might finally be getting old. Got sleepy and needed fresh air to wake up,” he said instead.

Soap nudged his arm with a smirk. “Don’t break yer hip on the way back, gramps.”

“Careful I don’t break yours.”

“Please don’t, he’s already hobbling worse than a newborn foal,” Simon mumbled, fixing the collar on Soap’s shirt.

“I’m fine, Si-”

“S’that why you’re sweating so much? Or did you maybe overdo it by walking out here yourself?”

Soap grumbled under his breath, but didn’t seem to have a clever comeback. It spoke to the overexertion he had definitely pushed himself to. Stubborn git. At least he accepted when his partner slid into place beside him to support his weight. 

“Get home safe,” Price told the pair. “See you in a week.”

“Aye, see ya, cap.”

“Thanks for the talk.” Simon pinned him with a meaningful look. For a moment it felt like the man could see right through him; as if he knew exactly why Price had been hiding. “Think about what I said.”

“I will. Thank you.” 

Soap clearly wanted to pry, but kept his mouth closed. The tact could possibly be attributed to the lad’s droopy eyelids. They all knew that Simon would tell him everything later, anyway. 

“Get some rest, son.” Price patted Soap’s cheek softly. He then shared a last smile with Ghost, before his two former subordinates made their way back to their car.

He stood and watched where the car disappeared around the bend, staying there for several minutes. Then he took a deep breath and went back inside.

His talk with Simon hadn’t cleared up what his life would look like in the future, but it was a start. There were frames to work within. And maybe he should take some of his own sage advice, and “give it time.”

A week later Soap watched his team, his friends, make themselves at home in his and Simon’s cottage. The sight made something slowly settle back into place within him.

When they’d left their house to go on a sudden rescue mission to Russia, he and Simon had thought that they couldn’t return. Their home was supposedly compromised, its location in enemy hands.

Naturally they’d then learned that the ‘information leak’ turned out to be another one of Solovyov’s lies, and their personal information wasn’t being shared amongst people with a grudge against the 141. They still had a home to return to. John could have cried. Did, a little bit.

When they returned it didn’t feel quite the same as before; Even if the walls still stood, the furniture was the same and Simon’s brand of tea remained in its place in the kitchen cupboard. The food had gone bad in the fridge, but was quickly replaced. The folks in the nearby town were friendly as ever, if a bit nosy when they saw Soap’s crutch. 

Visibly, not much had changed. It was quieter, more empty, but that was due to the lack of animals. The pets’ absence served as a constant reminder of what had actually changed. Soap had. And Ghost.

Like the memory foam of their mattress, they had moulded a life around them to suit their shape. When they came back different, pieces missing or crooked, their home no longer remembered them. 

John had told Simon that they could heal again. Now they were putting it to the test.

He leaned against the doorway to the crowded living room, his eyes landing on his husband. Simon was saying something to Roach, who signed back eagerly, hands nearly a blur. A good conversation then, if it had the sergeant that excited. 

When Roach stopped to drink, Simon met his eyes across the room. They shared brief, warm smiles. 

Soap liked their odds of healing. They had what they needed for it.

Simon was swept back up in Roach’s story and John let his gaze wander over the rest of the room. 

Alejandro and Rudy were being entertained by Nikolai, who was telling a story so outlandish that Soap hoped he was exaggerating the details, although one never knew with the pilot. Rudy was listening with a polite expression. It was a facade, and those who knew him could tell that he didn’t believe a single word coming out of Nik’s mouth. Alejandro, on the other hand, was enraptured. 

That would definitely spawn an amusing Spanish discussion later.

Laswell and her wife had taken Beast for a short walk, using it as an opportunity to enjoy the scenery. At least that had been the words used. Part of John wondered if the observant woman had noticed the tense line of his shoulders whenever Beast brushed against him.

He was… working on it. He needed to, if he wanted the cottage to be less empty again.

In the kitchen, he could hear the kettle boiling. Price and Gaz’ voices were muffled by the walls, but the occasional laughter was easy to make out. They’d had a big day. That was the cause of celebration after all; the end of an era, and the beginning of a new one with Captain Kyle Garrick.

If the uniform wasn’t enough of a clue, then maybe the passed down bucket hat would signal Gaz’ promotion to the world. A silly gesture, really, Price giving his hat to the 141’s new captain. Nevertheless one that had made Gaz visibly fight tears. Some cases of hero worship never quite went away.

Their whole team had been at the ceremony itself. Part of John was relieved that not everyone joined the celebration afterwards. Their home only had so many square metres. König alone would’ve taken up more space than there was currently left in the living room. 

Farah and Alex had quite literally made their way to be there for Gaz while they were technically mid-mission. They’d also left in a rush afterwards, with promises to celebrate at a later time.

Eggs had gone back to base to- Well, Soap didn’t ask. The kid had their transfer coming up, and probably had stuff to do before leaving.

Looking around the room once more, John realised there was one person unaccounted for.

“Soap.” Speak of the devil. 

He turned slightly to look behind him at the newcomer. Yuri was bald once more, despite Soap’s valiant attempt of convincing the man to get a mohawk. “You alright, Yuri?”

Yuri nodded, face serious. “I have to talk to you. Can we find somewhere more quiet?”

Straight to the point, that one. At that moment both Nikolai and Alejandro broke out in boisterous laughter, nearly rattling the room. Soap nodded quickly.

“Good idea. This way.”

Leading the way outside, John tried not to get skittish due to the serious air Yuri had about him. The man often looked a tad stone-faced. Nothing to start speculating about.

They stayed near the wall to avoid the light drizzle. Soap adjusted his jacket, switching his crutch from hand to hand as he slipped into the sleeves. 

“What’s on yer mind?” he asked, while fiddling with his zipper. Yuri reached out to hold his crutch until he got it.

“I’m going back to work. Full time.”

“Oh.” Soap blinked in surprise at his Russian friend. “That’s- You ready fer tha’?”

Yuri shrugged. “Think it is better for me. I go a little… crazy, in my house. Ready for trouble. After Makarov, I-” There was a small crack in the otherwise unreadable face. “I felt weak. I will not bore you with details, but- I did not leave the job for the same reason you did. It was not to find peace. It was because I was scared. Of being weak.” Yuri chuckled mirthlessly. “Which is weak in itself.”

Soap opened his mouth, only to close it again. He doubted Yuri dragged him outside for an amateur therapy session.

“But after this, uh- shitshow? It forced me to face my fears. I did not feel weak when we were running, Soap. Or later, when we fought them off, even outnumbered. When we won. I felt like myself again. And now Nik has asked for me, for my help. Since he has agreed to take on the child, uh-” 

“Eggs,” Soap supplied.

“Da, Eggs. Nik said he will need more hands, now that he is training them. I said yes.”

“Well, that’s great,” Soap grinned. “Ye sound happy to go back. And I’m calmer knowing that Eggs is no’ just relying on Nik alone. S’good there’s someone sensible there, too.”

The stony face cracked into a small, amused smile. “Captain Price said the same.” 

“Not a captain,” a new voice corrected, as Price himself came out the front door. “Just Price will do. Or John, if you wanna test your luck.”

“Price, then,” Yuri said. 

“Smart lad.” Price smirked, rummaging around his pocket before pulling out a cigar. He paused, looking at the two men before him. “If I’m interruptin’ something, tell me to piss off.”

“I just had a question for Soap.”

“I’m sure yer presence wilnae distract us, great as it is,” Soap teased. “Did Gaz bore ye?”

“Nah. Nik started telling the helicopter story.”

“Which one?”

“Honestly, who knows? But Gaz had to go make sure his reputation wasn’t being smeared.” Price turned his attention to his cigar. He searched his pockets again, probably to find a lighter. “Don’t let me distract you, then. I’ll just be enjoying the lovely Scottish weather while you chat.”

“For all the complaining abou’ Scotland, ye sure come here a lot.” 

Shaking his head at Price’s amused huff, Soap turned his attention back on Yuri. 

“Where were we before this old numpty showed up? Right.” He patted the other’s arm. “Well, I’m glad tae hear you feel ready to take on the world. Really. But what can I possibly do fer ye? Or was this jus’ tae thank me for forcing ye into life-or-death situations. Because, you are so very welcome.”

There was a moment’s hesitation. Yuri’s expression turned unsure. 

“It’s, uh- it’s Beast. I won’t be able to take care of him now. Considered training him, take him with us, but he is no good with flying. That will not work out for clear reasons.” The Russian was stumbling a bit over his words. “I want him to have a good home, so I thought- But I also know that dogs are… well, uh- For you. Right now at least. Difficult. But he likes you.” Yuri breathed in carefully, scratching the back of his neck. “I see that your dogs are not home. But I still wanted to ask, just in case. But it is okay if not.”

John was studying the weeds growing through the gravel under his feet. His heart had started sinking during Yuri’s jumbled spiel.

He wanted to say yes. He did. He wanted the big mutt to come live there, with them. He wanted to bring their own pets home, and make Simon happy. He wanted Yuri to stop worrying about asking, because of course Soap was fine to give that dog a new home. Beast had saved his life.

He wished his brain just fucking worked as it should. 

“Yuri…” he began.

There was an excited bark nearby.

Soap froze. 

“Soap?”

Snapping jaws-

Sharp, burning pain as teeth sank in easily, so easily, too easily- 

He was just meat. Just prey to them, as they howled and barked-

“I do not know, he just-”

“Give him space. Hey, kid-”

He was just a kid, looking into the maw of his own death-

That’s what he got for being careless with dangerous beasts-

For reaching out too easily-

“I’ve got him, just take the dog inside.”

“Da, captain.”

Hellhounds on his heels, coming early to collect their due for his seven good years. He was just meat. After everything he’d done, all the fighting to do good, and he would still end up as nothing more than a meal, just another slab of meat- 

“C’mon lad, just breathe. That’s good, there you are.”

Beady eyes-

“In.”

Wet noses-

“Hold.”

Soft fur under his hands. 

“And out.”

A puppy that Simon held oh so carefully, as it slept. A scarred hand took John’s own, guiding it until it rested against the small form. The creature pressed back, trusting him subconsciously, despite having only just met him. Reaching out to him easily, so easily, too easily-

He greeted it with a kind touch. It greeted him with the same in turn.

“And again.”

In. Hold. Out.

He blinked slowly. Looked around. Breathed.

He was in the same spot, yet his view had slightly shifted. He’d been moved down to sit against the wall, he realised. Yuri was gone and there were no dogs in sight. It was just him and Price.

He locked eyes with the former captain, concentrating on still breathing, albeit a bit raggedly. There was a warm weight on his chest where Price had placed a hand. Soap found none of the expected pity in those old eyes; eyes that always seemed much older than the person they belonged to. There was only understanding and a smidge of worry.

“Back with me, Soap?”

He nodded mutely.

“Alright.” Price groaned as he stood. Then he reached out his hand. ”C’mon then.”

Too rattled to give it much thought, he simply took the offered hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. Price took some of his weight, leaving the crutch forgotten in the gravel.

When they reached the bench behind the shed, Soap practically fell onto it, only slowed by the hands on his elbows. Price sat next to him with a heavy sigh. Before them, green hills rolled in a blanket of mist. 

Rather than talk, Price simply dug out his cigar again. After a few clicks of a lighter, a familiar scent filled Soap’s nostrils before it was stolen by the wind. It smelled like the captain’s office. It smelled like a wall of pictures, a late night talk, a well-worn hat. It was base. Home.

At least one of them.

“M’glad we got you back,” Soap whispered, when his voice returned to him. He leaned against the older man.

Price leaned back. “Me too.”

They sat like that for a bit while Price smoked.

“What happened?” Soap asked.

“The Laswells returned with Beast. He got excited, barked a little. Next second, you were gone. Frozen, your mind somewhere else.” A thoughtful hum. “Don’t think you need to answer Yuri, now. He probably knows already.”

“I wish it wasn’t like this. Wish I could jus’ power through. My brain tells me how illogical it is, yet my body still reacts.”

“That’s the name of the game, son.”

His hands were still trembling. He clenched them shut. “Beast is a good dog. Like our own are. He deserves a good home, I just wish I-”

“Then I’ll take him,” Price said, as if it was the most obvious statement in the world. Soap blinked up at him owlishly.

“What?”

“He’s a good dog, you still want to see him, he needs a good home. I take him, that solves all that. No worries.”

“Have ye ever even owned a dog?”

“Nah.”

“Any pets?”

“Some frogs once. They died.” Price let out a puff of smoke, his moustache twitching as he looked down at the incredulous expression sent his way. “How hard can it be?”

“It’s- Dinnae just do this fer me.”

Price bumped their shoulders together gently. “You’re giving yourself too much credit, Mactavish. I’ve been trying to come up with things to do now that my life will slow down. And to be honest, I’ve been dreading the… quiet. The loneliness, I s’pose. I need a new stray to take care of. All my old ones don’t need me anymore.”

“We need you,” Soap said quietly.

“You really don’t. You’re all doing fine on your own.” Price’s eyes softened. “Don’t worry, I’ll still bother you all til the day I die. Just because I’m not needed, doesn’t mean I’m not wanted, hm?”

“Aye.” 

They had all certainly proved how much the older man was wanted, based on the response to his disappearance. The whole team, no matter where in the world, had raced to get him back. He had brought them together in the first place, after all. 

“Been meaning to tell- I, uh, I’ve found a small house. It’s not a long drive from here, near the border. Bit close to Scotland and its weather for my taste, but oh well, can’t have it all. It’s a fixer-upper. I’ll need some strong lads to help me with it.” He gave Soap a meaningful look. “You and Simon come do some work with me, get us all out of our heads. Teach me how to take care of Beast. Maybe it will acclimate you to dogs again. Or it won’t. I’d say it’s worth a shot, though, wouldn’t you?”

Soap had no doubt that his eyes were the size of saucers. “Captain…”

“Not a captain, kid.”

“Well, M’definitely no’ a kid.” There was a lightness in his chest that hadn’t been there for a while. Hope. “You sure?”

“Mm. Simon and I had a decent talk. Got my gears turning.” Price glanced at the grey sky. “Finding new purpose and all that. Keeping your mind and hands busy, instead of focusing on what you’ve lost. It’s actually what gave me the idea with Eggs, too.”

Soap perked up. He’d wondered how that arrangement had come about.

“I’m sure ya have some great reason, but sending them off tae deal with Nik seems a bit more like punishment,” he joked.

Price snorted. “Yeah. I asked what interested them. Thought I’d try to figure something out before leaving, Didn’t want the kid to get stuck like- Well, like I’ve seen before. Piloting, they said.” His eyes crinkled. “Now, Nik told me to never make him babysit again, but he was quick to agree to my idea. He’s getting old, too, as little as he likes to admit it. This way, he can make sure the 141 gets a new pilot of the same quality as himself. Keep Gaz on his toes.”

An image of a rugged, older Captain Garrick in a bucket hat sprung to Soap’s mind. He could almost picture him hanging from a helicopter, yelling at a sunglass-wearing Eggs to pull up. Later, Soap would pick up the phone to listen to a tirade from his friend, cursing out the reckless flying. Gaz would swear to never set foot in anything but land vehicles ever again, and Soap would bully him endlessly.

The fantasy had his heartbeat finally settle into a normal pace again.

“I was surprised, at first, but- It’s a good solution. Nik was actually pretty good with Eggs, back when everything was… going on. Tryin’ tae distract them. I give him too little credit, I think.”

“He’s all bark, no bite, that one,” Price agreed, eyes twinkling with mirth. “We’ll see if it’s actually helpful to the kid. Just- I think it’s better to try something, than let it fester. That’s how you get The Ghost.”

“Naw, he was always a sweetheart, it just got-” Soap paused, considering his words with a sheepish smile. “Hm. I dinnae ken if he’d be proud or mad that I was about tae say buried.”

“He’d laugh. He’s mad that one.” 

“Aye, that’s fer sure. Outta his mind.”

“We all are,” Price said with a bittersweet smile. “We all are.” 

The nights were difficult. They’d both known they would be. Not that the daytime was all sunshine and rainbows either, but with night, when the world went still, it was the mind’s time to fill the silence.

The fabric of the balaclava was soft in his hands. It was old, slightly worn from use, yet the feeling of it on Simon’s skin was so very familiar. Comforting.

His thumb lifted, running over the hard skull sewn into the cloth. It was jagged under his touch, his finger following cracks where the piece had taken hits. When he noticed some old blood staining where the skull met black cloth, Ghost automatically rubbed at it until it was gone. Force of habit. 

When he and Johnny had returned to their cottage, he had immediately put the mask back in the same drawer where it had laid forgotten for so many years before. Back to normal.

Their small house looked the same it did when they’d left it, if a little dustier. It was emptier, too. They had left the dogs with Johnny’s mum for the time being, as well as Spectre. (The cat would get lonely without the company of the other animals, as much as she liked to act like they were just great inconveniences.)

Simon missed the rowdy beasts, alongside the rhythm of the chores that came along with them. Yet, he was the one who insisted on this arrangement. Soap originally waved a hand when the subject came up, saying that he’d be fine around the dogs, but Ghost had sussed out the trepidation in the man’s eyes when they’d reunited with the animals at Mama MacTavish’ house. He knew no one hated it more than Johnny when his body locked up at the sound of muffled barks and whines at the door.

Luckily, Soap’s mum was a saint, immediately agreeing to keep the pets with her. It wasn’t a long-term solution. The woman was well up there in age, and Simon knew how taxing it could get to look after the animals. 

“Ah lived wi’ my John when he was a teenager, Simon,” she whispered with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Dinnae underestimate mah patience fer these things. Take yer time gettin’ better, an’ stop worryin’ so much, ye sweet lad.”

He didn’t regret leaving the pets behind. If Johnny never felt ready to have the dogs back again, then that was that. 

But the cottage sure felt empty. And his mind felt stuffed to the brim.

He couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t anything new, the insomnia, the nightmares. The waking up feeling buried. The sense of loss. The overwhelming sense of infinity that came with the darkness of night, as though vastness could bury him, too. 

Careful not to wake his sleeping husband, he’d snuck downstairs. The man under the covers was out cold, exhausted from the physical therapy of the day. He’d barely been able to keep his eyes open during dinner, which was adorable, although Soap would kill him if he said so. 

He didn’t know why, but his feet had led him to that drawer that had laid so perfectly forgotten before. Mask in hand, he’d silently stepped into their kitchen, made a cuppa and ended up sitting stiffly on their sofa. Lost in thought. Fingers trailing stitches keeping hard shell to soft fabric. The sewing pattern was the kind used on sutures, because that was all he’d known when making it. “A wee bit heartbreaking,” Soap had once said about it.

He didn’t know how long he sat there. Eventually, his ears picked up on the soft patter of footfalls heading down the hall. 

“Sergeant,” he greeted softly, keeping his eyes forward. For a second he felt a need to jam the mask between the couch cushions to hide it, as if he was caught doing something he shouldn’t. He forced himself not to.

“Lieutenant,” came the expected reply. Johnny’s voice was gravelly with sleep, as he indulged their usual call-and-response.

“Sergeant,” Ghost greeted, tone monotonous. At least he hoped it was. Soap was outside his door in the middle of the night, shifting from foot to foot, looking as if he was just as surprised at finding himself there. 

“Lieutenant,” he responded. “I- Sorry. Don’t know why I’m waking ye-”

“Didn’t wake me.”

“Oh.”

“Wanna come in?”

Why did he ask that? Fuckin’ hell. Stupid Scot making him act without thinking.

“Aye. I’d like tha’.”

Ghost stepped aside.

Familiar arms came over his shoulders from behind him, Soap humming as he rested his chin on top of Simon’s head. The weight was grounding.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Simon volunteered before the other could ask. 

“Mm.” A light kiss was pressed to the top of his head. “Overthinking?”

“The right amount.”

“Too much, then.”

Simon sighed, shaking his head, feeling how it jostled Johnny’s head too. He finally looked up and was met with an upside-down face smiling at him.

“Why’re you up?” he asked softly when he noticed the dark circles under Johnny’s eyes.

Smile falling, Johnny gently bonked their foreheads together with a grumble. “Am s’posed tae be interrogatin’ ye.”

“Not how that works, luv.”

Soap groaned. He detached his arms from Simon’s shoulders, walking to the front of the sofa. He felt the side of the mug still full of tea on the table, before carefully straddling Simon’s lap.

Had they been younger, the position would have derailed their talk entirely. It used to be one of Soap’s nifty tricks for avoiding topics that made him uncomfortable, but as soon as Ghost had realised this, it had instead become a tell, letting him know that something was plaguing his Scot. 

He guided Johnny to sit comfortably, before resting his hands on the other’s hips. His mask ended up on the pillow, momentarily forgotten.

“Yer tea’s cold. Did ye finally realise it’s shite?”

“Only when you make it.” That was a lie. Johnny made his tea perfectly, as much as they both liked to complain about it. “Feel free to drink it. You like it cold, right?”

“I like ice tea , Simon, not stale, room-temperature tea.”

“There’s just no pleasin’ you.”

Johnny giggled, resting their foreheads together once again. At some point Simon had started drawing small circles with his thumbs along Johnny’s hip bones. He waited patiently for the other to break the silence.

“Nightmare,” Johnny finally mumbled, almost inaudibly. 

“Yeah.” He’d figured. “Sorry I wasn’t there when you woke.”

“S’okay. I can handle myself.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. Hypocrite.” Soap’s head moved down, resting in the crook of Simon’s neck, against one of many old scars. “What were ye thinkin’ about?”

It was Simon’s turn to hesitate. He eyed the mask and the empty sockets of the skull staring back. 

“Si?” The whisper tickled his Adam's apple, which subsequently bopped.

“The usual. Just… Same old shit.”

“Is it?” Johnny raised his head, his hands coming up to cup Simon’s face. Keeping their eyes locked. “Because I ken something has been on yer mind ever since the hospital.”

Bingo. Spot on the money. 

“Of course something’s been on my mind since then, Johnny. We almost died-”

“Dinnae give me that, Simon Riley-MacTavish. Something specific has been fuckin’ with yer heid. I’ve been wantin’ tae give yer time an’ space, but… you’re no’ sleeping, love.” Rough thumbs stroked over his cheekbones. “Please tell me.”

Oh, he loved Johnny’s eyes. He’d always been bad at saying no to them.

“It’s just… silly.”

“If it has ye like this, I sincerely doubt tha’.”

“Solovyov.”

Johnny tensed against him, breath hitching. Simon immediately felt bad and started shaking his head.

“Like I said, it’s-”

“Naw.” Johnny breathed out slowly. “What about him?”

How did he say this without sounding like a melodramatic wanker? Maybe he just was a melodramatic wanker.

“He’s me.”

“Think I would’ve noticed, Si.”

That wrenched a surprised laugh from him. “Arsehole. I’m being serious here.”

“Aye, sorry,” Johnny said with a crooked grin. “Go on.”

“S’just…” He sighed, looking to the ceiling as he searched for the right words. There was a spider spinning a web in the corner. He should do something about that-

He jumped when a loud raspberry was blown into his neck.

“What the fuck, Johnny?”

“You’re stalling,” was the accurate response. 

“You’d know about that-”

“Still stalling-”

“Alright, fine!” Simon heaved a deep breath, and finally met blue eyes again. “Fine. I’ve been feeling off ever since Laswell read us that… journal thing. It’s messing with my head. It should be everything else that happened that should be fucking me up, but it’s not. It’s just that stupid, fuckin’ journal written by some random dickhead, who’s dead anyway.”

Johnny was listening intently, joking gone completely from his features. 

“D’ye know why?” 

“I’m- It’s because he’s me.” His hands tightened on his partner’s hips, as he focused on the warm, breathing body before him. “You could so easily have died to Shepherd, back then. Or then later, Makarov, when we jumped from the window. And then that would have been me. I would’ve cared about nothing but revenge, Johnny. There would only have been Ghost. I knew it back then, and I was- I was so grateful when you lived and asked if we could just fuckin’ retire. 

“All these years… becoming human again. Re-learning Simon. I always thought that it was Ghost who would lose himself that way, and that Simon was- was… I don’t know, good ? Or at least not a monster. But then they took you. They took you, and even after all those years as Simon… The things I would’ve done, Johnny. If you had- if they’d-”

“Shh,” Johnny finally interrupted, when Simon’s eyes started to prickle with warmth. “I know, love.”

When strong arms guided him forwards, Simon didn’t resist, instead letting his head land against a firm chest. Right above where he knew there was a silvery scar from where a knife had once been embedded in Soap’s chest. He could hear the ba-thump of a heartbeat under his ear.

“I would’ve killed them all,” he whispered alongside that steady rhythm. “And I would have enjoyed it. Would’ve made it a game, just like Solovyov. I’ve done it before. But I would never have come back from it this time.”

“Oh, Simon,” the chest rumbled under his ear. He closed his eyes, letting two tears fall. 

After a while, he was slowly guided backwards again. Two thumbs came up to brush away the mostly-dried tear tracks, before holding his face once again. 

“The world has tried to break you so many times,” Soap said quietly, his gaze never wavering from Simon’s. “No one is more scared of losing control than you, because of how close you’ve been. Now, Ah’m no therapist, that’s pretty fuckin’ obvious-”

Simon’s lips twitched at that.

“But I do know you . And trust me, Si, you worry quite a lot about being a monster. And I dinnae think a monster would do tha’.”

“Well, you didn’t die.”

“Aye, alright. I didnae. But let me tell ye somethin’ now. If you had died, then I had gone fuckin’ batshit crazy, too. I’d have gone full Solovyov. Ye’re not special.”

“Johnny-”

“Naw, I mean it. But we’re not monsters, Simon, we’re just humans. And not good ones, let’s no’ kid ourselves here. Our jobs were tae kill people, and we were damn good at it. Retirement has been good in so many ways, it has also given us a taste at regular life, at jus’ being… decent people, for a while. But that also meant that going back into field again reminded us exactly how fuckin’ awful we truly are.”

Soap picked the mask up from the pillow and rested it on Ghost’s chest.

“I didnae have a mask back then,  I wasnae Ghost. I was jus’ Soap, and I’ve still been Soap in the years after. And it’s hard. But fer ye? The way ye found peace was to shed the mask, and Ghost. It was difficult fer me to go back into it, Ah mean- Just look at the way I’ve been since we got back. We knew we’d have to adjust again, but it’s almost like it’s harder the second time around, eh? Because now we cannae pretend that we’ll never not be killers, too. It’ll never go away. 

“I dinnae ken if what I’m saying makes sense here,” Soap sighed. “I just- It makes sense that you’re feeling off. I never distanced myself from ‘Soap’ or that part of my life, and I still feel like I’m in shambles after going back, but you ? You’ve been trying tae- I guess, kill Ghost off? In order to live as Simon. So it makes sense that going back tae find out that part of ye never died… I dinnae ken. You got this idea that ye needed to change to be able to fit into our new life together. And I thought- I thought it was something you wanted. For you. But lately… if it is making you unhappy, but you’re pushing through, then it must be for something else. 

“And I hope it isn’t for me, because I love ye, you twat. And I’ve loved you a long time, Simon. And I love Ghost. I’ve loved you from the start. And not only that, but I like you, too, believe it or not. I liked the way you were, and I like the ways you’ve changed, as long as it’s in ways that make you happy. I like yer terrible jokes and messed up humour. I like how particular you get about certain things, like tea or dog training or knife maintenance, while giving zero shits about other things that most people care about. I admire how strong you are, both physically and mentally. Everything the world put you through, and you still care. You care so, so much, even though you’ll sometimes pretend you don’t.

“And I love-“ Soap drew an almost shaky breath, his eyes glistening. “I love how you love me. I like how you make me feel better about myself, how you make me forget the world, until it’s just us. You did that long before we retired. You’d stay near me in the field, after the worst days of my life, and for a moment everything melted away. Sometimes without even talking. Just you and me. 

“I’ve loved every version of you. And part of me- admittedly a slightly twisted part- loves that you would burn the world for me. Whoever you need to be, I have no doubt I’ll love that person, too. And certainly never think you need to change to fit me in some way. We fit no matter what. A bit messed up and broken, but each other’s, aye?”

Something was clenching in his chest almost painfully, as Simon listened to Johnny’s words. His fingers had stilled, now simply resting on the other loosely, knowing he didn’t need to hold on for Johnny to stay.

Part of his change into civilian life was simply adapting. It was remembering who he had been, long before the military, and allowing for some of those softer sides to resurface. 

Some things changed naturally, like navigating life with a partner. Planning dinner or laundry, or saying where he was going, to make sure it fit their schedule. Teamwork, just like in the field, but shifted to domesticity.

The rest, the parts that had changed almost forcefully… the mask in the drawer, the inability to bring Ghost with him into this life- he had said it stemmed from self-improvement. That it was hard, but necessary, to eventually feel better. He almost convinced himself, too.

He had been good at ignoring the little voice in back of his mind. The one that questioned his own reasoning.

He hadn’t changed those things for his own sake. It had been for Johnny. Simon needed to deserve their life together, he needed to be someone who made his husband happy and safe, and who didn’t bring his past shit with him into their new start, like dragging dirt into the house. Johnny deserved the best, and Ghost was rotten. Simon was broken, yet potentially salvageable, but Ghost was irredeemable. Unsuited for a normal life. So he’d tried carving out that part of himself to change for the better. For what he thought was better.

But Soap had never asked for that. He had never even expected a normal life, because that was never truly in the cards for them to begin with.

Johnny loved him, fully. 

The shining, earnest eyes looking into his own attested to that. The thing clenching his heart was overwhelming, making him choke up. 

“Yeah,” he said, voice wavering. “It’s us. And we’re each other’s.”

Soap’s smile was blinding, as he leaned forward and rested their heads together again. Simon squeezed his eyes shut, allowing a few more drops to fall. 

“I love you, too, Johnny. So fucking much. I always thought it was incredible, that you could possibly put up with me and all my- my baggage. But you don’t care about that, do you?”

“I enjoy helping you lift yer baggage. Makes me feel good. Important. I know you don’t let almost anyone near it tae begin with. It’s a privilege, not a burden.” Johnny nuzzled their noses together. “And ye lift mine in turn, yeah? Never heard you complaining’ either.”

Simon blanched at the idea of ever finding it a burden to be with this man.

“Well, I love you,” he stated simply, as if it explained everything. Maybe it did.

He raised his hands, cupping Johnny’s face in return. He swallowed the lump in his throat, caused by the affection that filled his chest so completely.

“I think-” he cleared his throat. “I think you make a decent therapist, love.”

“Ye should definitely talk to yer actual therapist about this. Ah’m jus’ talkin’ out mah arse. Honestly, half o’ what I said was stuff my own therapist has been spewing that I jus’-”

Simon leaned in to interrupt him with a kiss. He adored the way Johnny melted into it.

Their minds were fucked and their bodies were aching, and maybe they were the closest things humans ever got to monsters, but he still had this . He hadn’t lost this yet. He still had hot breaths against his own. He still had someone who would seek him out simply to talk him back into his body.

The hard shell of his mask was pressed between their chests.

Maybe Johnny was right. Maybe Ghost wasn’t some stranger that had possessed him in an unmarked grave. Maybe it was more like his mask; maybe Ghost was the skull plate sewn shoddily onto a worn balaclava to make it more intimidating, a hard shell over soft fabric. An addition that didn’t subtract from the original. Just protection.

“I’m-” he murmured against Soap’s lips. “I might want to wear the mask sometimes, again. It’s just-”

“Mm, dinnae ‘ave tae explain.” Fingers tangled in greying hair. “I meant what I said. With or without the mask. As long as it’s you.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Think we deserve each other quite a lot, actually.”

Ghost pulled back from the kiss to press his lips meaningfully to the other’s forehead. 

“Let’s get back to bed, hm?” he asked into a ruffled mohawk. “See if we can get some shut-eye before dawn.”

“And if we can’t …” Johnny leaned back to waggle his eyebrows suggestively. He yelped when Simon pinched his side. 

“Insatiable old man,” he admonished fondly, heart weak for the fool in his arms.

“We’re not that old, Simon.”

“We’re getting there.”

Chapter Text

EPILOGUE

Bird song outside Price’s window was what woke him. Spring had arrived, and with it, a couple of robins building a nest in the tree just outside his window. He didn’t have the heart to remove it.

At least their melodic thrill was more pleasant than the crows cawing in the garden. Those had been scared off by Beast, who had found great fun in the game of chasing them around. Soap had told him that crows could hold grudges. He wondered if that was why his patio was constantly covered in bird shit.

The sun was making its own first appearance through the branches as Price rose from his bed. The light cast his room into a soft orange glow. He’d appreciate it more if he’d gotten more than four hours of sleep.

It was hard to believe that four hours were a privilege at one point in his life. It was becoming increasingly a mystery to him how he had survived so many years in the military; and he didn’t mean the active combat. His habits alone should’ve put him in an early grave. Living off of caffeine, nicotine and sleep deprivation all while fighting a war. Madman, that captain had been, Price mused silently while pulling on his woollen socks. 

He popped a few pills for the pain, both the daily ones and also a few extra for the headache he was sporting that morning. He could vaguely recall that the whiskey Gaz had brought the day before had disappeared during the evening. Price hadn’t even had that much. He grinned to himself, thinking of how absolutely miserable his visitors were going to act later, once they woke. 

Soap and Ghost were going to be achy as well, with the way they had slept. 

His footsteps were quiet as he padded down the hall. Keeping his ears perked, he smiled at the snores he could hear from the guest bedroom as he passed. Gaz had definitely needed the break. No one understood that quite as well as the former captain.

When he reached the living room, he paused at the sight. His chest warmed. They hadn’t moved at all since they fell asleep. 

Ghost and Soap were tangled up on a sofa that was much too small to hold them both comfortably. Originally, Gaz had agreed to take the sleeping spot and let the couple have the bed in the room down the hall. Then it had gotten late, whiskey had warmed their bellies and the small group had been comfortable. They had been around every subject matter, both the heavy and then, naturally, the tasteless jokes and snarky banter. 

It had been a year since Russia; since Solovyov and Toast and retirement. A year where Price had been unable to hear church bells without feeling phantom rope burns. A year of Gaz as the captain for the 141. A year of Soap getting better at handling his episodes. A year of Ghost wearing his mask again, on occasion. The day before, the balaclava had been left by the door as Simon entered Price’s house. He couldn’t help feeling a little proud of that.

It was Gaz’ suggestion, meeting up to celebrate. Or remember. Or whatever it was called, when it was an anniversary of something like that. 

He had to give it to Kyle, that it had been a bright idea. At first he wasn’t sure if it was something any of them were up for, but the night had certainly ended with the air feeling lighter than when it began. 

Soap had made a toast to Toast. It had initiated talks of the lad, stories that Ghost and Soap hadn’t heard before. That had naturally steered the conversation to Eggs and their progress as a pilot, and to how Nik seemed almost proud of his protege whenever he called Price to catch up. 

They facetimed Kate after discussing an old mission they couldn’t remember the details of. She could remember without looking it up. Their chief had seemed amused by the call, but they’d also been halfway through the liqour then. Due to the time difference, she had to leave for a meeting, but not before they had made her promise to come visit soon. Her sigh was exasperated, but her eyes had been creased with fondness.

When Price and Gaz had gotten to the subject of work, Soap and Ghost had talked to each other in low murmurs, both clearly getting sleepy. 

Gaz had gone with Price outside to continue their talk while the older man smoked. When they went back inside, their friends were dead to the world. Price had carefully placed a blanket over the pair, before he and Gaz, too, had called it a night.  

The orange rays were falling ever so gently over sleep-slack faces. It caught in the silver streaks found in a regrown beard and a stubborn mohawk.

In the corner, Beast lifted his head from his dog bed as he noticed his owner in the doorway. The tail made soft thump’s as it wagged, and Price looked briefly over to the people on the sofa to see if they roused due to the noise. 

Besides a twitch of Simon’s nose, nothing happened. Back in the field, the two soldiers would’ve been instantly on their feet, weapons in hand. 

“C’mon, boy,” Price whispered, patting his leg softly. 

Beast rose and shook himself with a jangle of dog tags. Again, no stirring on the sofa. The clicks as the mutt walked over the wooden floor reminded Price that he needed to clip the dog’s nails again. He scratched behind soft ears as Beast butted against his leg in a morning greeting. Usually the dog would sleep in Price’s room at night, but it clearly still had a special spot in its heart for the humans in the living room.

Price would never forget the almost sceptical look in Beast’s eye as he brought the dog home with him. It had seemed to say, “You? I don’t know you.” Then the mutt had made a sound he still swore to this day had been an unimpressed scoff.

It hadn’t taken long for his strict rules regarding the dog to loosen, nor for Beast to follow him around like a starstruck recruit. As it did now.

The two snuck into the kitchen, where Price closed the door behind them. No need to wake his sleeping guests. He’d say they’d earned a bit of rest.

He opened the door to the garden, allowing for the bird song to ring louder in the small room. He pulled on a jumper to combat the lingering cold of winter. While it had started to get warm around noon, the mornings were still leaving the grass outside white with frost. Beast happily bounded out to do his morning business. Price put the kettle on.

After a second glance at the closed door to the hall, he also turned on the radio on low volume. The news would be on in ten. In the meantime he hummed along to the song playing while he waited for the water to finish boiling. It was some pop song, the kind his boys would bully him for enjoying, which usually caused him to turn it up louder. 

He felt a cold nose push at his hand and looked down to a pair of big, dark eyes.

“You done?” No reply except panting. “Good. It’s freezing in here.”

He closed the door again. Beast was on his heels as he moved around to make his tea. 

“You’ve changed your tune. No longer too busy for me?” 

Beast had practically been glued to Soap the second the man had passed the threshold into the house. After some confused sniffing, the mutt had made it his personal mission to get his own scent all over the Scot, to drown out the strange smells of three dogs and a cat. They had yet to introduce the pets to each other, as Soap was still adjusting to having all three dogs back home. Having four dogs around him would have to wait a bit. But the lad was getting there. Didn’t even flinch once the day before, even as Beast got pushy and had to be called back.

The small lick to Price’s hand seemed almost apologetic.

“No worries, boy. I know you know where your food comes from.” 

A small, excited whine. 

“Food?” Another whine. The heavy tail began wagging again. “You’re predictable.” 

Simon had assured him he talked to their own dogs as well, which had been a relief. If it wasn’t normal, then at least he wasn’t going crazy alone.

After putting down the bowl of dog food, his eyes caught on his phone. A real smart one he’d gotten for Christmas, a gift from the four people that starred in the worn photo he still kept in his jacket. 

“Now the video won’t be awful when you facetime our foreign friends,” Gaz explained with a smirk.

“Also, look,” Soap excitedly interjected, taking the phone to go to its camera function. “We got you one that’s known for its photo quality. Time tae add to tha’ picture wall, eh?”

After turning off the radio, he left his dog to eat in peace. He had a little time before his absence would be noticed. Phone in hand, he went back down the hall, stopping once more at the tranquil scene. Oh, their necks and backs would be killing them by the time they woke up. Oldtimers.

He made sure to turn off the little button that made the shutter noise happen, just like Ghost had instructed him, before taking the picture. 

In a few hours, three grumbly and bleary-eyed men would stumble into the kitchen to the smell of bacon and the sound of whichever upbeat pop song the radio decided to grace their ears with. Soap would demonstratively turn off his hearing aid. They’d then all mellow out when handed their respective teas and coffees, and would even sway absentmindedly to the music as they sat around the kitchen table and talked. Price would show off his latest photo. Gaz would laugh at the silly position and Soap would complain about being stalked. Simon would pull the former captain aside a little later and ask for the photo to be sent to him.

Eventually, Gaz would leave to return to base, and Ghost and Soap would make their way home as well. Price would clean his house, walk his dog and enjoy the silence. He could, knowing that it wasn’t forever; knowing that his people would always return to him.

Outside his window, morning frost was melting, robins were singing, and the buds on the trees were finally starting to bloom.