Chapter Text
5. (please ✔ appropriate box)
a. Are you single ☑, married ☐, divorced ☐, separated ☐, or widowed ☐?
b. Has your blood been tested for synergistic match? Yes ☐ No ☑
If no, do you give consent for the following:
☑ testing prior to completion of basic training course
☐ testing upon acceptance to designated Corps, or Division of Infantry (line 12)
☐ I do not give consent for synergistic testing at this time. Date: ( / / )
note: samples will be processed the month of applicant’s 20th birthday in accordance with NHS standards
The choice was a given, and John didn't hesitate as he continued to fill out the rest of his military application. It was no secret that synergistically matched recruits were fast tracked through Phase 2 and beyond in their careers. More intense training schedules, preferred housing, and exposure to the real life effects of enhanced healing attributed to the exchange of matched blood.
Soulmates as the girls at school would say, while gossiping by their lockers. A fantasy of predestined connection - but it was less magical than that. Blood that regardless of typing would respond vigorously to attack viruses and bacteria, clot efficiently, and expedite healing of minor wounds. A transfusion could rapidly revitalize muscle, and in the field it had proven to be the difference between bleeding out or surviving evacuation with full consciousness. The military was obsessed, the general population perhaps less so but still over decades had established normalcy in testing and matching individuals.
John had 4 years before the government would have taken over and forced his doctor to submit a sample anyway - unless he married. That was the one concession the UK had maintained. Individuals married before the age of 20 were exempt, even within the armed forces. While John had gone on a few dates, to get chips and a movie, marriage was not on his young mind. No, there were no prospects lined up for him, no sweetheart waiting in the wings. But he wasn't upset - more excited! Testing could get him further, help bring him closer to a career with the SAS like his cousin. That was the goal, and maybe he'd be matched right away like Eric and his wife had and follow down the same road with the military. It was a thought that made his heart race. They'd promised to help him where they could so he'd be prepared for whatever the forces threw at him. Jesse had adapted to the MacTavish wiles easily and John loved having their combined support. With soldiers from 2 Paras and the 23 SAS in his pocket he had a boost not many of his peers could brag about, but for an ambitious young man it was no different than a trick play out on the pitch. He'd put in the extra work and he'd see the results soon enough.
Weeks later, while lined up in fatigues alongside his term's group of new recruits he received his results. They were inconclusive, there would be no fast track handed out to one John Rhys MacTavish. For a moment he was dejected as his Commanding Officer read the results of the few who had submitted, a show of how little privacy they would have in the months to come. Chin high he refused to let the disappointment show on his face, John would just have to work that little bit harder but he'd get there. The SAS was a goal he had no plans giving up on, and being unmatched at 16 was no real shock. John's person was probably just younger than him or had chosen to wait until completing 6th form before submitting their sample - both fairly common. He still had his family's support in the back of his mind at all times, he refused to consider this a setback. The MacTavish boys wouldn't be stopped.
• • • • •
Eric received notice of deployment not a month after John completed his training. They'd taken so many pictures in his new uniform, matching broad smiles. His Mum has her favorite hung by the stairs. “M’ wee bairn’s gone and got all shined up - just look at the two of you. Braw lads if I ever seen em.”
The phone rings after supper - during free time. “You'll be sent on your own soon enough, the way things are looking.” Eric had said, “If you're still around when I get back we can go to the range, see how much you've improved by then.”
John had scoffed, of course he'd be better. He's running through drills constantly, watching his time go down and his accuracy go up. The barracks don't offer him much peace for a long phone call though, so he makes the best of it. “Wouldn’t miss kicking your arse for the world.” He wishes his cousin well, jokes about Jesse getting a dog while he's away, the usual.
Eric doesn't know how long his squadron will be part of this new operation, and John has yet to understand how long it can really be. He’s too young to know of war beyond the stories but he’s about to take a crash course whether he realizes it or not.
They never get the chance to make that trip.
• • • • •
A year after John's acceptance into the Rifles 3rd Battalion while deployed he receives the news from his father over a pitchy satellite phone. Eric MacTavish is dead. No amount of blood in the world could have stitched back together the scattered mess that had become of his body when his team encountered a land mine.
His mind goes fuzzy at the realization, tent flaps beating in the wind like the curtains in Eric’s living room. Summers spent in their little house, the feeling of jogging through the misty morning sunshine. Jesse pulling a tarp over Eric's car to keep the leaves off. The last phone call they'd had where Eric had promised to show him pictures of some of the ridiculous IEDs they'd come across. John had been a livewire of adrenalized excitement - fearlessness born of his naivete and lack of sleep.
Now, he feels like it takes everything in him just to hang up the phone. He's seen death by now, brothers he landed with but have since been sent home in bags and boxes. The weight of this feels entirely different, like his own blood is soaking into the boards beneath his feet. Heavy like the sound of his father's voice breaking up.
Between the sand in his ORP and the constant oppressive heat, John forgets all about his still inconclusive test. The novelty of being in active combat left months ago and he adjusts his focus solely on getting out of the desert alive.
There'll be time to worry about all the rest on the other side.
• • • • •
“Mate, can you turn that up?” Soap mumbles to Gaz with a mouth full of ice cream. They're both sprawled out on the sofa in the rec room, vacantly watching as the sports anchor drolls on with predictions for the upcoming football game. It feels like its been ages since they've been back on base, even sleeping in that morning Soap thinks he could drift off right here. Bowl of pistachio ice cream be damned.
Gaz is not listening to him.
"His what!?"
"His wife. She's coming to the barbeque on Friday - and you lot better behave yourselves." Price waggles his finger at the both of them. Soap hardly takes notice, still just gnawing on his spoon while the ice cream sits melting in his bowl. Who knows how long Price has been standing there anyway, the op felt like an eternity - he could probably hear the Captain’s voice in his sleep.
Gaz on the other hand is fully committed to the new topic and pushes on past his exhaustion. "Wait a bloody minute! Since when does Ghost have a wife!?" His face screws up in confusion, swatting Soap on the shoulder to get his attention.
The look on Price's face is just shy of disappointed. "This isn't new Garrick, they have a house off base but I can't imagine you haven't seen her around." He turns to Soap for a bit of reassurance but comes up short when met with his Sergeant's dead stare.
"Nae, I would remember a bit a news like that. You're full of it, Price." Soap says firmly, he abandons his snack on the coffee table between them. "How's a man who can't show his face keep a wife putting around in his back pocket?" He gives Price an assessing look made less effective by how he struggles to maintain the squint instead of closing his eyes completely.
The huff that comes out of Price is decidedly finished with this conversation. "You're both overdue. Get some rest and maybe you'll remember more than just your last directives come morning." He pats them both on the back heavily before leaving the room.
“So I’m not just out of the loop? Ghost didn't mention a wife to you at all?” Gaz asks, hands flopped in his lap as he watches Soap for some sign this is a joke.
“Nope. Not a peep. Not like the Captain’s photos everywhere, or you running your mouth for that matter.” Soap dives back into his snack while Gaz tries his best to look affronted.
“You, Soap, don't know the first thing about planning a wedding around deployments. I had to beg Omari not to mention anything on our call last night, I don’t have the stomach for it.” He goes back to watching the game, dropping the topic for the time being. Soap isn't quite so lucky. On the outside he’s fine, just an exhausted soldier relaxing with his mate but inside he’s a bubbling mess of self doubt. Ghost really hadn't said a word about having a wife squirreled away in all the time they've been working together. All the jokes and rowdy nights at the bar - not even when Kyle had come back from his leave after meeting Omari and broke down crying about how happy he was to finally have his person. Soap hadn't seen a single tell in Ghost’s behavior, for all this time he’d thought they were in the same boat.
It had been a while since he’d thought about his own test results, still glaringly inconclusive. The nagging worry was trying to box him in - it had been years and while he reminded himself a bit of an age gap wasn't a problem there were a couple other reasons he might be sitting here alone. There was the chance his soulmate had passed away, maybe some freak accident, and as a soldier it crossed his mind more than he’d like. The other was difficult for completely different reasons. While less common in their generation the marriage exemption still applied and Soap couldn't help his heart sinking at the thought. His person, an excitable bright-eyed teenager, might have stood nervously at an alter waiting for someone else.
Whenever he thought about it though he just felt like a hypocrite, it’s not like he’s waited in pious celibacy for all these years. Sometimes he’d wonder what it would be like if the man underneath him was his person - but it never pans out. They’re too soft, they don't understand how he can joke about the things he’s been through. They want him to reconnect with his family, leave the army, be somebody else. No, there’s a better prospect out there for him, promised by their very blood beyond all logical reason. His mind pictures Ghost, eyes glinting down at Soap as he exhales smoke through the barely visible crack of his lips and he can hardly focus. So he slurps at the soup his ice cream is quickly becoming, frown on his face and nearly misses a brutal tackle on screen.
First yellow card of the game.
• • • • •
"Sergeant O'Brien, nice of you to make it! Felt like gracing us with your humble presence?" Gaz snarks - face cracked in a wicked grin as he exchanges a loud sort of handshake with the woman.
"I was promised food, and your Captain Price might have made a couple comments about lending some men for a bit of a demonstration." O'Brien smiles at him light heartedly. "Got some new Boots we'd like to break in." She laughs as the grin all but slides off Gaz's face.
"Surely he wasn't talking about the task force."
"No! No, I know you just got back early this week. There are more green men from your squadron I plan to steal - you do remember them right? It's not just your tiny 4 man team out here." O'Brien's words are still light and teasing so Gaz doesn't take it to heart. Instead he makes a show of looking around their food tent as if these men would be hiding under a table.
"Be nice of them to come out and help then, feel like I sent Soap off for the buns ages ago. And if it's between you and me I don't know how great an idea it is to have Captain Price grilling, think he's just smoking with Captain Friedman more than anything." He fiddles with the paper plates in his hands as he says this, it's always a risk talking about superior officers outside your own crowd but he's been on friendly terms with Sergeant O'Brien for quite a while now. She huffs a laugh at him lightly, rolling her eyes before they catch on someone just outside the tent.
"Well if it isn't The Ghost. Didn't think I'd catch you lurking around in our glorious British sunshine.” The man stops dead in his tracks at the edge of the tent, expression unreadable as always.
“Br’en.” He mumbles in her direction before swiftly turning to Gaz. “Don't gab on about our Captain to the the enemy Garrick, she can't be trusted.” Ghost finishes this off with an uncharacteristic flourish in their guest’s direction.
Gaz is mildly surprised “Lieutenant, she's with the SF Support Group. Far from a threat to us I'd think.” He's trying desperately to get a read on his CO but he's never had a knack for it like Soap.
“Simon's still upset I didn't transfer to the reserves.”
“You were whining about the commute so long I'd cut your brakes.” Ghost growls back at her and now Gaz is just confused - no more … dumbfounded? Yea he feels pretty stupid watching this unfold. He's still holding the damn plates.
“Can't just knife your way through every problem.” O'Brien stares at the tent ceiling in mock dismay. “And to think I drove a couple hours to get here. Suppose it was on another man's request, hmm?” She's locked eyes with Ghost, all 5 foot 7 inches stood off with his imposing figure.
“You're a twit.” He dismisses after a long moment, placing a stacked tray of buns on the table while he directs himself back to Gaz. “MacTavish got distracted by accelerants, the mess has a couple more trays we can nab as needed.” With a nod he's off again. At least that was one question answered.
“Sergeant O'Brien …” He starts off tentatively. “Why would Lieutenant Riley fuss about your commute time?” Gaz is almost afraid to look at her face, to know he's spoken with the woman dozens of times about the new batch of trainees and suspected nothing. There aren't too many ways for this to go however.
To her credit she only tilts her head at him, gentle smile back in place. “The idiot just likes to be close by, hard to do with 3-4 hours between us for a couple years.” Ah so that was it huh, he can see black smoke and grimaces.
“If you'll excuse me, it looks like I'm on damage control.”
And with that Gaz finally rids himself of the plates (and maybe some dignity) to jog himself out of the tent. As he makes his escape he passes Sanderson with a dolly pushing cases full of absolutely not beer. The cry of recognition and laughter that follows puts him further into a tizzy.
Clearly they've failed some sort of observational exam, a test, something. He'd give anything to have Omari here with him as a distraction but that won't be for another hour. In the meantime he's got to track down Soap.
For … barbeque purposes only, of course.