Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

“Soap - Soap - Soap!!” Gaz spots him just as he's exiting the building again, suspicious smell of petrol still hanging to his uniform. He stops right in front of Soap before grabbing him by his biceps. “She's here!” Gaz exclaims like Soap should know what the hell he's talking about - it's obviously not Omari so … “Sergeant O'Brien!”

Ah. That explains nothing.

“From the Support Group? What she doing up here?” Soap tilts his head, gently shrugging out of Gaz’s hold as he moves to turn back toward the mess and his previously abandoned task. Buns are not as important as creatively lighting coals, he'll never be convinced.

“That’s the thing! It's her, Soap.” This draws another confused look at Gaz. “All these times she's been by, thought it was just about the selection exam. I feel like a right fool.” Gaz hangs his head dramatically but despite the theatrics Soap still doesn't know what the hell he's saying.

“What are you on about?” he asks, fist bumping Gaz in the shoulder to get him to look up.

“Sergeant O'Brien from the SFSG is Lieutenant Ghost's wife!” Gaz raises his arms out with this exclamation, eyes wide and face insistent.

Well this is fucking news to him.

“What? I've never even seen O'Brien anywhere near Ghost though. Price, maybe.” Soap is frantically wracking his brain for some moment he might have seen them together but he comes up with nothing.

“Exactly, mate! Throws you right off. I can't remember if she ever brought him up, but they were pretty obvious just now. Almost as bad as you two on pub night.” The wry smile on Gaz's face is one Soap has seen many times and he tries to let it lighten his mood.

“That's uncalled for.” he jokes, jostling his own shoulder into Gaz for good measure as they loiter - Gaz just repeats the action right back.

“Hah. You know what I'm saying. Joshing around a bit. Being mean to get a rise out.”

Soap does his best to look unconvinced, but getting under Ghost's skin is his favorite pastime. Pretty hard to deny it when they barely manage to keep it tamped down in the quiet luls during an op. Nevermind active infiltration. Or stealth maneuvers. Hm. He's not sure how he got to be so close with the Lieutenant but he wouldn't change it for the world, the man means too much to him.

“So why’s he been mum about the whole thing?” He's not hurt exactly, still a bit confused. Picking his nails isn't a habit he's proud of but Soap finds himself doing just that as he tries not to peer around Gaz to see if he can spot where Ghost is now.

“Not a clue. I was ecstatic just to get the letter about Omari - I know it was annoying, shut it. Maybe it's been so long he doesn't think about mentioning it?” By this point Gaz is catching on to the shift in his friend's mood, this is supposed to be a bit of fun sleuthing but something is clearly getting to Soap.

“Mate … everything alright? Is there something wrong with your test?” This snaps Soap back to attention, eyes wide he quickly brushes it off.

“No, no. Still pending. ‘m not hung up on that.” If only he felt as easy about it as the phrasing was. 10 years of a blank space. Soap's not sure if he's a fool for even counting anymore.

Gaz pats him on the shoulder and mindfully drops that topic. He's been worried about Soap going so long without news, he doesn't know anyone else who's waited for so many years to hear nothing. Even his own wait felt excruciating, 5 years of silence since he hit 20 and Gaz had been relieved of it 3 years now. Felt like being unleashed to live the rest of his life. He claps Soap on the arm.

“Let's get back over to the grills and see if Captain Price hasn't burnt everything before the our esteemed guests arrive.” and with that they're on a new course toward the paved area where they'd had a couple grills set up downwind of the admin building. Soap keeps in step with Gaz easily but he's stuck glancing around, fighting back the slump in his shoulders when he can't spot Ghost anywhere, just the lingering trail of smoke.

When they meet up with the Captain things already look to be under control and Gaz returns to the drink tent to work with Sanderson until more men arrive to switch them out. It's squared itself out to be a nice tidy little spring event for everyone to relax between training schedules. Some of the other soldiers’ families have already arrived adding to the pleasant din of laughter and bad jokes.

Soap is … progressively less OK than he first thought. He's not dumb, knew it was needling him from every angle but he didn't expect it to make talking with Ghost so much harder. He just can't see why she was never mentioned - can't even remember hearing her name out of Ghost's mouth.

Her cheery assertive voice is hard to miss.

“John! Good job on these, yea.” It's the Captain that O'Brien is addressing but Soap's attention is drawn all the same.

“Damn right. Never seen a fire I couldn't get under control.” He waves his beer at her with a nod before Ghost sits down heavily on the bench beside his wife. Soap watches as Ghost pops the cap off the beer in his hands, ignoring the opener held in his direction, before placing it next to O'Brien's plate. It's a stupid party trick but he has to admit it's appealing watching the flex of Ghost's hands.

“You burnt that first batch arguing with Captain Friedman, would have had nothing to show for it if I didn't stop by.” Ghost's voice is level but he's wearing his split mask, with the bottom half pulled under his chin that sharp smirk can't hide.

Price gives him a glare as he swallows his drink. “That was supposed to stay classified. I'll remember this.” And with that he wanders back to the grills a short ways away. Soap wishes for a moment that the Captain had stayed, now it's just the three of them.

“Did you want me to grab you a bru, sir?” It's the first thing he can think of, noticing Ghost hadn't brought one for himself.

“Na, gotta get back to it after this. Rather not start.” He's digging into his burger without concern for who else might stop by. Soap despite himself, is already halfway through his first drink but he tries not to make a face as he feels the anxiety chipping at his hunger. O'Brien catches his eye though.

“You're Soap, aren't you?” She has an easy smile on her face as she chews a ripped piece of the oversized bun.

“Oh, aye. Sergeant Soap MacTavish, ma’am.” He nods to her. Is he being weird? That felt weird.

“Right, yea! Sergeant Garrick’s mentioned you a few times, demo expert’s always a special thing!” He appreciates the complement, though he was expecting Ghost to be the one who's talked about him before. She goes to clink her beer bottle against the one still held loosely in his own hand. “Don't need to ma'am me around on your base here kid, I won't hold you to it. What made you specialize in demolitions anyway?”

Ghost snorts, having watched the interaction with his eagle eye like a creep. Somehow a good half of his meal is gone already. “Don't get too comfortable ‘Br’en, already caught you trying to chat up Garrick in the drink tent.”

“I was being nice!” O'Brien smacks Ghost on the shoulder without looking, he doesn't flinch or glare, like it's something they do all the time. Soap could take the opportunity to answer her question but he doesn't.

“Bad enough they let the enemy on our base so often, don't need the men getting soft for it.” Ghost continues when he notices Soap stall. This just earns him an exasperated noise from O'Brien to which Ghost smirks as he finishes inhaling his burger.

“Uh, want to lend your man a hand here Lt, I thought SFSG were the good guys?” Soap desperately wants to be in on the joke. This is so different from when it's just them and their team. Ghost is supposed to be making inside-jokes with him - not whatever this is.

The man wipes a napkin across his face with a put-upon sigh. “This one -” he points to O'Brien. “Has been coordinating the ‘hunt’ portion of the selection exam for the last couple years. Tracking methods are her specialty.” O'Brien has a cheesy smile on her face as Ghost wraps his large hand around the back of her neck to shake her gently with pride. Soap thinks he might be sick.

“Ah, that's pretty brutal then. Ye really are the enemy.” Only in jest, right.

If you asked him any other time, Soap would deny being the jealous type. A bit possessive maybe, loved being able to flaunt his close friendships in front of strangers - and if he cock blocked a couple of them making eyes at Ghost who's to say. This though, this he could feel swimming in his veins and thrumming against his heart.

“Hey I wasn't tracking any of you boys, not been in it half long enough.” She tries to wave it off, distracted as her watch buzzes with a notification. “Oh! Mandy wants me to help drag the kids over, John isn't answering his phone.”

Ghost rolls his eyes and Soap has to agree, the Captain never answers when he's playing grill Daddy. In the next moment O'Brien is excusing herself, taking her plate with her off toward the parking lot. Soap is ashamed to be relieved to watch her go. And then it was two.

Ok, for the record there are near a dozen benches set up for their little family barbeque afternoon - but no one else is at their bench now and that's all Soap can focus on. Gaz is still MIA somehow and Sanderson totally saw them but sat down with some other guys from his team. There's a good line starting up in the direction of the grills too.

“So …” Soap opens his mouth before coming up with a plan. Any silence between them feels stifling to him at the moment. “How long have you uh, been together?” He's cool, he's so cool, he's good.

Ghost's eyes say he's not buying it. “This a bit?” Soap tries not to let himself pout but he must have failed. “We've been married for a while…” Ghost sounds uncomfortable now. “I don't… really think about it anymore.” He watches as Soap picks at the label on his beer. “I've mentioned her before, yea?”

The scott gives him a look before taking a long draught of his lager.

“Not a word, sir.”

Soap can't decide if the slight cringe he catches on Ghost's face makes him happy or just more dejected.

“Fuck me, Johnny. I really just don't think about it. Fiene and I were in basic together, been a lifetime since.” He's got his hand blocking his mouth but hasn't pulled the mask up yet. He keeps trying to make eye contact with Soap but failing. They both know usually Soap would jump to it willingly, lean across the table and soak in his Lieutenant's attention. But not now.

“Thought you'd have worn a ring or something sir. Maybe take a jab at Gaz when he was driving the rest of us nuts.” He has to force himself to take another bite of his burger before he starts listing every blank space that should have held her name. Every holiday. Every time they went on leave and were called back early. The afternoon in Ukraine they spent looking at shops in a tourist trap. Still Soap says none of this, and the meat feels like mulch between his teeth.

Ghost hums for a moment, fishing something out of his pocket. Soap watches in confusion as a familiar obscenely overburdened keychain is tossed onto the table. “They used to teach us not to wear them on the job. I never got in the habit of putting the damn thing back on.” He lifts up the carabiner and shuffles a couple keyrings and folding knife around to single out a simple black tungsten band. “As for Garrick, he's just excited planning a wedding. I'm not dumb enough to get in the middle of that.”

Excited isn't really how Soap would describe it recently, more exhausted but that's not the point. That's a ring all right. Solid black and lightly scratched with age, it looks exactly like one Ghost might have picked out for himself. Suddenly Soap is struck with a thought - desperately trying to think back only a few minutes. What was Sergeant O'Brien wearing? She must have had a flashy diamond ring, how could he miss that, it would have been massive and glitter-

“Fiene lost hers on an op. No clue how, not a big deal though.” Ghost says easily and Soap thinks he might have lost it.

“Your wife losing her diamond ring wasn't a big deal?” He can hear his Mam back home screeching in his ear at the absurdity. Ghost just looks back at him confused, flipping his keychain around in his hand.

“You think a recruit can afford a diamond ring?” Ghost cracks a smile as Soap quickly finishes his beer as a deflection. “It was a silver claddagh, not terribly expensive. As long as she wasn't upset I wasn't going to make a scene of it.”

Soap takes a moment to finish his food. He's not sure what else he wants to ask now, part of him really doesn't want to know anything. He glances over at Ghost as the man leans back to shove his keys deep into his pocket, Soap can't help but stare at the line of his stubbled jaw as Ghost glances off toward a bit of commotion. He’s just so handsome to him still, despite this new perspective. For a second Soap is frustrated Gaz hasn't shown up yet but for all he knows his friend is with his fiance and he’d rather not get pissy about someone else’s life going well. They're saved from an awkward silence by the wives returning with four excitable children under 10 who immediately crowd right up to Soap. Uncle MacTavish is always a hit.

“Hi Soap, sorry about this, I just don't want the kids storming that grill.” Amanda Price is a familiar face, her tired smile reminds him of his Nan in Fife though he'd never tell her that. Ghost seems less enthused with their new guests, quickly pulling his mask back over his mouth so his entire face is obscured again.

“Oh, it's not a problem ‘Mands.” Soap reassures her as he wrestles one of the kids trying to shove him off the bench.

It's a bit chaotic but they settle on having Ghost and Soap watch the kids while they split the task grabbing food for everyone and it's not too long before the women are back joining their crowded bench. 8 bodies makes for a tight fit, and Soap can't help but watch how O'Brien gently redirects the children on their side to shuffle closer to her and not the Lieutenant.

Their conversation is left as it was, the children’s loud voices and excited questions taking priority. Soap has always liked minding kids around this age, so much chaotic energy and some of the strangest comments. He can tell Ghost across from him is less impressed by all the commotion but the man does a good job to be civil and does not outwardly flinch at the mess of ketchup flicked about. It almost makes him chuckle to see the tightness of his Lieutenants’ eyes - Price’s kids only have a few more years getting away with this.

Not too long after a rousing explanation of some dog cartoon Soap is still a bit confused about his attention is grabbed when Ghost hauls up from the bench. Turning he can see as Price approaches, the youngest slipping from Soap and running to their Father with flailing arms and fanfare. Ghost clears his throat. “Gonna wrap it up here, sir. I'll check in with you before I call it a day.” Soap has half a mind to offer to walk back to the offices with him but he misses the opportunity as O'Brien all but shoots out of her seat.

“Simon! I've hardly seen you twenty minutes today. Stay, socialize a bit!” The look he gives her is just this side of regretful but Soap won't analyze it further.

“Negative. Report won't clear itself. You should be heading out too if you want to make that meeting.” He huffs, but before he can escape the crowd Price has a hand at his back.

“At least send her off properly, ye muppet.” he grouses. The Captain is great at striking an imposing figure - even with half his brood hanging off him.

Amanda pats O'Brien's hand as she turns to get up as well. “Thank you for helping with the car seats and everything Fiene, we'll chat more this weekend okay.” The women exchange a nod and smile while Soap catalogs that bit of familiarity for later.

“Alright then, well, it was nice running into you Soap. Hopefully we get a chance to talk more next time. You take care of yourself.” She waves at him before giving Captain Price a quick hug and then both O'Brien and Ghost are weaving through the other soldiers and their families.

He watches them walk off toward the main building with the higher ranking offices and conference rooms, joking and laughing together. Amanda hands him a small bag of crisps because she's a saint, so he doesn't have to clock back into the tables’ conversation yet. As he pops the bag open his eyes are glued to Sergeant O'Brien - Fiene? as she shoves Ghost off the pavement. Then Soap’s hands list down into his lap and his appetite is officially gone. Ghost is shaking his arms out before seamlessly lifting the woman (His. Wife.) up into his arms and thrown half over his shoulder.

He has to force himself to look away.

It's pretty obvious to Soap now, but like a broken wrist he's pretending it's not real and it doesn't hurt as long as he doesn't look at it.

Chapter Text

He lays in bed, tracing paths in the grout of the cinder block wall with his eyes. It's been a few days since their lazy afternoon with the squadron. A late lunch spent relaxing and getting to meet spouses, and kids, and matches. Any other time it would have slipped from Soap's thoughts like another standard cocktail hour before a medal ceremony. Disposition open and charismatic but ultimately disengaged, too many faces he hardly sees and names he's never used. Not this time though. No, Soap is up before his alarm, haunted by the remnant sensations of a dream.

His last thoughts were of laying cuddled up … somewhere, he can't be sure. The body at his back was large and warm but otherwise nondescript, Soap's face and hands were pressed to the heat of another in a twisting pile. As the person shifted over to face him Soap realized it was the body of a woman, he moved to give her space but felt the weight at his back reach for her. His eyes had opened to the distinct feeling of being left behind. Soap's blanket is half on the floor by his feet but he refuses to consider it relevant. That man's body had felt as real as any other he's laid with and now he has to shake it off and get his day rolling as if he's not estimating weight and mass. Calculations rapid firing in the back of his mind. The comparison isn't going to do him any damn good.

His Lieutenant has a wife. A wife in the armed forces, who's been by Ghost's side since they were in Basic.

And Soap hadn't known a thing.

“Right fuckin tube …” he grumbles to himself before catching his alarm starting it's countdown, ticking away. With a frustrated exhale he swings himself up from the mattress to grab it before the thing can go off. The mathematics equation on its tiny screen hardly registers as Soap punches in the answer and commits, at 0600, to not waste his day stuck on things he can't control.

“Each patrol will take 1 set of breaching charges and work through the course following the markers I assign you. The objective here is to communicate without the use of your radios, but I want mics hot. If you don't know how to disconnect the feedback on your headset - figure it out. We'll be listening to your progress.” Price stands by a table littered with neat packs of explosives, clipboard in his hand and Captain Friedman nodding along at his side. “I expect you all to treat the course as if this is your first sweep, fuck about here and I'll fail you and send your ass right back to Sergeant Major Hodder. Let him sort you out.”

Friedman folds his hands behind his back before taking over. “My boys have run through this exercise not 6 weeks ago with flying colours. I'd hope you understand the implication of an active troop falling behind. You want to continue running around in the field as you please - don't muck this up.” He's a good, seasoned Captain in his own right but Soap has always had an aversion to this type of grandstanding. Call him petty buy he's not impressed by a man he's never seen out in said field. Still, he wont embarrass Price by misbehaving.

“You ready to clean house, Soap?” Gaz saunters up beside him, fiddling with the controls on the side of his headset. They flash each other obnoxious grins with too much teeth.

“Aye, I'm starving for a crack at a good bit a C4.” Soap pops his knuckles for emphasis, absent mindedly aware of the dark shadow sweeping past the setup table in their direction.

“If you're a good boy, I might let you touch it.” The deep brogue is so familiar neither men flinch in surprise. Ghost waves the packet of plastic explosives and wires in Soap's face for a moment before tucking it into his own vest. “I'm taking point. Price has us set for the first sweep through and I'd like to see lunch before it's dead cold. I want you two rotating position at each doorway. Run it like that fucking market in Chile.”

Gaz nods along amicably, Soap tries not to pout since he cant clip back in current company - the 141 is becoming too notorious for unchecked theatrics. He wants to be good for his CO above all, and not just in the teasing inappropriate way they might get along in other spaces. If this was just their team running a drill, Soap has a few lines he would have liked to follow up with, least of which a rousing admission of how good he can be. But they are professionals at the end of the day, here in part to make his Captain proud though he knows Price doesn't doubt them. They're the favourites of the whole squadron, Captain Price's little pet project, and they need to show up for it. His frustrated heart has to take a back seat.

“Got it Lt. On you.”

The objective for them is to secure the hostages held behind a green door on the East side of the complex. They line up at the partition just outside the maze of battered plywood and rough framing that makes up their practice field. From experience Soap knows some of the doors might have wires simulating rigged explosives, and more will be locked than their one breeching charge can cover. Infiltration is Ghost’s specialty though, and despite the 141’s exceptional track record Soap knows he wont let them run blind. Even with a team of recruits Ghost would never allow his men to get tripped up. Its one of many things Soap admires about him, rough and antisocial but vigilant and objectively soft when it mattered. Gaz’s stance in front of him is loose and ready. With a quick hand gesture from Ghost they advance as one.

The exercise moves swiftly, no surprise with how recently they'd returned from combat. The doors and hallways are a mess of cracked wood which they add to with Gaz’s prybar and some gentle persuasion. One rigged set of doors sends them deeper into the maze pushing South, a few targets are hit and Soap almost makes a noise at the impressive ding from Ghost’s latest headshot. Chipboard had all but burst apart from the steel frame. Ghost sends him a look he doesn't have to focus on to interpret; watch it Johnny, careful Johnny. He’s watching alright.

Soap lets out a measured breath to recenter before his mind sets him off giggling of all things. No one needs to hear his voice break like a teenager over that.

Its not until they find their locked door that things really get hairy.

Not in a way one might expect though.

Once he’s determined the heavy door is jammed Ghost holds up his fist to signal their halt before gesturing Gaz to take watch of the hallway behind them. That's all tidy and by the book, Gaz taking the role seriously despite knowing there are no real hostiles around besides maybe their Captain if they mess this up. When Soap turns his head back to his CO, he almost laughs right into his mic. Ghost has skipped formalities and merely waggles the breaching charge at him, holding it between his thumb and forefinger like teasing a dog with a treat. His eyes are on Soap, bright and playful, but he unsurprisingly doesn't make a sound.

This man.

Ghost doesn't make a sound when Soap retrieves the charge, not when he sets it, and not in the moment it's set off and the three of them spill neatly through the doorway. It’s not until a beat up green door is in sight that he locks eyes with Soap for a moment before winking, and Soap’s foolhardy mind supplies an entirely unhelpful ad-lib.

Good boy, Johnny.

He’d dig his own grave just to speed things along.

The exercise closes without a hitch. Done in good time and Price orders them to clear their weapons before exiting the maze so Friedman’s boys can mess about and set up for the next group.

“Think we’ll get cut loose or have to hang around while the rest of the troop run their sets?” Gaz asks the room. His comms are off now, headset pushed back from his ears. Ghost grumbles as he tosses a magazine into his waiting dump pouch.

“Saw Captain MacColl has the maze for 1300, should be long gone by then in any case.” Soap answers, “Be glad it’s Price, if we were under Captain Friedman he’d be making everyone stand in formation until it's handed over. Wanker always wants to put on a show.” This gets a laugh from Gaz as he clears his own rifle.

Ghost picks sawdust off his mask irritably. “I’ll be glad once I’m sat in the mess with a hot meal, if they can manage.” He drops his rifle to its sling before moving to stretch and his shirt hikes up as Ghost rolls his shoulders - Soap’s not above looking.

Sweat drips down the back of his neck.

He spares a moment to consider what it would have been like to learn an exercise like this for the first time from a man like Ghost … or really just Ghost specifically. Back when Soap was hardly 20 years old, before his first deployment, he’d run what felt like hundreds of drills just like this one. But none of the men he’d followed had held his attention quite the same. What would it have been like to follow those wide shoulders through a combat exercise for the first time. To have Ghost’s hands on him, teaching him to move smoothly through the rooms. Would he have been harsh with him? Rough and impatient with his inexperience, or would he have been supportive and playful as Soap knows him to be.

It’s irrelevant really. Oh Soap was a good study, paid attention and absorbed every bit of information his CO’s had to offer - but they didn't compare. Not even the oppressive dry heat of his first deployment, and all it entailed, had ever so effortlessly held his attention the way his Lieutenant did.

Soap could play back every tiny sound of pain Ghost has ever let slip past his lips - and every pleased exhale. The shine of gold in his eyes when he’s bending the rules. The flex of his biceps as he pulls his shirt back in place. No, nothing came close to working with Simon Riley.

He’ll just have to try not making it so obvi-

“Wipe your mouth before you go making a mess of yourself - eh Tav?” Gaz jostles him as their small team moves to exit the buildings.

Soap rolls his eyes, really now - “Ye be seeing things Garrick. Suck my bawsack wit yer nonsense mate.” He vehemently resists scrubbing at the itch of his stubble. If he’s not careful he’ll never live it down.

Ghost chuckles a quiet laugh behind him and that almost makes up for it.

“H … seven”

“Miss.”

“Fucksake …” Soap huffs as he jams another white peg in the board. “Fucking cheating.”

Gaz is sat beside him, watching the game as he picks away at his lunch. They hadn't been dismissed particularly early but there was still plenty to choose from and not so much noise to deal with. Price had some phone call before he was going to stop in but Sanderson had made his way over to return Ghost’s prized possession and well, here they are.

“It’s called strategy.” Ghost mumbles around a mouthful of food. Big bastard wasn't kidding about being hungry. “C-four.”

“Ach, ye cunt!”

“I do not understand why you are so bad at this one game in particular.” Gaz says slowly with apprehension.

“I’m not bad at it! It’s just random guessing, ‘s not like I can scope him out.” Soap shovels some of his own lunch into his mouth. “And I have a strategy, Sir. H-eight.”

Ghost is too busy chewing to properly reply and merely shakes his head.

“Gotta turn your brain off some times, I guess.” Sanderson adds from his right.

Unfair.

The Battleship game boards they’re using are old plastic, red and blue, and covered on the outside with stickers from different organizations they've worked with and vendors Ghost has presumably bought gear from. It’s long been distracting for Soap, to be allowed to handle something that has clearly been in the other man’s possession for years. There’s a Paras emblem sticker on the red case Soap is using, its facing Ghost now but he’s seen it dozens of times and he knows how warn the print is. Today though, it’s image wont leave him alone.

“Was the Paras your first regiment?” He tries for nonchalance but its a bit of a random place to start a conversation. Ghost catches his eye anyway and swallows purposefully before taking a sip of his energy drink.

“Yea. Went gunning for them pretty quick. Bit of a reputation in case you've forgotten.” He’s sat back, taking a moment from inhaling his plated lunch to give Soap his full attention.

“No shit. Only the biggest and baddest for you, eh Ghost?” Sanderson chimes in, as if he himself didn't come from the Paras. He’s made the mistake of running his mouth while sitting beside Ghost though and gets his shoulder shoved for the trouble.

“That where you met Sergeant O’Brien?” Gaz asks suddenly, as if the connection has just occurred to him.

Ghost nods. “We were in the same group in Basic, known Br’en for a long time. B-nine.” Soap nearly tosses his tray - so that was clearly a hit.

“Did you guys marry before assignment? How does that even work?” Gaz looks a bit green before his expression changes to something almost bashful. Clearly worried he’s asking too many questions he continues; “I’m sorry mate, I’m just having a hard enough time as-is. And my ass is the only one getting shot at.”

“And hanging out of a helo more’n once. H-nine.” This earns Soap a weak glare but Gaz doesn't rebuke him.

“Miss. Johnny, pick something else already.” Sanderson snickers into his fist and Ghost turns to answer Gaz. “We were deployed together a couple times before I started looking at an SAS transfer. Decided to do the officer course first which was a pain. Br’en wasn't interested in the payscale.”

Soap absorbs these pieces of information with mixed feelings. Logically he knows they were all in other regiments and squadrons before even thinking about the trials for SAS selection, its just hard to imagine after working together for four years. It still rankles him, that he didn't know. Maybe if he were sill under MacColl, before he properly met Ghost - but not now. “So … when did you get married then?”

Ghost taps his spoon against the plate while he thinks. “Right out of Basic, should have been 19 or just about. She’s got pictures squirrelled away somewhere.”

“I’d pay good money to see those.” Comes the smarmy voice to Ghost’s side, Sanderson doesn't know what's good for him, but he's not called Roach for nothing.

“Bet you would, you wanker.”

Gaz’s eyebrows raise as if scandalised. “You don't have any pictures? Not up at your place or the office or anything?” He looks at Ghost imploringly but the man just shakes it off.

“That’s a bit classified there Garrick, don't go asking about for them. C-nine, Soap.” Ghost gets back to his lunch but Gaz is not finished.

“Hey, there’s a reason we didn't connect the dots here! Got us looking like a couple fools, meanwhile you've been married for what - twenty years?” He just about throws his hands up, looking around the table for backup. Who gets married but doesn't set a photo out on their desk? Gaz knows there are good reasons for men like them not to do this - especially them, but he’s already got a frame picked out.

“Sixteen.” Ghost says, like it’s just occurred to him.

There’s a cackling little laugh that distracts from Soap’s pinched expression. Sanderson goads “Oof that’ll get ye, how’s it feel to be old as dirt?”.

“Fuck off with it, Gary.” Another shove for good measure. “Plenty of people married just as long.” Yea, like Price and several of the older officers. The blood-matching system was responsible for most of it.

“Aye, and plenty waiting near as long as well.” Soap can't help the depressed tone to his voice. “F-four.”

“Johnny…”

He refuses to let the dour mood take over. “It’s your move Simon, lemme hear it.”

Ghost eyes him critically for just a moment, as if looking for a wound. And what a mess that would be. “Miss. D-four.”

“Ha! Got ye, finally!” Soap pushes his lips to broaden. “Miss, ye fucking tadger. How’s ‘at feel?” He tosses the red peg back in his tray. Gaz snorts beside him tucking into his food, seemingly satisfied with the short conversation. It hasn't answered anything in great detail but it’s enough to sate his curiosity for now.

Ghost is generally better at taking a lost turn but he just moves to shovel a large bite into his mouth. It doesn't hide the slight pout to his expression and this puts a smile on Soap’s face for real. He doesn't miss the fact Ghost hasn't responded.

“Oh yea? F-five. Give it to me sweetly if ye can.” Soap can't hide the tiny spike of joy in his voice, he’s at his best when actively antagonising his favourite person.

Ghost rests his chin in his hand, fiddling with the tiny plastic pieces as he glances impassively from the board to Soap’s face. With a resigned sigh he places the peg in his smallest ship. “Hit. Atta boy Johnny, you keep thrusting away you're bound to find something that works.” Sanderson practically chokes on his soda beside him but by this point he deserves it.

“What are you lot up to over here?” Comes a voice behind Soap before their Captain muscles his way into a seat at their table. The team nods to him in greeting, Ghost trying to wack Sanderson into breathing properly. Soap chimes in for them.

“I’m taking Lt out. Just about got him where I want him.”

Price leans to look at the disaster of red pegs in Soap’s game board. “Hmm … I see.”

“D-nine, Johnny. If you’re going to be taking me out, you might as well get to it.” Ghost has the audacity to hand a red peg over to Soap, who snatches it up with mumbled insults. The problem with Battleship - as far as Ghost and Soap playing Battleship, is Soap’s long standing commitment to not using any tactical strategies. They’d talked about it once on a foreign base when they’d gotten tired of checkers and the marines playing dominoes were getting a little too heated. Downtime was for relaxing and pointedly not thinking too hard about game rules. So, Soap refuses to put “too much” thought into actually figuring out where Ghost’s ships are and instead has fallen into a habit of picking spaces where his own ships, arent.

“Oh, I’ll take you out all right. F-six.” Price shuffles the documents he’s brought along with him and passes a folder to Ghost.

“Miss. What’s this?” He asks as he stacks his empty plate with Sanderson’s off to the side with their trays. Soap tries to refrain from throwing a utensil or his whole tray really, Gaz rests his hand on the side of it just incase.

“Got orders coming in, we’re officially set to support the NATO defence exercise but we will be deployed to Romania so expect that to change.” Price sips his tea but decidedly doesn't hand any more folders out. “We’ll run proper debriefs with everyone when I have a timeline.” Ghost tilts his head for a moment in thought while glancing over the first page.

He closes the folder and slides it under his game case. “You still afloat, Johnny?”

The Scot lands him with a scathing look, “Aye … haven't sunk me yet, Ghost.” the implication is clear.

“Alright. C-3.”

Soap slams up out of his seat, stiff with controlled rage and snatches up the dirty trays. “I’m gonna drop these back off and grab a drink. Ye need anything?” Gaz shakes his head no while Price simply waves his tea, Soap doesn't look to Ghost’s side of the table.

“Take your time, sweetheart.” Ghost calls to him as he marches away, which does not calm Soap down at all. What a man wouldn't do for a set of different circumstances.

It’s not a big deal anyway. It’s fine. It’s just sixteen years.

It is not fine.

They'd been passably busy the rest of the week, just enough to keep Soap out of his own head as long as he kept moving. Now though, he finds himself at the local dive the Credenhill boys have claimed as their own. Price gave them shore leave for the evening with orders to be ready for room checks come Sunday morning. Soap knows better than to trust it and expects a shakedown to roll through the barracks Saturday - before noon. He's a big boy though and faking fine while hungover is child's play. He plans to get drunk and stop thinking, not think at all ever again if he's lucky.

“Who pissed in your boots?” Sanderson asks as they wait for a chance to order at the bar.

Soap eyes him for a second, they aren't close exactly, by way of being in different troops, but Ghost was already friends with him before Soap came around so maybe he'll get it.

“Just wondering what else I've missed around here. Not gonna find out you're secretly married too?” He orders a half dozen pints and a shot to take the edge off.

“Nah, mate. Not shacking up anytime soon. Im on the exchange platform, might have fucked things up gunning for SAS before getting to know my match.” Sanderson answers casually as he waits his turn. Soap is taken aback. The exchange platform is the military's protocol for servicemen who are matched with foreigners. Depending on the country, Roach could be stuck behind red tape for years.

“Sorry to hear that?” He poses it as a question, distractedly accepting his drinks. He misses what Sanderson orders.

“Thanks. Whenever I get clearance, believe me, the whole squadrons gonna know. No secrets like that here.” Soap wishes he had more confidence hearing that but it doesn't hit the same, so he gives him a nod and muscles his way to the table with Gaz and a few others.

For all it's been bothering him to hear nothing, he can't decide how he'd feel if his person were hidden from him by political bullshit. They try to pitch the exchange platform with a cute name but it's still just a carrot at the end of a stick. Even if Sanderson gets discharged tomorrow, he might be involved in too many active SAS operations to be cleared and then he's in limbo all the same. It's a heavy price he's paid for King and country - he could die before his papers are sent through. That brings Soap right around to the wrong headspace for a night of drinking so he ditches it as he rounds their table.

“Heeey! About bloody time with those! You get stuck under the bar?” Gaz hollers over the chatter as Soap nearly slams a load of pints down.

“Fek off and get em yourself then!”

“Woah there badger,” Fletcher interjects as he snakes a wiry arm across the table to grab a pint glass. “Thank you, Soap.” He toasts the scott before taking a long sip.

“At least medical appreciates me.”

Gaz licks foam off his lip. “Sure, you're not bleeding for once.” Soap aims a kick at his shin but misses before taking a seat.

“Some fucking week, aye?” He gets some mumbled agreement for his efforts before the earlier conversation picks back up.

“We just don't really get along. She wants me to call her all the time - and I've told her I'm busy. Fucking wiped coming back from that recon and she thinks I want to know how her friends are doing. Fucks sake.” The soldier, Johnston from another patrol, laments to the table at large. He sounds frustrated and petulant. “6 years and this woman just never gets it.”

Soap is only a bit surprised, not an unusual complaint though typically they'd be divorced by now. The matching system doesn't care what type of person you are. Gaz in the next seat over is keeping his mouth shut but clearly annoyed at the sentiment.

“How's the house coming along then, Gaz?” Soap quietly throws him an out, leave the rest of their table to placate the downer.

“Oh mate, you should see it! Tidy little townhouse with a yard no bigger than the showers here - but it's ours, ye know.” His face lights right up and Soap knows he's asked the right question. “We'll have everyone over once it's closed. Could use the help painting the place.”

Soap rolls his eyes as he gulps his beer. “If you'll accept that as a wedding gift, I'm in.”

“Cheap shit.” Gaz glares at him jovially.

“Hey. Hey. We're not all debt free. I'll even cut the grass for ye, put on a little show.” He throws his hands up in mock submission, laughing as Gaz fakes gagging into his pint.

“You still making payments on your cousin's place, mate?”

“Aye. Jess gives me a hard time about it, but since the family walked out on her it's only right.”

Gaz looks pensive for a moment. “I still can't believe they did that. Dropped her for something she couldn't control.”

“i’s why I don't speak with my Da much. Jess would have done anything to save Eric, he's a fucking mealy arse for saying otherwise.” Gaz nods his head along in agreement.

“You ever think about your own place though? Outside all this? I know you crash at theirs when we're on leave but you can't do that forever can you?”

Soap purses his lips, this bit is a little embarrassing.

“I was hoping … to get something with my match. Really wanted to experience that ye know. Looking at homes together.” He's blushing but maybe they'll think it's just the drink. Gaz is looking at him like he knows otherwise.

“You'll get there, mate. You're one of the best people I know, there's someone out there for you. Don't doubt yourself.” He punches Soap's arm gently. “and if you're real lucky you'll get em tall, dark, and deadly, just like you like em.”

Soap whips a coaster at Gaz as they both laugh. “Fuck you for that. Catch me confiding in you again.”

“It's what mates are for!” Gaz smiles at him, broad as can be and maybe, maybe, he lets himself dream about it just a little bit.

A home.

With him.