Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ghost’s body felt like it was wading through sludge as he jumped down from the helo. He was thoroughly exhausted, just wanting to sleep in his own bed. Three days hiking alone through the Caucasus Mountains would do that to anyone.

He lugged his fatigued body, heaped with over a dozen kilograms of gear, to the only person he could see.

Price greeted him with a tired smile and a pat on the back. “Welcome back, Simon. Good work out there.”

“Thanks.” Looking around, he tried to find any other shadows on the asphalt. “No Johnny?”

“Told him you were landing tonight. Probably fell asleep waiting at your door like a dog.” With an unimpressed brow raise, he added. “And if you were worried about Gaz’s whereabouts, he passed out an hour ago.”

“Right… I'll have to talk to him later, then.” Could Ghost be any more obvious? “In the meantime, am I free to go? I'm fucking knackered.”

“Affirmative. You did good work out there, Simon. Get some rest.”

Patting Ghost on the back, he walked past him to go talk to the pilot. It left Ghost to make the trek back to his room alone, walking down the dark, gravel roads of the base in silence.

Even as he entered the building, not a soul could be seen. The stairwell echoed as he went up the steps, calling out to anyone who could hear. Considering the hallway was just as empty, Ghost figured it went unanswered.

His door was unremarkable, the same as always as he fished out his keys. The lock clicked quietly as he opened the door, it was deathly silent inside, the lights off.

“Johnny?” There was no response. He flicked on the white overhead light with a wince.

The bed was empty, still neatly made and cold to the touch. He tried not to think too much about it as he stripped off his gear, but it was easier said than done.

Normally, Soap would help him pull it off, giving his weary bones a moment of respite. It was fine; before him, Ghost managed it all on his own. He dropped his tac vest onto the ground with a thud.

Peeling off the clothes that stuck to his skin, he thought of all the ways Soap would make a dirty joke if he was there or barge his way into Ghost’s impossibly tiny shower and demand to wash his back; Ghost tried to make due, but he was certain he missed a spot.

The water poured over him as he stared at the wall. It felt pathetic to be so upset about Soap not greeting him, but he really did miss the man. With all the travel and prep, it had been over a week since they'd seen each other.

Why hadn't Soap been excitedly waiting for him to return, the same way Ghost was anxiously waiting to get home?

A small, traitorous part of him worried that something had happened, something terrible Price couldn't bear to talk about. Another wondered if Soap had just gotten bored of him. He never was great company after a mission.

Taking a breath, he calmed down. It was probably just the adrenaline draining out of him, so used to mission stress that peace felt violent. There were millions of excuses for his missing partner, so he ignored those pesky thoughts and hopped out the shower.

Pulling on a pair of well-worn sweatpants over his still-damp legs, he tensed up at a sound in the hallway. Heavy steps approached before there was erratic scratching in the keyhole. Ghost knew exactly who it was as the door swung open.

“Simon!” Soap’s voice was slurred as he stumbled in, boisterous and inelegant as ever. “I missed you.”

Surging forward, he threw his arms around Ghost, his body heavy and unbalanced; Ghost’s muscles groaned at the weight, but he didn't pay them any mind. He'd carry Soap gladly—anything to have the man in his arms.

“I missed you too, Johnny. Where were you at?”

Swaying slightly as he pulled away, Soap nearly descended into hysterics, words rushed and emotional. “I'm so sorry I missed your landing; I was at the pub with a friend. One round of shots turned into two and then he bought me another beer, and the time got away from me—”

“Johnny, it's fine.” Placing a hand on Soap’s chest, Ghost smiled as the man settled down. “Did you have fun?”

“Aye, it was nice to catch up—och, I didn't tell you! Our new teammate—did Price tell you? We're getting a new teammate for our new mission and we were best friends in basics. What are the fucking chances of that!?”

“Pretty low, Johnny.” Ghost laughed to himself at how quickly the man's mood shifted while he threw on a t-shirt. “Is that who you went to the pub with?”

“Aye, he wanted to celebrate our reunion." His eyes started to droop. "Fucking ace lad, he is. Drank half the bleeding pub and wasn't even half as pished as I was… am…”

As Soap drifted off, his body lurched forward. Ghost was there to catch him, sighing as Soap laughed to himself. He was thoroughly wasted.

“Alright, you drunkard, why don't we get you to bed; you look plastered.” Soap didn't put up any resistance as he sat him onto the bed. Pulling the man's leg up, he rested the man's boot on his thigh to untie it.

“But I just got to see you again.” He whined as Ghost pulled his boots off. “I don't want to sleep yet.”

“We’ll have plenty of time together tomorrow, Johnny.”

The buckle of Soap's belt clinked noisily as he opened it. “Oh, I see how it is—”

Soap started to get handsy, shamelessly feeling up Ghost’s chest. He smacked the man’s hands away with a huff. “Hands off, you slag, or I'll let you sleep in your jeans.”

Pouting, Soap collapsed back onto the bed, letting Ghost do all the work of pulling his pants off. As tired as he was, he didn't mind taking care of Soap. He never could, not when it was his Johnny.

Well, not too much, at least.

“Move over.” Nudging Soap to the side, Ghost slipped into the bed. The springs creaked, old and aching. Ghost felt the same as he finally relaxed.

Rolling around restlessly, Soap tried to find a comfortable position; he didn't seem to find one, instead settling on his side with a huff. It left the two face to face.

“I missed your ugly mug,” Soap tried to hold his cheek, but he was so heavy handed that it smushed half of Ghost’s face. “So fucking much…”

Chuckling, Ghost went to move the man's hand away. “Alright, Johnny—”

“No, I'm being serious.” Soap just pressed his hand down harder. “I didn't know what to do without you. I was so bored and lonely and my poor hand—”

Pushing Soap away with a palm to his face, Ghost rolled his eyes. “That’s enough, you slag. Go to bloody bed.”

“You're no fun.” Seemingly pleased with himself, Soap cuddled closer with a big smile. "I'm serious, though. I can't stand when you're on a mission alone."

Propping his chin on top of Soap's head, Ghost hugged the man to his chest. “Neither can I.” He hoped his racing heart wasn't too loud.

“Never been to Georgia, though. Is it much different from Russia?”

“In all the ways that matter, I suppose so. The views were absolutely stunning.” He thought of all the miles of green he looked down at on his travels; then he remembered the ache he felt in every step. “Didn't get to enjoy it much.”

Humming, Soap went quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, he sounded far away. “If we make it out of here alive, I want to visit all the places we traveled for fun. No war or heavy gear. Just you, me, and whatever we can fit in our duffels.”

That sounded nice. “It's a deal. Don't go dying on me, now.”

“I’d never, but you should be the one to watch out. Plenty of square footage to strike.” Mimicking the sound of a gun with his mouth, Soap poked Ghost’s stomach in quick succession.

“Change my mind, Johnny. I'll take you out myself.”

Sighing dreamily, Soap settled back down in Ghost's arms. “Such a romantic.” And within seconds, he was snoring.

-

Predictably, Soap was a mess the next morning. He moaned in agony as Ghost opened the curtains to let some light in, whining loudly as the man tried to get him up.

“Come on, Johnny.” Ghost ship the man's shoulder. “You need to get some brekkie in you before you're miserable and hungry.”

Whining and driving his head under the pillow, Soap responded with a muffled, “If you really loved me you would bring me breakfast in bed and let me sleep off my hangover.”

“And if you loved me, you'd come eat breakfast with me to celebrate the fact I survived my mission. Since we didn't get to celebrate last night…”

The guilting seemed to work. “Fine, you big bastard.” Sluggishly, Soap hauled himself out of bed, putting his clothes from yesterday back on. His eyes were barely open as he held out his hand.

Ghost grabbed it with a roll of his eyes, pulling Soap towards the door. Taking a moment to peek out—checking for any witnesses in the hallway, he quickly pushed Soap out in front so he could turn around and lock the door casually.

If anyone asked, Soap just arrived to walk Ghost to breakfast like a good friend… ignoring the fact he looked like a walking corpse.

Leaning against the wall, Soap rubbed his eye. “Hurry up, will you? Need some fucking coffee before I go mental, Simon.”

Ghost double checked his door was locked with a roll of his eyes. He still couldn't bring himself to look too upset when he turned, though. “We'll get you your coffee, you big baby.”

Wrapping an arm around Soap's shoulders, Ghost led him out of the building. They were in perfect sync, legs marching in an identical rhythm; after a few steps, it barely felt like they were two people at all.

They made their way out of the building and into the chill of the morning. The base was already alive, people milling about—working, training, enjoying the brief bout of sunshine.

Ghost and Soap walked along the sidewalk, talking quietly. They had plenty to catch up on after the long mission, and even exhaustion couldn't stop Soap from jabbering on about something.

Just as the mess hall was in sight, the smell of poorly prepared meals wafting out and making their stomachs growl, a voice called out.

“John! There’s my mad lad!” From the side, a man approached them, arms outstretched. “How are you feeling today, Scotch?”

Soap turned to him with a smile, going easily as the man pulled him into a side hug. They stood with their backs to Ghost, bickering.

“Don't even start; I have a splitting headache because of you. Had to chug a liquid IV just to get out of bed this morning.”

“Come on, I thought you Scots were supposed to be good at drinking. When did you become such a lightweight?”

Standing there awkwardly, Ghost waited to be brought into the conversation or introduced or anything, really. They just kept chattering on, oblivious to Ghost watching.

Well, Soap seemed oblivious. The stranger glanced back a few times but never actually acknowledged Ghost.

Shifting from side to side, Ghost watched the two of them talk and laugh like old friends; the longer it went, the stronger embarrassment burned inside him. It felt like he was a child again, watching the other kids play around him but never invited to join.

Having hit his limit, he cleared his throat loud enough to cut through their voices. “Johnny? Who is this?”

“Oh, right.” Clearing his throat, he motioned towards the man. “Ghost, meet your new sergeant, Jimmy Rickman.” Turning to the other man, he gestured towards Ghost. “Jim, Ghost—or Simon for friends.”

Ghost already had a weird feeling about Rickman. The man refused to look at Ghost, exclusively watching Soap as he spoke. It wasn’t until Ghost greeted him that he deigned to look at him.

“So you're Johnny's friend from basics?”

“That would be me. Nice to finally meet you.” Rickman held out a hand. Ghost took it, but the man's grip was unpleasantly strong. “John talks about you quite a lot.”

Despite the way the bones in his hands creaked, he shook the man's hand casually. “All good things, I hope.”

Rickman didn't blink as he stared at Ghost. “Yeah…”

There was something in the man's smile that made Ghost’s hair raise, some kind of twitch in the corners that hinted at disgust. Every time he saw it, though, it quickly vanished.

He did not like Rickman at all.

Soap didn't notice anything wrong, smiling as he bumped up against Ghost’s side. “Worst I've probably said was that your jokes were shite.”

“That's the worst thing you could say about me, Johnny.”

Before he even got to the end of his sentence, Rickman was already butting in. “Well, don't worry. Nobody's jokes could be worse than Pigeon’s; do you remember Pigeon, John?”

“Do I remember?” Soap scoffed in disbelief. “That fucking bastard’s jokes kept me up at night. Absolutely fucking terrible.”

The two laughed, but Ghost didn't get the joke. “Who’s Pigeon…”

Soap turned back, eyes wide. “Oh, right. He was this lad we knew back in basic and he—actually, I'll tell you later. It's a long story.”

“Okay…”

Being out of loop didn't matter to him that much—it happens—but the way Soap waved him off made him uncharacteristically ticked off. Or rather, it was the smug smile on Rickman's face that did it.

He liked that Ghost was out of the loop.

“Well, what are you doing today?” Rickman only posed the question to Soap.

“My plan is to survive breakfast and then go from there.”

If Rickman was going to be like that, Ghost didn't feel too bad saying, “Speaking of, I'm fucking starving, Johnny.”

“Oh, aye.” Getting the hint, Soap smiled apologetically at Rickman. “Sorry, Jim. Let's talk later. A hangry Ghost won't make a good first impression.”

“I get it.” In contrast with his words, Rickman looked annoyed, though he hid it well. “Talk later, then.” The man waved Soap off as they started back towards the mess hall.

“Isn't he a class act? What'd you think?”

Ghost wasn't sure how Soap was so oblivious, but he didn't want to ruin the mood. “Seems nice enough.”

“I'm happy to hear it. He's a riot once you really know him—oh shite, do you think they still have some melon left?”

“It's a toss-up. It's always the first to go.”

“Fuck, what are we doing, then!? Let's go!”

Soap took off into a full blown sprint. It was impressive considering how wrecked he'd been that morning. Ghost jogged behind to make sure the man didn't pass out once the adrenaline of missing out on fruit waned.

-

Though Ghost was annoyed by Rickman’s attitude earlier in the day, he didn't think about it for too long. Soap and him were too busy trying to get the best selection at breakfast to care—and then preoccupied with their post-meal nap.

Eventually, though, they had to go their separate ways for the day. Soap had some duties he shirked the day before to get plastered with Rickman and needed to get them done.

Ghost took the opportunity to get some short-range shooting practice in to compensate for all the sniping he'd been doing recently. He settled down at the shooting range, grabbing a pistol.

Eyes focused, he aimed for the head of the paper target. His finger twitched on the trigger, glove creaking as he slowly curled it in—

“Ghost!” Even through the safety ear muffs, he could hear a familiar, unnerving voice call out to him.

The bullet he had so painstakingly lined up was thrown off by Ghost jolting in surprise. Instead of tearing through the paper of the target, it lodged itself into the concrete floor.

“You know, you're supposed to hit the target, Lieutenant.” Rickman stood behind him, looking at Ghost’s miss with an unimpressed frown.

“I'm aware.” Practically growling in annoyance, Ghost lowered his gun. “Do you need something?”

Leaning up against the divider, Rickman seemed to make himself at home. “Just saw you and wanted to say hello. And maybe ask you about your mask. Did you make it yourself?”

“I did…”

“I figured. Don't think a store would sell that.” He laughed, but Ghost didn't think it was funny. “Not much of a demand, really, but you sure try to pull it off.”

“What?” Was that an insult?

“You aren't afraid to be unique. I admire that about you, Lieutenant.” Smiling, Rickman saved himself—until he spoke again. “Wish I could care as little about other people's opinions as you do.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Of course.” Ghost was honestly impressed by the man's unyielding composure. Without skipping a beat, he moved on. “Oh, listen; I found some pictures of me and John from back in the day; thought you might get a kick out of them.”

Ghost was hesitant as the man pulled out his phone, fumbling to find his photo albums. There was just something about Rickman that made his skin crawl, a carefully calculated inauthenticity.

“Look.”

Leaning in suspiciously, Ghost watched Rickman's face more than he did the phone. When he finally glanced down, he was greeted with a pleasant surprise.

The first one was of a young Soap—clean shaven, freshly buzzed, and uncannily smooth faced—hanging from the bars of an obstacle course. He was covered in mud, but he still smiled wide at the camera.

Chuckling, Ghost zoomed in. “Really hasn't changed at all, has he?”

“Not at all.” Rickman swiped to the next one, a picture of a freshly eighteen year old Soap drunk out of his mind.

There were a few of them like that, Soap becoming nothing but a blur as he drunkenly danced in the pub. Ghost thought back to Soap stumbling into his room just days ago with a smile.

For once, Ghost didn't feel on edge. Him and Rickman were talking and laughing about the pictures like regular people. Maybe the man wasn't so bad. He'd met fine people with terrible social awareness before, Rickman just might be one of them.

All of his earlier paranoia slipped away as Rickman showed him a picture of Soap in a bunny costume for Easter. “Got him to dress up and hide eggs for the kids living on base.”

“He's a good man…”

The next picture had him trailing off. It was a picture of a table, set up for poker. The thing that drew his attention, though, was the fact that it was their rec room with the poker kit Gaz impulsively bought one night.

It was tradition for the team to play every Friday night they were back on base, but with the looming mission, nobody had felt up to it last Friday; at least, that's what he thought.

In the picture was Rickman's winning hand, a full house, and Soap raging in the background. To the sides though, he saw one pair of hands, worn and red, snuffing a cigar out. Another pair, dark and freshly manicured, placed down their losing cards.

Price and Gaz? It had to be; what kind of coincidence would that be, otherwise?

“Oh, sorry, didn't realize that was the last one.” Rickman didn't seem phased as he pulled his phone back, too quick for Ghost to guarantee it was his teammates.

“When was that picture from?” In an attempt to appear less accusatory, he added: “Johnny looks right fuming.”

“Oh, he was. But to answer your question, it was last Friday's poker game. Gaz ended up kicking our arses.”

Ghost felt like he was in freefall, his stomach dropping. So it was them, then. And they didn't invite him?

Unable to find anything to say, Ghost just stared out at the untouched target. He'd always complained about being dragged into playing, but it was always just playful teasing. He loved spending time with his team.

Was that the problem? Did they think he wouldn't want to join, or did they truly not want him there? Or even worse, did they not even think of him at all?

“Everything alright, lieutenant?”

The smile on Rickman's face told Ghost that the man knew exactly what he was thinking. He showed him that picture on purpose, didn't he. Ghost hated that it probably got the intended response.

“I'm fine.”

“Hm. Well I have to get going. Enjoy the rest of your shooting practice.”

Ghost watched him leave with a scowl. He wanted to be mad at Rickman, but truthfully, he was more mad about his team. Sure, Rickman seemed like a proper dick to Ghost, but he couldn't make them uninvite Ghost to poker night.

They made that choice themselves… and Soap didn't even bring it up.

Chalking it up to a one-time deal, Ghost decided to forget about it. They probably had their reasons; maybe it was last minute, or maybe they thought he was too tired after the mission.

Whatever it was, it killed Ghost's mood. He looked out at the missed round he shot and wondered where he went wrong.

-

Ghost tried to continue his training, but his heart wasn't in it. The gun felt too heavy in his hands, the target too blurry and shots too loud. He quit after he emptied the magazine; there was a knot in his throat as he returned his equipment.

So, he went back to his room, lounging aimlessly through the day. Nothing was really keeping his attention, but he pushed through. Any moment, Soap would be back—

“There you are.” Swinging the door open, Soap let himself in. “Going to bed already?”

“Hm? No, just reading.” Glancing up, he watched as Soap took a seat at his desk before looking back down.

“Well, I'm heading down to the rec room; Rickman invited me and some mates to play some video games. Interested?”

Placing down the book, Ghost thought about it. He was still feeling slighted over his missing invitation to the poker game, but more than that, he didn't want to deal with Rickman.

“Nah, I'm going to try and finish this up tonight. You have fun, though.”

Humming in response, Soap got up to leave, but right as he got to the door, he turned back around. “I'm curious, how have you and Jim been getting along.”

Ghost tried, he really did. He wanted to lie and say everything was fine, but he was a terrible liar and he'd left his mask on the bedside table. Soap deflated as he saw his barely-restrained grimace.

“Well enough.”

“Don't insult my intelligence, Simon. What happened?”

“I…”

Sitting there, he tried to think of a response. He tried to sift through all those weird looks and the statements that felt like insults, but they all felt too ephemeral to mention. The further he got away from them, the less he was sure they happened at all.

But he still remembered the way they made him feel.

“I don't like him. You should be careful around him.”

“What? Why?”

Soap looked so sad, his shoulders sagging and frown deepening. It made Ghost feel terrible as he continued, “I don't know. I can't explain it, but something feels wrong. I don't trust him.”

Furrowing his brow, Soap crossed his arms. He didn't like that answer. “Well, I can't exactly ruin a friendship over your intuition, now can I.”

“No, I know; I'm not asking you to do that, I just—I don't know. I don't like him.” Instead of responding, Soap just stared. Ghost regretted ever admitting how he felt. “You don't believe me.”

“No, I fully believe you don't like him, but you don't like a lot of people, Simon. I just think maybe you should give him a real chance.”

“I like lots of people—”

Rolling his eyes, Soap began, “You're scared of the barista around the corner because she remembers your name and your order—”

“It's uncomfortable—”

“And the man at the library? The one you memorized his schedule so you wouldn't run into him?”

“Listen, I talked to him once and since then he has tried to start a conversation every time. I just want to go find a book!”

“And the mechanic in the garage? Or what about the old lady next to your apartment? The mailman? My fucking brother-in-law?”

“Those are different!” Ghost was bristling under the accusation. “They make me nervous, but Rickman makes me—I don't know, but it's different.”

After a moment of silence, Soap put his hands on his hips. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know… nothing really.”

He didn't want to have the conversation in the first place, so why was he being interrogated? At most, he wanted to warn Soap to look out for anything strange about Rickman. That seemed like a lost cause, though.

“You really don't trust me?”

Soap’s eyes darted away, looking everywhere but him. “I do, with my life, and with everything else.” Finally, Soap looked him in the eye. “But why don't you trust me? I know him, Simon, longer than you have, and I know he isn't like that. You should get to know him, too.”

That meant nothing to him. Time doesn't make you know someone better, it just blinds you to reality. Maybe he got used to Rickman's behavior, but Ghost wasn't going to.

And yet, he didn't have the heart to tell Soap that, not when he was staring with those wide, puppy dog eyes. “Fine, I'll belive you, but I don't want to be around him if I don't have to.”

“That's not very conducive to the whole ‘get to know him’ thing, you know.” Looking down, Soap lightly kicked the leg of Ghost's chair. “He's been a good friend for years, and I'd really like you two to get along. For me.”

That pitiful, forlorn droop of Soap's shoulders was all it took for Ghost to waver. Maybe he would be proven wrong. Maybe, just maybe, they could be friends for Soap's sake.

“Okay. I'll try again.”

“Really?” Lunging forward, Soap pulled Ghost’s face closer, kissing along his masked face. “You're a fucking gem. I promise you won't regret it.”

He hoped that wouldn't be a broken promise.

Laughing as his face was assaulted, Ghost pushed Soap away lightly. “Alright, Alright. Still not going down to play, though. I want to finish this before I forget the plot.”

“Fine, but you promised.” Pointing, Soap backed up towards the door. “I want you to play nice.”

“Aye, aye, Sergeant.”

Saluting the man as he slipped out the door, Ghost let the quiet settle back in. He really, really, did not want to talk to Rickman if he could help it. But he wanted to trust Soap. He wanted him to be happy.

-

The moment Soap made it down to the rec room, he was trying to find Rickman. There were a lot of people sitting around, a game already in progress on the old, shitty tv.

He greeted a few people as he leaned over the couch, glancing over the crowd. Just in time, an arm brandishing a beer came into view.

“Care for a drink, John.”

Rickman smiled as Soap turned towards him, grabbing the bottle. “Aye, cheers, mate.” Taking a swig, he let it calm his nerves. “Hey, Jim; can we talk?”

“Of course.” The man took a sip of his own drink as Soap led him away from the crowd. “Everything’s okay, I hope.”

“Aye, I just… me and Simon were talking—”

“Your Ghost lad?”

“Aye, me and Ghost were talking and I think some wires got crossed.” Laughing at the absurdity, he continued, “He's got it in his head you don't like him or something mad like that.”

Rickman looked genuinely shocked, if not a bit offended. “What? No! Not at all, he's great!”

“See, that's what I thought!”

“He probably can tell I'm a bit nervous, what with his reputation and us not knowing each other well. I'll try and talk to him later to smooth things out.”

“Thank you, I knew you'd understand. He can be a bit… thorny, but he's a great guy. Really. Give him some time and he'll warm up.”

“Don’t worry about it; I trust you, John.”

“Thank you.”

Soap closed his eyes and internally sighed of relief. At least he knew someone wanted to fix this little miscommunication. He just wanted the two to get along—enough to sit at a pub together and feel fine.

When he opened his eyes back up, Rickman was looking at him with a suspicious smile. “But, just between you and me, are the two of you,” he gestured with his hands, poking a finger through a circle in his other hand. Freezing, he raised an eyebrow.

Glancing around for anyone who could listen in, Soap decided to just say it. “Aye, but it's more than that. We've been actually seeing each other for months now.”

“That's sweet. He seems nice enough, but you do know how dangerous this is, right? You're fucking your superior.”

It wasn't an unexpected response. Soap had gotten it from everyone he trusted with the information. Usually, though, they grew to understand how serious Ghost and him were.

“I know, I know, but I'm being serious when I say I really care about him. I think Si—Ghost might be the one.”

“Oh, I believe you. I just don't want you risking all the hard work you put in to be an amazing soldier on one of the best teams to go to waste for some prick—even if it is good.”

The joke made Soap relax, chuckling lightly. “I appreciate the concern, but you know I like a little risk. Thank you, though, really. You're a good friend.”

“Of course.” Opening his arm, he pulled Soap into a side hug. “Hey, I'm always here for you, John.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“With that out of the way, why don't we play some games?” Rickman led him towards the couch.

“Fuck yeah, hand me one of those controllers.”

One of the men on the floor reached back to give him a controller as he sat. Settling in, he fell into easy conversation with the men around him as they started a round.

It felt like everything was going right.

-

It felt like forever since Ghost got to see Soap. Some of it had to do with the mission and his own work obligations, but most of it was on Rickman.

Soap wanted to train with him to get some new experience or teach Rickman some new skills. Then he wanted to spend his breaks helping Rickman settle in and make other friends on base. Then it was the two of them just wanting to spend time hanging out.

The longer it went on, the more and more Ghost noticed it. But he figured it would blow over—that maybe it was a fluke like the poker night. They still had their meals together, right?

Entering the mess hall for lunch, he noticed their usual table was empty.

Ghost scanned the room for Soap. He might not have gotten off for lunch yet, or was just on his way. Standing there aimlessly, he tried to decide if he should sit and wait for Soap or grab his plate when a familiar voice called out behind him.

“Hey, Simon.”

Turning around, he breathed a sigh of relief at Soap's smiling face.

“Ello, Johnny.”

“You the new lunch monitor, or were you just practicing your scarecrow routine?”

Suddenly self aware, Ghost shifted awkwardly with a laugh. “I was just looking for you; you weren't at the table.”

“Aye, was taking a piss.” Soap looked strangely nervous. “But now that you're here, I was thinking about sitting with Jim and some mates. Why don't you join us?”

Looking over at the table, Ghost could see Soap already had a tray there in the empty seat next to Gaz. There didn't look to be any other seats nearby, so they'd have to pull one up.

He could already see Rickman trying to hold back a laugh—and see himself trying to hold back strangling the man. “I'm not sure…”

“Are you still…” Soap looked back at the table with a sigh. “It's hard to know someone well when you won't even try to talk to them.“

“I know, it's just…” He didn't know how to tell Soap his friend was probably a malicious prick without any proof. “I'm sorry, I wasn't really prepared to be sitting in a group.”

It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth.

Soap's pout almost made him give in. “Well, I figured I’d try. I'll let them know I'm sitting with you—”

“No, go have fun. I have to get back to work, anyway. Price and I are in the middle of mission planning.”

“Are you sure?” Simon nodded. “Then why did you walk all the way over here instead of picking something up at the officer’s mess?”

“Wanted to say hello to you.” Awkwardly, he raised a hand and waved. “‘Ello, Johnny.”

Grinning, Soap whispered a loving, “Stupid,” under his breath. “Well, make sure you have time for dinner. I want to go off base and get a Chinese.”

“Just us?”

“Aye. Just us and our noodles.”

Looking up, feigning being deep in thought, Ghost shrugged. “I think I could swing it.”

“It's a date, then?”

“If that's what you want to call it.”

Smile widening, Soap punched him in the chest. “That is what I want to call it, you numpty. I'll see you for our date tonight.”

“Alright, then. Tell them all I said hello.”

“Will do.”

Soap waved as he walked back to the table. Ghost watched him go before leaving to have lunch alone. It stung a bit, but he only had himself to blame. He could have just sucked it up.

-

The table was quiet as Soap returned, Gaz scrolling through his phone as Rickman ate. Sliding into his chair, Soap picked up the fork from his tray and tried not to be too disappointed.

As he did, Rickman looked up. “The lieutenant not sitting with us?”

“Nah, he's busy. Mission things…”

“Really? Last I checked, Price was waiting on information to arrive from Laswell.” It didn't shock Soap; Ghost is a bad liar when it came to him.

The problem was what Rickman said next. “Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry, I can—”

It's the exact thing Soap was worried about. He didn't want his friend to feel like an outsider in their team, let alone with the person that meant the world to Soap.

“No, it's not you.” Soap was trying desperately to make the man comfortable again. “He just never likes spending time in groups if he can help it.”

Gaz, who had been uncharacteristically silent, finally spoke. “It’s true. Wouldn't take it personal, mate.”

Rickman seemed to relax at those words, but he still looked disappointed. “That’s unfortunate. I was really hoping we would have the chance to talk. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine, but I really don't think he likes me much…”

“Just… give him some time.”

It was all he could say to try and save face. A part of him was embarrassed about it all, knowing it was his partner making his friend uncomfortable. If he was on the other end, and his own friend was letting it slide, he'd be livid.

But it was so hard when he knew Ghost so well.

Ghost was being an unreasonable asshole, making Rickman feel like that, sure, but it was nothing like the Ghost he knew. He had to trust that it was all just a temporary issue that would iron itself out.

Rickman's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “Well, what's up with you, John? You seem off.”

Looking over at his and Ghost’s usual table, he felt a pang of guilt. It was by the window, a small spindly tree growing outside. Ghost always liked to check on its growth during their lunch breaks.

“Sorry. It’s just… me and Ghost normally eat lunch together on Wednesdays. I feel sort of bad about changing it up now.”

Rickman waved him off. “Don’t be. A little change isn't the end of the world. Plus, how often will we get this chance a week or two from now?”

“Fair enough…”

“You also offered for him to eat with us, didn't you?”

“Aye…”

“So, he made his choice. Don't feel bad about it.”

Looking down at his plate, Soap told himself Rickman was right. Who knew how long they'd be on the same base for? They needed to make the best of it.

If Ghost really wanted to spend time with him, the man would let him know.

-

A few days passed and Ghost had dodged every avenue to strike up a conversation with Rickman. Even when Soap tried to force it, he always had an excuse and left with a curt goodbye.

It was like he wasn't even trying.

Soap tried to get more information from Ghost, but all he got was the same, “I don't know. I don't trust him,” and it was starting to get on his nerves.

Even though he knew it wasn't true, it felt like Ghost was trying to control him. The man wanted Soap to agree with him, wanted him to distrust Rickman and stop talking to him, but that was his friend.

As much as he logically knew Ghost was just looking out for him based on some gut instinct—be it true or false—Soap still felt compelled to capitulate to him. Ghost was his partner and his superior, and he had good judgement everywhere else.

But it didn't help that he knew Ghost was wrong.

A familiar indignation leaked into his veins; Soap had been forced to follow officers down paths he didn't agree with before, and he saw the toll it had. People got iced out, hurt, even killed before.

There was no way this could end well.

He wanted to bring it up again, just to see where Ghost was at in his whole ‘Hating Rickman’ mood. At this point, he'd take them just being cordial rather than Ghost running away at any given opportunity.

Considering he had his typical midday ‘annoy Ghost’ session coming up, there was no better time to try.

Walking through the halls of the administration building, Soap didn't think twice about letting himself into Ghost's office. The man was sitting at his desk, typing away at his computer.

“Evening, Johnny.”

“Good to see you, Simon.”

Plopping himself down in the creaky, old, military-provided chair, he immediately started into a diatribe. Ghost listened, saying something short every few moments to let Soap know that; still, he kept working like it was no problem.

It was pretty standard fare. Soap got to unload everything he'd been thinking about all day—the good, the bad, and the straight up weird—and Ghost got the joy of his company.

Spinning one of Ghost's pens around his fingers, Soap was absentmindedly talking about his day, “Oh, and Jim invited me to go shopping with him.”

Ghost was quiet—Soap would have thought he didn't hear him if he hadn't finally responded, “You two are getting awfully close.”

Sitting up in surprise, Soap felt himself bristle. Was that… jealousy? Normally, he'd think it was a good look on Ghost, but after everything that had happened, Soap was not happy.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” Ghost still hadn't looked up from his work. “You two are spending a lot of time together.”

Something in the way he said it made Soap tense up. What is his problem?

“Yeah, well that's what friends tend to do.”

“Hm.”

Was that all he was going to say? Soap hoped for Ghost's sake it was. “What's got your knickers in a twist?”

“Nothing.” Closing his laptop screen, Ghost finally looked up. “Are you going to be back for dinner?”

“I don't know. We’ll probably eat while we're out. Would you want me to grab you something”

“No, that's alright.” Standing up, he stretched out his back. He didn't seem upset, but something still felt wrong. “Your break's almost up, right? I'll walk you out; I have to pick up some papers I printed.”

“Oh, aye. Cheers.”

It wasn't until he waved goodbye at the front office and set back out to the training grounds that he realized Ghost had, yet again, dodged the conversation.

Soap was getting sick and tired of it. Add onto that the jealousy and the insinuations, Ghost was teetering the line between infurating and dangerous.

This had to stop.

-

Soap had been attached to Rickman's hip for days. It left Ghost alone, trying desperately to avoid the two of them.

Every time he got close, he saw that look in Rickman's eye that annoyed him. He could see the way the man exaggerated his laughter to force Ghost's attention, the way he tried everything to monopolize Soap so he never noticed Ghost.

After long enough, he caught on. It was some kind of competition. Rickman was trying to prove something, trying to fight for something, and Ghost was having none of it.

But he couldn't explain it to Soap. It just wouldn't come out right, the feelings were too slippery to name, every example fading away when he opened his mouth. All he could do was watch Rickman win the competition as Soap chose to spend time with him again and again.

So, instead of letting himself get burnt, he holed himself up in Price’s office under the pretense of mission planning. They were doing that. Sometimes. Most of the time, though, they just worked on other things silently until Laswell brought them more information.

Ghost could tell it was grating on Price, though. Between the looming mission and the fact he had to move away from Ghost—and by extension, his desk—to smoke was getting to him.

To get rid of him for a bit, Price sent Ghost out on a mission to find his favorite team member.

Gaz was in the gym, as Ghost suspected, leaning against the wall and drinking the last of his protein shake. Next to him was Rickman, gesticulating as he told a story.

Was it too late to back out and tell Price Gaz was MIA?

Watching the two of them talk, Ghost remembered his promise to Soap. He had to try, just in case he was making it all up in his head.

As he approached, he heard the two’s conversation go suspiciously silent; Gaz looked down towards his shoes, lightly kicking the floor, as Rickman watched Ghost from the corner of his eye.

Ghost tried to ignore the judgemental stare he felt as he stopped in front of them. “Garrick, I've got orders from Price. He wants to see you in his office.”

The man looked up, cringing at the news. “Oh, joy… Between us, is this more of a ‘brace for impact’ meeting or a ‘serious business’ meeting?”

“Think it's more of a ‘he’s sick and tired of talking to me and wants someone else in there’ kind of meeting.”

Gaz finally cracked a smile. “Fair enough. I'll go give the old man a break. Cheers, Ghost.”

Making his leave, Gaz gave a two finger salute. It left Ghost and Rickman alone, standing there in silence. He didn't know what he should say in that kind of situation.

Luckily, Rickman beat him to the punch.

“How are you doing, Lieutenant?” He sounded genuine when he asked. “We missed you the other day. Felt a bit empty without you taking up so much space.”

The other day? “What are you talking about?”

“The pub? Saturday night?” Rickman looked at him like he was being stupid. “Gaz told us you were too busy to make it, but I guess there's always next time.”

Looking down, Ghost tried to remember any conversation they had about going out. Gaz sure hadn't asked him about his availability, but he did remember Soap saying he was busy Saturday.

“Nobody told me we were going out to the pub…”

“Huh? But Gaz said—” Rickman didn't look very confused as he crossed his arms and shrugged. “I'm sure it was a mistake, or some kind of miscommunication. I’ll make sure Johnny lets you know next time.”

All Ghost could respond with was silence. Johnny? Did he give Rickman permission to use that? That was Ghost’s nickname. Something awful churned in his stomach.

“You know, Price told us that you play some mean darts.” So Price was invited, too? “I like to think I'm a bit of a pro myself. We should face each other then, see which one of us can actually aim.”

…That was an insult, wasn't it? The devilish curve to Rickman’s mouth didn't help, nor did the way his eyes narrowed tauntingly. Ghost felt unsteady.

“Excuse me?”

“I said we should play a round together to see which one of us is better. You know, friendly competition?”

It was almost uncanny, the way he recovered. His smile, though not exactly friendly, was perfectly normal. All the tells Ghost thought he had seen were gone. He genuinely couldn't remember if he'd actually seen them, or if they were figments of his imagination.

“Yeah…”

“I’ll even buy you a drink—whiskey, right?” Ghost couldn't tell if he was actually seeing a smug glimmer in the man's eye. “They said that's what you usually drink. Not my kind of drink; too sweet, if you ask me.”

“I didn't…”

They fell into silence, staring at each other; Ghost had nothing more to say, and Rickman seemed to be sizing him up. His face was hauntingly neutral, not a muscle out of place, before he smiled tightly.

“You know, I think people would like you more if you weren't so serious. You are terrible company.” Despite the dig, Rickman laughed cheerily. “Johnny really is doing the Lord's work.”

“The feeling is mutual.” Ghost couldn't muster up the same bite. “I could say the same about you.”

“Well, at least the others invite me out, so you might be the only one to say that. I was just giving you advice based on what I've heard.”

There was nothing Ghost could say to that. It opened up some kind of aching, gnawing wound inside this chest—so large his lungs struggled to expand.

Breathless, he nodded and turned away.

-

Ghost couldn't help but continue to notice the way Rickman’s arrival soured Soap and his relationship. Soap wasn't bothering him to hang out constantly, wasn't waiting in his room after long days, wasn't making excuses just to visit him during the day by bringing him tea or a snack.

It was a subtle shift. Soap was still present—still slept by Ghost's side, (sometimes) ate with him, spent his limited breaks in Ghost’s office—but it was those extra moments, the brief and unimportant ones that felt the most impactful. Without them, it was like they were just going through the motions.

Ghost felt like a toy Soap had gotten bored with, thrown away for something shinier. Rickman was new. They had so much to catch up on, so many stories to share.

Maybe that's why everyone gravitated towards him, why they thought about him first over Ghost. Or maybe he truly was terrible company.

It wasn't hard to believe. In fact, that was par for the course.

He'd been a lonely child—too strange, too aloof for his peers. He knew he could never fit in, could never find a place of his own. It would make sense, then, that he had grown into a lonely adult.

For a moment, he thought he might have defied all odds. Even if the 141 was held together by red tape and career obligations, he'd dreamt that maybe there was some love there—especially with Soap. But, as with all good dreams, he woke up.

The team was replacing him with someone better, weren't they?

Plodding down the empty hallway, Ghost looked for a familiar room number. He wanted to believe that wasn't true, that he had just been unavailable for too long. If he told Soap he had time and wanted to spend it with him, the man would obviously jump at the chance.

Soap always made time for him.

Stopping in front of the man's room, he knocked in a pattern only the two of them knew. The reply was instant.

“Come in; door’s open.”

Inside, Soap was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed casually as he pulled on his sneakers. He always made time…

“Where are you heading?”

Soap didn't even look up as he tied his laces. “Out to the pub with Jim.”

His stomach dropped at the words—another night out he wasn't invited to. “Just you two? Alone?”

"This again?"

The air suddenly grew cold and heavy, time stretching paper thin as Soap just stared. The anger in his eyes made Ghost nauseous.

Looking him up and down, Soap responded. “Seriously? What, is this jealousy? Am I not allowed to spend time with friends anymore?”

“I never said that.” Standing straight, cold indignation started to seep into his veins. “My invitation to the party get lost in the mail? Just curious.”

“Och, that fucking right, George? Here's your answer: you weren't invited because you're acting like a right twat around Jim and I'm tired of it.”

“I’m not the one acting like a twat; maybe you should get that passive aggressive bellend out of my business and we could be fine.”

“You're always so paranoid, finding problems where there are none. Nobody else has said anything. They all think he's perfectly braw, so what’s your damage?”

Ghost could feel himself slowly shutting down. He didn't want to be there anymore, but Soap would never let him leave. It would only rile him up more—he knew from experience.

“My damage is that I don't have a partner who listens to me when I say his friend is a prick! You don't believe me, but he's trying to replace me!”

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Ghost felt sick. He knew it was true, but he also knew nobody would believe him. Not even Soap.

“He's not replacing anyone; you're just making yourself miserable for no reason. I'm not subjecting my friends to your paranoid accusations.”

“Your friends?”

“Aye, my friends.” Soap scoffed and turned away. “Jealous fucking bastard.”

Eyes following Soap while he picked up his jacket from the bed, Ghost’s voice was cold. “Are you happy now? Get it off your chest?”

For a moment, Soap looked like he was going to blow up again, but instead he lowered his accusatory finger and closed his mouth.

“I'm not letting you ruin my night.” Pocketing his phone and keys, he shoved past Ghost and out into the hallway. “We can talk later when you take your head out of your ass.”

Standing there, lost and confused, Ghost listened to the man's heavy footsteps fade, punctuated by the slam of the stairwell door. The silence that followed was stifling, oozing from the indent on the bed where Soap sat.

Gently closing the door, Ghost went to sit next to that gentle dip in the mattress. It rose slowly, covering up all traces someone had been there.

He thought it was safe to say that it wasn't just the two of them.

Being left out hurt, but hearing it was because of him was even worse. They didn't want him around, thought Rickman was better, and tried to hide it all.

Even worse, Soap was in on it. He hid it, time and time again. And when Ghost caught him, he let him know exactly what he thought: The 141 weren't Ghost’s friends.

They were Soap’s friends, Rickman's friends, even, but not Ghost’s. Never Ghost’s.

In a way, it was freeing. With everything on the table, he didn't have to agonize over it. They didn't see him as a friend, and that was the end of it. It hurt to know it had all been a lie, but he'd been lonely before.

That was nothing new. He could survive loneliness; he'd done it a million times before.

Standing up from the bed, he looked back down. Soap’s indent was nowhere to be seen, and Ghost’s was quickly fading. Before it fully flattened out, he left to go back to his room.

-

At the pub, staring at the old wooden bar beneath him, reality hit him like a bucket of ice water. Soap felt vindicated in the moment, felt like he needed to defend himself and his friend, but now? Now, he felt like a complete asshole.

Circling the rim of his scotch, he faked listening to Rickman prattle on about something or other he didn't care much about. All he could think about was how good it felt to sink his teeth into Ghost’s throat at the time, and how horrible the taste of blood lingered.

It made the drink he was nursing taste awful. He wanted to go home.

“What's wrong?” Rickman lightly kicked his foot under the table. “You've been tense and spaced out the entire night.”

“Nothing.” Brushing him off, Soap took a sip to cool his nerves, but it only made the shake in his hands worse.

“I know you; you're lying…”

Leaving them in silence, Rickman stared at Soap. He didn't want to talk about it, but he hated the way it sat heavy between them. Rickman had a right to know, didn't he?

“Me and Ghost fought earlier. I think he thinks I'm cheating with you—or will. Been dropping hints.” It felt like bile coming out of his mouth. How the hell did he fuck up that bad?

Despite the bomb he dropped, Rickman seemed unphased. “Really? I'm starting to get worried about how controlling he is.” The ice in his scotch clinked quietly. “I mean, you can't go out with a friend without being accused of cheating? Doesn't that sound strange to you?”

Shifting nervously, Soap refused to look at him. “Aye, but he's never been like this before. Sure, he might not always like my friends, but he's never once acted like this. He's always trusted me.”

“Have you ever thought that he might be cheating?” Sucking in air through his teeth, Rickman shook his head. “Might be some projection at play, mate.”

“No. This is Ghost we're talking about.” Soap practically laughed at the thought. “He is not going to interact with people more than is strictly mandatory, let alone have an affair.”

The 'and he loves me too much' went without saying.

“One night stands don't require that much interaction, but, anyway,” He took a sip of his drink, “if you don't think he is, then the other obvious answer is jealousy. Probably sees how well we get along.”

“Aye, I think it's that, but that's fucking daft if that's the case.” With a humorless, dry chuckle, he continued. “I mean—it’s laughable.”

“Oh, don't act like that.”

“Like what?”

Rickman was staring at him strangely; Soap pressed back against his chair as the man leaned in too close for comfort.

“Don't you ever feel like we know each other better than you and Ghost do? We get along so well, it's like we never went our seperate ways. It's like we were meant to find each other again.”

He finally sat back. “Not to mention, the two of you have been fighting the entire time I’ve been here.”

“We have not—”

Steamrolling right over him, Rickman continued, “He makes you feel guilty for spending time with friends instead of him, especially me.”

“He doesn't make me feel guilty, I did it on my own—”

“Who do you think planted that seed? Seriously, Johnny, I'm worried about you—”

“Don’t call me that.”

Rickman’s nose wrinkled at the demand, but he didn't fight it, instead continuing right where he left off. “He’s not good for you. He's a right bloody prick and I can only see this getting worse.”

“Don't talk about him like that.”

The man looked shocked. “What?”

“I said, don't talk about Ghost like that.” Grabbing his jacket off the stool and throwing a few notes on the table, he got ready to leave. “I think you've said enough about my relationship—”

“Wait, I'm sorry, John; I'm just trying to look out for you—”

“Aye, well I can look after myself. Good night.”

“John!”

Rickman called after him as he left, but Soap didn't turn back. He just trudged down the sidewalk towards base, cursing himself the entire way.

In an instant, his entire opinion on Rickman had shattered into millions of tiny pieces—everything he thought he knew, severed and separated. Did he always think that way about Ghost and Soap’s relationship?

He had always spoken so highly of Ghost, but was that all a lie?

It seemed stupid now, but Soap had been so certain Rickman would never insult Ghost. He thought his friend had seen all the goodness he kept hidden. Maybe it was because he couldn't imagine someone not seeing it.

Now that he had heard it straight from Rickman's mouth, had seen the vitriol in his face as he spoke, all he could think about was how he had insulted Ghost over it.

What a fucking dunce he had been.

-

Ghost stared at the wall in front of him, back to the door. He could never fall asleep in that position, mind too preoccupied protecting his exposed body to shut off, but he wasn't trying to sleep; he was trying to pack everything back in.

Every warm feeling, every hope he had for his future with the 141 was folded back up and tucked away. He needed to make sure nothing was missed before he taped the box shut and threw it out.

And he needed to do it before they could do any real damage.

In the middle of shoving his dream of getting a dog with Soap into the furthest, deepest corner, the door knob jingled. When it was obvious it was locked, the person on the other end fished around for a key.

They found it. Ghost knew exactly who it was that unlocked the door.

The hallway lights were annoyingly bright as the door creaked open, but he didn't react. It was obvious he wasn't sleeping, but he figured faking it would send a message.

Like that would ever stop Soap, though.

Slowly, the man climbed into bed behind him, the mattress dipping in a familiar way. There was a brief moment where he kept moving around, jostling Ghost as he tried to get comfortable. When he was done, though, the only way Ghost knew he was there was a light pressure.

Solid and warm, Soap’s back moved in a steady rhythm, up and down. Even in the silence, Ghost couldn't hear him breathe. The quiet was suffocating and disorienting—it seemed Soap felt it too.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Any of it.”

The silence he had cut through came right back. They sat listening to the distant sound of crickets and frogs outside the window. Then, slowly turning around in the bed, Ghost pulled Soap against his chest.

He didn't really believe it, not when his words had matched his every action, but it felt good to pretend he did. Soap felt so right in his arms, Ghost would try to hold on until he couldn't any more—until Soap left him.

He should have packed faster.

-

Soap had hoped it would all blow over after his apology, but it had only gotten worse. Ghost was avoiding him. Not completely, but enough to feel the tension. The typical warmth between them had gone cold, the air stale and suffocating.

In his mind, he knew he had to do something. He had fucked it all up, and he needed to fix it. But how? Admit that he was played for a fool? That he let a friend manipulate him?

Every time he wanted to just let it out, he heard Ghost’s voice in his ear. Be careful who you trust, Sergeant. People you know can hurt you the most.

He was so stupid.

It was obvious he had grossly misjudged someone's character. He knew it was Rickman—his not-so subtle digs at Ghost, the way he undermined Soap's relationship, the strange insinuations of anything more between them.

Ghost definitely had a reason to be concerned with Rickman in the conversation.

But still, somewhere deep down, he was scared. What if under all that he was right. He hated that Rickman had gotten into his brain, but that tiny shred of doubt was all it took to get Soap spiraling.

And yet, he still loved Ghost. So he waited at their usual spot in the mess hall, two plates of food sitting in front of him. He wasn't very hungry, but maybe eating with Ghost would change that.

They just needed to talk—about anything, as long as it showed him the real Ghost again.

Ten minutes after Ghost's typical arrival time, Soap sighed and dropped his head into his hands. Maybe he was just busy with mission details…

“Mind if I sit here?”

Looking up, he was met with Rickman's smiling face. The man didn't wait for an answer, instead sitting in Ghost's spot and pulling the plate of food towards him.

“Oh, broccoli! My favorite; how did you know?”

Soap didn't bother answering as he looked at the doorway in hopes of catching a glimpse of Ghost. He'd probably be pissed Soap was sitting there with Rickman, but Soap didn't have the energy to tell the man to fuck off.

“You're not still mad, are you?” Rickman put down his fork with a frown. “I told you I didn't mean it. Don't you think you're being dramatic?”

The day after their fight at the pub, Rickman had apologized, nearly pleading with Soap to forgive him. He told Soap everything he wanted to hear; in the end, he forgave the man, but the damage had been done. Soap felt like he couldn't trust anyone, let alone him.

Their friendship had begun to sour, Soap growing more and more agitated as he recognized traits in Rickman he didn't like.

The man loved being right, even when he was wrong, and would never change his mind—Soap learned that during an argument over the rules of a card game they could easily look up.

He also tended to overstep boundaries. It was like he was constantly checking them to see if he could blur the lines or push them back; Soap caught on with the way he just kept trying to make “Johnny” work.

It was exhausting. It felt like his friendship with Rickman had ruined everything he built up and gave him nothing in return. He couldn't wait for the man to go back to his old team and for Soap to have his team back.

He wanted Ghost back.

The door to the mess opened, and Soap sat up straight in anticipation. His partner didn't walk through the door, though; it was Price with his head held high.

The captain looked straight at him and started to approach. “Soap. Rickman.”

Rickman looked intimidated as he nodded in greeting.

Soap didn’t really understand it. “Afternoon, Price. Strange seeing you out of your office these days.”

“Well, Ghost has me on a bloody scavenger hunt.” Putting his hands on the back of an empty chair, he looked at Soap and Rickman suspiciously. “I thought he would be with you. Doesn't he usually eat here on Wednesdays?”

Soap sighed. “Aye, but he's a bit busy at the moment.”

At the same time, Rickman butted in. “They're fighting right now.” That made Price raise an eyebrow—and also made Soap kick Rickman under the table.

Price looked at Soap for the truth. “That so?”

“No, we're not. Nothing you need to be concerned about—”

“I think there is plenty to be concerned about, Johnny.” Talking down to Soap like he was a child, Rickman raised an eyebrow. “Do you think the silent treatment will work on the field? Not to mention his bizarre hatred for me—”

“He's not giving me the silent treatment.”

Rickman just shook his head dismissively, turning to Price for support. “Sir, I think it would be best to sort this out before it gets someone killed.”

“I'm inclined to agree. So, MacTavish, are you going to tell me what happened—in a way that maintains my plausible deniability.”

There was nothing for him to say. They weren't fighting. At least, not really. They were more in a weird limbo where Ghost forgave him but he still had to apologize.

It was just so hard to say that when the problem was right there.

“If John won't, do I have permission to speak, sir?” Rickman folded his hands calmly.

“Go ahead.”

“Well, I can't speak about John and Ghost’s private life, but I do know that Ghost heavily dislikes me to the point of antagonism.”

Price stood up taller. “Go on.”

“He has purposely excluded me, tried to guilt Soap into excluding me, and has insulted me to my face.”

“What? That's not true—”

Before the first word was out, Price was already speaking over him. “Too late, Sergeant, you should have spoken up earlier. Rickman, continue.”

“Lieutenant Ghost has made it perfectly clear that he does not like the fact that I am a part of his team. I don't know if it is jealousy or something else, but it is hard to build trust with someone so hostile.”

Soap was absolutely stunned by the gall the man had. It felt like every truth was twisted and expanded to fit his narrative and he said it with perfect conviction.

How often has he been lying to Soap with a straight face?

He felt nauseous as he saw Price nod. “Thank you for informing me. I'll have to have a talk with him, but know that you are a valued member of this team.”

“Thank you, sir.” Rickman looked so proud, like he'd gotten exactly what he wanted.

It took everything in Soap not to jump over and rip him apart like a rabid animal. The last thing he needed was to validate his victim mentality and give Price even more of a reason to be mad.

“If I were you two, I would start preparing for the mission at hand.” Then, looking to Rickman, “I'll make sure everything is handled by then.”

Price left a heavy silence behind. Rickman looked towards Soap for any kind of reaction. Soap wasn't sure what he wanted—anger, sadness, acceptance—but he wasn't giving that bastard anything.

He stood up to leave.

Rickman looked shocked. “Where are you going?”

Soap didn't bother answering as he walked away.

-

Ghost pushed a piece of chicken around on his plate. The officer's mess had better food, but it didn't have Soap—and well, neither did he. It was an absence that was eating away at him.

A part of him just wanted to ignore everything that had happened. With the mission breathing down their necks, Rickman would be gone in no time. Maybe then, everything could go back to normal.

But would it? The team seemed to have moved on from him, whose to say his invitations to poker night won't continue getting lost in the mail. How many times have they already gone out for drinks without him?

He was caught between two sides, wanting to leave before he could get hurt any worse and wanting to ignore it all in favor of enjoying whatever he had left. Just as he was teetering on an answer, the door to the mess swung open.

Standing there was Price, tense and buzzing with energy. The moment he laid eyes on Ghost, he marched over.

“My office. Now.”

He left immediately after. No hello, no how are you. Either Ghost was fucked, or they had finally gotten permission to enact their mission. He wasn't sure which one he wanted less.

Throwing his half eaten tray of food away, he walked over to Price’s office like he was heading to the gallows. Slowly pushing the door open, he crept slowly towards the chair in the center of the room, scared one wrong move would be the end.

“Is there a problem, Price?"

The man didn't flinch, just waited for Ghost to take a seat before immediately starting into a non-sequiter.

“Laswell is planning on permanently transferring Sergeant Rickman onto the team. He has extensive experience in reconnaissance and espionage. Well regarded by officers I trust as well.”

Ghost sat back in confusion—what that meant for him didn't even register. “Is… is this what you called me in for?”

“Why; is that a problem?”

Raising an eyebrow, Price stared at him. Finally, it clicked into place. He knew. He knew about the problems between Ghost and Rickman and he was trying to, what, make Ghost upset? Rub it in his face that they liked Rickman?

Would Price really do that?

“Ghost, would you consider yourself a member of the 141?”

He didn't really know what to say. His answer to that had changed quite a bit over the past few weeks. “What are you trying to get at, Price?”

“I want to know why the team’s unity is falling apart, and why you're at the center of it.”

“I didn't—”

“Tell me then, why weren't you eating with Soap today? And why have you insisted on camping out in my office?”

Ghost had nothing to say.

“So, it's obvious you have been avoiding Soap and it's obvious to me that it's affecting him, especially because he doesn't know why. Do you think that bodes well for communication on the field?”

“No, sir. But—”

“And let's bring it back to Sergeant Rickman for a second. Listen, I know you Simon, and I know you can be a real twat when you want to. Have you, or have you not been one to Rickman?”

“I have not said anything to him that he hasn't deserved.”

Price just sighed. “Simon, look at me. I don't know what this is, but it needs to stop. He's a part of the team, show him respect.”

“You know, Graves was a part of the team once, too.”

There was a twitch of annoyance in Price's face. Instead of dignifying that with a response, he shut it all down. “If you'd prefer, I can move you back to solo missions.”

Ghost felt his stomach drop. Days ago, he had been so content with the idea of being alone again, but now? He didn't want to go back.

He'd gotten a taste of what it meant to be a team—what it meant to be able to trust somebody—and the thought of losing it again scared him. Sure, they might not like him like they used to, but he needed something, anything.

“No, sir. I can still work in a team. I'm still a part of the 141.”

“Then act like it. You're a grown adult and an SAS soldier. This isn't grade school. Your petty squabbles can get someone killed. I want you to get yourself under control before we go on this mission.”

“And when is that?”

Price slid the folder with their mission plans over; Ghost opened it to see printed confirmation of their orders. They'd fly out to a base in Cyprus that evening and ship out to Georgia in the morning.

So, no time at all.

“I want you to show me you can still be a team player, Ghost. Do you hear me?”

There was no room for Ghost to argue his point of view. He was guilty from the jump, and Price was far too snappish to risk arguing back. Even though it made him sick, he took the blame.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go get ready to head out. I'll tell the others.”

“Yes, sir.”

-

Soap stood anxiously in the hangar, checking over his gear one last time. Everything had moved so fast; he barely got time to take a piss, let alone see how Ghost was doing.

The fact that the man got yelled at by Price was gnawing away at him. He needed to know if it was serious or just done out of obligation as their captain. He really hoped in was the former, but with how mad Price looked…

The door to the hangar opened; Price stood there, holding it for Ghost to walk through. Soap watched the man closely as he looked around. The moment their eyes met, Ghost silently approached him.

His eyes gave away no emotions, dull and distant, but he reached out with gentle hands to fix the straps of Soap’s tac vest. Despite the tension obvious between them, he still made sure to check every stitch that was prone to failure and tug gently on every clip to make sure they would hold.

That was the Ghost he knew, kind and loving in his own quiet way—not whatever Rickman had made up in his mind and tried to sell. Soap felt disgusted with himself that he ever considered that awful simulacrum.

While Ghost pulled on his thigh holster to check the fit, Soap couldn't help but reach out. As his hand curled around Ghost's wrist, he whispered quietly, keeping it just between them. “When we get back, I want to talk.”

Ghost's eyes were unreadable, dark beneath his mask. “Should I be worried?”

“No, no. It's nothing serious.” At least, he hoped it wouldn't be. “I just think we should regroup.”

Nodding silently, Ghost stood back up. He looked like he wanted to say something, the words threatening to spill, but he kept them locked tight. With a harsh swallow, they were gone.

"We should get on the helo before Price yells at us." Turning around, Ghost started to walk away.

"Alright, but, Ghost?" His head turned slightly, face still obscured. "You know I love you, right?"

"Of course, Johnny." He didn't turn. Instead, he walked towards the helo. "Come on."

Soap followed grimly behind, already dreading the mission ahead. There were too many things left unsaid to feel comfortable risking that moment being his last, but he had a job to do.

So, he hauled himself up into the body of helicopter. Inside, rwo rows of three seats sat facing each other in the center; Rickman was already sitting in one of the middle seats.

He slapped the seat next to him with a smile; it was on the opposite side of the helicopter as Ghost. Soap ignored him and sat next to his partner. It left them face-to-face, but Soap didn't make eye contact.

Gaz followed shortly behind, hauling himself up before falling into the seat next to Soap. It made Price the lucky loser who had to sit next to Rickman.

As they all buckled in, the helo took off without issue, leaving them all to sit silently in wait. Their flights were rarely ever that quiet; there was no casual conversation nor light joking, just an ever-present silence. It was unnerving. Anybody could tell something was fractured in their team.

Reaching out slowly, Soap tapped on Ghost's hand with his pinkie before looping it around the man’s finger. Without looking down, Ghost curled his own finger to hold Soap tight.

It was all he needed, that reassurance that all wasn't doomed. Ghost was still there. There was still hope.

Looking forward, he saw Rickman looking down at their hands with an annoyed frown. His leg bounced erratically as he fiddled with the strap of his vest. He looked… pathetic.

Soap couldn't bring himself to care about the man anymore. He looked away and let the rumbling of the machine ease his nerves.

-

Dropping down from the helicopter, the team waited for it to lift off and leave them alone. As it did, blades spinning high above him, Soap stared off into the forest on high alert.

“Alright.” Price cleared his throat, shouldering his gun. “You should all know the mission objective by now, but let's run back through it. Find any and all information on the group's illegal work."

Pointing with gloved hands, he assigned everyone to their teams.

“Gaz, you're on overwatch. You know what that means—enemy position updates, check for any backup, the whole deal.”

“Soap, you're with me. We’re going in through the east. If our information is correct, I think we might find some evidence of foul play.”

“Rickman and Ghost, you head in through the south side to check the offices. Rickman, scan everything; if it looks even vaguely important, grab it. Don't bother reading everything. Ghost, check for any computers.”

The idea made him nauseous. He didn't trust Rickman to work well with Ghost at all, not when their lives were on the line.

“Price, can't I go with Ghost?”

“No, I need you with me. If they have explosives stocked up, I need your knowledge. And Rickman is the only one who can read Georgian.”

“Then, why don't you go with Jim—”

Price's professional facade crumbled in seconds. His eye twitched as he turned to Soap, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I'm sorry, Sergeant, did you get promoted to captain recently and forget to tell me?” Soap's teeth clicked as he shut his mouth. “The teams are final. Any other complaints?”

He turned directly to Ghost, almost in challenge. The man was frigid as he responded. “No, sir.”

Soap looked to Gaz to say anything, but he just shrugged. Unbelievable.

“Anything else, Sergeant?”

Considering Rickman looked mighty pleased with himself, Soap knew he was screwed. Nobody else was coming to his defense, so he clenched his jaw and moved on. “No, sir.”

“Good, now let's go. I want to be back at base for a warm dinner.”

-

The base was eerily still as they approached it. Gaz had been watching for a while and not a single person had passed by a window, nor entered or exited the building.

It was a ghost town.

Soap felt unbearably tense as he and Price checked the perimeter. At least when they know there's enemies, he could be prepared for that. He didn't know what to do when it was dead silent.

"Hold on." Price stopped them at a door, checking through the window for any obvious threats. "This should be a good entrance to use."

Then, using his comms, he called to their secondary team. "Soap and I are in position. What's your status, Ghost?"

Quickly, as though he was racing to get there first, Rickman replied, "Moving interior, now."

Muffled in the background, he heard, "Wait, we haven't secured—" before his comms cut out.

"Everything okay over there?" Price looked mighty worried for a man so sure about his partner assigning skills.

"Of course." Rickman sounded wholly unconcerned. "The building's empty."

Soap and Price looked at each other, but there wasn't much to say. Well, for Price, that is. Soap had one thing to say.

"This mission better go smoothly."

Price didn't look him in the eye as he prepared to open the door. Holding the handle, he slowly pulled it down before throwing it open.

Quickly pushing into the room, Soap scanned for anything of importance with his gun. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, inside. Dust let them know something was there before, but whatever it was was long gone.

The group they were chasing must have abandoned the base recently. But more than likely, they would have left something behind, so Soap kept looking for any kind of hint.

“Fuck’s sake." He peeked into the next room, even barer than the last. "It's emptier in here than a cunt's heart.”

After a moment of silence, Gaz's voice crackled to life, audibly dissapointed. “Don't think that's the saying, Tav…”

"Well it works fine, doesn't it?"

Their comms went silent again. Soap was hoping for some kind of joke, some witty quip or put-down by Ghost, but there was nothing.

Instead, he got Rickman. "Why don't we ask Ghost? He'd know."

Freezing in place, Soap turned slowly to Price. The man's eyebrows shot up as he switched on his comms. "Sergeant, what is that supposed to mean?"

Cool, calm, and collected, Rickman responded, "Lieutenant Ghost is smart, isn't he? He'd know the real saying."

What a load of shit. From the way he said it to the fact he knew they didn't need the actual saying, Soap could just feel Rickman was being a prick.

Suddenly, it clicked. That's what Ghost was picking up on. Rickman tried to hide it, but they'd let him get away with so much, he'd gotten confident.

"You don't actually believe that, do you, Price?"

The man squinted as he thought about it. "Not particularly, but we should focus on the mission. We'll talk about this later."

-

Ghost wasn't particularly surprised nobody said anything. They loved giving Rickman the benefit of the doubt, and based on that smug look on Rickman's face, he knew it.

So, he took the insult on the chin. No use in complaining when nobody would believe him. Better to put that energy towards getting his mission done and getting it done fast.

They'd found themselves in a medium-sized room full of office desks. It was run down, a layer of dust on top of everything. If he didn't know better, he'd think it had been completely abandoned, but there had to be some proof of life.

Creeping around, he tried to look for anyhing he could use with his gun at the ready. Rickman followed behind, cradling his gun in his arms. He was looking at the papers as they passed, picking up any that looked interesting.

"No computers in this dump, huh? Guess you were useless after all." Ghost chose to ignore him, continuing to search for anything of importance. "I'm stuck playing babysitter for a—"

One of the desks looked different from the others. The dust on the top had been disturbed, like someone put something on top of it. What's more, the right drawer's handle was suspiciously shiny.

Opening it up, he found an old, worn-down laptop hidden inside. He was so happy to have something to throw in Rickman's face he didn't even stop to think about how strange of a find it was.

"What was that, again, Sergeant?"

Scoffing, Rickman occupied himself with looking at another desk's papers. "Got lucky."

It felt good to knock Rickman down a peg. He'd prefer to knock out a few teeth while he did, but he'd take what he could get.

"Price, I've got a hidden laptop over here. The password is too complex for me to crack, so I'm going to see if I can get anything off of it."

"Good work out there. Keep it up, Ghost."

The moment Price's voice faded in their ears, Rickman was back on his bullshit again. It was like he couldn't stand the attention not being on him for a moment and needed to take it out on somebody.

“Think we should go out for drinks after this one—well, if you're invited." Ghost just slotted his usb into the laptop. "Not going to say anything?”

“We're on a mission, Sergeant. Stay quiet before you attract attention.”

“Oh, yeah, I'll attract attention from the dust on fucking walls.” Rickman pushed a handful of papers out of the way. “You're just mad because you didn't win. Price, Soap, and Gaz like me better. Admit it.”

“They do.”

“What?”

“You're right. They just keep choosing to believe you and invite you to things. Congratulations. Now what? Feel better about yourself yet?”

Despite winning, Rickman looked annoyed. He clicked his teeth and walked away. Ghost tried to ignore him, watching the bar on the computer screen slowly tick up instead, but it was hard when a crash sounded from behind.

"What the—"

Price's voice interrupted him. "What the bloody hell was that?"

Turning around, Ghost watched Rickman walk past a filing cabinet he'd tipped over. Papers spilled out carelessly.

"What, are you twelve? Knock it off."

"There is fuck-all in here."

Rolling his eyes, Ghost switched on his comms. "Rickman dropped a filing cabinet—"

Interrupting, Rickman continued his tantrum, yelling out from the other side of the room. “Pushing into the next room!"

"What? Sergeant, we're not done in here—"

Rickman didn't bother listening, waltzing into the next room without a care. He was acting so lackadaisical, not caring one bit about the fact that they were still in an enemy base in a foreign country—currently occupied or not.

"Did he just leave you?" Soap sounded livid. "See, Price, this is the exact fucking reason why—"

Ghost was suprised; he hadn't expected Soap to stand up for him like that, even if he only caught a bit of it. When the man asked to be paired with him earlier, he thought it was just typical Soap behavior, but now he was starting to see it in a different light.

Was Soap starting to believe him?

"Um, guys, let's stay on task." Gaz, as always, with his head screwed on straight. "I'm bloody freezing out here, and I'd like to get back home quick enough so my nipples don't fall off."

"Garrick's right." Price's microphone caught the quiet murmur of Soap complaining in the background. "Rickman, Ghost is your superior. Treat him as such. Now, get back to work."

Rickman didn't respond, nor did he return to the room Ghost was in. Not that he minded though. It was quieter without him there to act like a fool. Ghost felt like he could finally get his job done without worrying about the man breathing down his shoulder to look for the next thinly-veiled insult.

After all the commotion, the computer he'd found was close to completing the transfer, the progress bar slowly creeping into the nineties.

Holding down his comms, he started to give his update to Price. "Nearly done with my data collection—"

Just when the bar hit 100% and Ghost ejected it from the computer, he heard panicked footsteps outside the door Rickman left. "Enemy engaged!"

"What!?" Soap's voice overlapped his own, the two merging into one as Rickman threw the door open.

He ran clumsily into the room before hurridly taking cover behind one of the desks. Ghost had no time to register what was happening before a lone enemy joined them, gun held high.

There were two quick shots in succession, then all was quiet again.

“S’that gunshots!?" Price's voice came through their comms in anxious static. "Ghost, Rickman, what's your status!?”

“All solid over here. Only one enemy, and they're neutralized.” Leaning down, Rickman kicked the body with a smug smile. “With a perfect head shot, might I add.”

Instead of congratulations, he got Soap's tense voice over the line. “And Ghost?”

“Oh, stop worrying about him; he's fine—”

“He can talk for himself well enough, Jim.” After a moment of silence, Soap’s voice became shaky. “Ghost, how copy?”

“For fuck’s sake, Lieutenant,” Rickman growled, “You aren't still giving us the silent treatment… Ghost?”

Finally turning, Rickman stared in horror as Ghost slowly slid down the side of an office desk. He was slumped over, holding onto his abdomen with a far away look in his eyes.

“Fucking shite! Lieutenant, you with me?”

Pulling the man away from the furniture, he tried to assess the damage. There was a bullet wound on the bottom left of his torso, far enough to not do major damage, but there was still a chance something got nicked. Not good.

Fully panicking, he pressed all his body weight down onto the wound as Ghost looked around dazed, his voice wispy. “Johnny's calling me.”

Shit. Rickman finally registered the voice in his ear. “Jim, what the fuck! What the fuck happened to Ghost!?”

“He's—he’s down. Shot to the torso. Price call for an emergency med evac.”

“You said everything was fine!” Soap was breathing hard into his mic, likely sprinting towards their location. He could hear Price yelling in the background.

“I—I didn't think—”

“Obviously, you didn't think. This is why you should have left the communication up to Ghost and should have stopped fucking around!”

Rickman's hands began to shake with the force of Ghost's laughter. “Johnny's mad.” For a man who was just shot, he sounded eerily cheerful. “You're fucked, mate.”

-

The moment Ghost didn't answer, Soap was off. Fuck the mission and fuck stealth; he needed to get to Ghost and he needed to get there fast.

Price acted upset that Soap abandoned the mission objective, but he still bounded behind him without any issue. They weren't going to get any information in that dump, anyway. Ghost was more important.

Busting through doors without a care, he made a sprint towards the south of the building. His gun swung side to side wildly as he quickly checked his surroundings, far too fast to guarantee he was safe, but it got him to their location in record time.

The first thing he saw as he approached was Ghost’s limp body on the floor and Rickman nervously pressing down on the wound. Well, that would be what he saw behind layers of red.

“John—”

“I'll fucking kill you, you fucking wankstain!” Charging, Soap decked Rickman straight in the cheek. It sent the man flying towards the ground; Soap wasted no time in following him down. “Give me one good reason not to blow your pea brain out your skull!”

“John, please, calm down!”

He was on top of the man, shaking hands gripping his jacket collar. There was so much rage flowing through him, he didn't know what to do with it. It choked him, made his eyes grow wet. In a way, it was indistinguishable from grief.

Rearing his hand back, he sneered. “Calm down!? You were just going to let Simon bleed out, and you want me to calm down?!”

“I—I can explain!” Rickman held his hands up to his face, barely blocking Soap's second punch.

“Explain this!” He reared back again, preparing to hit hard enough to knock the lights outs.

Heavy footsteps thudded against the tile behind him, quick and determined. A strong grip circled his wrist and pulled him off of Rickman. It lifted him off the ground, and Soap struggled the whole way.

“Get off me! Let me at him!”

Before he knew it, his face was stinging something fierce; someone slapped him.

“Get it together, Sergeant.” Price was holding his shoulders. “We are in an active warzone and your lieutenant is down. Act like it.”

Immediately, Soap came back to himself, gaze hardening as he remembered where he was. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Don't be sorry, be bloody ready.” The man stepped back, taking in the scene.

Gaz, having abandoned his own job, was on Ghost, filling the wound with gauze and keeping him awake with a calm and steady voice. Rickman was still on the ground, shell shocked as he held his stinging face.

“We need to get him out of here.” Walking forward, Price raised his gun. “I'll take point. Soap, you carry him; Gaz, you watch our six.”

Timidly, Rickman spoke up. “What do you want me to do—”

“Stay out of our fucking way before you end up MIA. Now let's fucking go!”

That was all Soap needed to hear for him to jump into action. Leaning over Ghost, he hauled the man up. “Fuck, you're a heavy bastard.”

Soap tried to get Ghost to walk with him, but he could barely stumble forward, his legs heavy and uncoordinated. They only got a few steps from where they started before Soap gave up. There was no way they could walk together.

“Fuck this.” Bending down, Soap maneuvered Ghost onto his back with a grunt. “Keep your blood in.”

As he began to march forward, he heard Ghost's shaky voice mumble a memory from an earlier time, “I'll need every drop.”

-

Their ride home managed to fly in much closer to the base now that they knew it was mostly abandoned. But even though it was a shorter walk, it still felt like an eternity.

Soap was exhausted, Ghost growing heavier and heavier around his shoulders. The man had gone quiet since they set off, blood loss getting to him, and the silence was haunting. Soap couldn't let him die like that.

Pushing through the burn in his legs and the lethargy spreading across his entire body, Soap practically sprinted towards the helicopter in the distance. The moment he made it, he threw Ghost over the edge and doubled over to catch his breath.

By the time he hauled himself up, the medic was already at work in stabilizing Ghost. Gaz and Rickman were sitting silently, strapping in for the ride. Neither of them looked Soap in the eye.

Behind him, Price pulled himself up, no longer needing to stand watch. He waved for the pilot to go and immediately turned towards Ghost.

“Let me see him—”

Like a dog protecting its territory, Soap growled and put himself between the two. “Get away from him.” Pressing a finger into Price’s vest, he snarled. “This is your fault; he'd still be standing if you let me go with him, instead.”

The medic, voice strained by the unbearable tension, tried to help. “It’s really not that bad. The lieutenant is going to be okay. He's stabilized, so you two can sit in your seats—”

“Look what happened the last time I trusted someone else to watch him.” Soap pointed to Ghost’s limp body. “No fucking thanks. I'm sitting right here.”

Plopping down on the floor of the helicopter, he stared the medic straight in the eye, daring him to protest. Of course, he didn't, even as he started to sweat under Soap's burning gaze.

Price was kind enough to sit down in an actual seat, but he took the one right next to Ghost's body—staring straight at it for most of the fight. When he wasn't, he and Soap were glaring at each other.

Soap knew Price wanted to discipline him, but it was neither the time nor place. Luckily, Soap didn't give a damn about decorum or rationality. Now that Ghost was safe, he could be an asshole and nobody could stop him.

He was furious with all of them for what they did to Ghost. Furious with Price for his power play putting Ghost in danger. Furious with Gaz for not backing him up when he tried to fight it. Furious with Rickman for obvious reasons.

But most infuriatingly, pissed at himself for igniting the entire problem. If only he had listened, if he had shut Rickman down from the start, maybe things would have been different. Maybe Ghost wouldn't have been bleeding out on the floor of the helicopter.

He couldn't go back in time, but he could make sure it never happened again. And that started by watching the medic’s every move, even if he looked like he was going to piss himself in fear.

-

Ghost had gone in for surgery hours ago. Soap hadn't been told anything aside from the fact he was still alive. To the state, they were nothing more than colleagues, so Soap had no claim to his medical information.

It drove him crazy.

Price and Gaz decided to stay with him in the lobby of the ICU; he wasn't sure if it was out of a similar need to be close by in case anything happened, or just to make sure Soap wouldn't bust into Ghost's hospital room and get arrested.

Either way, they didn't seem quite as high-strung as Soap was, pacing a line in the floor and biting his nails down to their beds. Price sat there quietly, shoulders tense but eyes calm, and Gaz was passed out with his hat over his eyes.

They had been there a while… When did Soap get so hungry? He couldn't remember how long it had been since he last ate.

Turning on his heel, he started towards the hallway that held them. “I'm going to go get something from the vending machines.”

Price grunted. “Grab me—”

“Fuck off, Price.”

Soap walked past him and turned down the quiet hallway. It only held the bathroom doors and a couple old vending machines. Looking them over, he was underwhelmed by the options.

There were various flavors of crisps, assorted nuts, candy bars, gummy snacks, and more; the thought of eating any of them when Ghost was being sewn back together settled terribly in his stomach.

His hunger turned to dust on his tongue.

Still, he knew he needed something, especially after that shit show of a mission. So, he closed his eyes and pointed to something. When he opened it, he decided to go with the bag of Hula Hoops.

Punching in the product number, Soap watched the metal coil turn slowly. It felt like an eternity, sitting there and watching it spin, but maybe that was just the sleep deprivation getting to him.

In some cruel turn of fate, the bag rustled lightly but never fell. It dangled there, taunting him.

“Of-fucking-course.” Smacking the side, he tried to get it to fall. It barely moved, laughing at him as he started to shake the machine in desperation. “Seriously?”

Dropping his head against the cold glass, he fought the urge to cry. It was just one thing after another; he could never get it right.

He missed Ghost.

“John?” Occupied with his one-sided fight with the vending machine, he didn't pick up on the approaching footsteps. “Are you okay?”

Turning slowly, Soap looked Rickman in the eyes. “You just let my partner get shot and did nothing to help. How do you think I am? Why the fuck are you even here? It's not like you care about Ghost’s recovery.”

At least Rickman had the good sense to look ashamed. “Listen, John, I'm sorry—”

His anger has long since fizzled out, the fuse burnt so low it was hard to ignite again; all Soap could do was look in bewilderment. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Haven't you done enough fucking damage? Leave me alone.”

“Can I please just explain? I didn't mean to hurt you.”

Oh, but he did mean to hurt Ghost, didn't he? Soap rolled his eyes as Rickman continued.

“I just—I’m in love with you. And I always have been, but I never wanted to do anything about it until I saw you were stuck with Ghost.” Rickman lowered his head. “I got so used to seeing him as competition that I… I forgot he was also a teammate.”

Fucking hell, he really was trying to replace Ghost. And Soap was stupid enough to let it continue.

Sighing, all Soap could muster was a disappointed stare.

“Seriously? You're fucking delusional, Jim. He was never competition because there was no competition. The sun could burn out, only leaving me and you, and I'd still choose Ghost. I'd choose Simon.”

“After everything we've been through?”

“Everything? Like you trying to convince me Simon was cheating on me, or fucking abusive? We have not gone through anything together. If anything, I had to go through you.”

“So what, is that it? The night I joined, you told me it was the most fun you've had in a long time. You told me I was a great friend, that you loved me.”

“That was before I knew you. I know who you are now, and I can't fucking stand you. And no matter what you try and say, I fucking love Ghost, and I'm not letting you screw us over any longer.”

“Fine. Fuck you, Johnny.”

It took everything in Soap to not kill that man where he stood. The last thing he needed was a night in jail while his partner was in the hospital. So he let Rickman have the last word, that last word he hated.

Fist clenched, he waited until Rickman's footsteps faded before whipping around and kneeing the vending machine. It shook slightly, and the snack he paid for smacked against the floor of the machine.

He pulled it out with a growl.

-

Ghost hated hospitals. There was nothing worse than being stuck in bed, surrounded by tubes, and wires, and needles. Well, maybe the knowledge he was getting pumped full of strong painkillers was worse.

As much as he hated it, though, he knew it was needed. He could still feel his abdomen aching incessantly under it all, but here was no way he was asking for a higher dose.

Worse still, the beeping of his heart monitor was echoing in the empty room; it drove him crazy, listening to his heart working so hard to keep him alive. It had no idea what it was like to live the life it sustained.

Ghost, all alone in there, couldn't help but think of the past few weeks. He felt betrayed. All the trust he'd put into his team, time after time, only to have them sit by as everything went to hell.

Dozens of opportunities to stop Rickman, and not a single one taken.

He couldn't blame them, really. Who would suspect that a trained soldier would act so stupidly because of personal drama? It wasn't just Ghost's life he put at risk. But still, he was the one groaning in a hospital bed at the end of the day.

His pity party was cut woefully short by a knock at the door. Soap, Gaz, and Price slipped inside in a line, standing awkwardly by the door in the same clothes they wore to the mission.

They all looked terrible, like they hadn't slept in weeks. It made him feel better about how wrecked he probably looked.

Soap was the first to speak. “How are you feeling, Simon?”

“Like shite.”

“Look like it, too, mate.” Gaz was quickly elbowed by Price.

"Thanks. You three don't look much better."

As if they were taking turns, Price asked, "So, how are you healing up?"

The small talk was grating on Ghost, but he tried to stay civil. "Fine, but they had to sew up a laceration in my intestine. I'm stuck here until they guarantee there's no infection."

"What!?" Soap lit up with anger. "The medic said you were fine; that sounds pretty fucking serious."

Calmly, Gaz placed a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, well with you raging, I don't think anyone would be too keen on telling you Ghost was in critical condition."

"That bastard—no, the important thing is that you're still here." The moment Soap calmed down, something seemed to crack in him, replacing the anger with something else. "Thank fucking Christ you're still here."

It made him feel nice, seeing his team there to check on his health, but he was tired. Words couldn't begin to descibe how exhausted he felt of it all.

"Got lucky." Letting his head roll over the pillow, he turned to his captain. "Wasn't enough of a team player, was I, Price? Guess our petty squabble did get someone hurt—just not the person you expected."

The man couldn't even make eye contact with him. "Listen, Simon, I'm sorry. I was too harsh because of stress—"

"I'd like to request to be moved to solo missions again, Captain."

All three of them yelled simultaneously. "What!?"

"Come on, mate. Don't be like that." Gaz stepped forward with a crooked, uneasy smile.

Price followed, hands out like he was trying to physically stop the words from reaching him. "Simon, let's think about this."

But he already had. They seemed fine enough without him—him and his jealousy, his petty squabbles, his terrible attitude. He could move on, work with the only person he could trust: himself.

"Price, my decision is final—"

"I swear on all that is holy, I did not cheat on you!"

Now it was everyone's turn to stare at Soap—looking panicked and sick. "What?"

"I-I didn't cheat on you with Jim. I would have never dreamt of it."

Ghost stared in abject confusion. Soap had never looked so scared before in his life. He didn't look guilty, just terrified. "I… didn't think you did, but now I don't know."

Soap stared back with that same stupid, confused look. "Huh?"

They both stared at each other for a moment, unsure of what they had both heard. It was Price that finally knocked them out of it, hissing out a question between gritted teeth.

"Sergeant, were the personal issues you had me yell at Ghost about… about you cheating?"

That had Soap standing up straight, chest pushed out in indignation. "I didn't have you do anything, Jim just blabbed and you believed him…" and then he deflated, "but yes. At least, I thought it was."

Quickly turning to Ghost, he looked to turn the heat onto someone else. "If you didn't think something was going on, then why were you acting so jealous and asking me if I was going out alone with him?"

Is… is that what he thought Ghost was asking about!?

"I was asking if you were taking him out to drink with the team without me. Again."

Suddenly, all eyes were on him. He felt like he was melting under their stares. They all looked—baffled?

"Again?" Soap spoke slowly. "We never went out as a team with Jim."

"He's right." Price backed him up. "You saw how busy I was. I've barely left my office the past few weeks."

Gaz followed, crossing his arms. "And you couldn't pay me to spend extra time with Rickman. I did enough of that already."

They must have taken acting classes together, too, because they were really selling it. But Ghost saw it with his own two eyes. They had to be lying.

"Don't lie to me, I saw the pictures."

The three looked between each other, stupidied. Soap had the audacity to look concerned. "What pictures, Simon?"

"The ones of you all at poker night, without me." He felt himself getting worked up; haven't they lied enough? "I saw them!"

Gaz joined in the pitying looks. It made him sick. "Ghost, we haven't had poker night since before you left on that solo mission. What are you talking about?"

Looking deep in thought, Soap seemed to have remembered something important. "The only poker game I've played was one with Jim and two other sergeants… who looked suspiciously like you two—hold on."

They all watched as he scrolled through his endless catalogue of photos. It would be a long scroll; Soap would take pictures of anyhing and everything he could think of and never deleted them.

Gasping once he found them, he turned his phone around. "I have pictures from that night! Look, it wasn't them."

"But he told me…"

There was no denying it. Soap was right. There were full pictures of the game Rickman showed him; same winning hand and everything.

It sure did look like Gaz and Price from the elbows down, but when the camera panned up, it wasn't them. Ghost couldn't fathom the grudge someone would have to hold to stage something like that, fancy cigar and all.

Price squinted, leaning in to see. "That would have fooled me, too. Did he pick people who looked like us on purpose?"

"He probably did." Gaz could barely even look as Soap scrolled through the pictures. "Ugh, I always knew he was a freak."

Soap put his phone away with a scoff. "Easy to say now that everyone hates him."

"I'm being serious, mate. He came on so strong; it felt desperate. Not to mention the ways he'd chat shite about Ghost."

Ghost couldn't believe it. "And you didn't do anything?"

And, seemingly, neither could Soap. "And you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't think it was important. Plenty of insecure blokes do it. I usually just tell them to stop and move on. I didn't think he mattered all that much"

Glancing over Ghost in his hospital bed, he suddenly got sheepish. "Guess I should have said something… I'm sorry, mate."

It was nice and all, but that wasn't even scratching the surface of the things he needed apologies for. "Well, I can't blame you, because it's not like Soap would have believed you."

"Oh come on, Simon, it's not like you gave me much to go off—" Soap stopped himself, looking down at the floor in regret. "No, you're right. I'm sorry. We should have talked through it more."

The moment he turned to Price, the man was already apologizing. "I should have listened to your side instead of yelling at you. It's not your fault the team was falling a part. I'm the captain; I should have known better."

Huh. It felt strange to hear them all just apologize like that. All that worrying he'd done was for nothing; it wasn't his fault.

Relaxing back into the mattress, he sighed. "For a military unit, this team is right shite at communicating." The others gave sheepish smiles. "You're all forgiven."

There was a collective sigh of relief shared by the men. But right before they could put it all to rest, Gaz spoke up.

"I just have one question: why didn't you talk to either of us?" Gaz gestured between him and Price. "We could have put Rickman in his place much earlier."

It was a good question. Weeks ago he would have had no problem complaining about the new asshole on the team.

"He did a good job convincing me you were all his best friend, I guess. Figured it would be better to quit while I was ahead."

Soap crossed his arms, holding himself tight. "Don't think I helped much, either."

Quietly, they all took in the information they'd learned. It was a nightmare scenario, everything going wrong at the perfect time with a manipulative jerk to top it all off.

Price was the first to speak again, turning to Ghost with a solemn frown. "Listen, Simon, after all we put you through the past few weeks, I won't blame you for wanting to step back, but do you really want to go back to solo missions?"

He couldn't imagine something he wanted less. He'd said it in a last ditch effort to protect himself, a final wrap of the tape around his boxes, but now? Now, he just wanted to take back the life Rickman tried to steal from him.

So, clasping his hands together, he gave his answer. "No. We're a team, and I won't abandon you that easily." Then a smirk, "Christ know you all need me."

Soap snickered. "And there he is, the vain bastard."

"Thank God, I don't know how we would have handled Tav without you to give him enough attention—"

"Hey, I'm right here, you eedjit! Say it to my face!"

Grabbing Gaz by the collar, Soap started a lighthearted tiff with the man. Ghost didn't realized how much he'd missed moments like that, where he just got to laugh at his friends without a worry that someone would try to them away.

"Alright, alright, boys, break it up." Price pulled the two away from each other. "If we have time for your stupid antics, then we've got time to go get food. I'm starving."

Gaz seemed to suddenly recognize his own hunger. "Christ, I haven't eaten anything since we left for the mission."

"Neither have I. We should go scout out the hospital cafe for anything good. Soap, you joining us?"

The man hesitated, but Ghost knew his answer. "I'm going to stay with Simon for a little longer."

Gaz didn't seem too surprised, either. "We'll bring you some food, then, mate."

"Aye, I'd appreciate it."

As Price and Gaz left, Soap took a seat in one of the small bedside chairs. He looked out of place, stiff as he looked over Ghost's body. It's like it was finally hitting him.

Slowly, Ghost extended his hand for Soap to hold. The minute their fingers interwined, he relaxed; it was a place he knew well.

Soap laid his head down on Ghost's leg, eyes closed. "Anything to get out of a serious conversation, aye?"

"I thought you said it wasn't serious."

"I was hoping it wouldn't be…" His eyes were wet when he opened them, "but things have a way of getting worse, don't they?"

Something inside Ghost's chest twisted; he wasn't sure quite what it was. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Would you believe me if I said it was to tell you you were right about Jim?"

"I'd find it hard to believe…"

"Figures." Sitting up, Soap pulled himself back together. "Well, after that fight we had, Jim got a lot bolder. Guess he figured I would side with him again; he started chatting rubbish."

His face twisted with shame. "Realized pretty quickly after that he was a right bastard. Started noticing things I hadn't before, insults, looks, the whole nine yards. I just wish I'd said something before we left."

Taking a deep breath, he looked Ghost right in the eye. "I know I already said it, but I'm sorry. I was so stupid. I shouldn't have trusted him at all; I should have shut him up before—"

"Johnny, do you know what I've always liked most about you?"

Soap blinked in confusion. "What?"

"I like that you always see the best in people. You hate to see someone misjudged or treated unfairly, and you have a lot of faith in people to be good."

"Aye, well look where that's left me now." He grimaced. "I had faith in the wrong person, and it almost cost me everything. It almost cost me you."

"I'm not mad about that."

"You should be."

"But then I'd have to be mad at the parts of you I love. I don't want you to change; I just wanted you to believe me like you believed him."

Finally, it seemed to click for Soap. The problem wasn't that he trusted Rickman, it's that he stopped trusting Ghost to do so. "I'm sorry. Next time, I promise I'll have your back no matter what; even if it's my maw."

The determined look on Soap's face made him chuckle. "I don't think I'll be having any problems with Elsie, but I appreciate the thought."

Everything felt lighter in that moment. The last of the worries and fears Ghost had felt were lifted off his chest. His team didn't leave him, his partner still loved him, and they would have his back no matter what.

Relaxing back into the bed, he watched Soap play absentmindedly with their fingers. There was a look on his face; he was thinking hard.

"What's on your mind, Johnny?"

"You know, Jim said a lot of nice things about you before he went off the deep end. Told me you were cool, and talented, and a good man. I thought that was to trick me, but I think he was telling the truth."

"Really?" He didn't know if he believed it.

"Yeah. That's why he hated you so much. You had the skills and the personality he wanted; you had a team that really fucking cared for you, and you had me."

Ghost couldn't help but realize that could have been him: sequestered to his own solitary hell, resentful of those outside, and begging to be anyone but himself. It was a sad, sad life to lead.

"When you put it like that, he sounds right pitiful. Feel bad for the bloke."

He could have had it all, too, if he just acted normally. Price was planning on adding him to the team, his personality was enough to attract half the base, Ghost would have gladly taught him new techniques, and it was obvious Soap enjoyed his presence.

In another life, they could have even been friends.

"Aye, but doesn't it put what we have into prepective?"

Looking down at Soap's hand in his, he smiled. "I guess it does."

-

"Good morning, Simon!"

Moments away from dozing off to a cooking show, Ghost sat up slowly. "Johnny, it's half past eight. PM. And I think you've woken up half the bloody patients in the building."

"Well, if you're going to be a prick, I won't show you my surprise."

Snapping to attention, Ghost finally looked at the man. He was in casual clothes, a bit wet from the rain, and obviously holding something behind his back.

"It's not a bomb, is it?"

"A-a bomb!? You think so lowly of me, Simon." He glanced back almost as though he was double checking it was, in fact, not an explosive. "Nope, no bombs here; just… a blast!"

Bringing his hands back to the front, he revealed the two heavy, nondescript bags he'd brought.

"Wow. I'm positively teeming with excitement."

Soap pouted, his shoulders drooping. "Don't be so deadpan, you dobber. I put a lot of fucking work into this—and you didn't even laugh at my pun!"

"Sorry, Johnny, I—wait, is that—"

He could see two familiar faces in the doorway, peeking in. Gaz strolled in, trailed by Price.

"How the hell did you all get in here?" Ghost looked at his team in surprise. "Isn't it past visiting hours?"

"Come on, mate; since when do we play by the rules?" Gaz had a point.

Looking tense, Price rubbed his temple. "Just… try and keep it quiet."

It was definitely the sergeants' idea to sneak in, then.

As soon as the door was shut, the three got to work rearranging his small hospital room. Chairs were assembled around his bed and the small table for his food wheeled over. Price cracked the window open while Gaz and Soap busied themselves with unpacking the bags.

"What the hell is going on?"

Immediately, everyone stopped to look at him; Gaz reached into the bag to pull something out. "Mate, you didn't forget, did you? It's Friday."

He held up the poker kit they always used, freshly stolen from the rec room.

"But…"

"Look, we've got snacks," Soap pulled out a bag of his favorite crisps, "and drinks," a few bottles of alcohol, "and Price's new cigars. Obviously the last two are off limits for you, but we can give you an unlit cigar to feel included."

"Did… did you three smuggle alcohol and cigars into the hospital so we could play poker?"

Price shrugged as he took a seat. "Smuggle's such a strong word… but what they don't know won't hurt them."

"Right, and we can't have the full poker experience without them." Gaz started to count out the chips. "I have a game to win."

Ghost watched as his bed became a poker table. "You find joy in beating a man when he's down, huh, Garrick? Sick fucker."

"Who do you think I am? I'm not going easy on you just because you were shot."

"Oh, it's on."

Laying out the cards, they started their game—flipping over cards, upping the ante, and bluffing beyond belief. They argued and joked, laughing the night way in that tiny hospital room.

Surrounded by his teammates, Ghost didn't feel alone anymore.