Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John “Soap” MacTavish reaches behind him with a quiet groan, fingers fumbling at the tie of his hospital robe.

It’s been a couple of weeks since he first woke up, and only the second time he’s managed to stand—this time without help. A win, even if his knees still shake like they’re scared of the floor. Walking’s a different fight altogether, but just standing still feels like progress.

The meds have been working small miracles, too. The pain’s still there, sharp and nagging, but mostly manageable as long as he doesn’t push himself. Which, naturally, he does all the time.

He’s desperate to get out of this sterile, colorless hellhole Coalescence so kindly keeps him in. He misses his own bed. His clothes. And, more than anything, being able to take a piss without an audience.

Soap lets the blue hospital robe slide off his shoulders and down his arms, pooling at his feet. He’s still in boxers, modesty barely hanging on by a thread, but frankly, there's no one to impress. Not like there is a part of his body, inside and out, that these people haven’t seen anyway.

He faces the mirror and straightens his back instinctively. It doesn't help. The man staring back at him still doesn’t look quite right.

On the bright side, he looks worse than he feels.

On the not-so-bright side… he looks awful. Like a stitched-up doll that someone gave up on halfway through. Jagged sutures cross his chest and stomach in every direction. Skin grafts cling like foreign, oddly-colored patches. Angry, swollen scars snake across his neck, his legs, his hip. Even his belly button is warped beyond recognition—just another casualty in a long list.

His hair’s grown out while he slept through hell. His body’s dropped weight. The hard edges of muscle he worked for are softer now, faded under physical trauma and bed-ridden time.

He studies the reflection like it’s a stranger. A stranger who looks sad, and broken. Someone who looks like he just clawed his way out of the ground. He's in no shape to go back to the field, and yet, he can't take the idea off his mind. Soap would give his left arm to feel the sun on his face again, the sting of wind in his lungs, the ground trembling under his feet.

A low cough breaks the silence. Soap turns toward the sound.

Ghost stands next to the mirror, arms crossed, gaze locked on Soap’s reflection. He tilts his head slightly to one side… then the other, as if assessing the damage.

“You look like shite.”

Soap turns his torso, squinting over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the mess of stitches across his back. The bend sends needles of pain from the bottom of his skull to the tip of his toes, but he soldiers through it.

“Aye. Should’ve seen the other guy.”

“That I did.” Ghost nods once. “Big bastard didn’t have a scratch on ‘im.”

Soap snorts, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He lifts a hand to the back of his neck, fingers brushing through the longer hair until they find it—cold and unfamiliar. A sliver of metal nestled beneath the skin.

The DNI. His new neural implant. The second chance at life Ghost bought him through his dark deal with Coalescence.

“If you’d let me have one more moment with that bot,” he mutters, “I’d have had him beggin’ on his knees.”

Ghost scoffs, shifting his weight with a faint creak of boots on linoleum.

“Beggin’? Looked like he was about to plead for your life. You were practically soup when I got to you.”

Soap lets his hand drop to his stomach, fingertips tracing the jagged path of a stitch that spirals like a storm.

“Aye," he cocks his head. "I can see that.”

Ghost exhales, tone softer now. “Well, y’know. Some people find men with scars attractive.”

Soap turns just enough to catch Ghost’s eyes in the mirror, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Some people?”

“Sure.”

“Does that include you, by any chance?”

Ghost folds his arms over his chest and steps forward, closing the short distance between them.

The familiar warmth hits Soap first. Ghost’s usual scent, all clean deodorant and quiet comfort, now laced with the cheap, too-sweet tang of Coalescence-brand disinfectant gel. Doesn’t suit him. Doesn’t suit anyone, really.

Ghost lifts the hem of his skull balaclava, just enough to show his mouth. Rare move that he’s been showing these few days ever since they came back from the DNI tests.

“Get your ego checked, MacTavish…”

His voice is low, rough. A warning or a tease. Maybe both.

Soap leans in, close enough that their breaths touch. That one small patch of exposed skin—Ghost’s lips, Soap’s own—feels like the center of the bloody universe.

This. This is what being alive again means. Raw and impossible to simulate. No DNI hallucination could ever compare to the electricity of reality. The adrenaline rush of being this close to Ghost and knowing he’s constantly tip toeing the line between restraint and passion. It’s even more mind-numbing that he could have ever imagined. Although the painkillers are likely also playing their part.

The man is right there. Close enough to drive him mad. Close enough to kiss.

“Am I interrupting?”

Soap flinches at the sound of Price’s voice. The knock comes a beat too late. Just for show, really. The man’s already halfway inside.

Both of them snap apart like they’ve been caught stealing at the base. Soap’s heart trips over itself, his face heating with something halfway between guilt and frustration.

He’s not even sure what they were doing, technically. It's not like he can do much... not with the state he is in. Recovery doesn't leave much room for clarity. Not in his body, and sure as hell not in their relationship. And it’s not like they’ve defined anything yet.

But people have been whispering. Soap’s heard the tone shift in the hallways, caught the glances in the med bay. Maybe it's about what happened during DNI training. Maybe it's the fact Ghost hasn’t left his side since dragging him in bleeding and half-dead. Or maybe it’s just the way he still refuses to leave the lab at all. He wonders if the rumors have reached the TF141 as well. Or if perhaps they were always there, for different reasons.

“Captain.” Soap nods, trying to play it cool, like he doesn’t still feel Ghost’s breath on his mouth, his body towering over his naked skin.

Price lifts an eyebrow, gaze flicking between them.

“Do I wanna know?”

Soap shrugs, then pats his stomach like it’s no big deal. He regrets it immediately. Sharp pain rockets through him like a warning shot.

“Just admirin’ Coalescence’s handiwork, really.”

Price nods, stepping closer, his eyes scanning the mess of scars without flinching.

“Seen deli meat with fewer slices.”

“Sure. Don’t hold back,” Soap mutters, rolling his eyes as he reaches down to grab the robe from the floor. But Ghost gets there first, bending to pick it up without a word.

Soap takes it with a quiet thanks, not daring to meet his eyes in front of the Captain, but when Ghost’s glove brushes his fingertips, it sends a shiver down his spine.

Price crosses his arms, glancing at them from under the rim of his inseparable boonie.

“So. You missed the team briefing this morning.”

What?

Soap’s on leave, so he knows for a fact this cannot be about him. He looks at Ghost, standing by his side like a solid statue. As if he hadn’t brought the sun over his skin only a few seconds ago.

Ghost meets the Captain’s remark with a slow, deliberate tilt of his chin.

“Won't happen again.”

“That makes four in a row.”

Ghost crosses his arms tight over his chest. “Who's countin’, really?”

“I am, Lieutenant.” Price’s tone sharpens. “When I’m down a man—a good man—for my missions, I keep count.”

“Wait, wait.” Soap rubs a hand across his forehead like he’s trying to erase the headache starting to brew in there. “I thought you were assigned to watch over me?”

Price scoffs, voice dry. “For the DNI tests, sure. After that—”

“You’ve been skippin' work?”

Ghost keeps staring at Price, glacial. “I’ve been workin'. From here.”

“Right.” Price pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers and lets out a long sigh. “Well, however you wanna spin it, you’re assigned to our next mission in person. And the team needs you.”

Ghost doesn’t skip a beat. “Soap’s part of the team.”

“And Soap’s taken care of. Aren’t you, MacTavish?” Price shoots Soap a sharp glance.

Soap looks from Ghost to Price and back again.

This man has been missing briefings, ignoring direct orders, just to stay here and watch over him. Sleeping on a hard, fake leather couch. Eating Coalescence slop. Sharing a damn toilet with a man who’s barely able to stand.

What’s he thinking?

“What’s the mission?” Ghost cuts in before Soap can even open his mouth.

Price glances over his shoulder to make sure the coast is clear, then steps closer, lowering his voice.

“We’ve got a situation in Al Mazrah. Arms shipment went dark. Likely AQ. Two days to intercept before it crosses into occupied territory. Recon, cleanup if needed. Nothing fancy, but delicate.”

Ghost shrugs. “Gaz can do that.”

Price’s eyes narrow. “Not solo. We’re down a man, Ghost. And we’ve been for a while. Laswell’s already breathing down my neck.”

Ghost’s jaw tightens; Soap can see it even in profile. It seems like Ghost would rather stay around and watch over him, but he also knows the man doesn’t have much choice anymore. Either he goes, or they take him.

Then, strangely, the idea of going on a mission feels… freeing. Painstakingly normal.

Soap feels a sharp pang deep in his gut. Could be another muscle spasm, he gets plenty these days thanks to all the strain his body’s under. But this isn’t physical pain. It’s jealousy.

Soap pictures himself back on the field. Weapon steady in his hands, body moving on instinct. He’s agile. Energized. Eyes sharp, not burning with exhaustion. The wind hits his face, cool and alive. He runs, and his body obeys without hesitation.

He fires. Strong. Powerful. In control.

He tosses a grenade, and as it explodes, his chest flutters with that old familiar rush—excitement, adrenaline, life.

Then blink. He’s back in the hospital.

The drip stands sentinel by his bed, a constant reminder of the meds he still needs today: more painkillers, anti-inflammatories, something to keep the spasms at bay.

A CT scan. An MRI. More tests.

The sterile scent of disinfectant, bleach, and harsh cleaning chemicals floods the air. Everything is too white. Too bright. Too clinical. He’s drowning in a sea of medical equipment, suffocated by the cold hum of monitors and the endless tangle of tubes.

He hasn’t worn shoes in what feels like forever. Will his feet even fit into his old combat boots when the time comes?

“I wanna go,” Soap blurts out, the words bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest.

Price and Ghost exchange confused, almost alarmed looks. They start talking over each other, caught off guard.

“Excuse me?”

“No.”

Soap takes a slow, steadying breath. “I can do it, sir. When are you leaving?”

“Saturday.”

“Perfect. I’ll be ready then.”

Price’s expression softens, but the worry’s clear. “Soap… it’s already Wednesday.”

Soap swallows hard. He knows this is a long shot, but a big, careless, agonizing part of him can’t let go of the idea of being back to normal. Or being allowed to pretend to be. He’s trying not to sound desperate in the process, but the sudden worry in Price’s eyes says otherwise. He doesn’t even dare meet Ghost’s gaze. He knows the man’s staring daggers right through him.

“I can already stand up. Imagine how much better I’ll be by then.” Aye, Johnny. Real convincing.

“You outta your fuckin’ mind?” Ghost steps into Soap’s line of sight, making damn sure he can’t look away.

“Or fly me in on a bird over the field. I can blow some shit up.” He knows he’s arguing himself into a hole in the ground. But it’s been long. Too long. And he didn’t realize the extent of his hate for this place until the possibility—however small it was—of leaving it came his way.

Ghost raises both eyebrows, then lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “They’re really pumpin' you full of morphine, aren’t they?”

“Ghost—”

“Johnny, no. That’s an order.”

Soap turns to Price, eyes pleading. He knows how pathetic he sounds. Hell, he probably looks even worse. And the pity reflected on Price’s face hurts worse than any of his stitches. But he needs this. Bad. He only wants to feel normal again. Is that really too much to ask?

“MacTavish…” Price sighs, already bracing for pushback. “I understand where you’re coming from. But I cannot, and I will not put you in danger like that. You need rest. You’ve got a long recovery ahead. Coalescence is doing good work, but we can’t push you past your limit.”

“Try me, Captain. Gimme one shot.”

“You could die, Soap. Again. The doctor was really clear. You’ve got over a dozen surgeries still healing. Your bones were cracked. Your guts were shredded. Your brain was opened and wired like a bloody circuit board. Just the DNI insertion alone knocked Ghost and me flat for over a week, and we were both in perfect condition. I’m really sorry, Soap.”

“Come on.”

Ghost crosses his arms over his chest. “We’re not doing this.” He looks at Price. “He’s not coming.”

Haud yer wheesht, you stupid, meddlin’, overprotective brute, Soap wants to scream. But he knows that won't win him any points with the Captain.

Instead, he settles for “Please?”

“I’m sorry, Soap. I promise I’ll have Ghost back before you know it. Might even give him some holidays after, so he can stay around without breaking protocol. I’m sure you’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

Ghost looks at Price, but says nothing. He’s going, of course. That was never up for debate. The only thing left is the steady silence between them, saying everything they don’t dare put into words in front of Soap.

Soap stays here. In this bleak, sterile place. Watching himself wilt away while they move forward without him. He’ll be wheeled up and down for tests, poked and scanned and hooked to machines. Bathed like a child. Fed whatever chemical-flavored slop qualifies as nutrition that day—God forbid he get a plate of proper stovies. But no. His guts were torn open and sewn back together, and now all he’s allowed is IV drips and liquified whatever that burns all the way down.

He sits on the edge of his bed, staring out the window at the Coalescence campus. Ghost and Price have moved to the couch, their voices low as they go over mission details.

Outside, everything is calm and gray. Picture-perfect trees. White stone paths. A fountain in the center bearing Coalescence’s logo like a corporate seal of approval on his misery.

The image fades into his reflection in the glass. Hollow eyes. Long shadows blooming under them. His cheeks have thinned, dragging down the scruff of an unshaved beard. Something slides down his cheek. On the other side of the window, a storm has just erupted.

Exhausted, Soap lets his body sink back into the bed. Frustration coils inside him at the thought of being alone for the next few weeks—or God forbid, months. Without his freedom. Without Ghost.

With a heavy sigh, he closes his eyes and lets his thoughts scatter, drifting quietly until sleep takes him.

Chapter Text

The weeks drag on, bleak and endless. Hospital stays are boring enough on their own, but being stuck here without Ghost is an absolute nightmare.

Coalescence labs, in all their top-secret glory, don’t allow most tech past their pristine doors. No phone. No laptop. No gaming consoles—no matter how much you beg. They did leave a TV in the room, but it only plays Coalescence propaganda and painfully long interviews with smug scientists in lab coats. The one thing he’s allowed are books. One at a time. From the lab’s exciting scientific library.

So, Soap’s been reading up on the human body, biotech, and artificial neural enhancement systems. Mostly, though, he’s been leaving doodles and snarky comments in the margins. A stick figure falling into a diagram of a neural amplifier. A fart cloud added to a perfectly serious anatomy sketch. Classic stuff. Perhaps that’s all he’s actually been doing.

He did try to read, honestly. But the DNI makes it become a performance rather than a task. And anyway, if he really wanted the info, he could just pull it from its database in a second.

Drawing an explosion in the middle of a schematic for a a spinal interface injector is way more satisfying.

Ghost, on the other hand, has been steadily going on missions for a while. After leaving for Al Mazrah, new things just kept coming up. Secret. Urgent.

He's taken a few days here and there when he can, but Laswell has been making sure Price keeps him on a tight leash.

Still, Ghost's been sending something every other week for Soap, whether he can be there or not. He's in cohorts with some of the nurses, apparently, and lets them know what to leave in Soap's room before he wakes up at the beginning of every week: a picture of the 141 with a few get-well messages, a stress ball shaped like a grenade, and even a half-burnt glove with a note that read “Distracted on the field. Almost lost a hand.”

Soap never asked what exactly Ghost had gotten distracted with. But when he is around and looks straight into those deep brown eyes… he can hazard a guess.

He’s dropped a few medicine trays thinking of him as well.

And then, one glorious afternoon, it finally happens.

Ghost appears, looking triumphant behind the mask, practically dragging the doctor by his side.

Soap is dismissed.

He can go home that evening—with a long list of prescription meds, and an even longer list of recommendations for rest and self-care. Now that he can walk long distances on his crutches, he can even start rehab soon.

Not at Coalescence, though. They’ve had enough of him draining their million-dollar tech.

And, frankly? The feeling is mutual.

The drive home is the biggest thrill Soap has felt in months. And not just because Ghost drives like a madman through the empty city streets. He keeps the windows down, and Soap can feel the fresh night air on his face, too strong and too cold. The streets smell like piss, fried food, gasoline, and dry leaves. He loves it all anyway.

Ghost refuses to get any celebratory whiskey, arguing Soap is taking a shitton of meds that would definitely not agree with any type of alcohol. But he’s bought a frozen Scotch pie to make up for it that looks suspiciously like dog food on the packaging.

Soap is beyond himself.

When Ghost finally opens the door to his apartment, Soap practically collapses onto the couch.

The place is small: one bedroom, one bathroom, open-plan kitchen and living room all in one. He's never rented anywhere for long, and doesn't need much more space than this. Right now, though, these overpriced, old walls might as well be a palace.

“I could die right here,” Soap groans, sinking deeper into a pillow.

“Preferably, don’t.” Ghost closes the door behind him and practically kicks the pie into the oven.

“You might wanna preheat that first.”

Ghost glances back and raises an eyebrow. “Gonna cook all the same.”

Soap thinks about standing up to do it himself, but his body refuses to cooperate. He’s been hauling his weight around on crutches all day, riding a wave of excitement. Sure, he’s starting to gain back some lost pounds, but the strength's still playing hard to get. His arms are practically begging for mercy. And his head spins whenever he doesn’t lock his eyes on something steady.

Yeah, that pie’s gonna cook all the same.

Ghost turns on the oven and walks up to close the curtains at the end of the room. Then, he sits next to him and takes off his mask. His blond hair is messy, going every which way. His eyes scan Soap up and down, his face carrying a slight worry that settles into the fine lines carved there over the years.

“You did it,” Soap smiles lazily. “I’m here.”

Ghost looks at him for a second too long. His muscles twitch like he’s holding himself back. Then, he sinks into the seat and leans his head on the backrest, staring at the ceiling.

“This place is a liability.” He sighs.

Soap frowns. “The hell—?”

“Too easy to find. No back exits. No blind spots. A toddler could breach it with a brick.”

Soap snorts. “Thank God I don’t make a habit of angryin' three-year-olds, then.”

Ghost smiles. “Keep your eyes peeled. Enemy hires keep gettin’ younger and younger.”

“Eh. I think I could still take a kid or two.”

Ghost looks him up and down, then points to his crutches on the floor with a smirk. “Out for ice cream, maybe.”

“Think they give you a medal for that?”

“They’re handin’ ’em out like candy these days. Graves got one for walkin’ without shittin’ his pants.”

“Honorable.”

Ghost scoffs, then turns his head to look Soap straight in the eye. “You might get one for comin’ back from the dead in less than thirty pieces.”

Soap rolls his eyes. The last thing he needs is a piece of metal reminding him how fucked up his body is, and how it’ll probably stay that way for a long, long time. Maybe even forever. It’s too early to know exactly what kind of long-term damage this whole thing’s gonna leave.

“Where’s yours?”

“Sold it on eBay.”

“Good price?”

“Four bucks plus shippin'. Puttin' the money in the jar to cover your haircut.”

Soap laughs. “That bad?”

“I wouldn’t say bad. But people’ve been askin’ what time your ’90s boyband reunion kicks off.”

They both break into soft laughter.

Soap straightens up on the couch, leaning a little closer to Ghost. “So, you hate it.”

Ghost stays quiet for a moment. Then, he takes off a glove and reaches out to touch Soap’s hair—gentle, soft. His hand travels down the side of his head, brushes his ear, his jaw. He grabs his chin. The skin on his hands is rough, calloused from years as a soldier.

“Aye.” But he smiles and leans closer. His hand trails down Soap’s body to his neck, his Adam’s apple, the part of his chest left bare by his T-shirt’s round neck.

Soap reaches out, fingers brushing Ghost’s cheek. He buries a hand in the back of Ghost’s hair and pulls himself up closer, their mouths inches apart.

“Out of sight…” he whispers.

He feels Ghost’s ragged breath on his lips—strong, warm, building with intensity. He tastes it on his own mouth, and his stomach whirls. They’re so close his gaze blurs, his head sending the world around him into a gentle spin. But he doesn’t care. He’s completely lost in Ghost’s magnetic pull. At least his stomach whirls for a good reason.

Ghost makes the first move. And fuck, Soap will never get tired of it. The pride, the burning rush in his chest knowing he made him do it; that Ghost simply moved because he couldn’t hold himself back. The man who resists everything, simply… couldn’t. Fuck. He loves that feeling. Pure libido and adrenaline. Best kind of drug.

Ghost kisses him hard, passionately. Like he’s not some half-broken soldier struggling to glue himself together every damn day of this new life. But like he’s still the same John MacTavish: confident, reliable in the field, and fucking capable of taking anything. Even Ghost. Especially Ghost, please.

The kiss deepens, and Ghost lets out a breathless grunt as he shifts to straddle Soap. One leg on the couch, the other steady on the floor, giving Soap enough space to lie back comfortably without unnecessary strain or weight on him. Pure gentleman. Soap can’t wait to watch him rip his clothes off.

Ghost’s hands wander under his T-shirt, tracing down the sides of his torso, landing on the button of his jeans. His mouth moves frenetically from Soap’s lips to his neck, then back up again. His tongue is hungry, possessive.

Soap thinks about how long he’s been waiting to get downright nasty outside the watchful eyes of Coalescence scientists, and his dick presses hard against the fabric of his pants. It’s been… long. And having Ghost this close for so long, without being able to do practically anything remotely sexual? Too. Fucking. Long.

Soap’s head spins faster now, and he doesn’t care. Life is good. Life is great, actually. Fuck that stupid pie in the oven. Can burn to bits for all he cares. His hands itch for Ghost’s skin like a sniper itches for a trigger. He wonders how it’ll feel to press his naked body against his. Liberating, surely. Perfectly righteous. Belonging.

Ghost furiously unbuttons his jeans and pulls at the waistband. The motion sends a jolt through Soap’s whole body. It hurts, and he can’t stop a wince.

Suddenly, it smells like warm blood and metal.

Soap’s eyes snap open. Pixels blink in the corners of his vision—red, green, blue. Above him, a black starry night sky stretches endlessly in every direction. At his feet, a gigantic machine.

A robot.

An ASP.

Ghost’s voice yells somewhere far off. The robot lifts its heavy arms over its head. Its red eyes blaze bright in the dead silence of night. Then, as the arms come crashing down, the world shatters before Soap’s eyes, pain exploding through him. Extreme, gut-wrenching pain.

A blood-curdling scream rips from his throat. Underneath him, the world spins out of control.

“Soap—Johnny! Johnny, it’s me! Look at—FUCK!”

A weight lifts off him. Soap can feel it. More space to breathe, to move. He raises his arms to cover his face, but they fall heavy, pressing down on his nose.

Not again, is all he can think. Don’t make me do this again.

Frenetic footsteps echo back and forth around him. Ghost curses like the devil himself. Soap’s head is still spinning, and nausea claws at his throat. He bends over himself, tasting salt and sand on his tongue.

The footsteps come closer, and warmth touches his forearm. He hears the rattle of something small against plastic, a lid popping open, then a hand on his jaw, another pressing something firmly to his lips.

“Open up, Johnny. Don’t make me shove it down your throat, 'cause I bloody will.” Ghost’s voice is steady, but the panic cracks beneath the words. He’s scared, Soap realizes. He’s scared too. Ghost’s voice mingles with his screams from Cairo, haunting him.

Soap’s sure if he opens his mouth, he’ll puke all over Ghost’s hands. But he lets him press the pill to his lips and bites down. It tastes like pure chemicals mixing with the saliva and bile in his throat. His stomach rebels, but he swallows hard.

The moment drags on forever. Ghost stays by his side, trying to steady him. Soap thinks he can feel him tremble. In anger? Fear? God, if only everything would stop fucking hurting. He can barely feel Ghost’s touch under the pain crawling over his skin.

Slowly—too slowly—the spinning eases, his stomach settling. The sharp tang of copper in the air fades, replaced by Ghost’s sweat and a faint scent of warm pie.

He drags his hands off his head and breathes deeper, slower. When he opens his eyes, the DNI glitching stabilizes. He’s back in his apartment. Ghost is hovering over him, arms wrapped around to lift him from the floor. When did he even get there? He was just on the couch.

“I’m sorry…” Soap moans, resting his head against Ghost’s chest as he’s carried toward the bedroom. “I don’t—”

“No need. Perfectly normal reaction, considerin' I haven’t showered since the last op.” The words are meant to be humorous, but they come out forced, like he’s pushing the joke through a crack in his throat.

Soap’s muscles feel heavy and tired. Ghost feels like a rock beneath him—strong, tense, and guarded.

Soap tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a grunt, and it hurts his chest.
“Aye. Didn’t know how to bring it up.”

“Well, you found a perfectly reasonable way.” No humor. Just a plain statement. Ghost’s here in body, but his mind is somewhere else, traveling places Soap can’t reach. The thought lands like a warning bell in Soap’s head; a small but undeniable flicker of dread. He’s too tired to chase it now, but it lingers.

“Bit eccentric, maybe,” Soap replies instead. “But got the point across.”

“That it did, Johnny.” Ghost sighs, lowering him gently onto the bed. The way Soap’s name slips from his lips is soft, loving, a lifeline in the middle of an ocean of pain. “That it did.”