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Let it be known that Kyle “Gaz” Garrick was not a coward.
Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck, and slowly Gaz turned his head and glanced over his shoulder. Down the hallway, Ghost leaned against the corner of the officer’s quarters, the white teeth of the hard shell skull mask gleamed in what weak fluorescent light wasn’t swallowed by the shadows of his black clothes. Ghost may have been 100 feet from Gaz, but he swore he could feel the cold breath of death on his skin. Gaz didn’t know what he had done to suddenly deserve the full force of the man’s attention, but it made him want to crawl out of his skin. He may trust the man with his life, but Ghost was scary on a good day. On a bad one, with the full force of Ghost’s icy gaze Gaz didn’t stand a chance.
Ghost was a force of nature that would scare even the Devil. And the larger man had stayed eerily close to Gaz over the last week. Gaz couldn’t even go take a piss without suddenly finding a looming shadow blocking out the sun. It made some sense, he reasoned. Soap had been called away on a solo mission, something that came down from the brass about a stealth job that required a demolitions expert. Gaz didn’t know much about the mission, didn’t have the clearance, but Ghost was their LT. The man knew more about the mission than the rest of them were allowed, and judging by his foul fucking attitude, it didn’t sound like a good one. Everyone on base knew that Soap and Ghost were attached at the hip, some unspoken electricity connecting the two men; Gaz hadn’t seen them more than two feet from one another in the last year. Since Las Almas, they had been a team inside a team. Which brought him back to the lone specter staring blankly at Gaz, waiting.
Sighing, he scratched the back of his head nervously.
It was possible Ghost didn’t know what to do with himself in Soap’s absence, Gaz had heard enough from the newbies about his Lieutenant’s mood lately. All the rookies had been subjected to a number of cruel and unusual punishments as the whim seemed to strike Ghost. Gaz just didn’t know why the large man had attached himself to his side in Soap’s absence, but Ghost seemed to need his company right now and damn if they weren’t a fucking team.
Gaz sucked in a breath and met the larger man's eyes, tipping his head in the direction of the gym. Maybe if Ghost burned off some energy he’d go nicer on the poor rookies, and anyone else Ghost saw fit to take down a few notches in Soap’s absence. Maybe. Ghost’s short nod, visible even at this distance, was all the encouragement Gaz needed to trot the rest of the way down the hall.
Entering the gym always brings him back to secondary school, the smell of hot sweat, metal, and bleach cleaner. A deeper inhalation brings in the smell he always associates with the one four one; hot gunpowder, old blood, and the dry dirt of deployment. It’s here, surrounded by the men that he trusts with his life that he really feels at home. More so than Liverpool ever did. And if the rest of his life goes the way his predecessor’s have, he’ll die here too; in the only place he’s ever called home.
They warm up in silence, only a head jerk towards the treadmill any acknowledgement of the company they are keeping. Gaz sweats as he runs, breathing heavy but even and is struck by how utterly silent Ghost is. His feet are hitting the treadmill at a steady, fast pace, but both his shoes and his breathing are indecipherable among the noise of the other men. There are many reasons why he gets called the Ghost, specializing in covert ops is only one of them. This, this is the other. He is silent, flying perfectly under the radar. No one knows he’s there until he wants them to. Or if you are a Scottish man with an uncanny 6th sense for the paranormal. Gaz quirks a grin to himself, and catches Ghost’s sideways glance in the corner of his eye. He coughs half a laugh and finally speaks in between breaths.
“Was thinking of going a few rounds in the ring after this. You in?” Gaz asks, jabbing a finger towards the currently unoccupied boxing ring in the corner of the gym.
There is a pause as Ghost mulls it over before finally nodding his ascent with a sigh of breath, fluttering the fabric of his skull balaclava.
The two of them finish out a clean 2 miles, and step neatly off the machine. Military training makes them fall into lockstep as they move over to the boxing equipment, Gaz slightly behind Ghost and to his left. He feels a brief moment of melancholy when he glances to the right where Soap normally walks, and hopes that Ghost doesn’t notice. A momentary lifting of the man’s shoulders makes Gaz think Ghost feels the specter of Soap more keenly, more a ghost than he is himself in this moment. Gaz shakes himself slightly and speeds up until he’s past Ghost. Gaz snags a set of hand wraps and tosses a set into Ghost’s slightly startled face. Toeing off his shoes and socks, Gaz tips his head in thought and decides to forgo the bulkier gloves in for the ease of movement the wraps offer. Knowing their Lieutenant, there won’t be much classic boxing done, if at all.
Gaz climbs up into the ring, the corner of his eye catching Ghost’s tall form doing the same on the opposing side. He rolls his shoulders back, warmed muscle rolling under his skin, and sits his weight deeper into his hips bending his knees slightly. He starts a slow circuit around Ghost, moving gracefully on the balls of his feet, a classic boxer's opening. As Ghost mirrors his sideways steps, he brings up his wrapped hands, and Gaz faces Ghost down. Ghost is all graceful lines, smooth shoulders loose as he settles into a grappler's easy stance, long legs agile and well muscled, bared feet cat-like on the padded mats. He looks more at home here than he has in weeks, and Gaz is suddenly struck by the knowledge that he is actually helping Ghost. This is helping him take his mind off Soap being gone, more than anything else has all week. They may not be close, but the company is also comforting to Gaz, as well as giving him a chance to safely puzzle Ghost out more.
Gaz closes in suddenly, opening with a smooth right feint and following up with a stronger left jab, just testing the waters. Ghost deflects, barely even touching him, moving the jab off to the side with the twist of an open palm. The next few seconds are a blur as Ghost's foot sweeps him cleanly off his feet. Gaz immediately regrets his decision as the world whirls around him in a quick 180. His back is briefly towards Ghost before his next moment of realization is that his face is pressed into the mat. Ghost’s weight is pinning him down and his arm is twinging painfully where it is rucked up against his back. Gaz exhales in defeat and uses his other hand to quickly tap on the mat. There is a momentary pause where they both acknowledge the loss, and Ghost lets him up. He pulls himself back onto his feet, rolling the briefly abused arm in a smooth circle, before flashing Ghost a cautious smile.
“Fuck, I forgot how bloody fast you are, suppose that’s what I get for working with rookies all the time.”
Ghost’s eyes glint and his voice comes out clear, not even slightly winded. “Pay more attention to the whole body, not just where you’ve aimed your fist, Sargent.”
“I’ll take that to heart Lieutenant,” Gaz’s voice holds the slightest edge of snark. “Round two?”
“Why not,” Ghost’s voice sounds slightly amused.
The hollow eyes of the skull mask follow him as they dance around each other, and damn someone that large has no business being as fast and graceful as Ghost is. They trade blows for a few moments, and Gaz succeeds in pushing Ghost back with a well timed kick to the shin. For a breath they are more balanced, better matched and Gaz can almost understand Soap’s obsession with the man. Ghost is fast and clever and graceful and reliable, and having his whole attention on you is like standing in a searchlight. Those dark eyes track every movement, see the slightest twitch, and catalog every weakness and strength. And Ghost is theirs, on their team. He belongs to the one four one.
The train of thought costs Gaz, and all at once Ghost has him down on the ground. He is prepared for a grapple this time, and the two tussle back and forth before Ghost twists in Gaz’s grip. The man pins his shoulder and neck to the sweat slicked mat using a set of thickly muscled thighs and threads Gaz’s arm between his legs. Ghost’s hands lock around Gaz’s wrist pulling it into a firm chest and applying pressure to his elbow. Gaz feels the joints pop and he quickly taps Ghost’s thigh where it is bracketing his neck. Ghost releases the arm bar and Gaz stands with a muffled swear, he could swear that Ghost is grinning under the baklava. Fucker. They settle back into fighting stances, both of them breathing easier.
“Going to have to get better at your groundwork Sargent.”
“Maybe we just need to have more training sessions,” Gaz jabs back in mimicry of their fists, “I do normally provide the overwatch.” That last bit comes out as a grumble as they exchange a series of blows.
Ghost’s eyes narrow, “Is that an excuse to get sloppy?” His tone is harsh and Gaz thinks he’s talking about more than just their sparring session.
Gaz blinks for a second, weaving under a right hook from Ghost and landing a blow on the man’s side. “No sir, it’s something we can train on as a team. Something other than running circuits and focusing on specializations. Groundwork is just as important.”
His careful tone works as a balm to Ghost’s sharpened edge, and the larger man lets out a thoughtful humm that effectively ends the conversation. Their sparring session doesn’t last much longer as they notice other soldiers lining up to wait for the ring. They wrap up and separate for the rest of the day and Gaz notes that Ghost doesn’t seem as tense, his shoulders sit easier.
The next day dawns bright and blinding, rare for Wales, but perfect for morning training with the new recruits. Having scarfed down a bland but hot meal, Gaz exits the mess from the side entrance and turns onto the path that leads to the training yard. There is a warm breeze blowing through the shooting range, which will make his job more bearable, but will make things rougher for the newbies. They’re working on sniping today, and predictably Ghost is already a hulking shadow at the far end, scaring the shit out of the younger soldiers and putting even the older ones on edge. Gaz takes a breath and the scent of sweat, fear, and gunpowder hits him, sparking a grin.
Gaz jogs over to Ghost and lightly stops by his side, boots sending up puffs of pale, dry dirt. He notes that while Ghost doesn’t relax, something shifts in his posture. And for a moment the dark clothed head tilts slightly in Gaz’s direction, and a beam of sunlight sends the hard shelled mask gleaming.
“We’re working on sniping today” Ghost says quietly, “take lead on this one Sargent.”
“Should be easy enough for us. Recruits won’t like the wind though.” Gaz comments. Together they eye the targets, small discs attached to a piece of string. They flutter softly in the breeze, and even from Gaz’s position down the line he can hear the recruits grumbling.
“It’s too easy, I’ve never shot a target in conditions this good. Realistically they should be made to shoot in blizzard conditions, after crawling through mud and shit for a week, getting shot at and hunted by terrorists.” Ghost’s voice is still morning rough. “We’re being nice not making them run circuits before this.”
They both eye the obstacle course in the distance. The last few days of rain have turned it into a sloshing pig pen of mud, and Gaz cocks a dark brow.
“Could make them do it after, bet they’re feeling right good about now, thinking they got to skip it today.”
Ghost shifts slightly, rolling one shoulder back. “Soap would make them do it, but he’d be right beside them running it as well.”
“Ya know,” Gaz says quietly, accent clinging to the words, “I miss him when he’s gone too. I worry, especially when none of us are there to watch his back.”
Ghost looks at him blankly, doesn’t say anything in response and for a moment Gaz worries that he misjudged the man's actions and overstepped. Then his gaze softens slightly, grease paint dark around his warm brown eyes threaded through with honey gold in the sunrise. Ghost blinks, long and slow, cat-like, and turns his gaze back towards the newbies.
“It’s not…” he pauses, sucking in air. “Soap can take care of himself. Especially after Las Almas, I just….” Ghost lets the words drop, but Gaz is already nodding.
“I know.”
A peaceful air falls over them, and they move off to work in tandem. They run the recruits through the training, the two snipers trading off as they move down the lines of shooters. This batch is patient, and several of the newbies show promise as snipers in the future. As Gaz is working with one of the more promising recruits Bain (another Scot), he catches words from one of the less promising recruits directed his way.
“Gee, I’m glad to have you helping me today Sarge. That ghost, he’s one scary ass bastard. I don’t understand why they keep him around to train, he's like a wild animal.” The recruit racks back the slide and loads another bullet in his gun, a smug smile on his face.
Clicking his tongue Gaz snaps, “Bold of you to talk shit when you can’t even hit an easy shot,” Gaz nods to where the plume of dust is rising from the rookie’s missed shot, “You’d be lucky to be a quarter as scary as him one day, Torres. Be grateful he’s on our team.” Ghost was a terrifying sonofabitch, but he was their terrifying sonofabitch. No one was going to insult Ghost while Gaz was still pulling in air.
To others Ghost is a legend, a scary story whispered in the dark, a specter that haunts military grounds. There are rumors, that he doesn’t breathe, that he doesn’t eat, that he’s not even human, neither god nor demon. That he’s a shadow, devouring the light and air in a room. But Gaz has seen the man bleed, knows that under the tacvest and corded muscle that there is a heart and pumping blood. Has felt the warmth flowing off the man’s body as he leads the team. Knows that the man feels, has seen the care and more gleaming in Ghost’s eyes. Only for Soap, always Soap. Gaz saw the man’s breath puff white in the cold Russian air of their last mission, has seen the man’s hands shake from hunger, noted the relief in his eyes when Soap reappears safe and sound after a firefight. Has seen the man from across a helicopter leaning into Soap’s side after a particularly draining mission, taking warmth and comfort. Gaz knows he’s a man. The question is whether Ghost knows that himself. Something in his body language the last week has left Gaz thinking maybe Ghost only just remembered that there is a human being under the mask, that he is Simon Riley and flesh and blood and heat.
Gaz’s bad mood lasts through the rest of the training. It’s not necessarily the recruits fault, Ghost encourages the rumors himself. It benefits the man that everyone fears him, especially when it comes to their enemies, but it still rankles. Having to hear false words regarding Ghost’s character, when the man has only ever been the perfect, selfless soldier. Gaz doesn’t know if Ghost would appreciate anyone defending him, but what the man doesn’t know, doesn’t hurt him. Ghost doesn’t object when he orders the recruits down into circuits and only slides Gaz the lightest of glares when he announces that, “the Lieutenant and I will be joining you, so keep up!”
The sun has well and truly risen by the time the recruits (and Gaz) are done with PT. They are all of them soaked to the bone with foul water and thick clots of clay-like mud. He will spend the rest of his days wondering how the hell Ghost breathes through the damn baklava, his hardshell mask is no longer white, but rather smeared brown with quickly drying mud and the rest of him has fared no better. The two of them are walking through the hall, loosely trailing the recruits towards the showers, when a sergeant comes sprinting up to them. The woman brakes in front of them sharply, panting, before snapping a clean salute at Ghost.
“Lieutenant Riley, Sir! Captain Price wants to see you immediately, emergency debrief,” She holds the position for a moment, before dropping it at Ghost’s nod of acknowledgement.
“Thank you Sargent Moore. Gaz, follow me,” Ghost doesn’t wait for Gaz to agree, just takes off down the hall in the direction of Price’s office. The man isn’t sprinting, but it is a near thing, his long legs eat up the ground, and anyone in the hall throws themselves out of the way. They must look a sight, both of them covered head to toe in mud, slinging filth everywhere in the wake of their passing. Ghost all but throws the door to Price’s office open, and their Captain looks up from his paperwork with a sigh.
“I have some bad news,” Price’s mustache quivers and he looks curiously naked without a cigar clutched between his fingers.
For a moment the world stops and Gaz thinks about Soap. All alone without them to watch his back, loaned out to a foreign team like so much equipment. Gaz sees the terror in his own eyes reflected at him from Ghost, tawny eyes burning in the sunken holes of the mask. He knows that they feel the same, there is no rational reason why the world should keep moving without Soap, the world can’t exist without Soap in it. For one single horrifying second, Gaz imagines a world without Johnny in it. Color and sounds bleed out of the room. Johnny is so bright and vibrant, so full of life and light and energy. The glittering heart at the center of their team, two months younger than Gaz and dripping charisma. Half of the base is in love with him, including Ghost. Gaz doesn’t know what Ghost would do without Soap, maybe he’d give up and finally become his namesake. Gaz roughly swallows a mouthful of acid and sound pours back into the room and Gaz realizes Price is still talking.
“The team that Soap is currently working with, uncovered more than just bombs at their location. There are large caches of weapons, Russian-made, all ready for transport. It appears that they have distribution lines spreading out from a base of operations on the coast of northern Egypt. The Sargent has been doing quick work with the local authorities, but it appears that multiple transports of weapons have made it out. It is yet unknown where exactly the weapons are being delivered, so prepare for reconnaissance missions. We’ll ship out within the next 72 hours, Soap deserves a moment to rest when he gets back.” Price fixes them with a stern look
Tension pours off both of them like water. Soap is ok, he’s coming home. Price’s stare intensifies at their silence.
“Sir!” Ghost and Gaz chorus together and exit Price’s office. Outside once more, their gazes connect. Life has come back into Ghost’s soft brown eyes and in them Gaz sees his own thoughts reflected. From here on out, it’s a waiting game, he’ll be back soon.
Gaz is on border patrol with Ghost when Soap gets back, the truck rolls in and the Scot tumbles out, fucking loaded with gear, grown out mohawk ruffling in the wind. Ghost's reaction is electrifying, seriously, Gaz isn’t even in the man's line of sight and he feels prickles spark across his skin. Gaz is suddenly struck with the images of a dog whose owner has just walked through a door. The thought startles a snort out of Gaz and Ghost momentarily rips his eyes off Soap to shoot Gaz a pointed glare.
Gaz backs up slightly, holding up a hand in peace. “Hey man, he’s all yours,” he flashes a cheeky wink, “I think I can handle the rest of the patrol, why don’t you go say welcome home.”
Ghost narrows his eyes slightly before offering a cautious nod. “Thanks,” he mutters roughly, “for…. everything.” And then the man is gone, sliding cleanly down the ladder and making his way across the yard to where Soap is unloading more gear. Gaz watches Soap turn, and catches the exact moment that the two reunite. He swears he can see Soaps teeth gleaming from here.
“Fuck,” he whistles softly to himself. “It’s like a damn romcom.” Shaking his head, he turns his back to his two friends and faces the night on his own. The evening is calm, and feels lighter, moonlight cool on his skin. Soap is back, Ghost has settled, and if anyone comes to threaten their peace Gaz will shoot them with extreme prejudice. He tightens his grip on his gun squaring his shoulders off.
And the world keeps turning.