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“This bomb has two fuses! We’ll need to cut both at the same time. Red Wire,” Soap says. It should scare him, the bomb big enough to trap them under the tunnels and take their lives. It doesn’t. There’s no one he trusts more than John “Soap” MacTavish in a room with a bomb. Except that’s not quite right.
There’s no one he trusts more than Johnny. Full stop.
He hears Price give the affirm. He hears the moment when it all goes wrong. He hears the shot. He hears the sound of someone’s body hitting the floor. He hears the sound of Price shouting Soap’s name. He hears himself running before he registers what that means. He hears Gaz right behind him.
He sees Price on the floor, Makarov towering over him. He sees that the bullet wound is in Soap's shoulder.
He feels the fear in his chest recede.
He hears the bomb. Beep. Beep. Beep.
He knows he won’t get there in time to save Price. He knows he’ll grieve his Captain. He knows he’d grieve Johnny more. He thinks that Soap is down for now and that’s the safest place he can be, they won’t waste bullets on a downed man.
He sees Soap lurch back up.
He can’t even feel the fear as it returns.
He tries to line up a shot.
He wants to scream at Soap to get out of the way.
He knows Soap won’t. He knows Soap won’t leave Price to die. He knows that Soap is a better man than he is, because he would, if it meant saving Johnny.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He sees Soap make a clumsy grab at Makarov. He sees it connect. He sees Makarov rear back. He sees that Soap is too weak for this. He sees Makarov’s foot in Price’s face. He sees Makarov twist his wrist.
He hears the shot.
He sees Johnny’s head jerk back.
He knows it’s fatal this time.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He doesn’t hear Price scream this time, but he knows the man did. He doesn’t hear himself scream “Johnny”, but he knows he did. He doesn’t feel his knee hit the concrete as he takes position to return fire, but he knows it will hurt later. He doesn’t feel anything as the enemies retreat, but he knows he should.
He hears the bomb. Beep. Beep. Beep.
He cares about the bomb even less now. He doesn’t care if he lives as he kneels next to Johnny.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He doesn’t hear Gaz and Price as they use Soap’s last words to try to disarm the bomb. He doesn’t hear when they succeed. He doesn’t hear Gaz call “clear”.
Ghost doesn’t hear the bomb stop beeping.
~~~
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Ghost rears up out of sleep with the kind of speed only a soldier has. His alarm clock smashes against the floor and he feels satisfaction in the way it shatters. It’s the first thing he’s felt since they made it back to base.
People are wrong about his callsign. It’s not because he’s stealthy and can disappear like a ghost. It’s not because of his skeletal mask. It's not a warning about the number of people he’s killed. It’s not because Simon Riley is legally dead. It’s not because he dug himself out of his own grave. No, in his mind at least, it refers to the hollow pit in his chest, the way he drifts through life like a ghost. Not all the way there. Not all the way alive.
Johnny had begun to change that. It was the jokes first. The camaraderie that came a little easier than it ever had before. It was Las Almas when he felt fear for the first time in years, fear for Johnny’s life. It was Las Almas when Rodolfo said “Of course, no?” and Soap said “No” at the same time that Ghost had said “Yes”, and the place between his shattered ribs that held a cold heart ached. Ached that Johnny didn’t know that he would never leave him behind. That he would die trying to retrieve his body, if that was all that was left of him. It was Las Almas when Soap said, “And that’s why I love the Ghost” and he realized that was what the sensation was. That he was in love.
Things had changed after that. He didn’t say the words, but his secret fondness turned into spending time with Johnny, when he would usually stay alone. That turned into fond glances and lingering touches. Then it was massages for sore muscles and help with PT. Sparring, and showering together, even if they wouldn’t touch in a way that was more than platonic while on base.
Then they managed to take leave at the same time. They asked separately. Even offset it by a couple days. Price noticed, but since the two of them worked together as a team so often, it made tactical sense for them to take leave at the same time, and that was enough plausible deniability for him so he approved it. Hell, Ghost was pretty sure Price approved of the relationship, but he didn’t say anything.
They found a shared flat in Glasgow. Shared kisses in civvie clothes, shared meals, shared their bed, shared their pleasure, but not the words. Never the words.
Now he never will. He won’t even say them to Johnny’s body. He was too much of a coward while the man was alive. He doesn't deserve to say them now. Doesn’t deserve to say them while Johnny can’t hear. Doesn’t deserve the absolution.
He thinks briefly about reaching for his gun and putting a bullet through his head. He can’t. Not yet. Not until he’s laid Johnny to rest, and then hunted down Makarov. He swings his feet to the floor and dresses himself, avoiding the broken pieces of the alarm clock. He can still hear the phantom sound of the alarm clock. Beep. Beep. Beep. Too much like the bomb. He wishes they hadn’t defused it. Wishes he’d shot it instead, made it go off the second he realized Soap was dead, then Makarov wouldn’t have gotten away. It would have been a grim ironic victory in the millisecond he’d had to relish it.
He couldn’t do it to Gaz or Price, he tells himself. It’s almost not a lie. Johnny deserves to rest in Scotland and he can’t do that if he’s blown to bits. That’s the truth. Although he wonders now if Johnny might not have minded so much, might have even found it fitting. The demo expert, pyromaniac, crazy bastard that he is. Was.
Fuck.
He’ll be cremated if Ghost has anything to say about it.
He doesn’t bother with the mess hall. Doesn’t feel like eating. Goes straight to Price's office. The man is sitting behind the wooden desk, evidence of last night’s tears streaked down his weathered cheeks, his mutton chops still damp with them.
“Simon!” he says, and there’s a light and warmth in his eyes like he’s surprised that Simon hasn’t killed himself since he last saw the man.
“Captain. I have a favor to ask you.”
Price agreed to the cremation without resistance, but refuses when Ghost asked to watch. Ghost didn’t even bother asking to film. Wanting to watch in person was insane enough.
“You get caught out there, they’ll kill you slow...” he’d told Soap on the streets of Las Almas
“Mercs or the Narcos?”
“Narcos... They’ll take videos...”
“I’ll give them your email so they know where to send ‘em,” Soap snarked back.
“I won’t watch ‘em... More than once anyway...”
“Siiick Bastard.”
He’d give anything for videos right now. Anything for a video of Soap being shot. Anything for a video of his body going up in beautiful flames and ash. Price doesn’t get it. Or maybe he gets it too well. Regardless, Price won’t let him watch and there’s no way for Simon to explain, without getting thrown for a psych eval. A psych eval that would almost certainly land him with a discharge.
He can’t get discharged. Not now. He needs to see this to the end. So he goes back to his room with Soap’s dogtags clutched so tightly in his fingers that they leave harsh biting lines in his palm. A peace offering from Price.
He doesn’t deserve the tags. He should send them to the family, but it turns out that Soap’s family doesn’t exist. His parents died a few years back. It’s strange. Ghost could have sworn that Johnny talked about them as if they were still alive. Could have sworn that he went back for Christmas with them just last year. It’s convenient in a dark way that Ghost tries not to think about too much. At least they can’t fight him on the cremation.
He’s still holding the dogtags as he finally weeps himself to sleep.
~~~
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Ghost groans reaching for the alarm clock. Why did he even bother having that thing replaced? Goddammit. He chucks it as hard as he can. The way it shatters is just as satisfying as the first one. It’s beautiful in a way. The sound of the plastic as it splinters. They way the shards spread out from the point of impact. It’s almost a tiny explosion. Soap would love it.
He wishes he didn’t have to get up. He’s tired to the bone in a way that he’s never been before. It’s a wonder he slept at all. Even more of a wonder that he didn’t have any nightmares. He was sure that he would see Soap’s dead body every time he fell asleep for the rest of his life, but so far, nothing...
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Ok not quite nothing. He still hears that damn bomb. He can’t even figure out why. There’s so much else. He could hear the gunshot, or Soap’s body hitting the floor, or the way Price screamed his name, but no. It’s just the sound of the bomb ticking down. A bomb that didn’t even go off. Not that he would have cared at that point if it did.
He drags himself out of bed. Stares at the beautiful carnage of his alarm clock before he eventually sweeps it up. Forces himself to go to mess. The food tastes like ash, gunpowder, and Johnny’s blood in his mouth. Goes to Price because he doesn’t know where else to go. Sees the report on his desk, his vision narrowing in on the words: KIA John “Soap” MacTavish.
“We’ll get his ashes back tomorrow,” Price says quietly.
“Hmm.”
“After that I got the three of us leave. 3 days of it.”
“Time to bring Johnny home,” Ghost says.
Beep. Beep. Beep. agrees the computer on Price’s desk.
Two days in they are in Scotland, a heavy metal urn the only thing Ghost brings with him on the walk to the cliff. This isn’t how he thought he’d be visiting Soap’s home for the first time together. Scotland is beautiful. He can admit that now that there’s no friendly rivalry to keep up with Soap. God I’m a fucking coward.
“Rest in Peace Johnny,” he says watching the ashes catch on the breeze as they slowly fall into the sea, lapping at the stone beneath them in waves.
~~~
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound of a shattering alarm clock.
He wonders how long before they run out of alarm clocks in storage. Doesn’t really care. He brushes his fingers reverently on the cool metal of the urn sitting next to his bed. A Prayer. The only type he knows these days.
Dress. Sweep. Force food down his throat. Go to Price’s office. Except Price isn’t there. He goes to Soap’s room instead. It’s just like he thought it would be. Messy. Paperwork that will never be finished strewn across the desk. Trash that hasn’t been taken out. Blankets rumpled. He could have written Soap up for this. Instead he’s grateful.
He can almost pretend Soap is still alive. The room looks like it belongs to someone who is still alive. He doesn’t dare touch anything but the bed he lays down in. Wants to keep it as Soap left it for as long as possible.
But the sheets? They clearly hadn't been washed for a few days before that disastrous mission, and as a consequence they smell like... Well, Soap. The man, not the stuff for the washing machine. He has to laugh at the irony of that. It’s a hollow bitter sound. It’s still the first time he’s laughed.
He sleeps in the bed. When morning comes, he does not throw the alarm clock.
~~~
A few days later and he knows why Price was gone that day. Hears that General Shepard is dead. Shot point blank in his office. They say it’s a suicide, he was a military man after all, and the statistics are abysmal. Ghost knows that's bullshit.
He’s furious with Price. Furious that he got to the man before he could. That spark of anger starts a wildfire. Realizes he’s furious that Price stopped Soap from killing Makarov that day in the helicopter. He’s furious that Price took Soap from Ghost that day, leaving him with Gaz. Furious that Soap died protecting Price.
The thoughts in his head sound like the bomb counting down. Beep. Beep. Beep.
He avoids Price for the next few days. Willing himself back under control before he blows up.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Avoids him until eventually the Captain is forced to knock on Ghost’s door. “Know you don’t want to see me right now, but I thought you should know that they’re cleaning out Soap’s room by the end of the week. Take what you need now,” he says through the door.
Ghost takes his words to heart.
He takes everything from Soap’s room. The obvious things like the clothes, the bottles of skincare, and the little decorative items come first. Then he really gets down to it. He’s lucky that their rooms are roughly the same layout. If anyone sees him dragging furniture back and forth between the barracks, slowly replacing every item in his room that isn’t bolted down, and even a few of the ones that are, with the identical item from Soap’s room, they have the good sense not to mention it.
He thinks about the Ship of Theseus.
~~~
He’d taken Soap’s throat mic to wear on missions, but only a few missions in and it's busted after a nasty punch to the throat. After he’s finished rebuilding their rooms, he takes it down to equipment.
“Want this repaired,” He says to the startled man on duty.
“Of course sir. Right away. I’ll get you a new one.”
“No. Not a new one. I want this one repaired.”
“Re-repaired? It’s shattered sir!”
“Don’t care,” Ghost bites out. He doesn’t like this room. There’s too many electronics in it. Beep. Beep. Beep. He can’t even identify which piece of equipment is making the noise. He shakes his head snarling. “Fix it. Replace the parts one by one if you have too. Don’t care if the only thing usable is the strap or a piece of wire. Fix it.”
The man is properly terrified now. “Can I? Can I ask why sir?” he stammers out. Ghost glares and leans down over the desk slamming his hands into it. Beep. Beep. Beep. The man jumps back in his seat, and then suddenly his eyes focus on something on Simon’s chest. Two sets of dog tags hang from his neck, having slipped out from his shirt. Before Ghost can get out a scathing reply, the man’s eyes soften from their fear into something like pity, or maybe understanding. “Ah. I see. Alright then Lieutenant. I’ll fix it up as best I can.”
Ghost nods, his movement jerky and spins on his heel to leave. Behind him, the beeping noise of the equipment trails off.
~~~
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He wonders if he’ll ever be free of that noise. Wonders if he’ll ever escape the bomb that should have killed him next to Soap.
~~~
He gets the throat mic back. The man was even kind enough to keep the busted pieces that he had to tear out and replace, just so Ghost can see how much of the original is still there. The plastic shell on the mic had been broken, and Ghost can see the lines where the man had carefully glued it back together at the seams, preserving every last piece he could. It might not technically pass inspection. He doesn’t care. Throat mic of Soap? Ship of Soap? Throat Mic of Theseus? Another hollow bitter laugh, only because Soap would have found it funny.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He frowns. Since when do throat mics beep?
~~~
Jonathan Price might have been the one to kill Shepard, but Ghost will be damned if he doesn’t get to be the one to personally rip life from Makarov’s body. They’ve finally found a convincing lead on the man and Ghost is sitting in the briefing room trying to keep his eye from twitching each time Price’s watch beeps.
No one else seems bothered so instead of saying anything he peels off one of his gloves and digs his nail into his palm. He wonders if the beeping will stop when he holds Makarov’s dripping throat in his hands.
~~~
Bodies litter the floor, each one bloodied, shot full of holes, or carved through. A massacre in the name of one man. Ghost wouldn’t have it any other way.
Makarov is pinned beneath Ghost’s boot. He can’t remember where he stabbed Makarov but he must have already because the Russian's blood is dripping from his fingers. He wants to lick up the blood and kiss Soap with the taste of the blood of the man who dared to hurt him intermingling on their tongues.
Killing Makarov takes hours. It’s over instantly.
It’s clean, over before the terrorist even knows what happened. It’s a long drawn out tortuous death where he screams and begs Ghost for mercy.
It’s everything. It’s nothing.
Ghost stares at him, impassive or furious as the last heartbeat shudders to a stop. The man’s fingers slacken. Beep. Beep. Beep.
No. The beeping was supposed to stop. He was sure killing Makarov would make it stop.
He looks down, realizes that there was a dead man switch in the terrorist’s hand. His tactical vest, stuffed full of C4. Ghost has no idea how he didn’t see it before.
Ah. Coming home then Johnny.
His whole world goes white.
~~~
Beep. Beep. Beep.
No! Damnit! No! It was supposed to be over. There was supposed to be rest.
Unless this is hell. A special torture, hearing that bomb for eternity.
He opens his eyes. The world outside is offensively bright, like the artificial lights are pounding directly into his skull. The walls are a sickeningly stark shade of white and his body is ensconced in wires and bandages. No, just the regular world it is then. Unless hell looks like a hospital, which it very well might now that he thinks about it.
“Simon?” says a soft and familiar Scottish voice.
Ah. I’m hopped up on pain meds and hallucinating. He can’t be dead because heaven wouldn’t hurt this much and no hell could ever have that voice in it. No amount of torture would ever withstand the pleasure of hearing that voice. He could be beaten and bloodied to death a thousand different ways and he’d die with a smile on his face a thousand times if that voice was in his ear.
“Do you know who I am?” the voice asks soft and gentle, almost afraid.
Ghost swallows, his throat dry and his tongue swollen in his mouth. It sticks as he tries to answer. “I know who you are, Johnny,” he says, thick and clumsy. He turns his aching head, tense for what he knows is coming.
He hasn’t had nightmares before now, it’s a damn miracle. Usually they are all he sees when he closes his eyes, but his sleep has been deep and dreamless. It was only a matter of time before that broke. He wonders what it will be now. Will Soap be nothing but a skull, gleaming white as he stares at him? Will his skin be crawling with maggots like Vernon? Will he be like he found him after the fight with Makarov, freshly dead with blood pouring down his face?
It’s none of these. Soap looks healthy and whole other than a bandage peeking out of his t-shirt at his shoulder, and dark bags under his eyes. He looks tired but he’s smiling, a fond, almost hopeful, look in his tired eyes. “Ok so ye remember my name. Do you remember yours?”
“Don’t have one anymore,” Ghost croaks. Then, when that makes Soap bite down on his lip, worry scrawling across his furrowed brow, Ghost elaborates. “People call me Ghost now. You still call me Simon.”
The worry subsides. “Dramatic Bastard,” Soap mutters but there’s no heat to his voice. He reaches over and takes a plastic bottle off the table and opens it for Ghost. “Here, sip it slow.” When it becomes clear that Ghost will need help, he gently unhooks the surgical mask Ghost is apparently wearing instead of his normal balaclava and holds the bottle to his lips, other hand gently cradling his jaw. The whole time Ghost waits for it to go wrong. Waits for the moment the nightmare starts in earnest.
Eventually unable to take it anymore, he asks, “Why are you here?”
Soap raises his eyebrows. “Wanted to be 'ere when you woke up, Lt.”
Ghost shakes his head, wincing as the sudden movement drives a knife through his temple. “No. You’re dead. You should be resting.”
Soap’s eyebrows nearly touch that dumb mohawk of his. “What? I’m not dead, Ghost. It’s gonna take more than a shot to the shoulder for that.”
“Makarov shot you in the head. I watched you die,” Ghost pushes. There’s something off, something he’s not getting, but he can’t figure it out around the pain in his skull.
Soap is looking properly worried again. He reaches for the call button to summon a nurse. “No, Ghost. Ye’re the one who got shot in the head,” he says, slowly, like Ghost is an injured animal and Soap’s not quite sure how to handle him. “The doctor said your mask saved your life. Any deeper and it would have killed you. Should have killed you anyways. Ye’ve been in a coma.”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Ghost stares at him, not quite sure whether to believe him. He wants to say he loves him. Wants to rip the IV lines and disconnect the heart monitor so he can throw himself across the hospital bed to gather Johnny up in his arms. “Can you turn the sound on that thing off?” is all he manages to croak out.
“Sure, Ghost.” Johnny reaches over, and for the first time since he was shot, the sound of the bomb the heart monitor, subsides, and it’s quiet in Ghost’s mind. His line of thought is interrupted by the nurse entering the room.
“Sergeant MacTavish,” the nurse says cheerily. “I thought I told you to go home and sleep.”
“Aye, but I told ye, I had a feeling he was going to wake up soon. Couldn’t leave ‘im,” Soap replies, reaching out to take Ghost’s hand, working his thumb in soothing circles over Simon’s knuckles. “He seems a bit confused though.
She can see Soap. He’s not a hallucination.
“Confusion upon waking is normal. We can’t guarantee a full recovery of course, but this isn’t cause for concern yet,” the nurse says to Soap as she checks over Ghost. Soap must have told her about the mask, because she doesn’t ask him to remove it as she examines the throbbing injury on his skull. “This is healing nicely.” She asks Simon a few more questions and he stumbles weakly through the answers. By the pleased look on her face and the hum in her throat, he gives the right ones.
Every moment she stays he becomes increasingly aware that this is real. Increasingly aware that Soap is a mere arm’s length away from him. It becomes harder to focus and he has to tense his muscles in order to not launch himself at Soap. Eventually satisfied, she leaves the room. “Rest, Lieutenant Riley. You need it. You too, Sergeant MacTavish. I expect you to have taken a nap and changed your clothes by the next time I see you.” The door swings shut behind her.
Ghost turns to look at Johnny. “You’re alive.”
“Yes.”
“You’re ok.”
“Yes.”
It’s the last bit of confirmation he needs. Simon feels like a bottle of champagne that’s shaken and popped open, his words bubbling and rushing from his throat. “I love you, I love you and I was too much of a coward, too much of a fool to tell you until I thought you were dead, and then I couldn’t tell you because you were dead and you couldn’t hear me and I didn’t deserve it, and I’m sorry and I love you and I don’t deserve you, and I love you, Iloveyou I love y-”
Soap is out of his chair and by Simon’s side in an instant, a warm steady hand enveloping his. “Oh Simon. I knew. It’s ok. I already knew. It’s alright. I knew. I knew and I love ye too.”
“You- You knew?” Simon repeats, incredulous and relieved all at the same time. Johnny unhooks the mask from his ears and presses his soft lips to Simon’s own chapped and dry ones. The kiss isn’t chaste exactly, but there’s no heat behind it, just an utter need to press against each other until they can’t tell whose lips belong to who. It doesn’t matter anyways because they both belong to each other.
Johnny only pulls back when their lungs start to burn and there is black at the edge of Simon’s vision. They pant, dragging air into their lungs, but Johnny keeps their faces pressed together, his smooth cheek against Simon’s scarred one. Their noses are smashed together and Simon's twinges where it’s been broken one too many times, but he would never dream of pulling away. “O’ course I knew Simon,” Johnny says eventually, though it’s still breathless. “You look at me like I painted the sunrise just for you and I would. I would paint you every sunrise.”
Simon nods, suddenly exhausted, slipping back into sleep, but this time there is no bomb or heart monitor in his ears. The only thing that echoes in his mind is; I love him and he knew. He loves me and I know. It’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.