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Soap blinked to adjust to the harsh light flooding his eyes, making out two blurrier figures slowly coming into focus. A hand made its way across his face, slapping him hard enough for the sting to linger. He tried his best not to flinch - appearing weak could be a death sentence.
“Talk.”
“Aye, it all started when I was six,” Soap began. My ma always said ‘dinnae-”
He was interrupted by the same hand slapping his face, then the feeling of his bare toes being crushed under the boot of the other man. He hunched forwards and screamed out in pain, before lifting his head and glaring at his captors with a shit-eating grin.
“I’m talking ain’t I?”
The man who crushed his foot crossed his arms in annoyance. This was the fifth time they’d come to interrogate him, to torture him, and he had the lacerations and bruises to prove it. Frankly, Soap didn’t even know what information they were looking for, but if they knew that they’d kill him. He had been careless on a mission, his brash and eccentric nature leaving him caught unawares. Then again, it’s not often that you’re drinking with an informant and a random man jabs a sedative into your neck.
“This hasn’t been getting us anywhere.”
“Sorry ‘bout that. You could just cut your losses and let me go,” Soap hummed.
“Yeah…” the man in front of him said, unsheathing a knife and putting the sharp edge to Soap’s throat. “We could cut our losses, couldn’t we?”
Soap was feeding on their reactions, on pissing them off. The front man seemed to have a shorter temper, and the man behind him seemed level-headed. He smirked, it was a relationship pattern that was cheerily familiar despite how bleak things looked at the moment.
Soap was only here because he had done the job under wraps. Price could have been advising him, but Soap had stolen the files because Ghost was supposed to be in his place. Ghost was instructed to go unmasked, and as much as he had tried to hide it, the thought made Ghost uneasy. Ghost began staring off in the days leading up to the mission, going silent (more than usual) at random intervals. Whatever problem he had with his face was affecting Ghost mentally, and with his head in the wrong place. The mission couldn’t be that hard, so Soap decided to shoulder the burden, but now that meant he was all alone.
“Don’t,” the taller man put his hand on the shoulder of the man holding the knife. “We need intel. This isn’t working. We need to do that .”
The man retracted the knife from Soap’s throat and Soap sighed.
“Are you suggesting…”
“I am.”
“You gonna clue me in?” Soap jeered. The two men turned to look at him, and Soap felt his stomach churn in anxiety with the devious grin conforming itself onto the face of the one with the knife.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Before Soap can respond, he sees the one behind him sling his weapon forward and the backside of a rifle hits him hard.
Soap was shaken awake, pulled up by his shirt collar then forced to walk as his body protested in every way possible. In the commotion, he noticed his wrists were bound by rope, and one of the men beside him was holding more rope to presumably tie him up further. He’s shoved into a room that’s empty besides a large pod-looking device, one that seemed futuristic, one that makes Soap's heart drop a bit. The two men heaved whatever it was open, then tied Soap’s ankles as they shoved him in. It was water, slowly seeping into his clothes and wetting each and every part of his body. One was pressing buttons on the outside of the tank while the other held his hand on the lid, sneering at Soap before closing and locking him in once the beeping ceased.
It was dark. But he was awake. He was there, just sitting in the emptiness, floating. This wasn’t so bad for the moment, but in the silence, the lack of anything at all, it didn’t take long for Soap to realize he was in a sensory deprivation tank. The smell of chlorine and salt was overwhelming, but Soap soon got adjusted to it. Looking back, he wished he hadn’t, because having any sense of anything, just one more of his senses active may have made the experience easier.
The first few minutes were fine, but the dread began to sink in. Soap knows that this is how it works, how the psychological torture is supposed to get you, but it didn’t ease the anxiety or stop the course of the shadows creeping around him, flooding every part of his consciousness. He was trained for torture; with the information the 141 holds, death was better than compromise. But neither surrender nor death was an option. Price and Ghost were going to come for him, they had to.
Soap didn’t know if he should scream or not. Once the silence began to grip him, he shouted out. He should have noticed it when he struggled against his bonds and he didn’t hear the water splashing about. There wasn’t any noise. He could feel the reverberation of his screams in his chest and a slight sound, but the void answered his calls with silence. He keeps screaming, pleading into the emptiness for any semblance of a feeling. The silence is deafening as time loses all meaning to Soap. The darkness swallows all sound, all light, and the difference in his eyes being opened or closed was imperceptible.
The men open the tank again, and the light has him squinting and shouting, the sensation almost painful. The one who had the knife earlier pulls him up by the scruff of his neck, bringing their faces inches apart.
“Take me out to dinner first,” Soap says weakly. He can hear his own voice, the only thing he has been hearing for the last few hours. But it’s clearer and stronger, and he savors that small bit of heaven before he knows it’ll be taken from him again.
“You have anything you want to tell us?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
The man smiles. Maybe he can see the look in Soap’s eyes, the one that’s bloodshot, the one that used to be coy reduced to rage as a façade for fear. The look that has both the men and Soap in the know; the claws of insanity are gripping him tightly, a boa constrictor slowly wrapping its way around Soap’s neck and suffocating him.
Soap was thrown back into the tank and the lid is closed again, with a bit of the water splashing into his mouth and he almost chokes, the flavor of the salt somehow refreshing and debilitating at the same time. He knows drinking it would be a death sentence and would dehydrate him further, but the possibility of having something on his tongue other than the slowly encroaching taste of death is enticing.
Waterboarding or any type of physical torture would have been preferable. Then he would have been able to feel something, see something, know that he’s alive. He does begin to see something, but the visions are plagues of his mind. He begins to hallucinate, seeing quick bits of light and color make their way through the darkness. They vaguely resembled eyes and people and he can swear he hears whispers. Soap blinked repeatedly, shaking his head.
“This isn’t real, this isn’t real, you’re fine MacTavish.”
He said the words but he couldn’t hear them, so they go deaf to his ears as they do his mind.
It gets worse. Soap’s body began to burn, his skin wrinkly and stinging from the amount of salt working to keep him afloat, and it stops him from sleeping. He saw and heard nothing at all, but all he can feel is pain. All he knows is pain. Soap knows he should hold out, he knows he needs to, and he knows he has to. But as the hopelessness envelops him like the lack of sound, the greater the want to dunk his head under the water increases. Would he hear himself drowning, choking, his airways filling with water? Soap didn’t know, but the urge to find out slowly consumed him.
Then there’s light. A light that’s blinding, light that stings as everything around Soap had been. Soap’s discombobulated, he doesn’t feel real, but he’s pulled out of the water and his legs and arms are unbound by someone. Soap’s too shaken to make things out other than his senses. Everything’s coming back at once, and it’s painful, to go from the void to the multitude of senses surrounding him. Soap is shaking on the floor but he feels someone shaking into him too. Soap looks up teary-eyed to see the balaclava-clad face of Ghost.
“Jesus fucking Christ Johnny… what’d they do to you?” Ghost says in a panic.
Soap sputtered out something unintelligible, and he looked up to see Ghost’s heart break through his eyes. Ghost just holds his arms, pulling him closer as Soap hyperventilates.
Soap suddenly realized he was screaming, he's screaming into the arms that hold him, cherishing the weak sounds exuding from his throat. He can hear them. Soap can’t form words. With all the time left to think, enraptured by his memories, notions, past malfeasances and those to come, the only thing that comes out is raspy sobs and groans.
Just seeing a person again, anyone, feeling and sensing the entire world around him again after what felt like centuries of pain endured was euphoric, but it was also so much. He needed Ghost to hold him, but he couldn’t bear his touch, he needed everything and he needed nothing.
Price burst into the room with gun ready at the commotion, but he watches in a quick forming despondence as Soap breaks down in his lieutenant’s arms. Price slackened his grip and squats down, placing his hand on Soap’s shoulder.
“We’re here son, we’re here.”
Soap had practically given up hope of even making it out alive, by his means or someone else’s. He quickly glanced around to see the splattered brains of the men keeping him as well as others. They were dead. The men who had done this to him were dead.
Ghost then slowly let go of Soap and pulled back, but Soap cried out, begging for any sensation besides the water. Soap knew this was completely unbecoming of him, but he couldn’t find the will to care.
“Simon, we need to go,” Price ordered.
“Rog.”
Ghost pulled back again to Soap’s dismay, but he shushed him as he stood up to lift Soap into his arms. Soap tried to stumble onto his feet and walk on his own but he was in no shape to do so since his cuts and bruises were inflamed from the salt water exposure. He feels brought off of his feet, then lifted off the ground and carried by Ghost. All he wants to do is tell Ghost that he’s okay, that he’s fine, but Soap knows he’s not. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be fine again, so he huddled into the warmth of Ghost as he’s carried, closing his eyes and wincing out with each breath he takes.
Soap opened his eyes with a bit of commotion to see he was being loaded into a van. He was positioned to sit up in the back with Ghost as Price drove.
“H-How long was I in there?” Soap stuttered, shivering from his damp clothes and skin.
“46 hours,” Ghost said. ‘Ts what the thing said. The… whatever you were in.”
A small silence passed, and Soap’s breaths quickly got heavy as he began to tremble. Soap’s heart was in his throat, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and he began clutching onto his skin, digging into it with his fingernails.
“You alright?” Ghost asked.
“Keep talking,” Soap said firmly.
“Huh?”
“Keep talking,” he repeated. “Please.”
“What do you want me to talk about?”
“Fucking anything.”
The silence Soap had dealt with in the chamber was debilitating. Even when he could hear snippets of his own voice, of his own gravelly screams, he quickly got accustomed to that being the only thing he could hear. Ghost twanged in pain, staring at Soap as Soap stared at the floor, and a small inkling that the Scot might never be the same dug its way into Ghost’s mind. He’d seen this before, he’d known it all too well. Ghost took Soap’s hand, intertwining their fingers and rubbing small circles into Soap’s skin with his thumb.
“The fuckers that did this to you are dead, alright? Blew their brains out. Wish I could’ve gone back, killed them twice if I had known they were keeping you like this.”
“More. Please. Just…”
Soap was so vulnerable, but Ghost didn’t know in what way to comfort him. He knew he couldn’t talk forever, and if anything, Ghost was the worst person to ask to hold a conversation. Soap watched all the emotions flickering through Ghost’s eyes; pain, anger, despair, exacerbation. As Ghost thought, Soap began panicking again, finding himself back in the tank, floating back into the abyss and on the verge of hyperventilating.
“Fuck, um…”
Every hesitation from Ghost was another second spent in agony for Soap because the silence was physically painful. Though the sound of the engine and the rumbling of the car helped, Soap just needed someone, someone to know he wasn’t alone. Ghost started spouting out random things to talk about, anything that crossed his mind. He told Soap his morning routine, how they broke into the base, and a story about his family, one of the very few Soap would ever get. Ghost didn’t tell him how awful he felt, how the guilt of letting this happen was practically eating him alive, and having the manifestations of his negligence be exported onto Soap was its own form of torture. Ghost tried to throw in easily-disputable lies to gauge a reaction, but Soap stayed silent, just listening with a tight-lipped grimace. As a last resort, Ghost tried to cheer Soap up.
“Why did the man miss his mother’s funeral?”
“Why?” Soap murmured before wincing, the sound of his own voice hitting his own eardrums like nails on a chalkboard.
“He wasn’t a mourning person.”
Soap gave a short chuckle and squeezed Ghost’s hand, then leaned onto his shoulder. He hadn’t slept, and this was one of the few times he didn’t feel completely on fire, so he could feel his eyelids getting heavy. Ghost continued with stupid jokes, not letting Soap speak if the question required a response. Ghost occasionally looked over, and somehow Soap’s eyes fluttered open despite his exhaustion any time Ghost stopped talking. This went on for about thirty minutes, with his breathing increasing in speed at the stops and Ghost’s hand getting sore from how tightly Soap was clutching it. Ghost always got right back to it, saying another stupid joke from the plethora he had stored in his brain. Eventually, Soap’s exhaustion overtook him and Ghost fell silent without protest. Ghost leaned his head back against the van door with a deep sigh.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Johnny,” he whispered before planting a short kiss on Soap’s forehead through his balaclava.
The first day Soap had gotten back to base was hell. In the hospital, he had the comfort of listening to the slow beeping of the monitors and the dull hum of the fluorescent lights. Being drugged up may have helped, but now he was back, and there was silence. Soap put his bags in Ghost’s room as Ghost had offered it to him, with the excuse “my snoring will be a good distraction”. Soap was the calmest at meals. Being able to taste and smell the food as well as listen to the chatter around him helped remind him that he was safe, but then again meals were only temporary. Ghost barely left Soap’s side, and at lunch, he glumly watched as Soap attempted to mask the pain, the indents the grueling torture had left in his psyche with a casual conversation with the other men. If there was silence at the table, Ghost would grab Soap’s hand and hold it to keep him grounded, and Soap would squeeze back as a thank you.
The first night Soap had tried to sleep, Ghost didn’t snore. He was stuck in another dark black room with what was practically silence as Ghost slept beside him soundly. The dread came back in the void, and it gripped him, squeezing every part of his body as if to crush it. Soap’s heart pounded all throughout his body and he sat up, hunching himself over in a ball while shutting his eyes, and clutching his knees hard enough for his fingernails to draw blood. Soap attempted to calm himself by telling himself that this wasn’t real, but the last time he told himself that was the case, he really was trapped in nothingness. He could easily be right now.
Ghost woke up to the choked sobs of Soap and rushed over to him, holding his arms out by Soap with caution, nervous to act. Standing beside him motionless wasn’t helpful, so Ghost resorted to wrapping his arms around the man and holding him as tight as he could. Soap thrashed, his breathing heavy, almost more panicked, but Ghost’s grip held firm.
“Shhh…shhh, I’ve got you, I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Soap eventually softened into Ghost and relaxed, quietly trembling in the large man’s arms. Once he was able to, he wiped his damp face in embarrassment, and slowly pushed Ghost off of him while clearing his throat.
“Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.”
Ghost then walked to the bathroom attached to the room, flipped the light on, and headed back over to his own bed. Ghost didn’t give out affection on a whim, and even though the two had begun things romantically, to be what was practically coddled by his lieutenant was slightly mortifying. Soap put his head in his hands and groaned before staring at the ceiling and the light, trying to keep himself from the darkness of shut eyelids.
The next morning, Soap was walking to the cafeteria with heavy eyes when he heard the raised voices of two men in what sounded like a heated argument. He waited beside the door in curiosity, to quickly discover the muffled noises were Price and Ghost.
“The man’s not well, Simon. He’s not fit to be deployed.”
“I’m not asking for deployment, sir.” Ghost said. “He just needs somewhere to stay. If he’s alone he’ll lose it.”
“He needs to go home. He needs to get help, he-“
Soap heard what sounded like Ghost slamming his hands on Price’s desk.
“You know damn well he won’t do that. Just let him stay here, please. He’ll busy himself with cleanup or preparation. You can’t leave him alone, he…”
The pause was uncomfortable, and in it, Soap could tell that Ghost meant that he could be a threat to himself.
“Fine,” Price surrendered. “You’re a pain in my arse, you know? We both want the same thing here.”
“Yeah, but one of us is right and one of us isn't.”
“Watch your tone, lieutenant.”
The two began walking to the door and Soap walked off in a huff, dejected and angry. The fact that his superiors were arguing over him like he was a child, was so infantilizing and emasculating. He knew he wasn’t mentally sound in the slightest, but to be fought over like a custody case pissed him off.
Soap wanted to be okay, he wished he could put the whole ordeal behind him, but it plagued him day and night. He wanted to be angry at Ghost and Price, but both were just trying to look at him. Part of him wished that his captors weren’t dead so he could enact vengeance himself. But it wouldn’t fill the hole in his heart or the silence.
He was mulling all of this over while spacing out on his makeshift bed in Ghost’s room. He was bouncing his leg incessantly and chewing on a hangnail before Ghost came up to him with something in hand. Soap looked up to see it was a busted-up old iPod with a pair of earbuds attached to it.
“What’s this?”
“Music,” Ghost replied.
“For?”
“You, nonce. You don’t seem to like the quiet. Makes sense, you always were a loud bastard.”
“Didn’t take you as the gift-giving type.” Soap toyed.
“Just take the damn thing.”
“Alright alright, haud yer wheesht. Appreciate it.”
Ghost then walked out for a smoke break, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and picking one out while the door behind him closed.
Soap put the headphones in, immediately perusing through Ghost’s playlists with a judging eye. There was an overabundance of metal and rock songs, which didn’t surprise Soap in the slightest. He listened to a couple of them, trying to gauge Ghost’s music taste, maybe using it as a way to get closer to him, but Soap suddenly felt his skin get hot. His heart overtook his head when mentions of darkness and decay were in the lyrics. He should have expected it, it was heavy metal after all, but because the mental wound was so fresh, just the mention of it had Soap ripping the earbuds from his ears and throwing the music player across the room. It hit the floor with a sharp smack, and Soap looked down to see his hands quivering. Once he quieted his breath, Soap stood up to go inspect the iPod, peering over it to see the pieces of glass and a black screen.
“Fuck!”
Soap punched the wall in guilty frustration, bloodying his knuckles and injuring his hand against the concrete. He shook out his hand and then sat down on the edge of his bed, running his fingers through his hair. He had just destroyed something Ghost had given him, a gift. The cold stoic man had given him a gift and he had fucking ruined it because he couldn’t handle it. The thought of this affecting him for the rest of his life snaked its way into his head, and Soap found himself holding his knees once again as he tried to regain his composure. He couldn’t be like this forever. He wouldn’t make it.
Ghost stepped outside of the base, pulling out a cigarette and fiddling with his lighter, unable to get the spark to start. He sighed dejectedly before lighting it, angrily lifting his mask and taking a hit. He was able to get a couple in before the back door to the base he stood beside opened. Ghost put his hand on the bottom half of his mask to see if he needed
“Was looking for you. What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like I’m doing? Taking the edge off.”
Price usually would have given Ghost lip for that but disregarded it. Price then sauntered over to Ghost, leaning up against the wall with his arms crossed in typical Price fashion.
“How are you faring?” he asked.
“He’s a fucking wreck, he’s-”
“I asked about you, Simon. Not him.”
Ghost sighed, taking one final long drag before crushing his cigarette under the heel of his boot.
“I know what that kind of shit does to you. And I know that the only one who can work through it is him. Feeling like a fucking bystander is just…”
Ghost clenched his fist and grit his teeth, before heaving a sigh in exasperation. Price took out a cigar from one of his pockets, fiddling with the lighter and taking a drag as well.
“You’re doing enough.” Price said. “You’re there, and that’s all you can be.”
“Wish I could do more.”
“You and me both.”
Price offered Ghost his cigar and Ghost took it, inhaling for an exceptionally long time. As he did, Price turned to him.
“It’s not your fault.”
Ghost quickly puffed out a bit of the smoke, clearing his throat with a small cough afterward.
“That obvious?”
“He made the decision on his own.”
“That doesn’t matter. If I had-”
“Knowing him, he’d do it again.” Price said. “For you. So make sure that once is enough.” Price then gave Ghost a quick pat on the back and headed back inside, while Ghost lingered outside with his cigar in hand.
Night came again, and though the light was on, Soap was still plagued with anxiety. He laid down to sleep, staring at the ceiling once again seeing short bits of light dance across it as he tried to keep his eyes open. He rubbed his eyes and they disappeared, and Soap uttered a Scottish curse under his breath before sitting up.
“Ghost?”
Soap was hoping was still awake because if Ghost wasn’t, he would be woken up sooner or later.
“Yeah?”
“Could I… sleep in your bed?”
Soap was supposed to be the strong one, the cheery and unaffected one for the both of them, because Soap could tell he had been through enough despite Ghost’s vague descriptions of his past. Yet here he was, asking Ghost to hold him like he was a child.
“It’s so fucking stupid, I know, I just-”
“Shut up and get over here.”
Soap obliged, positioning himself next to Ghost so he’s the little spoon, and Ghost wrapped his arms around him. It was something about Ghost, maybe it was something about having anyone, but he was so secure. Soap traced his fingers up and down the scars lining Ghost’s arms, occasionally kissing one if he could get his face close enough to it. Ghost had been hurt just like he had, and misery loves company. Ghost brought his hand to Soap’s hair, ruffling it, and Soap leaned into the touch contentedly. Ghost was a warm body, one that was so comforting it made him forget for a moment, even as he closed his eyes. Every part of Ghost was something that was real, something Soap could sense; the smoke clinging to Ghost’s clothing, the warmth he exuded, the dull thrumming of his heartbeat when Soap’s ear was to his chest. But the dread remained, having something this nice being stripped away from him was something he couldn’t bear. Soap began to breathe heavily, heavily enough for Ghost to notice and speak up to distract him.
“What do you call a military advertisement you can’t tear your eyes away from?”
“...what.”
“A propa’ gander.”
Soap chuckled, and Ghost could feel Soap’s heart rate begin to subside.
“You’re an eejit.”
“Came up with that one myself.”
“I can tell, it’s shite.”
With more stupid jokes and stories of Ghost’s past, Soap was able to drift off, but in the middle of the night woke he up in a terror. Soap began gasping, shaking, and muttering to himself in a panic, so Ghost repeated the tactic he had used the previous night, holding and containing Soap until he settled. Soap did for the most part, but this time he let his tears fly unrestrained as he buried his head into Ghost’s chest crying.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” Soap sobbed.
“Johnny, stop.”
“I’m a fucking waste of a man, I deserve to-”
“Listen to me. I get it. I get this shit more than anyone else. I’d never wish any of that type of pain upon anyone, but you got it in my stead.”
“But I-”
“ That’s not the point. I can’t change it now, so I’m not gonna mull over it. But you’re not weak. You’re strong. Stronger than I’ll ever be.”
Soap was still gasping, trying to recover from the hyperventilation, but Ghost held him tighter and continued.
“You’ll get through it,” he whispered. “The start is the hardest. But I’m right here. And I’ll stay here. For you.”
Soap calmed down, pulling his face from Ghost’s chest to stare at the man comforting him. Ghost looked upon him with dreary eyes, ones seemingly just as burdened as Soap’s. They were both in agony watching the other suffer with their own pain while helpless to stop it.
“I would say ‘you’ll be okay, just look at me,’, but I’m not the best example.”
Soap chuckled, sliding up and bringing his hand to Ghost’s chin, pulling Ghost’s face down to kiss him.
“I think you’re fucking perfect. Thank you.”
“Of course. But then again, I can’t trust your opinion. You think Earl Grey is acceptable.”
Soap punched Ghost playfully in the arm and Ghost scoffed.
“And according to your playlists, you think Deftones is music.”
“It is.”
“It’s men moaning and whimpering,” Soap criticized.
“I like what I like.”
Soap’s eyelids fluttered shut again and he began to quietly snore as he listened to Ghost’s heartbeat attentively. Ghost kissed him on the forehead like he had done in the van when they first found him a shivering mess of a man, but this time, he didn’t tell him he was sorry. Ghost whispered that he loved him.
A part of Ghost was worried that Soap would fall down the same path he had; going through something so monstrous and losing himself in the process. But Soap wouldn’t be lost, because Soap had Ghost. Soap had the warm embrace of stone-cold Simon Riley, the one that would stay with him, the one that would fight for him, the one that would love him come hell or high water.