Cedar Beam, Pine Rafter

There’s a teddy in Soap’s bed; a beaten-up, old brown bear. Well-loved, if the state of the fur is any indication. Ghost lets out a choked laugh, mostly at his own expense. He wishes he was there, suddenly, wishes he was by Johnny’s side as he walked through the doorway and realised that his childhood room was waiting for him like a time capsule. Wishes he got to see the embarrassed scrunch of his face, the way the tips of his ears would flush red.
Soap has a whole second life, outside of the SAS. He’s got a mother, and a poorly-decorated bedroom, and a bear. All Ghost has is a flat that will be the same it is today as it will be the day he dies, like he was never even here at all.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter Text

Ghost had heard of Soap before they’d met. Mostly from Price, who took an almost possessive interest in the kid near immediately, but from the other officers, too. Some days it felt like he couldn’t not be hearing of Soap: wunderkind, the youngest-ever, the spitfire prodigy.

Back in those days, before he was himself, he’d been close with Price. They’d served together, done two tours by that point, and got along well. Ghost was a bit of a loner. A bit prickly, even then, but Price had been drawn to him regardless. He’d never said why. Ghost suspects it has something to do with the Captain’s predilection for basket cases.

Ghost had been a Lieutenant, newly minted, when Price was running SAS selection for Soap’s batch, and Soap had made an impact. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for officers to mumble amongst themselves about the shortcomings of their recruits; even the most elite men in the country weren’t above idle gossip. Though it was far less common to hear any sort of admiration. Practically unheard of, really, but that was just Soap all over.

He was eighteen at the time. Not as big as he was at present, but bulky all the same. His head was shaved near to the skin, a testament to how green he was, and worst of all he was pretty. Fresh meat, reeking of desperation, the kind that gets chewed up and spit out in the hills. Ghost wasn’t directly involved in selection, but he had caught a glance of the group as a whole. Soap hadn’t been on his radar at all, solidly mediocre, but all the more annoying for the bounce in his step, the shine in his eyes. That impression had been melted away by the end of the Fan Dance, and solidly obliterated by jungle training. The kid was a bloody miracle.

After Soap officially became the youngest candidate to pass selection in SAS history, Ghost had hoped he wouldn’t have to hear about him anymore. Cosmic fucking joke that had been.

He had caught Soap’s eye maybe twice throughout the whole ordeal before it was over as soon as it had begun. They didn’t speak until about three years afterwards, after he became the Ghost.

The next time they crossed paths was in Afghanistan. Stationed in adjacent squads on the same base, it was near impossible to avoid him forever. More accurately, Ghost supposes, it would have been the constant stream of chatter about him that really needed the avoiding.

Ghost had hoped the lustre would have worn off once the kid earned his spot in the SAS, but if anything, it only got worse. He’d never heard anything like it. I heard MacTavish almost beat Garrick in the CQB. Really? I heard his gun jammed in Urzikstan, had to strip and reassemble for each round. Some days it felt like it never ceased. He found himself wishing for some terrible news, something that would make all these officers stop salivating over this bastard. No one is that good. No one.

A few weeks into their deployment, finally, there was something. Ghost had been in the caff, sipping sourly at their piss-poor excuse for tea, which he had originally figured was better than nothing but was beginning to reconsider. Then he’d heard it.

Public opinion seemed to be split. Some of the lads were disappointed, but a fair share were almost proud. John MacTavish had officially received his first disciplinary action: caught red-handed sneaking a girl on base.

Nothing too out of the ordinary. Nearly half of the soldiers Ghost knew had done it at one point or another, but that was just the problem. Those soldiers weren’t worth a damn.

Ghost knew Soap’s type. Young, fit, cocky. Thinks the sun rises and sets by their whims. It’s the kind of soldier that ends up dead, or worse, the kind that gets others snuffed. There was one thing that made a soldier more dangerous than anything, and that was carelessness. And sneaking a bird on a military base just so he could get his dick wet was careless.

Viciously, Ghost hoped to himself that the incident would serve as a sort of disillusionment to the other men. Soap had shown his character, he thought. No reason everyone should keep going on as if the sun shone out of his arse. Regrettably, his reputation persisted. Golden child of Captain Price himself, fierce on the field and off. It wasn’t until Ghost met him, really met him, that he understood.

He was cocky, that was true. Young, and hotheaded, and brash. But he had been wrong about the carelessness.

Soap cared. He cared so much it spilled over onto everything around him. He cared about people, about the mission, about doing the right thing. Johnny had this way of bringing everyone around him up to his level. He inspired his men. He inspired Ghost — made him feel that maybe they were doing some good after all. That all the killing and brutality meant something, that they were leaving the world better than they found it, just like all that recruitment rubbish had said.

Probably not. Probably, Ghost’s hands were far too stained in blood to be of any good to anyone. But it was nice to feel like they weren’t. Soap made him feel like they weren’t.

Ghost doesn’t sleep very well most nights. Truthfully, he’s grateful if he gets much sleep at all. It’s commonplace for soldiers to lose sleep, it’s just a reality of the service, but ever since he’s been a boy he’s had a rough go of it. There’s no doubt the fighting’s made it worse, though. He used to stare at the cracked ceiling of their flat and wait for sleep to take him away, away from his life, his boredom, his father. Now he sees worse things at night.

The stillness is the worst part. When the world is asleep and silent, and you’re utterly alone, the only place to go is your own head. Ghost prefers to avoid that if he can at all help it, which is precisely why he finds himself at the range most nights.

It’s comforting. The repetition, the focus. The crack of his rifle muffled through his headphones, the gun oil on his fingers. Ghost feels more himself in the field, or behind a gun, than he does anywhere else. He feels even better when Johnny joins him.

Soap had found him here at about 0200 a few months back, sleepless himself. If Ghost had to guess, he’d probably come more for lack of something to do with his hands than any bone-deep need for violence, but it doesn’t matter much. He’d taken the stall next to Ghost without preamble, and begun talking his ear off, even through the headphones. It was nice. Talking with Johnny is always nice. A call and response, only Soap handles most of the calling, which is just fine by him — and the response is effortless. Ghost figures that out of every time he’s opened his mouth in his whole life, he’s said the wrong thing a solid eighty percent of the time. With Johnny, it feels like nothing he ever says is wrong. The kid’s probably grateful he gets a response at all. Ghost isn’t particularly the talkative type around base, or anywhere, really.

Whatever the case, Soap’s been around much more. Ghost’s in the range about three nights out of the week, assuming he’s not been stationed, and Soap joins him for two or so. He’d almost begun to worry about his Sergeant’s lack of sleep, but Johnny has thus far remained solid and unshakeable in the field, professional as ever.

They mostly talk about nothing. Happenings on base, gossip, upcoming missions. It’s less about what they say and more about how the words hang in the air, warm and solid, proof of life. Ghost likes to be alone, always has, but he’s happiest when Soap is alone with him. It’s mid-December when the topic shifts to their upcoming block leave.

“It’ll be good to see how Da’s holding up after his surgery. Mam said he’s bounced right back, but I want to see for myself. Haven’t seen the cousins in a while, either.” He turns to look at Ghost, not faltering in his pace stripping his rifle. It’s been a good session, but it’s 0400 now, and they need to pack it in if they’re to get any sleep at all. They’ve got drills with the crows tomorrow, so God knows they need all they can get. “You gonna meet up with your mates this Christmas?” Soap grins, sly.

“What are you on about, Sergeant?”

“You know, Past, Present, and Future? You and the ghosts.”

Christ, he hopes not. “We’re not on speaking terms. The Ghost of Christmas Future is a real bellend, you know.”

Soap strokes his chin absentmindedly, probably scraping his fingerprints off with the dire state of his stubble. Looks like he hasn’t seen a razor in a week. “So you have met. What does that make you the ghost of, Lt.?”

Ghost grins wolfishly. He’s got the balaclava on, but it must show in his eyes, because Johnny gifts him his own flash of teeth. “Maybe I’ll pay you a visit one night and show you.”

The air between them is humid, oppressive. This is another reason he loves their late-night range visits: the fatigue gives them plausible deniability. Anything they say can be redacted by a simple gentleman’s agreement, a false claim of memory stolen by tiredness, though in truth Ghost couldn’t forget a single moment with Johnny under threat of death. He’s tried.

It’s not much different from their banter in the field, academically speaking, but here it twists. There’s no audience. Just them, and the scant distance between them, and the searing knowledge that they both want something but can’t have it. God knows they can’t have it. But here, in the middle of the night, they can pretend, just a bit. I want you, and you want me, and we can’t ever say it, but we know it. We fucking know it.

Soap is the one to break it this time, to ground them. Someone’s got to do it, and Soap offers himself up easily enough. That’s a gift and a curse. A curse, in that he has to hear Johnny tell him no. A gift, in that Ghost can play the coward he so rarely gets to be. “You staying in Hereford, or going back home?” Johnny asks. He doesn’t mention whether or not home includes family, which Ghost knows is intentional. He’s never confirmed his lack of kin officially, but he supposes the silence is answer enough. Besides, he’s got a sort of poor home life look about him. He almost smiles. The Ghost with a mum, a dad. A wife and two kids, straight out of a postcard, all fuzzy and warm. Wouldn’t that be a sight.

“Got a flat in Birmingham. I’d stay here and miss the airfare but Price will have my arse if I do that again.”

“Och, maybe he’s got a point. No good being all alone on Christmas.”

“Don’t mind it. Don’t really celebrate, besides.”

“Oh. Hanukkah?” Johnny furrows his brow, mumbling to himself. “Though that’s already passed, I guess…”

Ghost shakes his head. “I’m not much for holidays, Johnny.” He busies himself with his own rifle, slow going as it is. He could strip and reassemble it in a few seconds flat, but he finds himself dragging his feet. “Not got much to go home to, anyway.”

Which is true in more ways than one. He shudders to think of the state of his flat, untended to for going on eight months. If his memory serves, he’d left some old takeaway in the fridge, which has probably become a biohazard. He may as well give the bloody thing away.

Soap looks at him, assessing. “We always have a big family Christmas. Got a lot of cousins, and that. We all come home, see each other, that type of thing, at least when I’m not stationed. But my Aunt Iona won’t be making it this year, Mam says.” He looks away, back to his own gun. “Without her, we’ve got an extra room.”

“Say what you mean, Sergeant.”

Soap rolls his eyes. “You’re more than welcome to stay with us, sir.”

It stings. Just a dull ache below his sternum, hardly a feeling he’s unfamiliar with, but there all the same. The prospect of spending time with Johnny — true, intimate time, away from the hell of their occupation, is dizzying. He craves it badly, so, so badly, and he’s glad for the mask, because he knows the unfettered want is plain on his face. But he doesn’t want it like this.

Johnny’s superior officer, orphan with no one else in his life, invited into his family for Christmas like a dog called in from the rain. It hurts to be thought of that way, but it hurts more that it’s true.

Soap has always seen through Ghost, right to the heart of him. The idea of being looked at that way by Johnny’s family, by the people he treasures most in the world, and being found lacking… it’s unacceptable. “No, thanks.”

“You sure? More the merrier, really.” Johnny catches his eye before skirting his gaze away again. “It’d be nice to have you there to watch my six. The third degree is brutal, you know how it is.”

He doesn’t, actually. He’s got no family, extended or otherwise, to ask after him. But he understands the sentiment.

“Cracking under pressure, eh? Thought we trained you better than that.”

“You’ve never met Elaine MacTavish,” Soap mutters. Ghost thinks, for a brief, singular moment, that he would like to. It would be terrifying, probably, but he has this fierce compulsion to learn everything there is to know about Johnny. The idea that there’s a side of him he’ll never be privy to sits sour in his stomach. “Cumoan, Lt. You’d be doin’ me a favour.”

“I said no, Sergeant.” It comes out a little more curt than intended. To Soap’s credit, he doesn’t flinch — clearly expecting it, or at least numb to Ghost’s sharper edges. If Ghost was a better man, he would probably feel awful that Johnny expects that kind of rudeness from him, but he’s mostly just grateful he tolerates it.

Soap admits defeat. “Alright, just sayin’.” A small grin. “Scrooge said no to Christmas dinner, too, sir. Wouldn’t have had to make the movie if he’d just said yes.”

“Bah humbug.”

Johnny smiles, and Ghost’s chest feels lighter, and they both wordlessly agree that they’ve stalled long enough before returning their weapons and heading to their bunks. Ghost actually, shockingly, gets a bit of sleep. Or, maybe not so shocking; he usually does, after their range visits. He wonders how much he’d get at the MacTavishes’.

Johnny doesn’t come to see him before his leave kicks off, but he does send a picture from the airport. A chunky black retriever in a red K9 vest is sniffing enthusiastically at a man’s crotch — the man looks like he’s about to piss himself, and the dog’s handler looks like he’s just got a lot more paperwork to file and he’s quite unhappy about it. It’s a bit blurry, which is unlike Soap, who normally has quite the eye for these things. He must not have had much time to take it. Ghost imagines him seeing it and clumsily opening his phone as fast as possible to snap the picture in time. Historically, at least at work, Soap is one part drowsy, two parts restless before boarding a flight. The mental picture makes him smile. Then he thinks about how if he had been there with him, he wouldn’t have needed to take the picture at all — would have just turned to Ghost and punched his shoulder until he turned around to look. Another text appears before he can think too hard about it, or wonder if a truly off-duty Soap would call him by his real name.

what do you call a facility that trains sniffer dogs

A meth lab. What? he messages back.

a meth lab

Not bad, he replies. Ghost likes Johnny’s jokes. These days, he finds himself spending more and more time trawling the internet for new ones to trade back and forth when missions are slow. He does it so often, his phone has started recommending searches to him every time he opens the web. It’s become a real problem. More than once he’s had to angle his phone away from Soap’s view to keep the nosy bastard from seeing Top Ten Jokes to Tell In the Break Room — Try Not to Laugh! plastered on his screen. He’s got a reputation.

Ghost is normally the sort that has his duffel packed with little fuss and is ready to head out at a moment’s notice, but his pack is still empty. He’d managed to avoid taking leave for a long while, but Price wasn’t having it anymore. Insisted the 141 bugger off to whatever corner of the UK they came from for Christmas. Said he wanted to see neither hide nor hair until the twenty-seventh. He’d claimed it was for the sake of the team’s stamina, which had been sorely tested over the last frenetic year or so, but Ghost knows the truth. He’d seen the train tickets hastily shoved under the — frankly alarming — muddle of paperwork on his desk, and Garrick’s been a bit light on his feet lately. They’re not half as subtle as they think.

As it is, he hopes his team has a good time, even if he won’t. His misery decidedly does not love company.

If he thought he’d be able to get away with it, he’d just stay at Stirling Lines and make out like he had a proper holiday, but knowing Price, the old geezer probably has eyes everywhere. There’s no chance of pulling the wool over his eyes. So Ghost mills about his quarters, goes for a jog round the camp, and generally does just about fuck all for as long as he can stand before he gives in and packs. Packing is a word used loosely, as all he’s got to stow is a few pairs of trackies, a toothbrush, and a 9mm, but it needs done. He waits till the sweat from his run starts to stick uncomfortably on his skin and truly work his nerves before setting out. The crawling feeling seems a fitting start to the week.

The drive from Hereford to his flat is about an hour and a half. He normally makes it in just fifty minutes, having been accused by his teammates of having a lead foot, but it’s just because he doesn’t see the use in doing a job inefficiently. The roads are rural for a good ways, besides. If he drives a little fast, no one would be the wiser. This time is different. He finds himself driving uncharacteristically slow, even getting passed by a few elderly blokes and one particularly impatient granny. If asked, Ghost would say it was to enjoy the scenery, but that would be rubbish. Scenery’s shit out here. The real reason is he’s fucking dreading what he’ll come home to.

A while back, he and Price had spoken about retirement. Price was getting up there, God knows, and Ghost had asked what he’d had planned for when the brass shelved him by force — it’s an inevitability, for an old dog like him, that he’ll be behind a desk soon if he doesn’t get himself killed first. It had just been the two of them in Price’s office, fresh off a debrief, and the Captain had gestured him closer conspiratorially, opening one of his desk drawers. He’d pulled out a photo, printed, not even on his phone, of a rusted-down Jaguar XJ-S. “Been in a garage for a decade and a half,” he’d said, sly grin under his moustache. “One day I might have enough time to fix the bloody thing.”

He then told Ghost about how his old man had owned a chop shop out in Liverpool. He’d died about eight years back, but left his old car in Price’s hands. “You handy, then?” Ghost had asked him, only to earn an incredulous laugh.

“No, mate. That’s more Nik’s department. I’ll be clawing the fucking walls once they sit me out, though. Need something to do or I’ll go mental. I figure you can teach an old dog a trick or two, eh?”

Privately, Ghost wasn’t so sure. About a year back he had gone to the grocer on impulse, buying every fresh thing that caught his eye, determined to be a proper fucking adult and make a meal that wasn’t reheated takeaway or instant noodles. He doesn’t know what on earth had gotten into him, but it was the first time in a long time he’d done something just because he thought it would be good. Not useful, not necessary for any cause or captain, just good. When he’d finished baulking at the receipt and walking home, he’d laid it all out on the counter and realised just about the only thing he could make with it all would be a wholly unappetizing salad. Just veg and some cheese and oils and spices and herbs that had cost him more than a week’s worth of chicken tikka. He’d spent a good few minutes standing in his kitchen feeling like a right idiot before throwing it in the bin and calling for a Chinese.

Afterwards, he’d remembered why he had never bothered before. It was pointless. Ghost had his job, had his purpose. He killed, destabilised, eliminated. That was what Simon Riley was for. Being domestic, being soft, it was against his nature. He’d take his leave from combat when he had no other choice, then come back to his life when it was all over.

He didn’t say any of that, of course. He’s not really sure what he’d said. Probably something mindless, inane. He remembers that Price hadn’t pushed him, though, just sent him on his way. He liked that about Price. Never expected more from Ghost than what he is.

When he pulls up to his flat, he’s able to bring up his luggage in a single trip, and unpacks the paltry collection of necessities he’d brought back with him. He looks around at his home, and mostly feels nothing.

It looks just about the same as the day he’d signed the lease. White, inoffensive walls, inexpensive toaster, microwave, kettle. A shoddy couch he’d lifted off the street. If he brought someone home, he realises, they’d probably think he was a stalker, or maybe a murderer, which he supposes isn’t far off the mark. He just hadn’t seen the use in decorating when he’s never around. Less to move in, less to move out. If he carks it, the landlord will barely have to lift a finger making the place presentable for the new tenants. Positives all around.

Ghost opens the fridge slowly, bracing himself for the smell of rotting food. It’s not as bad as he had feared. There’s some brown, wilted lettuce that’s near unrecognisable with rot, and a carton of eggs that he tosses without opening. Apart from the decomposition in the crisper, the thing is practically spotless. He’d never bothered to keep much around that couldn’t be shoved into a cabinet indefinitely, other than liquor, of course. Which reminds him—

He cracks open the freezer and sees the bottle of vodka he’d had the foresight to leave himself. Nearly two-thirds is missing, but it’ll do for tonight, at least.

Ghost had begun drinking early. He doesn’t remember the exact age, can’t remember much concrete about his childhood at all, really, but he thinks he was around twelve. He was too young and stupid at the time to be afraid of who he might become. His father was a mean alcoholic, of course, and Ghost is a mean man sober. Fortunately, he never got too angry when he drank. Liquor left him numb, and maybe a bit sad, but not angry.

Numb was good. He needed numbing, now. He takes the bottle by the neck and goes to sit on the dilapidated sofa, plastic shades already drawn over the windows, and checks his watch. 1800. He’s got one hundred and fifty-five hours to kill until he can be out of his own head and back to work. Probably a poor decision to be drinking on an empty stomach, mind, but he’s had worse. He figures he’ll manage to escape with a brutal hangover and not much else.

Ghost does not escape with a hangover. He’s still solidly drunk, actually, when he’s awoken by his phone buzzing a hole through the pocket of his trousers. His burning eyes look to the time and read 0024. Another buzz, another text. That makes five, now, all from Johnny. His heart picks up a bit, suddenly sure that something is horribly wrong for him to be contacted at this hour, but he’s able to focus his eyes enough to read the most recent message.

tell gaz and youre a dead man

After a try or two he’s able to put his code in and see the other texts. Sometimes, when he’s less drunk than he is now but still sloshed enough to have an excuse for his sentimentality, he’ll go through their messages. He’s of two minds whether it’s a bad habit or not. Privately, he enjoys seeing what Soap has sent him, even though it’s usually nothing much. He sends a lot of pictures. Stupid shite, sometimes, like the picture from the airport, but occasionally he’ll send a picture of himself. After a beating at the gym, usually. It’s a double-edged thing. Something that can be written off easily enough, if anyone else were to see. Ghost doesn’t reply very often, to the pictures or the texts, other than a one-word reply or a thumbs-up. He just doesn’t have all that much to say. Johnny doesn’t seem to mind. It certainly doesn’t dissuade him any.

The new texts populate his screen, and he blinks harshly to focus enough to read them.

steamin jesus. mam hasnt cleaned this place up a bit

feel like im in secondary again

IMG_9657.jpg

figured id giv u a laugh for xmas

tell gaz and youre a dead man

The photo is of a bedroom, ostensibly Soap’s. It looks like it hasn’t aged a day past 2008. Johnny was right in that his mum hadn’t cleaned it; there’s still a stray piece of dirty laundry or two on the off-white carpet. There are posters on the wall of a Glasgow FC goalkeeper and Judas Priest, and a few hanging medals from what looks to be an amateur football club. His desk still has textbooks from when he studied for his Highers. It makes Ghost feel… old. By the tone of the texts he’d received, it probably makes Johnny feel old, too. It’s one of the strangest parts of leave — seeing how the rest of the world has moved on without you. The service has a way of making things seem frozen in time. He mostly finds it comforting, but it makes the few and far between holidays much more jarring.

He’s stared too long. The screen has dimmed, about to go back to sleep, just like Ghost himself should be doing, if he had any sense. He feels his stomach churn, and a migraine is settling itself behind his eyes, but he wants to stay in this not-moment just a little longer. Tapping the screen to keep it from turning off completely, his thumb slips and enlarges the photo. Johnny’s bed is in the corner of the picture, and almost cut off entirely is—

There’s a teddy in Soap’s bed. A beaten-up old brown bear. Well-loved, if the state of the fur is any indication. Ghost lets out a choked laugh, mostly at his own expense. He wishes he was there, suddenly, wishes he was by Johnny’s side as he walked through the doorway and realised that his childhood room was waiting for him like a time capsule. Wishes he got to see the embarrassed scrunch of his face, the way the tips of his ears would flush red.

Soap has a whole second life, outside of the SAS. He’s got a mother, and a poorly-decorated bedroom, and a bear. All Ghost has is a flat that will be the same it is today as it will be the day he dies, like he was never even here at all.

Because this is far from the first night he’s drunk himself sloppy, and far from the last, he’d had the foresight to lay sideways on the sofa lest he choke on his own vomit. This becomes helpful when his stomach gives a violent heave and he pukes on the carpet. As he clumsily makes his way to the bathroom, anticipating a long night slumped over the porcelain, he chuffs a wet laugh. That’s a way to leave a mark on the place. Simon Riley: proof of life, a bile stain on the rug.

He falls asleep with his cheek against the toilet — upright, at least, in case he vomits again — and doesn’t wake up for a long, long time.

The rest of his leave passes much the same, or at least he thinks it does. He doesn’t remember much. He remembers waking up that first morning and promptly going to the corner store to top up on Smirnoff and Shin Cup, and ignoring the chuggers begging for a few pounds, and vomiting again on the sidewalk halfway through the trek home. Once he gets back to the flat, he stays there for four days. Time slips away a little bit, after that.

He remembers Christmas Eve. He remembers, because Johnny had texted him happy Christmas, Simon that night, which might have made him smile if he wasn’t so thoroughly miserable.

The day before he’s scheduled to return, he packs his singular suitcase in his car and heads out at 0500. Price will bitch his ear off if he finds out Ghost neglected to take his full, torturous leave, but he can’t be arsed to care. He hasn’t felt real in nearly a week. He needs to shoot something or he’ll break to pieces.

Driving back is, at least, peaceful. Watching the sun rise is a welcome sight, especially after spending so long in a hole with the shutters drawn. Gets him out of his own skull a bit. Whenever he’s got to do this commute, Ghost likes to imagine that it’s the last time he’ll ever do it. He speeds down the pavement, and looks at the dawn, and the city blocks fading in his rearview, and thinks, I never have to see this again. It hasn’t come true so far, but it will, one day. One day it’ll be true.

When he gets waved in at the gates, he stops by his room to drop off his personal effects, and heads for the clinic.

They look surprised to see him, which he doesn’t blame them for. Usually, he’s avoiding the place if he can at all help it. The nurses nearly always badger him to take the mask off.

Ghost goes through the trouble of flagging down his doctor, which requires some stubbornness, as the receptionist seems very firm in her assertion that he’s busy and isn’t at the beck and call of every impatient officer on base. He’s able to overcome this by trying to draw himself up and look as menacing as possible, which makes him feel like a bit of a tool, but it gets the job done. He’s assured the doctor will be with him shortly. Not ten minutes later, he’s ushered into a private room.

His doctor — Singh, he recalls — looks a bit constipated when Ghost makes the request. He’s got the distinct look of someone who wants to say something sympathetic but knows they’ll just be told to bugger off, which is an accurate assumption. Ghost has long since gotten a handle on how to unnerve people enough to ensure they keep their mouths shut and just do what he bloody asks. He’s never quite understood what makes people shrink when he stares at them a bit too long, but he’s not about to complain, certainly not when it works so well. Like clockwork, a hard stare is all it takes for Dr. Singh to clench his jaw and get on with making the note in his medical file without further fuss. Satisfied, Ghost leans back in the little chair they’ve got for patients too stubborn for the examination table, which he imagines is a lot of them.

It’s a quick visit. He’s dismissed, copy of paperwork in hand, but something occurs to him before he’s fully out the door. “Does Price have to know about this?” he asks. He’d rather not have the 141 know. Frankly, it’s none of their fucking business.

“No, Lieutenant Riley. Patient information is strictly confidential.”

And that’s that.

After he leaves, Ghost goes to the shooting range and stays there till they kick him out. Feeling a gun in his hands almost makes him feel like a person again. Maybe he’ll be able to sneak his early return past Price’s nose, and they’ll ship out soon, and he can forget any of this ever happened. For the first time in a week, he’s feeling a little lighter.

Ghost doesn’t remember very much of his childhood.

He doesn’t remember much, but he remembers what’s important.

He remembers the beatings. He remembers the smells of the gutter. He remembers being hungry, and being sick, and being afraid.

He remembers his father.

Arthur Riley was a bad man. Pot calling the kettle black, of course, but Arthur was worse than Ghost. Ghost killed people, hundreds; took them away from their families, most of which would never know what happened to them. But Ghost, at least, had a cause. His father had none. Hit his children, played with their minds, all for the pleasure of it.

Ghost had deserved it, but Tommy hadn’t. His mother hadn’t.

Ghost doesn’t remember his mother. He wishes he did. He thinks she might have been kind to him, sometimes.

The truth was, she was barely there — present, but completely absent. If she’d ever had life to her, ever been happy, Ghost didn’t know that version of her. All his life she had been empty, which was probably his fault. He felt the guilt of that. He felt it every day, and he’d probably never stop feeling it.

His father wasn’t quite as hard on her as he was on his sons, although that wasn’t saying much. But her meek nature made her a horrible plaything. No sense in chewing a toy that doesn’t squeak. No, he turned to Simon and Tommy, with Simon being his favourite. Ghost wishes he could feign nobility, say that he took the hits in his brother’s name, that he acted bravely in some meagre way, but the truth is he had no say in it. He was the sick one, the disappointment. Weak and tender-hearted, always in the garden, watching the birds.

Tommy, at least, was tough. Played football with the neighbourhood lads, got decent marks in school. Fought. His father liked that. Ghost could play a middling centre-back, but had no interest in it, really. Couldn’t pretend like he did, not to save his life. Ghost never had the talent for playing the part of something he wasn’t.

They had been poor as dirt. That, his father said, was Ghost’s fault, too.

He had been born wrong. Sick. Costly all the way through, and it showed into adulthood. His mother’s agonising labour, the cleft lip with the botched reconstruction that left him with a permanent sneer, the developmental delays, the odd manner that counsellors couldn’t quite fix. Money down the drain. After that, Arthur Riley made him ride out his sicknesses alone. No doctor’s visits that weren’t strictly mandatory, not even when he almost died from a nasty flu. Made him stronger, his father said. If Ghost looked at himself now, he might have been inclined to agree. He was strong, brutish, just like his father wanted for him. It doesn’t give him any satisfaction. Mostly just turns his stomach.

Ghost was a tall kid, and put on weight easily. He wasn’t small, he was just wrong. He couldn’t… connect, not with anyone. His words came out clumsy and flat. There were the bursts of anger, of course, infrequent and unpredictable, but violent. The children made up stories about him: Simon Riley, the one who tore tails off lizards and caught rats just to kill them slow. They were all complete fabrications, products of the childish rumour mill, but none of that mattered. It only mattered what was said, what people heard, and Ghost had never been very good at saying anything. So the lies became true.

Truth was, the lizards and the rats and the flowers and the birds were his favourites. After school let out, he liked to go to the park nearby — a spare lot filled with grass, more than anything — and watch them all. He would sit under the shade of the largest tree and be very still, and begin to see the small things move.

They were simple and endlessly complex all at once. The ants marched like little machines, intelligent in their single purpose. The flowers, imperceptibly, swayed towards the sun as it crossed the sky. And the birds—

Simon loved the birds, most of all.

He had stolen a picture book from his grade three classroom, and kept it with him ever since. The pages were yellowed and thin from his fingers. It was a book of birds, all different species, from all over the world. It amazed him then, and still did now, how they could be anything they needed to be. Long bills and short beaks and bright feathers and muted colours. There were so many of them, all different, but all in their proper place. Exactly as they should be, perfect and purposeful.

Sometimes, listening to the Reverend on Sundays, he would be unable to grasp what lessons God made for them, but the birds made him understand.

There was a family of starlings in his backyard, one year. The yard was small, just a patch of weeds, but it felt large to him, back then. In a bit of loose space below the rim of their roof, a female had built her nest. Simon named her Marguerite.

One time, when he was playing the hiding game, which he played when his father was very, very upset, she approached him. He had been perfectly still, which was one of the rules of the game, so she must have found him nonthreatening. Or maybe she had just seen him being beaten enough times to know that he was too weak to hurt her. Regardless, she flitted down from her nest, pecking around in the shadows for a while, looking for food to bring back to her children. Simon watched intently as she hopped ever closer, so close he felt too scared to breathe, lest he scare her away.

After minutes, or maybe an hour, she tilted her head at him in that curious way birds did. Her eyes were pure black. Simon and Marguerite held each other’s gaze for what felt like a lifetime before she gave a trill and fluttered away, out of the yard, to find food elsewhere.

It was the first time in his life he had felt pure happiness. No fear, no guilt, just a swelling in his chest that made him feel like he could fly, too.

That, Ghost remembers.

Soap returns at the end of December.

For two or three days, he only sees him in passing. Not unheard of, to go that long without a chat, but coupled with the time he spent away and the miserable holiday Ghost endured, it’s enough to grate on him. He wonders, idly, when he’d become so codependent.

All that to say, when some of the men on base make plans to go to a nearby pub for New Year’s, he’s feeling uncharacteristically amenable to the idea.

A part of him wants to shun the idea entirely on principle. It’s maybe a bit juvenile, but he’s aware of his reputation. It wasn’t intentional, at least, not at the beginning, but it has its perks. He quite likes the way he’s left alone, and seeing the trepidation in the eyes of the soldiers who aren’t 141 when they’re forced to address him is amusing. Hard to enforce that kind of behaviour when you’re just another bloke at the pub. Unfortunately, Johnny’s absence has made him itchy, and he’d be willing to bet his Beretta that he’ll be in attendance. Sometimes it feels like he can’t help himself from being the life of the party. Bastard.

So he goes.

He has to ask Gaz for details. Price would have no clue, and Soap would clock right away that he’s only going for his sake. He’d never let him hear the end of it.

Garrick is appropriately stunned when he asks. For about five seconds, that is, until he comes to the obvious conclusion of why he’d be going. Then he’s just smug. He’s a good man, though, and Ghost knows he won’t bring it up in front of the others. Probably.

“Have fun,” Gaz says, with the look of a man who won’t let him forget this anytime soon. Ghost just grunts. Let him try anything cheeky, he thinks. Ghost knows about the time he snuck into Price’s office, and he’s got the security footage on retainer.

He makes the strategic decision to arrive around 2150, when everybody will hopefully be drunk enough not to make a fuss at his arrival.

The bell over the door trills when he steps through, and he cringes. Thankfully, the music is loud enough and the liquor is plenty enough that he escapes notice, even in his balaclava. Ghost wastes no time in scoping out his target. He’s not here for alcohol. He’s perfectly capable of drinking in his quarters, and it’s quieter there, besides.

He only has to scan the room for a moment before he spots him. They’re so close, sometimes he feels like he could find him by intuition alone. Soap’s sat in a booth along the far wall. To his left is a sergeant Ghost vaguely recognizes from the range and across from him is a blonde woman laughing uproariously. Soap’s never made a joke that funny in his life; she couldn’t be any more brazen if she had a neon sign screaming fuck me! above her head.

Privately, he can’t blame her. Johnny looks… good. He always looks good, to the point it’s a bit infuriating, but Ghost doesn’t get to see him in leather very often. The bar is warm with the heat of its occupants, and he can tell Johnny’s sweating a little because of the damp curl of his hair. He looks like sex, and he’s not the only one who’s noticed. From here, Ghost can track another handful of women making eyes in his direction, and that’s just the ones he can see without trying.

It’s a cardinal sin to keep your mate from getting laid, but Ghost is acutely selfish, and unrepentant on top of that. He strides over to the booth, making an attempt at not being noticed, but Soap’s far too keen for that. He sees him. Always does.

Ghost gets close enough to him that he can see his eyes light up. “Lt.!” He stands, giving him a firm clap on the shoulder. “Didn’t think you’d come!”

He shrugs in response. “Team building is a part of good leadership.” Which, naturally, Soap doesn’t buy. Barks a laugh in his face, even. That’s fine by him. As much as he’d love to believe he’s being subtle in his interest, Ghost knows he’s not. They both know. As far as Ghost is concerned, as long as he gets what he wants, he could give a fuck less how overt he is.

Johnny nods his head in the direction of the bar, and Ghost follows him as he heads off. A glance back reveals the blonde looking exceptionally disappointed, which makes him feel satisfied down to his bones.

The bar’s in an L-shape, and Johnny leads him to the short end, which is less occupied and also gives them an eyeline to all the exits. The bulb in the lamp overhead is burnt out, and the bit of darkness makes him feel settled. It also has the benefit of lighting Johnny’s face from the side. The orange glow makes him look alight.

“They’ve got shite bourbon here.”

Ghost looks suspiciously at the bottles lined against the wall. “Looks like a decent selection to me.”

“All shite,” Johnny reiterates, dry. He drains the last of his beer, and waves over the bartender. Orders a Newkie and two Glenfiddich fifteens, neat.

“On the rocks.”

“Sorry, one on the rocks,” Johnny amends, cutting a judgmental eye Ghost’s way. “Philistine.”

“You won’t let me drink bourbon, I’ll take my swill however I like.”

“Swill!” Soap exclaims, loudly. A bit too loudly, even with how busy the pub is. They get a few wayward glances from other patrons, but Ghost can’t be arsed to care. It’s good to see him light, see him happy.

He’d missed him. He’d barely been gone a week, but he’d missed him.

“You have a good Christmas?” he asks. Damn it all, but he really wants to know. Wants to hear what he missed, what he could have had. It’s equal parts masochism and true interest. What are they like, he wonders. The people who made his Johnny.

Soap smiles, blinding. “It was amazing. Lottie brought her wean, little Samuel. First time I got to meet the lad. Pure menace, that one.”

“Must run in the family.” He gets a cuff round the head for that.

“Aye, probably. It was just… nice. It’s not home anymore, but when I go back I can kind of pretend.” His grin slips a little. “What about you? Do anything fun?”

His chest tightens. “Was alright. Uneventful.”

Johnny looks at him, a little sad, a little soft. “I wish you had come.”

“Yeah?”

“Aye. The story about Kiev is funnier when you tell it.”

“Damn right.” It hurts, the reminder, but it’s soothed by the idea that Johnny talked about him, told his stories. Carried a piece of him back home, even if he wasn’t really there. “How’s your father doing?”

Graciously, Soap takes the bait, changes the subject. “Much better. The doctors had said he would never walk again, but he’s up and hobblin’ around, the stubborn old bastard.” They chat — or, rather, Soap chats at him — for a good while. It feels so, so nice. It’s a relief to just listen. To be warm, and sip his whisky, and not be in his own head for a night. To be alone with him.

It’s not too long before they’re interrupted by the bartender. “Drink for you, sir,” he says, nodding over to the other end of the bar and the pretty woman occupying it. Anyone with a pulse would have expected the glass to be given to Johnny, but Ghost finds it sitting squarely in front of himself. A muscle in Johnny’s jaw ticks.

“Looks like you’ve got an admirer, Lt.” He’s making an effort to sound blasé, and failing miserably. It’s very entertaining.

“Naturally.” He sips the drink — gin and tonic — but otherwise ignores her.

“You gonna talk to her?”

Simon chuffs a laugh. “Fat fucking chance.” He’ll be damned if he lets a free drink go to waste, though. Between her and Johnny he’s been well taken care of.

Something in Soap’s expression smooths out a bit. It’s not the first time he’s been hit on at the pub, but it’s not particularly common, either. He’s aware he looks a bit… unapproachable, for most, but sometimes there’s a barfly or two that gets off on it. Rarely does he indulge, though. The women, never. The men, only occasionally. The truth of it is it’s just more effort than it’s worth, most times. He’s become accustomed to not being known, to coming and going and not leaving a trace. It doesn’t bother him. He does just fine on his own.

“Ah, I see. You’re the picky type.”

“Only the best.”

“Of course. I’ve seen that face of yours, I know you’ve got pull.”

“Not my face they’re after.”

Johnny’s eyebrows shoot up, and he laughs, loud and bright. Simon hadn’t really meant it like that, but he hadn’t not meant it, either. “You’ve got it all, huh sir? Steamin’ Jesus, save some for the rest of us.”

Ghost steals a glance at the blonde from before. She seems to have switched targets. A downgrade, if you ask him. “You do just fine.”

“Eh, I do alright.” He’s got that cocky grin again. Ghost would be lying if he said he wasn’t hot with jealousy, but the prick looks good like that. Rock and a hard place, as it always is with Johnny.

Ghost watches the line of his throat as Soap takes a swig of that shite beer. No telling how he can stomach it. “So that’s why you wear it. Hidin’ a pussy magnet for the greater good.” He’s not drunk, not really even close, but he’s on his way. Alcohol makes Johnny lax. Ghost might find it irritating on anyone else, but there’s something indulgent about seeing him actually relax, lose some of the tension he always carries. Soap’s not even an officer, but anyone can see he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. Fuck knows he deserves a break.

The thing is, Johnny would never ask why he wears it. Not in a million years. But he wants to know. He wants to know Ghost, inexplicably. It’s for his own good that he doesn’t, probably, but the whisky has him loose. Maybe he can share just this one thing, keep it in a place outside of himself.

He swirls a finger around the rim of his glass absentmindedly, suppressing a hiss of surprise when he nicks it on an errant chip. Not much for quality control, this place. “Someone was… after me, once. A long time ago.”

Soap hums, curious. “Not a friend of yours, I assume.”

“No.” Ghost pauses, wondering how much he should say. How much, exactly, he can get away with. “They’ve probably given up by now, truth be told. But I don’t take chances.”

He gets a knowing nod in return. “Aye, better safe than sorry. But I wouldnae worry too much, Lt.” Soap grins, smug as anything. “They come sniffin’ around, I’ll protect you.”

Ghost snorts. “My hero.”

He knows Johnny would do it, too. At least, he would try. A part of Ghost wants to tell him the truth, but he hasn’t yet thought of a way to say the people chasing me are dead, but I run from them anyway without sounding either childish or pathetic or both. So he doesn’t say anything.

They lapse into silence, the only sound cutting through the general pub chatter being Johnny’s foot tapping against the rung of the barstool. It’s less of a sound, though, and more of a feeling that reverberates through the floor and up the legs of his own stool. It’s a familiar enough rhythm. Johnny does it when he’s restless, and he’s restless a lot. He usually feels it on infil. The tapping used to drive him insane, but just like Soap himself, it’s become a comfort. Still, Simon wonders what he’s thinking about now. Alcohol usually does a decent job of turning the noise in his head down. Something must be on his mind.

“I got you something.” There it is.

“Why?”

“For Christmas.” Soap looks at him like he’s stupid. “Kind of the whole point of the holiday.”

“The point of Christmas is to celebrate Christ. It’s in the name.”

He gets a flat look. “Didnae figure you for the faithful type.”

“Just saying. And you shouldn’t have gotten me anything.”

“Well, I did.” Haughty prick.

“I don’t have anything for you.”

“You can make it up next year.” Jesus, no winning with this kid. Although the thought of there being a next year at all makes him warm through the middle. Ghost doesn’t much like to think out that far. It’s impractical. There’s a very substantial chance that either him or Johnny will be dead a year from now. No point in setting themselves up for heartbreak.

Ghost sighs deeply, perhaps acting a bit more put out than he really is, just to be a cunt. Johnny likes it when he’s mean. “Come on, then. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

Soap’s eyes light up. “Got it in my car. Come on.” He shifts off the barstool, looking smooth to anyone else in the bar, but Ghost knows his physicality like the back of his hand. His boot clips one of the legs on the way down — he’s got a good buzz going. It’s made him clumsy. Ghost stifles a smile in amusement.

“Gonna leave before midnight?” Ghost tsks in mock disapproval. “Not very festive.”

Johnny flushes a little high in the cheeks. Must be drunker than Ghost thought. “Do you want the damn present or not?”

Ghost throws his hands up, acquiescing, and follows him out. Truth be told, he’d prefer not to be in there when the countdown starts. He never would have guessed it before going out, but he had a nice time. Really nice. It makes him almost regret ducking out. It’s not too often he and Johnny have time to shoot the shit outside of work, and the whole thing is a bit domestic, in a dangerous way, but he’s gotten soft. He can tell he’ll be thinking of this night for a good long while. The thought of having to watch Johnny get a midnight snog before taking some bird home… maybe it’s best that it ends now, before the memory gets soured.

They have to walk two blocks before making it to the car park, and the night air is crisp. It hadn’t snowed since the morning, so there’s a bit of old slush lining the streets. Some of the piles have visible cigarette butts sticking out of them. Simon figures adding another wouldn’t be a crime.

He pulls a pack of JPS from his jacket pocket, along with a lighter, and offers one to Johnny. He smiles, eager to bum one, and waits until Simon’s lit his own before pursing his lips around the fag and leaning into his space. Ghost feels his cheeks burn, humiliatingly, and is grateful for the pushed-up balaclava that spares his dignity. He leans in, touching the tip of his lit cigarette to Johnny’s, holds for a moment to let it catch. When it does, he leans away, a bit too quickly, and inhales deeply. The smoke curls up with the breeze, dissipating in the crisp air. Simon looks up to watch it go, and notices the stars. The smog does a good enough job of snuffing them out, but he can see them a little more clearly tonight. They make him feel small.

When he glances back down, he finds Soap already watching him, but he cuts his eyes away as soon as they meet. He raises his wrist to check his watch. “Two more minutes.”

Simon hums. They’ve arrived at the lot sooner than he thought they would. He finds that happens a lot, around Johnny: time slipping away. Soap fumbles in his jacket for his keys, before unlocking the car and reaching into the boot. He hesitates, just a moment, before retrieving a small package and handing it to Simon.

It’s even wrapped, graceless as it is, in some broadsheets. The tape is all askew, but there’s a little blue bow on the top. To Ghost, from John is written in Sharpie on the side. Simon holds it, turns it in his hands gently for a moment. When he looks back up at Johnny, he sees his face a ruddy red from the wind. Even two blocks away, he can hear the faint roar of the countdown beginning.

They stand in silence, Ghost unsure what to say. He’s never been any good at acts of sincerity. Six, five, four… Johnny opens his mouth to say something, but Simon beats him to it.

“Thank you, Johnny.” Soap snaps his mouth shut. “You shouldn’t have fucking gotten me anything. But thanks.” He looks down at the present in his hands, a bit awed, still. “I’ll open it when I get back.”

Johnny smiles. He doesn’t seem surprised or put out that Ghost elected not to open it in front of him, for which he’s grateful. He can’t remember the last time he got an honest-to-God present, and the last thing he needs is to do something monumentally stupid, like get emotional over a perfunctory gift. “Alright. You heading out, then?”

Simon is loath for the night to end, but it’s probably better to leave on a high note. Besides, he feels almost… childlike. He wants to know what he got under the tree. “Yeah. Early morning.” He gets the feeling Soap sees right through him, but it’s a feeling he’s gotten used to. “I’ll see you.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, “See you.”

Ghost returns to his own car, puts the keys in the ignition, and looks in the rearview as he pulls out of the park, hoping foolishly for one last look, but Johnny’s already gone.

As soon as he reaches his quarters, he sits on the edge of his cot, holding the gift in his hands and feeling profoundly silly. It’s probably something Soap saw in a corner store, probably nothing. Less than nothing.

He’s still very careful as he unwraps it, peeling the tape off and lifting the broadsheets by the corners and unfolding rather than tearing — which is a herculean effort, given how sloppily Johnny had wrapped the thing. When he gets to the old shoebox underneath, he stills for a beat, two, before reminding himself how little it matters, and opening the damn thing.

A knife rests in the paper lining of the shoebox. The blade is short and fat, and the handle is a nice red mahogany. No grooves for his fingers to rest in like his personal favourites, but that’s to be expected, he supposes. It’s a whittling knife. He shifts the paper to find two more, one with a thinner blade, the other ending in a hook. Ghost feels himself soften, nonsensically. His tactical knives might not be up to snuff for a professional, but he could whittle with them if he needed to, and God knows he’s got enough knives lying around. An altogether impractical gift, but he finds it doesn’t bother him much. He can’t remember the last time someone simply thought of him, outside the wire. The idea of Johnny stopping in a store and making a purchase simply because he saw something that Ghost might hypothetically enjoy, something he brought up in casual conversation just the once, is jarring. He’s not sure what to do with it.

He’s well and truly at a loss when he looks under the paper and finds a carving staring up at him.

It’s a mask; rather, a facsimile of a mask. A crude replica of his skull plate about ten centimetres tall. The strokes where Johnny moved his blade are apparent, and the curves are a bit shaky, amateurish. But the form is solid, and Ghost traces the edge of one of the orbits, soft in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

A new thought comes to him. Johnny, on leave with his family, taking the time to sneak away for however many hours it took to make this. Taking time he should have been spending with his loved ones, and giving it away to Ghost instead. Or maybe he worked right in front of them. Maybe he sat round the fireplace with his father, his mother, his sisters, perched over a bin as he carved a gift for his Lieutenant. Did they ask who it was for? Did he tell them? Did he feel Simon’s absence, for a time even as short as a week, and find it unacceptable? That would be just like him, to see something he didn’t like, and wrestle it into submission until it was right again. To hear Simon decline his invitation, and bring him home anyway.

Ghost knows he’ll never mention the gift out loud. Soap probably knows that, too. They’ll meet at work and train and ship out and never speak a word of it, but they’ll know. When it comes down to it, neither of them have ever needed words to understand each other. Ghost knows the marrow of Johnny’s bones, Johnny knows the red fascia over Ghost’s ribs. Words mean nothing to men like them, not when they’ve felt each other's insides.

Their love lies in actions, in the sweep of a knife. There’s a stray notch in the cheekbone, a mark of inexperienced hands, that says I love you. A crooked tooth that says I wish you were here, so I’ll make you with my own two hands.

That night, when he lays in his cot, his mind is loud as ever, but the ghosts aren’t there. There’s no dirt in his mouth, no blood on his hands. Everything is still, and indigo, and new. He hears wood shavings hitting the floor, and he sleeps.

Ghost likes Farah. More than like, really. He respects her, deeply. She’s fierce and uncompromising in a way that reminds him of the man he thought he’d turn out to be. He missed that mark pretty hard, clearly, but Farah’s tough as nails. If it had been Farah in Ghost’s place, she would have come out of it stronger. Ghost can’t say the same for himself. And Ghost is, frankly, a force to be reckoned with, so that’s no small accomplishment.

He knows she lost her brother. Things were… tense, towards the end. Ghost knows how that feels. It’s a sort of guilt that you can never shake, knowing you failed your own family, even when you hate them. Maybe especially when you hate them. The grief has a way of sneaking up on you in the quiet moments, when you remember being children, and having nobody in the world but each other, even when you were at each other's throats. To lose that… it doesn’t get easier, just more hollow.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t hold it against her when he learns she’s working with Graves. It’s a kick in the bloody teeth, sure, but try as he might, he can’t bring himself to hate her for it. Working with the snake himself is another matter entirely, but Farah’s still good. Price has pretty impeccable judgement, that way — glaring exception aside.

All that to say, when the ULF needs support, Ghost knows it will be time well spent. He just wishes it weren’t so fucking dry.

He doesn’t have his reputation for nothing. He can endure just about anything. And he won’t complain about it, not even in the worst of circumstances, but his skin is dry. Irritatingly so. He’d prefer a slog in the jungle over a desert op any day. The mask helps, certainly, but unfortunately, he still needs to see, and his balaclava’s eyeholes leave the thin skin cracked and red. The tanlines just add insult to injury.

Johnny takes the piss out of him, naturally.

“So much for an impeccable bronze.”

“Shut it.”

“Thought you said you were a beach man, Lt.?”

Ghost sniffs. “I like it fine enough. Just haven’t had the time.”

“You’ve got the time, just won’t take it. Pure workaholic, you are.”

“You gonna drag me on holiday, then? Fiji at gunpoint?”

“I was thinking the Bahamas, actually.”

What a thought that is. Him and Johnny, together, just existing. No terror cells or militias, just a lazy afternoon on the beach. He can’t even imagine it.

“You’re paying for the flight, then.”

Soap gives a little smirk, looks at Price over the aisle of the plane. “Bet I could commandeer a bird to get us out there. Cost effective.”

Price gives him a tired look. “Take me with you and I’ll look the other way.”

“Since Johnny’s saving on airfare, he can pick up the bar tab.”

“You make more than I do, cheap bastard!”

They’re interrupted by the pilot announcing their arrival at the Bravo Team DZ, and Ghost and Soap make their way to the back of the plane. When the jumpmaster gives the signal, Soap turns to give him a fist-bump, smile still in his eyes. “See you on the ground, sir.” Two steps and a jump, and he’s gone.

When Ghost thinks about it pragmatically, he doesn’t need Soap. He spent the bulk of his career working alone, and he was exceptional at it. There’s no tactical reason for the two of them to be paired up so often, no explanation for how they’ve become a package deal. They get sent on their share of solo operations, or spend time on short deployments leading other squadrons, but since joining the 141, it’s more common than not to see them together. After Las Almas, there’s been a hesitation to leave Johnny’s side, which also has no explanation. Soap is one of the fiercest, most competent operatives in the world. He’d probably be pissed to no end to hear Ghost’s reluctance to leave him alone. It’d be a grave hit to his ego.

If pressed, Ghost would probably say being paired up gets Price off his back, which is true. The old man has always been itching to bring Ghost closer, prevent him from being isolated. It’s a kind concern, but entirely misplaced. Having a reliable second-in-command has effectively eliminated those worried sidelong glances he’d get from the Captain on occasion. And it’s nice, in truth, to be part of a team. To have people he can count on. It’s a good change of pace, and not one he’d ever expect to have.

That’s what he’d say if anyone asked. Solid, inoffensive reasoning. Practical. A more acceptable explanation than the real one — the one that would get him discharged. That he’s formed an inadvisable, doomed attachment to his subordinate.

But the question never gets asked, not even by Price, because they’re a fucking excellent team. They’re both exceptional soldiers, and they cover what the other lacks. Efficient, brutal, unbreakable, the pair of them.

Johnny never asks, either, which is for the best.

The two of them can handle anything, but Ghost’s real talents lie in infiltration, and Soap’s taken a closer interest in working quietly, as of late. Ghost certainly isn’t about to discourage it. The more well-rounded he is, the longer his probable lifespan. It’s also highly gratifying to see him take Ghost’s techniques and implement them in his own work. Bit of a sick sense of pride, that, seeing a man kill someone just the way you taught him to. But he’s done sicker.

It’s a no-brainer when Price assigns them data retrieval. Farah, Gaz, and Price are to pin down an HVT — Russian ultranationalist — in the main compound, while Ghost and Soap obtain intel from an auxiliary building three kilos out. Nothing in their line of work is a cakewalk, but this is a lighter day on the job. He and Johnny being a team also justifies a private channel on comms, which means a lower chance of Gaz blithely interrupting their banter with a cheeky comment. Or worse, guessing one of Ghost’s punchlines before Johnny can puzzle it out, which is just unsportsmanlike.

Terrain won’t allow a pickup direct from the compound, so the two of them will need to RV at the base of the mountain nearby. It’s got flat enough ground for a helo and a decent bit of tree cover. Bit more of a hike than he’d prefer, but he won’t complain.

Once their canopies are cut and their boots on the ground, the two of them continue briefly towards the building before splitting up. Soap takes the north; Ghost’s on the south. Johnny gives a firm nod and a clap on his shoulder, then sets off for his entrance.

The building isn’t tall, but it spans a wide berth. The sweep they’ve got planned has the pair separated from the moment they enter to the moment they leave. There’ll be no meeting in the middle. Not a particularly common strategy for most teams, but Ghost and Soap can handle it. Privately, Ghost rather enjoys hearing the crackle of Johnny’s voice through comms. Makes him sentimental.

Las Almas was a bloody nightmare, no two ways about it. Ghost doesn’t trust easily, and being betrayed leaves a sour taste on his tongue, reminds him of some things he’d rather forget. But something good came of it.

He’s not sure if he and Soap would be as close as they are, if not for that night. They worked fine together, sure, and since Al-Mazrah they’d become familiar, but Las Almas was different. It does something to see another man’s underbelly. To be trusted with his life, to see him afraid and know you’re the only thing that can get him through the night.

He’d saved lives before. Plenty. But Johnny was something else.

He was unwavering, took everything in stride, even when he was spitting mad. Even when he was terrified. Johnny didn’t accept failure. Back to the wall, bleeding out, with no resources but his own two hands, he succeeded because he willed it so. Ghost had never seen anything like him.

As he disposes of the man guarding the southern entrance, he checks his watch. Nearly 1700. God willing they’ll be in and out by 1745.

Soap’s voice grumbles through his earpiece. “Good hunting, Ghost.”

“You too, Johnny. Entry in five.”

This time of day, the compound is running on a skeleton staff, which is fine by Ghost. A flashy op could be an indulgence in its own right, but it was always a good day when he could get in and out before anyone was the wiser. Infiltrating the main server room had been about as simple as he could have hoped. Downloading the intel to a hard drive was taking a stretch longer than he’d anticipated, though. Must be a bloody big stash: Price would be pleased. Might even give the 141 his card next time they went to the pub in celebration, if they were exceptionally lucky. The old geezer hadn’t done that in a long while, not since Johnny had pulled that stunt in Belize.

They’d all been loose, and he and Soap had downed about half the bar’s liquor between the two of them. He still thinks about that night, sometimes, when he can’t sleep. He’d had to lug Soap home after he almost got in a fistfight for the second time that evening, for what, he still doesn’t know. Halfway through the bus ride back to base, Johnny had slumped tiredly on Ghost’s shoulder. The whole of him was warm from alcohol and blood, and the soft puffs of Johnny’s breath had felt like a brand, even through the cloth of his jacket. It had occurred to him, much too late, to take a picture, but by that time—

An errant shot rings out, close enough to set Ghost’s ears buzzing. Muscle memory has his neck snapping over to see a target ramming his way through a side entrance and lunging in his direction. Just as Ghost raises his handgun to blow the man’s head off, they collide, sending his shoulder into the edge of a steel shelf bolted to the wall.

Enraged at the guard, but more at himself for being so sloppy, he ends the scuffle quickly. His opponent is poorly-trained, foolish and green, and Ghost shoves the muzzle of his X12 under the man’s chin before blowing out the back of his skull. He stands for a moment to let the ringing leave his ears and admonishes himself. He’d lost the upper hand, there. It took a fraction of a second for a life to end, and Ghost had almost given that chance to a Konni cunt who didn’t look a day over nineteen. He needed to fucking focus.

At least the download was almost done, by the looks of it. He reaches up to switch on his radio and relay his status only for his hand to meet mangled plastic.

Ghost groans in frustration. No comms, then. He’d have to meet up with Soap at the RV, probably making the trip alone if they couldn’t coordinate. What a boring bloody hike that would be.

The shots from the guard would certainly have been heard, though. Any premature gratitude he’d been feeling at the compound’s paltry security had soured, though he had nobody to blame but himself. Caught up in himself, his own self-satisfaction, thinking of unimportant garbage. He looks at his watch again — 1738 — and takes a deep breath. Not too bad, that.

Ghost stands alert over the computer, listening intently for any sign of reinforcements. Getting caught once was disappointing enough. A second time would be inexcusable. When the computer chirps to indicate the transfer is complete, Ghost snatches the hard drive, ready to get the fuck out, only to stiffen as footfalls echo heavily through the empty corridor. He raises his gun, more than ready this time, when he hears his own name. His real one. Ghost barely has the time to yell to check fire before his Sergeant rounds the doorway, harried.

“Johnny, what the fuck?”

Johnny looks at him incredulously, before his eyes fall to the destroyed radio, and he exhales a heavy, shaking breath. “I heard shots, and you weren’t answering. Steamin’ bloody Jesus, you scared me.”

“I can handle myself just fine,” Ghost says, as if he almost hadn’t gotten topped off three minutes before. God forbid Soap learn about that, or he’d never hear the end of it. “Besides, if I’m down, you go to the RV. If something takes me out, you don’t stand a chance.” He’s taking the piss, trying to calm both their nerves, but Soap just looks at him like he’d grown a second head.

“I’m not just going to leave you.”

Ghost raises an eyebrow, confused. “If I’m dead, there’s nothing to leave.”

Johnny sets his jaw, stubborn as ever. “If you think I’m gettin’ out without you, you’ve got another thing fucking coming.” Ghost isn’t sure what to say to that, and Soap doesn’t give him the chance. “You get the intel?”

“Affirm.”

“Good.” That, at least, seems to cool Johnny down. “You lead us out — I’ll watch your six.”

Ghost blinks, anchoring himself back to the objective. “I’m the one giving the orders around here. Feeling cheeky, are you?”

“Feeling restless. This place gives me the creeps.”

Ghost can’t argue with that. He nods, and begins shepherding them out the way they came.

The mountain where they’ll be picked up is about twelve kilos from the compound. Wouldn’t be too awful, especially considering they’re moving downhill, but the terrain is rocky. Less of a relaxing hike, more of a vigilant march lest he sprain his ankle in the least honourable way possible.

Once they’re about two kilos into the route, though, Ghost allows himself to relax a bit. Despite his slip-up in the control centre, their exit had been low-profile, and there were no signs of being followed thus far. His guard could shift down a bit.

And Soap was content enough to provide entertainment. “Reminds you of Jacob’s Ladder, doesn’t it?”

“Least we won’t have to climb back up.”

Soap shudders. “Pure hell, that was. Thought I’d keel over.”

Ghost rolls his eyes. “False modesty doesn’t suit you, Johnny.” He’d finished in record time; was the stuff of legend for it.

“Maybe I just like to hear you sing my praises, Lt.” Soap grins, thoroughly self-satisfied.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Ah, but you were thinking it,” he hums. He was, and they both know it, but so long as Ghost doesn’t voice it, it never happened. Johnny pulls a pack of cigarettes from his bag, and lights one before handing it to Ghost, only then lighting one for himself. Bad idea to smoke while moving about like this, probably. But Ghost has unhealthier habits. “Just between us, I really thought that shite would kill me stone cold. I boked twice.”

Ghost smiles to himself. It had been pretty funny. “I saw.”

Johnny whips his head around to glance back at him from where he had taken the lead. He wasn’t surprised enough to stumble, sturdy as ever, but it was a close thing. “You were there?” Ghost hums. It hadn’t occurred to him that Johnny wouldn’t have known, but that was before the mask. He supposes he just looked like any old bloke, hardly worth a second glance. Completely innocuous — hiding in plain sight. Ghost thought it would feel like getting the upper hand, having some sort of leverage, but mostly he just feels disappointed.

“I was. Wasn’t much involved, but I saw you around. Heard plenty.” Which would perhaps just inflate Soap’s ego even more, knowing that he had been talked about amongst the officers, but seemed only to make him nervous.

“Good things, I hope?”

“Sometimes. Heard some other things, too. In Afghanistan.”

Johnny winces. “Ah. Didn’t inspire much confidence, then?” he asks, probably referring to the cold greeting he had received the first proper operation they were paired on.

Ghost softens, in spite of himself. “Nothing like that. Just thought you were obnoxious.” Soap laughs and the sound echoes up into the trees. “‘Sides, nearly everyone’s done it. You were just stupid enough to get caught.”

“Have you done it, Lt.?” he leers, steadfastly ignoring the insult, as he had quickly learned to do around Ghost.

Now it was Ghost’s turn to laugh. He’s found himself doing that more often, of late. “You daft?” Was that really how people thought of him? Big, mysterious officer, secretly sneaking in minge on weekends? Jesus. Johnny just looks at him, assessing, turning him this way and that in his head trying to see the whole picture.

“Got someone back home, then?”

Ghost grins wide under his mask, endlessly amused. “Yes.”

The smile lines around Soap’s eyes are smoothed away. “Oh. Yeah, of course.” He looks down at his feet, focused, even though the rocky ground has been steadily smoothing out. “Kids?”

Simon nods. A muscle in Soap’s jaw twitches, invisible beneath his stubble to anyone who wasn’t looking for it. A bit uncharitable, Ghost muses, to keep the ruse going, but Soap is awkward in a way he’s rarely seen. He’s clearly suffering, but Ghost feels a bit like a kid again. A memory comes to him of a beetle he had seen once on the stoop outside his childhood home. He’d just been back from primary, about to step through the door, when he had noticed it. The tiny thing had three legs missing, probably lost in a valiant battle with a leather sole. Maybe Marguerite had gotten to him, he thought, but dismissed the possibility quickly. It was unlike her to leave a thing half-finished.

He stood in the doorway watching the little bug turn onto its back, fighting to right itself for a while, only to fall back over again. He could have put the poor thing out of its misery, but he watched it struggle instead.

He watched the routine for a while, fascinated, until his father had thrown a bottle at him and screamed about letting the heat out.

“I’ve got six.”

Soap whips his head up, incredulous. “Six?”

Ghost nods again. “Nice white picket fence out front, too.”

Soap huffs uncharitably when he realizes he’s being fucked with. “Prick.”

“Do I seem like the settling down type to you, Johnny?”

The tension is all gone from Soap’s face now, which Ghost reluctantly admits is a better look on him. “Fuck no, sir.”

They walk in companionable silence for a moment, until Ghost can’t help himself. “What about you?”

“Am I married, you mean?” Ghost nods.

Soap’s a more merciful man than him, and doesn’t make him squirm. “No. Almost was, but that was a long time ago.” His fag has run out, and he reaches into the pack for another. “Mam always wanted grandkids. Just felt like the thing to do, I guess.” He lights his own cigarette, inhales nice and deep for the first drag, unaware of the way Ghost’s eyes are tracing his throat, or at least polite enough not to draw attention to it.

“Go forth and multiply, and all that. My da was convinced I’d end up with Sarah Clyne. Our families were close, you know. Always said we’d be a good match.”

“Didn’t last, though?”

Soap laughs. “Nope. Haven’t talked to her since about six months after I signed up. Last I heard, she got hitched to some lad the next town over. Has a wean on the way, I think.”

“Guess she figured out if she wanted a man to make her an honest woman, she backed the wrong horse,” Ghost says drily.

Soap turns up his nose, trying to hold back a smirk. “You callin’ me loose?”

“Very.”

That earns him a shove. “My reputation precedes me, I see.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says, consolatory. “Rumour mill’s been dry, lately. Must not be the young bull you once were.”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

Ghost tries to imagine Johnny settled down. Imagines his wife, his Sarah. High school sweetheart, probably, nice red hair, curly and coiffed. Clear skin, bright eyes. She’d be good for him, something nice and soft to round out his jagged edges. They’d have a nice house back in Scotland, maybe a dog or two, and children, of course. Good little tykes with their father’s spitfire spirit, charming everyone they meet. His mum would be proud of him.

Maybe she would have the house all warm and tidy for Johnny when he got a bit of leave. The kids would jump into his arms, having missed their father while he was away, and his wife would kiss him on the lips, soft and sweet, and Soap would feel so, so loved.

The image is jarring, compared to reality. Soap hasn’t had a proper bath in days, now, and the sweat and dirt has condensed into a grimy film that Ghost knows from experience is particularly irritating. The two of them reek, and the weather is humid as anything, and they’re running on maybe four hours of good sleep if he’s being generous.

Ghost wonders if there’s a word for being curious even when you know the answer. “Why’d you split up?”

Soap’s brow furrows. “Split up?”

“With Sarah.”

“Oh. Just… wasn’t much there, I guess. Dunno if I’m the settling down type, either, sir.” The sun’s getting a bit low, and the light on Soap’s jaw is dimming, but Ghost can still see the curve as sure as if it were full daylight. “You know me, I don’t sit still very well.”

Doesn’t Ghost know it. “Still. You never wanted something like that? Something normal?”

Soap tilts his head in consideration, puppylike. “I don’t know. I’ve never really wanted a life that wasn’t this.” His cigarette is down to the butt, but he doesn’t reach for another. “I’m happy here. Don’t much like thinking about what comes after, if I’m honest.” And, well, that much Ghost can agree on.

“Let's not think about it, then.”

That brings Soap’s smile back. “Aye. You and me, we’ll go out in a blaze of glory, sir.”

Ghost has always figured that would be his end. Just like Johnny, he’s never been able to properly imagine a life after the SAS. Has always figured his time would run out, someday, and it’ll all be over, like it never happened. Hands wiped, clean and clear. But the thought of Soap going that way makes his chest sore. The thought of getting that call, the one that writes Soap out of the world like he was never even there, makes him nauseous. Sorry sir, but Sergeant MacTavish was declared K.I.A. last night, and the world is still turning. The idea is on the edge of absurdity. Ghost can’t imagine a world where he’s still alive but Johnny’s in the dirt.

“So long as you don’t beat me to it,” Ghost says. Soap’s smile falters, surely reading the sentiment as vaguely self-destructive, instead of the much more soft-bellied truth.

This line of thinking has gotten his chest tight. Ghost rubs his knuckles over his breast, trying to disperse the tearing feeling stuck there. It doesn’t really work.

They’re almost to the foot of the gorge when Laswell’s voice cuts through their radios. “This is Watcher to all Bravo. Bad news, boys. Dust storm’s heading your way and there’s no way to reach you till it’s passed. Better find shelter, fast.”

Soap groans, dramatic as ever, and reaches to switch on his own radio. “How long have we got?”

“I’ve got an estimate that says early morning tomorrow for exfil, about 0600, but I’ll keep you posted.” She sounds nonchalant, which is a good sound on Laswell. It means she’s both unconcerned and getting a laugh out of their misfortune. “As for the storm, I’d say about forty minutes, but things could pick up. Recommend you get to cover quickly.”

“Fuck,” Soap grumbles. “Roger that, Watcher. Bravo 7-1 out.” He turns in Ghost’s direction, looking quite putout. “We better pick it up, Lt.”

“Scared of a little dust, Sergeant?”

“Och, we’re not all dressed like we came out the bloody nunnery.”

“Nothing’s stopping you.”

“Dignity’s stopping me,” Soap mumbles under his breath, then perks up. “Ghost, you think there might be an overhang down there?” He points to an area of rocky cliff face cast in shadow. It’s possible. They’ve gotten closer to the bottom than they’d realised; more and more trees have cropped up, sparse as they are, and near the area Soap’s pointed out there’s a decent cluster. Even if there’s no shelter to be found in the rocks, a fair bit of canopy is better than nothing. They double down and turn towards their new direction, wary of the storm they can now see creeping over the horizon, throwing shadow over the mountain range in the distance.

Turns out, Johnny was right. The storm has edged closer, wind picking up, and it’s a pure stroke of luck they found this place. It’s a crevice in the stone, about six metres deep. The floor is mostly rock, but a fair bit of dirt, and should do well enough to make a fire. The trees rising outside should keep the worst of the wind away. All in all, there are about a million worse complications for this mission to have had. Ghost will take it.

Setting up a camp is old hat. It doesn’t take long at all before Soap’s got a Dakota fire hole burning in the dirt and the ORPs out of his rucksack. Steak and potatoes, this time. Ghost sighs. “You didn’t bring the chicken and mushroom pasta?”

“Brought that last time.” So he had. Ghost remembers because he’d nicked the tabasco when Johnny went for a piss and Soap had pretended he hadn’t noticed.

Soap sets the packs to boiling and leans back against the wall with a groan.

The sun is setting. It’s barely visible through the whipping sand, but it gives the world an orange glow. Ghost might call it beautiful, if the errant breeze didn’t bring a sandblaster to his eyes even through the crevice opening.

Soap kicks his boot out, sending a rock skittering away. Sucks his teeth. “Got a deck of cards, by any chance?”

He’s not asking for a deck of cards, he’s asking for attention. Probably everyone else in the SAS with a pulse would have that figured, but it took Ghost three long years of working with the kid to realise it. Soap and his non sequiturs used to have him climbing the bloody walls. He’s never had much patience for people who don’t just come out and say what they really mean, especially not on the job — what they do is too important to jeopardise focus by taking the piss when a more direct answer will do. It’s how Ghost has always been, will always be. He’s not quite sure what makes Johnny the exception. Maybe the little pout of his lip and crease of his chin he gets when he’s itching to be paid attention to. Makes him look like a puppy out in the rain, only a touch more kickable. “No cards, Johnny. Stay sharp.”

Soap scoffs, mostly for show. Ghost knows he’s got his ear fixed for any trouble that could be heading their way. “No one’s out in this shite, Lt.”

“We’re out here.”

“We’re under cover, not really out in it, are we?”

It’s petulant in a sort of disingenuous way. Soap’s taking the piss and he knows Ghost is onto him, wouldn’t be bitching otherwise. Johnny’s a sniper by trade, and for all his seemingly bottomless energy he can lock in and be still as death for near days at a time, at least when needed. He’s playing it up, poking the bear. Even after Chicago, Ghost could never figure out why, so he asked him point-blank one day. The lads had gone to a pub after a short assignment, and he had been a little looser than usual, and he couldn’t stop wondering why Soap had chosen Ghost of all people to latch onto so fiercely. When he’d asked, Soap had tilted his head a bit, mostly amused, but also a little dumbfounded, like he’d thought they’d both been playing the same game. “Maybe I just like your company, sir,” he’d said. Unrepentant, no-nonsense. Direct. And that was that.

“Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.”

Soap rolls his eyes, just slightly, and mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key. The silence, predictably, doesn’t last long. “Hey, Lt.”

Ghost grunts in acknowledgment. ORPs are almost cooked, thank God. He’s bloody famished.

“Why do cows wear bells?”

He thinks for a moment, playing it out in his head, before halting. “Because their horns don’t work. Did you nick that from Rocky?”

Soap sniffs, caught out. “It’s Rocky II, actually.” The little moue on his face almost makes Ghost chuff a laugh out loud.

“Fucking hell, you’re shameless.”

The bags over the fire give a little pop, indicating their not-quite-food is ready. Soap pushes Ghost’s portion across the dirt, and begins to dig into his own portion without much hesitation. It’s always been a marvel, how much his Sergeant can pack away. Ghost himself opts to wait a tick and let the pasta cool. He’s not keen on burning his tongue on this slop.

While he waits, he casts his eyes out to the world beyond their cave. Sand and dirt are still blasting something fierce, but the direction of the winds have at least shifted so the two of them are getting pelted in the face less often, and the dusk has fallen, turning the sky near pitch. He hadn’t noticed, with his eyes fixed on Johnny sitting opposite him, lit from beneath by the fire hole. Soap’s made him complacent, as he’s wont to do these days.

Once he’s figured enough time has passed, he shoves his mask up to his nose and eats his portion efficiently. Johnny’s already finished by the time Ghost starts. He’s sitting quietly, eyes tracking for movement on the outside just as Ghost had just done. Proper little war dog.

A spot of time passes that way, easy and calm. What does it say about them, that the times they feel the closest is when they’re liable to be hunted and put down? He’s not sure how long they stay like that. He hasn’t bothered to check his watch, another habit he’s picked up while being around Johnny. It might be the lack of sleep, or the adrenaline draining out his pores, sticky and slow like pine sap, but he feels light. Floating, almost. Soap might be the one person in the whole world he trusts implicitly. Of course, Price and Gaz would take a bullet for him, he knows they would, but he can’t show them this. Not Simon, tender and peachlike and bruised. The air is hot, and stale, and the way Johnny’s eyes cut across his still-exposed jaw when he’s satisfied there are no dangers lurking makes him feel seen all the way through. X-ray vision, down to the bone.

“Tell me something,” Johnny says. He’s relaxed, voice low, looking at the sparse smoke from the fire as it curls up and away.

Ghost waits for elaboration, but nothing comes. “Tell you what?”

“Anything.” It’s quiet. Things aren’t quiet very often, with Johnny around, and Ghost appreciates that. Keeps him out of his own head. But they get in lulls sometimes like this, and it’s so different from the silences Ghost faces when he’s alone. It’s less and more all at once: even when he stops his blathering, Johnny’s presence is tangible, a physical thing that Ghost can hold onto. It’s maybe the closest to feeling safe he’ll ever get. “Tell me something no one knows about the Ghost.” He’s got a small smile, and Ghost knows he’ll take as much or as little as he’s willing to offer. He’s clearly expecting the former. That’s another thing Ghost likes about Johnny — he never expects anything, and is grateful for whatever he gets.

But Ghost wants to give him more. He deserves more, frankly. There’s a lot that he can’t give, that he shouldn’t, for both of their sakes, but maybe he can give him something. It feels possible, here. Nobody is around, their radios are off, and anything he says will be carried away like the smoke. It’ll be carried by Johnny, just him, no one else. Just him.

Johnny’s seen him bleeding and broken, killing and almost killed. Surely he can share this.

He will, he decides. But Johnny will indulge him if he’s a little selfish first — he always does. “You first.”

“Me?” Soap laughs. “I’m an open book, mate.”

“Eye for an eye.”

Johnny rolls his eyes sky high. “Difficult bastard. Fine, let me think.” They lapse back into that warm silence for a moment, and Ghost takes the opportunity to steal a glance at his sergeant. He’s got that furrow in his brow he gets when he’s thinking hard, which is often. Too smart for his own good. In fairness, he can’t imagine there’s too much he doesn’t know about Soap. He gives pieces of himself away like it’s nothing, which makes Ghost equal parts immensely grateful and childishly jealous. How do you own a man who’s owned by everyone? He’s glad he made Johnny answer first, he realises, even if he mostly did it to be stubborn. He wants some part of him all to himself. Soap nods, seeming to have thought of something. “I used to be scared of Hell, as a kid.”

“Bad line of work to be in, then.”

Johnny laughs. “Aye, that’s for sure.” He absentmindedly tends to the fire, more out of desire to do something with his hands then any real need. “Sometimes I still am, to be honest. Me and my family, we went to Mass every Sunday. Never missed it. I always had something to confess.” He smiles, a bit ruefully. “Something I broke, or someone I hurt, or some sin I did. I did a lot of those.

“Every Sunday morning, I'd be so scared, just shakin’, thinking maybe this was the time that I wasn't forgiven, you know? It was pure nonsense and I knew it, but part of me thought Father Smith would just have had enough of me,” he chuckles, “and damn me right then and there. Like I'd run out of chances. I got so scared, even though I knew I’d do it all over again the next week. But I was trying. I always thought, this’ll be the week I’ll have nothing to confess. Never happened, of course, but I kept trying.”

Simon knows what he means. Knows acutely, in fact, because he’d come to the exact same conclusion in the opposite direction. Had been beaten by God so many times he’d been convinced there was a lesson to be learned: you’re a bad dog, Simon Riley. He's going to hell, his bones tell him so, the only question is when. He stopped praying a long time ago.

Johnny's face is solemn. It lived under his eyes, that sadness. Made him look tired. “Sometimes it felt… I don't know. Pointless. Like I was beatin’ my head against the wall. Destined for failure, I guess.” He kicks out a foot, scuffing up dirt. “I think I'm still like that. Stubborn over a lost cause.”

Ghost always finds it fascinating how Johnny, in his boundless intelligence, can see something so upside-down, as if they aren’t even looking at the same thing. “That’s what makes you good, Johnny.” Soap looks up from where he’d been staring at the fire, meeting Ghost’s eyes. The blue is like a shot to the heart every time. “I respect the hell out of you for it. Even when I didn't like you, I respected you.” He says it in a half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood, but Johnny just looks moonstruck, eyes wide as anything. The expression stings in his breastbone. “I’m… sorry.”

“Sorry for respecting me?” Johnny asks, eyebrow quirked, but the glow is still there.

Ghost chews his cheek and wills the words to come out right. “I'm sorry if you didn’t know that. I thought you knew.” It's easy to forget himself, around him. Sometimes it feels like he never has to say anything, and he’ll be implicitly, thoroughly understood. Ghost has never been good with his words — too brusque, too minced, too flat — but Johnny had always heard him anyway.

His eyes soften, painfully fond. “Of course I knew. I know you, Simon.” The eye contact warms him from the inside out. “It's just nice to hear it.”

Ghost gives a curt nod. He's never had sweet words come easily, whether for fear of flaying himself open, or for simple lack of ability. He's not sure when the next time he’ll open his mouth and have honey drip out will be, but he’ll try.

He tries now, but his throat is clogged and dry. Tries again, but nothing comes out and he feels his neck grow hot, angry at himself. He grinds his jaw. If his body won’t cooperate, he thinks, he can try something else. He begins to fish through his pack, grabbing the worn notebook, only hesitating a little before bringing it out into the light. Ghost hands it to Johnny, feeling only a little like he’s tearing his chest open.

“What’s this?” Johnny looks up, curious. He cracks the journal open, quiet as he traces over the pictures, the notes. “I never knew you were into birding, Lt.” He’s smirking only a little.

Ghost shrugs, defensive despite himself. “I like ‘em alright.”

Soap is laser-focused. He flips through page after page, the tips of his fingers gentle against the oil-softened edges. “Are these notes all yours?”

“Only the ones I’ve seen.”

Johnny’s head shoots up, eyes wide. “You’ve seen all these? Fuck, there’s so many…” It’s the strangest thing; he’s giving him an opening a mile wide. Ghost himself can think of at least three quips to be made about this geriatric hobby, all in Soap’s voice, clear as day, but the fool just seems impressed. “How long have you had this thing?”

“Since I was a kid. So a long bloody time.”

Johnny continues reading, just about as intent as Ghost has ever seen him. “What’s your favourite?”

Simon takes a moment to think. He knows his answer, but he’s never chatted about this, not ever. Not to anyone. When something lives in your own head so long, he thinks, it’s hard to make it real. He’s used to it being hard. Here, it feels easy. “Pallas’s Rosefinch. It was my mum’s favourite, too.”

“Which page?”

He’s not sure. Never paid attention to the number, always reached it by feel and instinct alone. “Dunno. ‘Bout in the middle — it’s in the songbird section.” Sometimes he can remember the times he would show his mother the book, desperate to reach her through whatever fog she was in. She was kind, so she’d indulged him, of course, but he knows she didn’t see the birds the same way he did. He wasn’t the best at reading people, but he could feel the way his smile grew deep into the furrows of his cheeks as he flipped through those pages, the way his hands shook. His mother never looked like he felt, not in all the time he knew her.

Johnny doesn’t look like that either. Simon can tell he has no light in his chest as he looks at the diagrams, reads the notes. It’s not the same. He doesn’t feel the way Simon feels, but his fingers are careful all the same, his eyes diligent and single-minded as he scans over every page. When he reaches the rosefinches, he smiles. “Bonnie bird. There’s no notes for this one?”

“Never seen one, ‘cept in pictures.”

“That’s a shame.” He cuts his eyes up, smiles. “You ever been on those birding tours? You’ve certainly got the recon experience. Bet you’d be bloody brilliant at it.”

Simon grins despite himself. “Naturally. I’d wipe the floor with those old geezers.”

“You’re gettin’ up there, yourself, big man.”

“Piss off.” There’s no heat to it, even though he feels lit up inside. He curls his toes in his boots. Flexes his fingers. Ghost is dead tired, and almost got his head taken off a few hours earlier, and just generally aches all over, but he can’t remember the last time he felt so light.

Soap hands the journal back to him. “Hey, Lt. What kind of bird would I be?”

An answer rises to his tongue, instinctive, but it makes his stomach turn. He lies instead. “Woodpecker.”

That earns him a laugh, a sharp bark cutting through the air. “You callin’ me hardheaded?”

“That, and your plumage.” Johnny kicks his outstretched leg, hard. He’ll be feeling the bootprint later.

“You like the ‘hawk, fuckin’ admit it, Simon.” God fucking help him, he does. It’s just about the ugliest thing he’s seen in his whole life, but he likes it. Likes near everything about the idiotic, beautiful man sitting in front of him, even the parts that grate on his nerves. It used to scare the piss out of him. Now, it’s settled deep in the marrow of his ribs, the muscles of his heart, an immutable fact he’ll carry until he’s six feet under for the second time. John MacTavish is brutish, and crass, and the best man he’ll ever know. Simon will indulge him a shoddy haircut.

All of a sudden, his guts give an ugly heave. He’s never told a soul about his birds, at least not a living one. Tommy knew. His mother knew. Now he’s made the same mistake a third time.

The fear hits him all at once. He feels a tingle in his fingers, a shiver in his teeth. Except Johnny wouldn’t die after wasting away in a care home, or with blue skin on the cold linoleum below the toilet sink. It would be new, and horrible, and it would break him worse than anything. He’s forgotten himself, as per usual, and he’s going to fuck them both.

He packs the book away, cool and perfunctory. “Early morning tomorrow, Sergeant. Best get some rest.” It’s incredibly feeble, even by his standards, but he needs this to end. It’s the responsible thing.

Soap looks unconvinced. He’s a smart man, one of the smartest Ghost has ever met, in truth. More importantly, he knows Ghost inside and out. He can recognize an avoidance tactic when he sees one.

But he must be feeling generous tonight, or at least too tired to keep waffling on, which would be a miracle in and of itself. He takes the out. “Aye. Sleep tight, sir.”

They snuff the fire, and Ghost finally gets some sleep, or at least pretends to. He’s good at pretending. Arthur Riley, at least, was always fooled. It’s just hard to sleep, he’s found, when you’re waiting for the hammer to fall.

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