Aster Disaster Writing

Simon, God, Simon. There was barely anything that boy hadn’t been through. His past was a humourless tale crafted by something far beyond anything comprehensible. There isn’t even a specific instance to describe as death was determined to make his body match his name. A symbol of death, remnanted - left to wander. A sick dance, each touch driving a wedge further and further between Simon and the world of the living. It should have left him wounded, but it only made him a good soldier.

He spat in the face of God and refused an apology from the devil. She shed tears for him, and he turned them to vapour with the heat of his fury.

Gaz, a walking liability to himself - though unintentional. He’s like a ragdoll at the whims of whatever life throws at him. Or, more accurately, where life throws him. It’s a miracle he’s existed this long without a permanent injury given what he’s experiences almost daily. From the small, tripping over himself or running into tables, to the big, falling out of helicopters or over the railings of bridges.

He was made to die, but all he had to say to that was ‘but I’m here to stay.’ He insists, it seems, on living.

Price, he’s experienced a lot. Life hasn’t treated him well, not that it treated any of the other’s with soft hands, but especially him. He’s seen enough to be scarred for ten lifetimes over. The choices he’s had to make might weigh heavier on his heart than the scars littering his body. If Simon is a walking ghost, Price is a shambling corpse.

His life is brimming with sorrow, and it appears as if he has killed his own guardian angel to survive as ours. An ode to those he loves.

“Hesitating like that can cost you your life, y’know,” Simon grumbles, bringing you back to the present.

“So I’ve been told,” You spit, a phantom taste of blood following it.

“It doesn’t seem like it.”

He takes calculated steps, circling you like a dog. The dust beneath your feet shifts - seeming to breathe alongside you. You’re stiff, more so than you would’ve liked to be in these sorts of scenarios; it doesn’t stop you though. Bloodshot eyes stare back at you and you aren’t sure if it’s Simon’s or a reflection of your own. A pause. A moment taken out of respect - a silence. An opening.

You jump.

You claw.

You grasp.

A pitiful attempt against someone you couldn’t even beat on your best day, not in a way that mattered. Given a weapon, and an element of surprise, you might have had a chance. Hand-to-hand combat paired with a lack of fluid movement renders you careless and therefore battered into defeat. Simon is like a bear, or a ram, maybe a mountain lion. These are the thoughts that fully occupy you for the moment you’re rushed to your back, thrown to the ground with as much care as he could manage.

“I told you, you aren’t ready.”

“I never was, Simon,” You huff out, ragged breaths choked by the dirt flying in the air.

“You hesitate,” He points out. “You didn’t used to.”

“I didn’t,” You insist. A lie, and you know it.

“Doesn’t matter, you won’t be getting back on the field for another month regardless. Not my decision so save your yapping,” He lets the knee off your chest and offers a hand. You don’t take it.

“There’s nothing interesting for another month, I’ll live,” You shake off his attempt to rattle you.

“Don’t be so sure,” Simon says, bringing down his neck gaiter. You can’t help but stare at the scar across his lip.

“Looking good LT,” Soap’s voice carries across the field.

“I know the last mission diminished my looks, but am I really that bad?” You deadpan.

“Of course not, Rottie. Do I not tell you enough how stunning you are?” Soap adjusts the fabric around your neck, a touch far more gentle than you deserve.

A wry smile creeps across your face. Your boys always let you know how appreciated you are, both for your abilities and appearance. They’re like your little cheer squad sometimes. Gaz and Soap are more vocal about it, but small touches and comments from Price and Ghost always cause a ripple of butterflies in your stomach.

You roll your eyes and reply, “Far too much, Johnny.” You didn’t mean it.

“Get used to it,” He says, giving you a little mock salute.

It brings your attention to the bandage still on his hand, freshly changed. It reminds you that yours likely need to be cleaned and switched at this point, but you feel undeserving of that kindness. A deep sense of guilt washes over you.

“Don’t sweat it, Bonnie.” He always knows what you’re thinking, a skill you wish would’ve lost its accuracy long ago.

“I need a walk,” You sigh, finishing it off with: “Alone.”

Your feet carry you away, far from the discomfort that was growing inside of your chest. An overwhelming, overachiever, though, you weren’t sure whether you were talking about yourself or the resentment felt towards your mangled body and mind. The memories linger beyond the physical flesh wounds, and somehow hurt more. They sink their teeth into your mangy fur, sticking like fleas to a street mongrel. Your thoughts scrape down your flank. Piercing to the bone; brittle and sad excuses of the framework that is your cage.

You weren’t sure how you felt, but you knew it wasn’t a good feeling. It settled underneath your skin like a parasite. It laid on top of it like a tick. You were terrified. That’s what it was. It was familiar, like your mirror years ago. A sick reflection of an even sicker dog. Self pity wells up like tears, pooling like blood, streaming like sweat. You tread further and further, each footfall sounding like bullets to you. Maybe you’re just stressed.

A whole entire month. It gnaws at you, that information. It shouldn’t, but it does. You know your team better than anyone; they’re reliable, resilient, and know how to function without you. They did it long before, and can continue to do so long after. You would be lying if you said that it didn’t hurt. If it didn’t sting like nettle brushing against your fur. It is unlikely that any extreme mission would be put forth while a team member was out of commission, but you never know with the higher ups. It pains you, an ache blooms across your body at the thought of missing out on the danger. Flowering into a debilitating burn inside of you. Afflicting your mind, thoughts run wild with what ifs.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be up and walking, soldier.”

You had walked yourself right into the lion’s den.

“Price,” You greet, nervousness bubbling up in your throat.

“Rottie.”

“They didn’t stop me,” You say as an excuse.

“Unless they wanted to tranquillise you, I don’t think they could,” Price rolls his eyes.

“They’re free to try,” You quip, shrugging.

“That’s the point, nobody wants to.”

“I’m here, I can walk, I’m not tearing any stitches out, I can shower on my own. What else do you want?” You glare half-heartedly at the rugged man in front of you.

“I want you on bed rest and away from any missions, soldier,” Price says, a forlorn tone almost coating his words like honey. It almost makes you want to roll over and submit, licking the taste from his hands. Key word, almost. Your pride won’t allow you to.

“Like hell that’s happening. I really can’t be arsed to follow any of what I just heard,” You snap. You were cold, tired, and going stir crazy. This wasn’t what you needed-

“This is exactly what you need. A step away from this life. Away from us,” Price says, paralysing you. He isn’t wrong, but he isn’t right either.

“Where do you want me to go?” You ask, slipping into the professional nature. Like a hunting dog sent on a mission, following the scent of those above and below itself.

“No, that’s not what I meant. Don’t do that. Don’t treat it like just another mission from your past life,” Price’s tone hardens alongside his face - all traces of softness gone to someone who hasn’t known him. Not like you have. You know it’s like correcting a dog; you still love them, but they need guidance sometimes. You fight against it.

“Where, Price, where?” You ask again.

“Laswell suggested spending some time in the states. Away from all of this. Someplace you’ll be. . . content.” His hollow words echo the word “safe” as if you actively seek trouble these days. Actively sniff out traps yet always seem to get your paw clamped in the snares meant for rabbits.

“Fine,” You say, about to turn on your heel and leave.

“Hound,” Price starts, using your official callsign. “Don’t take this the wrong way, don’t distance yourself again. You’ve worked hard to get here and have earned a safe place-”

“Except for when I actually need it,” You let slip out.

“It isn’t safe here.”

“It’s a hell of a lot safer than where I was before, don’t you think?” You snarl, teeth bared and lips pulled back. Rabid, foaming at the mouth, not a house pet anymore.

“We aren’t kicking you out.” Price says this, but you can’t help but doubt it.

“Okay.”

“I mean it, we aren’t.”

“Okay.”

You find yourself staring at the scars Price lets fly free in the old tee he decided to don today. You helped pick it out. Tearing your eyes away from his chest, you can’t find yourself to meet his gaze, opting instead to stare at the paraphernalia around his office. You linger on the photos of your team a little too long. Logically you know he’s right, this is a temporary precaution. If only it didn’t feel like the quarantine before they lop your head off to test for rabies.

“I’m going to go now,” You speak, knowing it’s not what Price was waiting for you to say.

“Okay,” He responds, his turn now for the small talk.

“Everything would be a lot easier if you fucking sat still,” You seeth, attempting to stitch Joel up after a run in with some rogue vagabonds.

“It’s not lethal, I’m fine,” He says with a wince as you tie it off with a little more force than necessary. Just to get your point across.

“I don’t know where we are, you look like hell, and I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” You heave - your stomach churning at the sight of his wound.

Your eyes fall to the stopped clock, every single one in this godforsaken land stopped at a different time. A small voice of desperation wonders how much energy it would take to fix them all, to return to the once taken for granted past. Ellie was asleep in the upstairs room; although asleep is an assumed white lie to make you two feel better. It’s more likely that she’s rifling through the bathroom cabinets for any medicine or keeping watch.

“I wish I was with Sarah,” You lamented.

“You mean you wish you were dead,” Joel growled, bristling at the very mention of her. As quickly as he gets riled up, he gets equally disheartened at the thought of that being your truth. He tries to sit up, and you give him credit that it almost worked, but he quickly relinquishes to the mortal limits his torn and scarred body gifts him. An unwanted present.

“Yes.”

“Don’t say that, don’t you dare say that, darling,” He almost begs, the slick of his own blood staining both of your hands. “We’re survivors,” Joel asserted, his grip on your hand weaker than usual. Almost as weak as this was making your heart.

“What in God’s name are you talking about? We are the farthest thing from that. Death is setting the table for us because it is inevitable; and honestly? I might bring him an early housewarming gift - a thank you for taking us in when nobody else will,” You cry out.

“I am begging you, for the love of- Please just hear me out.”

“No, I’m done. I don’t care. I don’t care if you cry, it doesn’t mean anything to me. Not anymore,” You jeered.

“Please, sugar.” Joel looked pathetic lying there - his complexion pale from blood loss and the salt and pepper sprinkled in his hair reminding you of all you’d been through together. His rough hands softened by the ichor flowing from the wound.

“Stop it,” You plead.

“I am begging, I’d do anything for you.”

You almost feel bad for him. Living cannot be easy, you know this as well as anyone. Living for yourself is ten times harder. You know this because you never would have come this far without Joel and Ellie. Your Joel. Your Ellie. Your only worldly possessions in this hell on earth. You challenge anyone to judge your wording when it’s the gospel truth that the bond between you three is the only tangible thing worth a damn to you anymore.

“Such as what? We should have done it a long time ago when there were still three bullets in the gun instead of two. The army of knaves that almost killed you, killed Ellie, killed me, will catch up to us eventually. You can’t be that naive to think they’re just going to give up on tracking us down after we killed some of their men. Or maybe you just are overconfident in my skills of concealment, which it would do you good to quickly dispel that delusion. I can guarantee you that they will find us. They will find us and they will kill us. They will rape me. They will rape her. They are going to rape us and kill us and eat us and you won’t face it. You’d rather wait for it to happen. But I can’t. I can’t,” You snarled, grieving over the life that could’ve been but never will.

Not anymore. You spat and swore and it is all for naught and you know that because there is nothing you can do about it. The sincerity of it is the only pure thing left in this world. It’s ironic enough to make you laugh, no matter how insane it makes you feel.

“Don’t fucking say that,” Joel rasps. A cursory retort that means very little to you at this point.

“Do you really think that? That we’d be better off dead?” A voice from the stairwell and you don’t even have to turn around to imagine the expression on her face right now. You knew that you’d been too loud and eventually she would come down to check on Joel and yourself.

“Maybe not you two, but we’ve been over this. I didn’t bring myself to this. I was brought. And now I’m done. I’m fucking done,” You sob, curling up into your own limbs stained red and metallic with the facts of your situation.

“That is so goddamn unfair of you. You don’t get to make that decision. Everyone I have cared for has either died or left me,” Ellie swore, “Everyone except for you. I can’t do it without you.”

The tears drive you over the fence, back into the world of the living. The pure anguish and agony you feel at that fact isn’t normal. You know that in the morning you will feel ashamed over your distress, but these are likely the last hours of your life that you can spend with these two by your side. You don’t know why you even patched Joel up - a silly, stupid, childlike hope that he could get you out of this scenario again because he was always the strong one. Always the one that knew what to do and now he’s on the verge of passing out. Or maybe it’s been an old habit ingrained into you for so long that you wouldn’t know what to do with your hands otherwise.

“I shouldn’t have even told you. That would probably have been best. We have two bullets and then what? Joel, you can’t protect us. You say you’d die for us but what good is that?” You sigh, the fight leaving you as quickly as it came. It took too much energy and hope to even argue.

“And giving up is any better?”

The blood roaring in your ears made it difficult to discern who even whispered that, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. None of it. Not anymore. They would come and you wouldn’t be able to stop them, and you weren’t sure you’d even try.

“I wouldn’t leave you,” Joel muttered.

“I don’t care. It’s meaningless. We used to talk about death, but not anymore. Why do you think that is?” You acknowledge.

“It’s because it’s here,” Ellie recites from behind you.

“You can call me a faithless slut if you like. I’ve taken a new lover. He can give me what you cannot,” You hiss.

“Death is not a lover,” Joel disputes.

“Oh yes he is,” You chuckle mirthlessly. “I am done with my own whorish heart and I have been for a long time. You talk about taking a stand but there is no stand to take.”

“For the love of God, darling. Give me the knife,” Joel stressed, reaching out and stumbling as he does so. It’s pathetic.

A flake of obsidian. Sharper than steel. The edge an atom thick. Joel had taught you himself. You kick the gun towards him, an absent look upon your face. Your facial expression betraying a sardonic sort of scorn. His eyes meet yours and search for anything radiant but comes up short of anything but sanguine. There was no argument left to be had. The nights spent debating with the earnestness of philosophers chained to a madhouse wall came to fruition on this night.

You leave with the fitting coldness of it being your final gift. You could hear Ellie begging Joel to make you come back, but it was all nil. Your heart was set. If you were going out, it wouldn’t be without a fight though. The cold dew brushing against your exposed skin as green blades slice up your ankles bring you back to the present. A punishment for forgetting the small moments of life that make it worth it, even if just a little bit.

You take a stand at the edge of the forest, perched in a tree. You sit there, finding comfort in the incommodious malaise. You were starving, exhausted, and cramped, but you refused to let the risk of them finding you while you sleep exist. Eventually the stomps of their footfalls give away their position and you find yourself on the move. An angel of death is what you are, slicing them down where they stand. Joel taught you well, not well enough to avoid all of their bullets or hatchets, but enough to stay standing long enough to make sure they all lay dead. Visceral brain matter and viscera laying, bodies butchered.

You knew that they wouldn’t leave you alone if you stayed in their territory - not now, not ever. You had to move, but you bought enough time for Joel and Ellie. That was all you could’ve asked for. A stray bullet whizzes past you, striking fear into your heart.

“I thought you were done,” Joel calls out from behind you. It was now that you could see he had taken down one last enemy you hadn’t spotted.

“Maybe I am,” You chuckle caustically.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” He sighs, taking your scathing words with a grain of salt. He knew you didn’t mean it anymore. It was simply the principle talking for you.

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” You speak, a mixture of the geographical locus and simply being in the living world lacing your reference.

“And yet you don’t want to leave, sugar,” Joel says. It was a gaudy assumption, but a true one nonetheless.

“We only have one bullet left,” You admise.

“You only have one life left. I know which one I’d rather keep,” Joel remarks.

Of course, your curiosity continued to linger despite the obvious stone walling you were receiving in response. Most would likely give up, move on, but there was a certain softness held in the gaze of the soldier. One pointed toward you that prevented your feelings toward Ghost from dissipating. Eventually you had gotten tidbits of information from your Lieutenant in exchange for extra training. Occasionally he gave you it for free, but that only occurred under the light of a rare blue moon.

Your relationship - although you were sure it was more of a simple camaraderie - had progressed into something akin to his friendship with Soap. A bit of that mixed with the respect teammates must have and a distance that could not be crossed. A line in the sand doused in gasoline and a wall of fire alight just to be sure you don’t try and cross it. 

The current mission you two were assigned was testing that distance, severely. It required the two of you to infiltrate a small town with the hopes of gaining intel on specific targets important to Shepherd. Of course, you two were mere sled dogs pushing forward out of your drive to work rather than the promise of comfort. Following orders was all you knew, and it’s what has kept you alive for so long. 

Unfortunately, being undercover required some personal boundaries to be crossed; the private nature of your superior becoming uncovered with every night spent together. Counterfeit bands of gold glint in the moonlight shining through the open curtains. You won the argument to keep the window open after you realized the air conditioning was broken. Your supposed fiance was slouched in the chair in the corner - but you had known Simon long enough to know that he was simply resting his eyes. His reflexes were like that of a panther, a single pin drop or hitch in your breath enough to rouse the sleeping beast. 

You were perched like a simple house cat on the bed you were meant to share with him. It was silly of you to even entertain the idea of that happening - even more absurd that any of your higher ups considered that a possibility. You would think they didn’t even know the soldier, but that might not be too far off of an idea. Maybe you knew Ghost better than you thought.

It’s ideas and musings like that that keep you up, scent of pine infiltrating your senses as the wind floats across the night sky. A warm breeze makes you shiver out of surprise rather than the temperature of it, but it’s enough to make Simon open his eyes. 

“You should be asleep,” He says, a soft timbre coating his words like tree sap.

“So should you,” You fire back, ingenuine venom lacing your statement.

“I told you I had first watch.”

“You’re half asleep, get some rest. I can’t sleep anyways,” You shrug.

“You have the important part of the mission tomorrow, not me,” He glares.

“What, are you concerned about me?” You chuckle, a gentle lilt in your tone.

“Concerned you might fuck this mission up, yes,” Simon says with little mirth. 

“If anything, I’d think you’d be the one that has an issue pretending we have a shred of intimacy in front of others. The last time we had a visitor welcoming us to the neighborhood they looked visibly disturbed in your presence and I don’t blame them one iota,” You laugh, a scoff biting at the back of your throat. 

“They should have sent Soap or Gaz with you,” Simon sighs, avoiding your gaze.

“Maybe they should have. . . but I’m glad they chose you to be by my side, more than you know,” You say, trailing off at the end. Your hands gently rub your bare ankles, a nervous habit that reminds you that you are very much alive still. 

“You can hold your own, soldier.” Simon reads you like a book, as per usual. It wasn’t that you were particularly scared of the mission objective nor the targets, but the place was simply too familiar for you to shake. It was the place where you had almost died on the field for your first real mission. 

“I disappoint myself in a hundred thousand ways - searching for respite only from the coward I’ve become,” You breath out, your words too heavy to float away out the open window. They sit between you and the Lieutenant two yards to your left, the truth washing away any walls that hadn’t already crumbled. 

“If you were a coward, you wouldn’t be here,” He claims. A gentle creak of his chair betrays the notion that he’s getting up, most likely to escape the uncomfortableness of the situation you pushed upon him. You don’t blame him - soldiers aren’t the best at sympathy. 

“If I wasn’t a coward this mission would already be done,” You smile disparagingly. 

“Progress is still progress,” He mutters, sitting down beside your figure. You get a feeling he’s no longer on the same topic as you are, and it makes your heart skip a beat.

“We should get some rest while we can. If it makes you feel better, we can put a pillow wall up,” You breathe out a nervous laugh, the lump in your throat dissipating to a simple nuisance rather than a choking sensation. 

“I’ll join you in a second, I need to take a piss,” Simon grumbles, ignoring your childish suggestion entirely in favor of lumbering over to the door. 

You take notice of his leg bothering him and make a mental note to insist he rests more tomorrow. The previous day he romped around on the playground with the neighborhood kids a little too enthusiastically; a domestic moment forever imprinted in your brain. The soft synapses of your neurons function similar to an old, worn photograph you’d keep in a wallet. Unfortunately your memory is the only thing reliable considering you had left your phone on the porch that day. You doubt that Simon would let that photo live to see the light of day either way. 

“I’ll be here,” You eventually reply. 

“I would sure hope so,” He calls out from the bathroom.

The pure exhaustion rushing through your veins takes its resting place in your weary bones, weighing down your heart. Your eyes burn with fatigue, the mission draining you more than you would’ve thought - and somehow less than you could’ve imagined. The last thing you hear in your asthenia state is the oddly light footfalls of the vertiginous Brit. 

. . .

He sits down on his designated side of the bed, 

“I’m not sure I know what love is, but I think you might be it,” He admitted to your sleeping figure. “And I know you can’t hear me, but maybe one of these days I’ll be brave enough to say it when you can. You claim you’re the coward, but I’m the bigger one.”

A gentle brush against your exposed skin, tentative and not without trepidation is the only further expression of affection that he conveys. He lays down with his back to you, consternation at every small movement you make in your sleep. 

Neither of you talk about it in the morning when his arms end up around your waist and the way he grips your hips tighter when you try to get up. Not a word is spoken about how you rub his knuckles with your cold hands until both of you are conscious enough to depart from the safety of your bed and walk out into the neighborhood that you both could pretend - even for a moment - was the end all be all. Soft words and ‘I love you’s’ exchanged dissimulate and dissipate under the guise of equivocal orders from your superiors. 

“I’ll be fine on my own,” Soap says.

“Are you sure? If you need us you know which market we’ll be in right? Price just needs a few ingredients for tonight's dinner, mkay?” Gaz fusses over him, heartwarming in the mother-hen kind of way. 

“Yes, yes, and got it,” Soap replies, practically shoving the two out the door.

“Call us if you need anything, you hear me,” Price barks out. It reminds MacTavish of time on the battlefield a long time ago.

“Sir, yes sir,” Soap offers up a mock salute.

Price rolls his eyes and drags Gaz by the arm out the door of the house the three had shared for the past few days. It had been rough, but Soap was doing some healing on his own. He seems fine most of the time, forcing smiles and neverminds. Grief eventually catches up to him on days such as these, but it diminishes a little with every day that passes. Soap thinks that at some point he might be able to truthfully say he’s okay.

A knock at the door crushes that dream almost immediately. Despite everything in him, his intuition that has kept him alive all this time, he opens the door to see Simon’s face staring back at him with flowers in his hand.

“Johnny-”

“Don’t call me that, you lost that privilege as soon as you ran off without a word,” Soap snaps.

“I know, God, I know that there’s nothing I can do to make up for all of the shit I’ve put you through. I know all of my broken promises means you can’t trust me. And I’m not asking you to, just. . . can we talk?”

“Now you want to talk? Huh? I have spent the past year wishing that you would say these words to me. Too fucking bad it’s far too late for us,” Soap spits, considering slamming the door on the fingers of the man in front of him.

“Please. If not now, then later?” His voice comes out begging.

“You were really selfish, Simon,” Soap sighs.

“I know, all this time I was ignoring you breakin’ down as if it would go away. I should have known better than to believe that you coped in the same way I did,” Simon speaks, shameful like a dog whose owner came home to the mess they made.

“Yeah, you should’ve. I have always called to check up on you, 5 AM wasted you. You were always long gone, not even listening to me. The one time I needed you, truly needed you, you turned your back on me,” Soaps’ voice breaks, but he refuses to let the tears fall in front of the man he used to look up to. “Please go, I don’t want to see you right now.”

“I understand. Don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything,” Simon relents, hesitantly grasping the hands of his beloved, handing the bouquet of white orchids over. 

“I’m sorry,” Soap whispers, a breaths width away from his ghost.

“Why are you sorry?” Ghost asks sincerely, faltering as he reaches out to instinctively comfort his lover before realizing.

“I’m sorry that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive you, and I’m sorry to ask you to move on. Allow me to move on,” Soap murmurs, leaning into the rough and callous hand grazing his cheek.

“I can accept all of that, except you asking me to move on. I still love you too much to let that happen,” Simon smiles sadly. 

“That’s hard to believe. Then again, I don’t believe anything much I hear these days.”

“Believe in one thing, I won't go away. I promise I’ll respect the distance you set, but my heart won't let you go. I know it’s selfish of me, but I have to ask you to promise never to get back with me if you truly think it would be detrimental to you. God knows I’ve caused you enough pain and suffering," Simon leans forward, letting his forehead rest against Soaps. 

“I promise. Goodbye, Simon,” Soap takes a step back.

“Goodbye, Johnny.”

. . .

“I pulled at every thread, trying to solve the puzzles in his head. Lived my life scared to death he'd decide to leave instead,” Soap sighs, recounting what he had told his therapist for his boyfriend. “I’d be in pieces on the floor, pacing at 3 AM wondering if Simon was still alive.”

“Hey, listen to me, I need you to know that if I ever do that to you I fully expect you to rip me a new one. You and your entire squad of terrifying teammates,” He chuckles.

“I don’t know who’s luckier for you treating me so well. Me for experiencing what I always wished for, or you for getting to live another day,” Soap smiles. 

“How could I not treat you like this? In fact, you deserve more than what I could ever dream of giving you.”

“I love you,” Soap says softly.

It had been a few months since the last time Soap had even seen, let alone thought about Ghost. They had their occasional interactions, always kept brief and to the point. Both of them had kept to their promises, respecting the lines the other had set. Sometimes Soap had really wanted to take him back, getting lost in thought about the what ifs of it all - wishing it was how it used to be. 

“Johnny?” A voice from the crowd calls out, Soap’s heart stopping at the tone he recognized so well. 

“Simon,” A curt reply masking the pain seeping through the cracks of his facade. 

“How. . . how have you been?” Ghost asks, clearing his throat as if he hadn’t used it in months. 

“I’ve been doing better.” Soap leaves it at that, leaning into his new lover's side. 

“That’s good to hear. Tell the boys I said hi?” Simon says, phrasing it as a tentative question. 

“Yeah, yeah sure. Will do,” Soap chews at the inside of his cheek. 

“I’ll see you around,” Ghost lingers a bit, fitting for his callsign, before eventually departing. His figure seemed to long for the past that could never be again.

“Are you okay?” Soap was asked.

“I think I will be,” Johnny responds bittersweetly. 

. . .

Two invitations were the only interactions that Soap had with Simon for the rest of his life. The first was a last minute decision after tearing himself up over it for a week. A wedding invitation sent to Simon, an out of place joy in a cliche font inviting the man and a plus one. It was almost thrown out and burned at least ten times, but those old feelings left claw marks that clung to his heart. Scar tissue beating memories mercilessly alongside the newfound love he had for life. He was fine, most of the time.

Simon had cleaned himself up well, appearing almost sane and well despite his figure spending most of the time hunched in the corner. Nobody except Soap really noticed, but he was really only there for Johnny so it didn’t matter. Not to Simon. 

The second invitation was one from Simon to Johnny. One that he had been planning for a long time, too long. A funeral invitation, left in the meager will of a once steadfast soldier. The only thing that came out of Johnny for a long time was begging and screaming. Silence was the only thing heard at the funeral, broken only by the soft rain mourning alongside the worms of the ground. 

And forget mentioning how kind he seems to you. Offering to lace up your boots or god-forbid, help you train. The small touches across your back or hands still make you shiver. There’s also the small gifts that appear on your bed, the very same one in the locked room, mind you. You’ve changed the locks at least a dozen times before Price told you to stop wasting time and resources. It made you want to scream before you began to question if the captain was in on it. You had brought up concerns before and they were conveniently brushed off. 

Of course, that was a completely absurd thought given the fact that you never named the perpetrator that was making you uncomfortable on your very own base. Even still, you would’ve thought that Price would have done more than simply question you. Every time you’ve brought it up he says that he’s ‘handling it’ so you stopped asking after a while. It elicits a sense of unease at the fact that you seemed to be on your own regarding this issue. 

The way he looked at you scared you almost as much as facing down the barrel of a loaded gun - something that you’ve done more times than you’d like to admit. It’s not as if you had a grudge against the man - far from it. You used to admire him as a Lieutenant and wanted to be close to him, worked to become close to him. That’s how you ended up on the 141 task force. A part of you still does, admire him that is. You’re unsure of exactly when this Stockholm-esque syndrome began, but there’s something in you that wants Simon in the same carnal way he wants you. The same way a rabbit begins to accept its fate belongs in the claws of the wolf. Thinking back on it all, you were beginning to regret your moxy. 

“Did you forget we had training today, love?”

This is exactly the shit you were talking about. Not that anyone believes you, nor did you have the confidence to tell them. Not after the last incident. You had met your wits end and basically begged Laswell to transfer you. Obviously, some grounds for your repositioning was required - which was where it went wrong. You had no solid evidence, a very good track record on the team, and Simon had knocked on the door as soon as you were about to explain yourself. If you had thought he wouldn’t have been able to weasel his way out of you screaming fraternisation at Laswell you would have shouted it all around base. That’s the lowest point your pride had ever been at. Turning tail and running wasn’t your proudest moment, but there was a certain threshold before fight turns into flight. 

“Princess?”

God, you hated that name. You couldn’t even hold it against him as it was your unfortunate callsign. You had never despised it this much before coming to this godforsaken place. You huff and shove yourself up from the couch - grumbling about missing the Uno game going on between Soap and Gaz.

“One more word out of your mouth besides ‘yes sir’ and it’s ten laps,” Simon glares at you.

You’re convinced he only makes you do laps because it allows him to stand and watch. Not like you can prove it, and sometimes he does run with you, but it feels almost impossible for that not to be the case. A little rabbit and the big wolf. 

“Yes sir,” You sigh.

“Atta girl.” His words send a shiver down your spine.

It’s always hand to hand combat with him. Always. You suppose it’s better than him micromanaging your shooting stance. A shiver passes through your body at the thought of him gripping your body and manipulating you however he pleases. Becoming pliable for him to mould into the perfect soldier. No, the perfect pet. At least this way you have a chance to fight back. A small voice in the back of your mind reminds you that Ghost probably likes the struggle. The power imbalance. Another one insists that you like it just as much if not more. You choose to ignore that last one. 

“Considering your performance on the last mission, I find it imperative that we work on your skills regarding escape,” Simon says sourly.

This was complete bullshit and you knew it. Biting your tongue like you’ve always done is becoming harder by the day. He’s referring to how you - under his orders - infiltrated a side hallway and got apprehended by two guards. Two guards that you had not been made aware of - you should have been considering Ghost himself had travelled that hallway not long ago. Of course, Simon rushed in to save you, ever the shining knight in armour. 

“Your only goal is to overpower me, by any means necessary,” Simon speaks, and you can almost hear the mirth through the baclava. It makes your hackles raise in fear of what this entails. 

Despite your on guard position, you somehow end up with your back on the floor. Your hands are roughly pinned above your head - an almost delightful strain running down your spine causing you to shiver under his grasp. His thighs entrap yours with his hips harshly pressed into yours. A shaky breath of air escapes your lungs at the suddenness of it all - nevermind how close your Lieutenants face is to yours. This wasn’t exactly how you expected to end up on your back for him, but you’d take what you can get. 

A moment of hesitation costs you your comfort as one of Simon’s gloved hands moves down from your wrists to your neck - gripping it tight enough to restrict some blood flow, but not air. It makes a soft whimper escape from you, your body keen to betray you. 

“Seems like someone’s enjoying this a little too much,” Simon chuckles, his eyes dark. 

“Fuck you,” You seeth, an escaped hand digging it’s claws into his collarbone. 

“Sorry, Princess. That’s off the table,” Simon grunts, almost amused.

You quickly turn on him, shoving him off of you and pressing a knee into his abdomen with the other one entrapping him in a similar fashion that he had done to you. Your hands keep his shoulders pinned to the ground, not taking any chances. 

“You know damn well that’s not what I was-” You’re cut off by Simon lifting one of his thighs to meet you, making your brain short circuit. 

“What was that?” You could hear the smugness in his words. 

“I’d say I won that, so there’s no need for this to continue,” You spit out, quickly retracting yourself from him. 

“If you say so,” Simon says, giving up weirdly easily. 

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Simon starts, standing up to tower over you. “Unless you had something else on your mind?”

“One thing.”

“Anything,” Simon whispers, and you’re unsure whether his tone elicits more excitement than fear.

“Admit to Price and yourself that you’re being a creep,” You hiss.

“Whatever do you mean, love,” Simon mocks.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

“Simon?”

“Shit, love,” He replies, staring at you like he’s seen a ghost. Irony that you would look back on another time.

“Where have you been all this time?” You ask, tears welling up in your eyes. Tears that you couldn’t quite pinpoint the exact emotion behind them. Hurt, relief, excitement, dread, disbelief. You take a shaky breath and stumble towards the tall figure. Your frame shakes as you reach a hand out to cup his face, almost convinced that it’s a simple mirage. A ghost haunting you all this time. 

“. . . Working,” Simon replies, placing his hand over yours. 

“Out there saving the world, huh?” 

“I wouldn’t quite say that,” He says, his eyes expressing everything that he couldn’t tell you. The deep brown eyes swirling with anxiety at the very thought of your responses. 

“What happened, Simon? Why didn’t I hear from you all this time? Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” You rapid-fire these questions at him, your voice breaking as you do so. 

“I know, love, I know. I’m so fucking sorry. There hasn’t been a single day that’s gone by that I’ve forgotten about you, but I was forbidden from talking to you. I thought it was easier this way, to let you go rather than force you to stick around for someone that might not even escape alive.” 

“I sold the apartment, I moved to the outskirts of town, I adopted a dog; but I never moved on, never got rid of your stuff, called every week to see if you were even alive,” You cry out, leaning your forehead against the chest of the man you used to cook breakfast with. 

“I’m here now, I’m here. I’ll get you flowers, kiss every tear from your cheek, spend the entire rest of my life by your side if you would let me, sweetheart,” Simon whispers, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “I promise.”

John “Soap” MacTavish

“MacTavish?”

“Bonnie?”

“Welcome home?” You say, tears of happiness welling up in your eyes. You’re suddenly crushed in a bear hug that left you unable to breathe in the best way possible.

“What are you doing here, sweets?” Soap asked, taking a step back if only to stare intently at your face, studying it as if it was a simple mirage.

“Your family kinda kidnapped me,” You laugh, a beautiful sound for the man so accustomed to gunshots and screams. 

“I would expect nothing less. I’ve missed you so damn much, you don’t even know,” He says, enveloping you in another hug. Similar to the kind you did around the stuffed animal - the one had gifted you before he was deployed - of yours every night.

“I think I do know, considering the fact that I’ve missed you twice as much,” You tease with a sly smile.

“Oh, I don’t think so, Bonnie. I think I missed you infinitely more than you did for little ole me,” Soap grins, a contagious thing that infected you like the flu.

“You haven’t changed one bit, MacTavish. Not one bit.”

“I think of that as a win, especially since you were so very in love with me whenever I left,” Soap says softly, his eyes betraying his regret and sadness at having to leave you for so long.

“I still am, you dafty,” You speak, cupping his face in your soft hands.

“I love you, so very much. I’m so happy to be back to you, and this time it’s going to be for a while. I promise you that. We’ll have all the time in the world to go on those little date ideas you wrote to me about, and I’ll take you out to dinner - wine and dine you if you know what I mean,” The Scotsman said with a wink at the end.

“Knock it off, MacTavish,” You say, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Alright, only if I can kiss you, Sweets,” Soap asks, always the charmer.

“Alright. . . only if you plan to make up for all the kisses you promised over the phone,” You state with a cheeky smile.

“I think we could work something out,” Your lover speaks, kissing you with all of the passion and longing that’s been ruminating across the year you had been unable to see each other. It was filled with gentle sweet nothings and a desperation that was only able to be expressed in person. It was a promise, one to make up for all of the time away. And an apology on top of that. One that you forgave quickly as you melted into Soap’s soft embrace. 

John Price

“John?”

“What are you doing here, love?” 

“How long have you been here?” You ask, deflecting his question.

“How long has it been?” He smiles sadly. It was both a question and an answer, one that ripped your heart to shreds.

“You’ve been here all this time? All these months? And you never once thought to inform me that we’ve been stationed here, on the same base?” You cry out, your calm and collected facade breaking quickly. 

“You look so different. . .” 

“John, answer my question. What happened? Why didn’t I hear from you all this time? Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been thinking you were dead, or worse?” 

“I’m so sorry, love-”

“Bullshit! I missed you so damn much, cried over you almost every night, I never thought I’d be able to see your face again, and here you are safe and sound! I wish I could be happy about that fact, but right now I’m just pissed,” You exclaim, your body starting to shake from the pure agony running through your nervous system.  

“I wish I could give you an answer that would satisfy you, soothe your pain, but I can’t,” Price says, taking a tentative step towards you. Like you were a frightened animal.

“Try, just try. That’s all I’m asking,” You plead.

“Shepherd knew about us. He offered me an ultimatum. Be charged for fraternization or go into deep cover. I considered private pain to be better than the public argument, and he promised me I could explain before I left. Obviously that did not occur, and for that I am so very sorry,” Price explained, taking another stumbling step after the other until he was close enough to cup your face in his hands. Rough hands that have killed more men than either one of you would like to admit, but also the very same hands that have held you as you slept. The very same that have held your hand to keep you from wandering off when you got too excited by distracting environments off base. The same hands that are currently wiping your tears away.

“I’ve missed you,” Is all you manage to say in response.

“Fuck, I know, love, I know. I wish I fought harder for you,” John whispers,

“I don’t blame you, not as much. I know how much your job means to you. I also know that I would do the same for you, for us,” You reply after a lapse of silence - broken only by the shaky breaths both of you shared. 

“That doesn’t mean that we had to let superiors get in the way of us - not completely at least.”

“You were sent undercover for months,” You say, mostly to yourself. Unable to believe that fact. You knew first hand what it was like based on your position and personal experience, and it was something you would have never wished upon John. Not even minutes previously when you were furious with every fiber of his being. 

“I’d prefer not to recall those times, love,” Price mumbles, rubbing gentle circles over your skin.

“What do we do now?” You ask, hesitant in your words.

“What we always should’ve done, been able to do. Fall in love and be able to express it in all aspects of our lives,” Price promises, holding you close to him. 

“You know that Shepherd will make our lives a living hell if he finds out,” You mention, your body simultaneously relaxing at the fact that Price still loved you enough to risk everything, but tensing at the fact that it truly was his entire life on the line. 

“Fuck Shepherd. He’s kept me from you for long enough, and made sure of the fact that I have so much to make up to you. Starting today, and taking it one day at a time. I swear on my life that I will never let anything get in the way of my love for you if I can help it. And if I can’t, whatever is stopping me better pray to whatever they believe in,” Price says sincerely, making a smile come across your face at his seriousness.

“There’s that beautiful smile, love. Oh how I’ve missed that. It has got to be one of the only things that kept me going all those months without you.”

“John?”

“Yes, my love?” He replies quickly, so eager to please after his involuntary betrayal. 

“I forgive you,” You murmur into the crook of his neck.

“I don’t deserve you, angel, never have,” Price speaks softly, his once forgotten voice sending shivers down your spine. 

“You always have, John, always.”

“I promise, my love, I promise that I’ll always make sure to prove to you that I do until the day I die. And for the rest of eternity after that.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, forever and always.”

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

“Kyle?”

“Love?”

“It’s been a long time since I last saw you. How are you keeping up?” You ask, nervously fiddling with the luke-warm coffee cup in front of you.

“I’ve been surviving, and you?” Gaz responds, taking a seat in front of you.

“Living to the best of my ability. It’s good to see you’re okay, Gaz. I was starting to worry you had gone and gotten yourself killed,” You say with a bittersweet smile tainting your features.

“Hell, not even falling out of a helicopter could end me, so I think I’m doing pretty alright for myself,” He says with a chuckle.

“Since when did you fall out of a helicopter?” You laugh incredulously, beginning to slip back into old, childhood habits. 

“Since . . .” Kyle starts, holding up his fingers to count, “About two weeks ago.” 

A wide grin had taken its place on his face as you started laughing at the absurdity of it all. It reminded you so much of the clumsy nature of the lanky teen you had befriended so many years ago. It had never evolved to anything beyond uncoordinated first kisses and awkward hand holding for a week after you two decided you were better off as friends. Friends you were however, the best of them all the way up to this point. You had supported his dreams and ambitions and in return you got to see the fruits of his efforts blossom into something you were both proud of. He was always there for you too, through all the ups and downs of trying to find a relationship in the dating world. Harder than you thought it would be, but you always had Kyle to fall back on. Something you were incredibly thankful for.

“Do you remember when we got locked in the mall after closing?”

“That was a long time ago, huh? I’m sure you’re still the same as always,” Gaz says with a quirk at the edge of his lips. The very same that you were currently staring at.

“I’ll have you know that I have a much better perception of closing times now, you dork,” You say, kicking him under the table.

“Oh yeah? Do you wanna put that to the test?” Gaz smiles inquisitively, almost hesitant in his words.

“Are you, Kyle Garrick, asking me out?” You ask, taking a risk.

“Are you accepting my offer?” Kyle coaxed, a warm flush creeping across his cheeks. 

“I think I’ve been waiting for this moment ever since you’ve left to go save the world,” You tease, warmth flowing through your veins.

“The idea of you, us, is what’s kept me alive all these years, love,” Kyle says softly. 

“Why don’t we make that a reality, Garrick,” You express, sending a loving look his way.

“I don’t think I could ever want anything more than I do that, sweetheart. I want to spend the rest of my life by your side, if you would let me.”

“And I you, but this place is also about to close, so I think it’s time we hit the road,” You laugh.

“Shit, love. You really have gotten better at your time management.”

König

“König?”

“Liebling?”

“I’ve missed you.”

“And I you, Schatz,” He says, turning to focus on the sight of you under the streetlamp. 

“I presume Kortac has made some contracts around here. I don’t take you guys for the type to go on vacation, especially around these parts,” You say mirthfully, a gentle smile painted across your face. 

“Ah, yes. We would be responsible for the curfew and extreme supervision. My apologies,” König replies, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Don’t apologize. If anything, it’s a blessing to have you looking over my shoulder for me. That, and how else would we have met up again?” You chuckle.

“I did tell you that I would find my way back to you,” He claims, taking a small - as small as someone of his stature could - step towards you. Oddly cautious for someone that feared nothing on the battlefield.

“That you did, König. I just didn’t quite expect you to show up this soon. Or in this particular way.”

“Are you unhappy with me being here?” Asked with a semblance of doubt, searching your features for any negative emotion.

“No, of course not. Of course not. It’s good to see you again. I’ve dreamt of this moment in my downtime, when I sleep, when I miss you. Which is a lot,” You answer honestly.

“I’ve counted down the minutes to being able to see you again, Liebling.”

“Do you remember what you promised me before you left?”

“I do recall a specific promise, yes,” König acknowledges. “It was a dinner at our favorite little place on the corner, correct, Schatz?”

“Once a good memory, always a good memory, Liebe,” You tease. He had always been the one to remind you of test dates way back when you were in school. The pet name of yours brings a slight flush to the cheeks of the Austrian man, a humorous sight if you were a bystander. 

“Would you still like to accompany me?” König asks, holding a hand out. One that you took and interlocked your fingers into his gloved ones. It was a comforting sensation.

“If you would still like to take me.”

The sun shining through the military issued curtains warms your sleeping figure as your eyes flutter open - your brain taking a moment to catch up with your eyes viewing your new room. Your new home. It offers you a sense of comfort alongside loneliness at the thought of the pure solitude you were encased in. At your old base, you shared a room with a fellow soldier and someone you were proud to call a friend, but that isn’t the case here. Here, you’ve yet to truly make any official friends, and you're doubtful that the unease you feel even being on base would let you open up enough to be able to. Trust and friendship is something that you would like to keep separate on the field - most soldiers would - but you suppose it also extends into domestic moments. You find it hard to trust someone after one little conversation ended a relationship just like that. 

You shake that thought off like a wet dog to water and push yourself to get up. From what little you remember from the chaos of last night, today was supposedly stealth and sniper training with Gaz. It didn’t trouble you too much considering the connection between Simon and Gaz was a deep trust but nothing beyond simply working together. You had to have that trust with those on your side in this line of work. The job would be ten times more dangerous if you didn’t. You suppose that this training was meant to build that trust between you and the team before an actual mission, but you weren’t entirely sure if you could achieve that with Simon himself.

Brushing your teeth, you stare at the tired figure in front of you. A bruised and battered soul that has never quite healed despite your best efforts, as evidenced by the distinct eye bags and litter of scars across both your skin and heart. Seen and unseen. To the trained eye, you suppose, there was no real difference however. You spit into the sink, letting it run down the drain alongside your emotions. The cabinet holds only the base essentials provided by the base and your medicine that you throw back with a grimace. There was nothing you could truly do to drastically improve your appearance, but you found yourself wishing somehow that you could. You resign yourself to how you look and shake your folded clothes out before throwing them on in preparation for the long day ahead. You mask slips on over your head with such ease that you would

As you lace up your boots with efficiency earned only by doing it repetitively every single day, you hear a knock sound on the door. A gentle thud that almost reminds you of the sound a body makes when it falls to the floor - keyword being almost. A second knock is made just as you reach the door and turn the knob to be greeted with the sight of both Soap and who you assume is Kyle “Gaz” Garrick by his side. 

“Rise and shine, Angel!” Soap yells out, and you can almost hear bagpipes accompanying his excitement if you listen carefully. Then again, you could be imagining it. 

“Training doesn’t start until eight. It’s six,” You point out, your morning voice still fully fledged. If that wasn’t enough to signify your recent throw into consciousness the yawn after your statement should’ve been.

“He wanted to invite you to breakfast at seven, but also insisted on getting here early enough so you couldn’t say no,” Gaz offers up before he’s jabbed in the side by Soap, much to your amusement. 

“I’ll join you guys for breakfast,” You begin, already seeing the start of a grin making its way across Soap’s face. “But, only if you guys join me for my morning run beforehand.”

“Oh, how hard could it be? I bet I could beat you around the compound, Gaz,” Soap teases. 

. . .

Soap would soon eat his words, and dirt, as he ended up tripping over air twice on the run. Although, he insists there was a rock that you didn’t see that was out for him. Unsurprisingly, despite the little mishaps at the beginning of the jog, your two future comrades kept up decently with your pace. You suppose they had to if they were able to make it all the way up the ladder into this team. 

“How is Soap more clumsy than you, Gaz, but somehow you’re the one that fell out of a helicopter?” You mutter under your breath, realizing your mistake as soon as the words escaped your mouth. 

“How did you know that story, love?” Gaz asks, wiping sweat off his face with the back of his hand. 

“Word gets around,” You reply quickly. Not a complete lie. It just so happens that word got around from Simon mentioning small, insignificant details about his teammates on missions. Ones that made you laugh way back when. 

“Imagine being known only for falling out of a chopper,” Soap teases, nudging Gaz. 

“Very funny. At least my hair is regulation standard,” Gaz says, tussling the mohawk of the Scot. Almost like brothers, you notice. 

“Oi, lay off you div,” Soap says, his scotticism slipping out. 

“I’ll meet you guys for breakfast after a shower,” You say, giving a stretch and a big yawn afterwards.

“Just don’t get lost,” Gaz offers as he waves farewell. It appears that Soap has been spreading stories about your unfortunate meeting circumstances. 

“Aye, we’ll save you a seat, LT,” Soap grins with an exaggerated salute. 

You roll your eyes with a soft smile painted across your face as you turn to head back towards your living quarters. The dimly lit room offered a muted sense of comfort; although, you were itching to get some pops of color into the bland room. You’d have to check with Price to see how much you could change - considering you were contracted for five years, it would be likely that there was more leeway than usual. Especially given your position, but that could just be the fact your old roommate and you constructed a colorful, sentimental place you were proud to call home. It elicited a faint pang of homesickness within you. You’d have to call sometime soon to update them. 

Making sure the door was definitely closed behind you first, you slip off the light mask. Its design reminded you of the weeks leading up to the completion of its construction. You had a few of your fellow teammates to thank for their arts and crafts help - although you suspect that they would rather thank you for the creative outlet. You just consider the fact that all the crayons were accounted for and un-eaten a success. It has become a part of you now, whether you wanted it or not. There was something symbolic about the bird-like nature of its design; perhaps you wished you had wings of your own to escape the hurt. However, that’s more of a therapist's take on what actually occurred. 

It was more of an inside joke whenever you were a recent hire to your previous base. There was a mission or two that required you to take a position as a lookout. A bird had started chirping and cawing in your ear, sending extreme confusion over the commsat your attempts to get it to shoo. It was something that your team laughed about after the fact, saying that the bird life chose you. Ergo, your mask reflected the appearance of your feathered friends. The idea of your callsign being reflected in the feathery appearance also made it feel fitting. 

You shed your comfortable yet cold clothes and step into the warmth of the shower water, letting it run down your frame into the drain. If you stared long and hard enough at the floor, you could’ve sworn that it held a pink tint. It was a simple hallucination, but it had been real at one point in your life. You choose to close your eyes, focusing on the feelings of your hands running across scars - old and new. Your past life never held these marks, evidence of your suffering. Simon was the only one decorated with the physical damage appearing on his skin a few years ago, but you’ve accumulated more than your fair share of healed wounds.

You wash away those thoughts alongside the sweat and suds down the drain, making way for the amour surrounding your heart. The roughness of the towel as you dry yourself grounds you to reality. You actively avoid looking at the mirror, refusing to look at your scarred appearance that Simon would lose his mind over, as you get dressed. Breakfast wasn’t something that you indulged in as much anymore, not when it was no longer shared with the hugs from behind as Simon stole a piece of bacon. The very thought pained you to your core. You covered it up, swept it under the rug, in a very similar fashion to you disguising your appearance by the mask. 

You exit your room, making sure to lock it behind yourself. The beasts cage. You wander the halls until you reach the canteen, quickly scanning the room until your eyes settle on Soap. Or rather, the man beside him. Ghost. There was something about him that had changed from the person you once knew, besides the obvious appearance and behavior due to the environment. Or maybe, just maybe, you never knew him after all. You refuse to believe that you knew the real him, and the real Simon had truly tossed you to the side that easily. It wasn’t something you were willing to accept. Not yet. Not ever.

“Oi, over here Lieutenant!” 

There goes your sense of peace and internal argument over whether you could slip out unnoticed and effectively ghost this entire interaction. Your inner turmoil is only heightened by the fact that the choice was made for you - that and the fact that you’re now being perceived by the entire room as you make the walk of shame over to the table. All the eyes on you make it difficult to feel at ease. Even with your mask disguising that particular emotion paired with a heavy wince, your body language undoubtedly exuded your nervous nature. 

You trudge over to the table as the group all gives you their own greetings. You have an inkling that Soap had dragged all of the members here for breakfast as a sort of meeting for you. It’s incredibly hard for you to believe that both Price and Ghost were here willingly. 

“Goodmorning, Bonnie!” Soap says, the chipper in his voice making you wince slightly.

“Morning, little birdie,” Gaz calls out, seemingly taking a shine to that new nickname.

“Lieutenant,” Is all Price offers up. 

Although, it’s more than the intense stare and grunt you got from Ghost. You’re not entirely sure if you’re more offended or relieved by that. You pull one of the chairs out and take a seat near Soap and Gaz. It appears that they weren’t lying about saving you a seat, much to your surprise. On top of that, someone here - you suspect Soap - grabbed you a tray so you could avoid the line. It warmed your heart, a smile sent towards Soap. It’s times like these that you thank past you for constructing the mask in a way that your mouth is exposed enough to speak and eat. 

“Hey, Ghost. Have you ever thought about having your mask like that?” Soap pipes up.

“No. I already have enough of my face exposed with the eyes,” He replies gruffly. 

“Ah, I suppose that’s true. Angel does have their eyes covered. It’s kinda like the opposite of your mask,” Soap mentions. 

A simple hum from the man across the table is all you received. It’s all you or anyone else at the table received the entire time you spent eating with the team. Despite the small talk and inside jokes being created right in front of your eyes. It was so odd, sitting there right in front of the man you used to wake up next to, and him not knowing a single thing. Never noticing. These thoughts plagued you into a simple quiet as you listened to Soap explaining what “mountain chickens” were to Gaz - much to his confusion. The absurdity of the completely domestic circle of fellow soldiers sharing breakfast made you smile, if only slightly. All of it came to an end eventually as each individual had something to busy themselves with throughout the day. 

“Well, better not waste any time,” Gaz exclaims, offering you a hand up that you graciously accept. 

“Up and at ‘em soldier,” Soap adds. 

You were looking forward to the hand to hand combat training against these two. It was a formality but nonetheless you stirred at the opportunity to exhibit your abilities against both men. Prove yourself in some way or another. Maybe even prove to yourself that you do in fact deserve to be here - despite the words ringing in your ears as an echo of Simon Riley claiming you didn’t. Never would. Well, you would prove him wrong. Starting today. Not five years ago - starting today - because now he could see you. You could show him beyond a doubt that you had improved enough to earn a spot on the renowned team. Alongside him - even if he wouldn’t know it. Not yet.

-

“How does it look?” A simple twirl following the words accompanying the small smile. Lips painted blood red with a new lipstick. 

“Beautiful love, absolutely stunning,” Simon says with a slow blink, a cat-like behaviour to express his adoration for you.

“I found this sundress while out shopping. And I got my nails done while I was at it! I followed your recommendation,” You answer with a smile as soft as the blanket beneath your rosy fingertips. 

“And the lipstick?” Simon asks, tilting his head. 

“Something I found in college. It’s served me well all these years,” You send a grin filled with sharp teeth towards Simon. His sweet little vixen. 

“Others would call you crazy,” Simon mentions, the teasing tone trailing off as he stares at you intently.

“But?”

“But, I admire your gumption, sweetheart,” Simon says, cupping your face gently in his hands; laying a tender kiss on the tip of your nose.

“You missed,” You remark with a twinkle in your eye.

“Oh did I now?” His voice softened from its usual gruff timbre. 

Simon RIley leans in to kiss your forehead, and then one corner of your mouth to the other, and then finally landed home onto your lips. He didn’t seem to mind the transfer of dye nor the chastising you did because of it. It was messy, it was sweet, it was entirely and so wholefully the two of you with the only disturbance being the gentle breeze shifting the pastel curtains. The ones that Simon insisted on keeping open to let the precious sunlight in - he claims that the way it brushes against your skin is a look into heaven itself. 

“Okay, okay, I really have to go this time. You’ve kept me trapped here like your little Rapunzel for far too long, Simon,” You urgently get out between fits of laughter and giggles alike. 

“So satanic, the way you plan to simply leave the love of your life here to die alone,” Your boyfriend sighs, sagging back into the comfort of the mattress you both were now laying on. Of course, he was being dramatic. As per usual. It would be endearing if it wasn’t so humorous to see the giant of a man turn into a feeble ghost of the soldier he usually is. Price would be proud to see that his subordinate does in fact have some humanity left within himself. 

“Don’t panic. You’ll live, I’m sure of it,” You reply, giving him a sympathetic kiss on the cheek, before getting up.

“Hey love?”

“Yes, Simon?”

“You missed,” Was all he could get out before you rolled your eyes and gave him exactly what he wanted - despite the fact that it made you a minute late. 

. . .

“Welcome to our humble abode,” You smile, giving a sweet little twirl and a flourish of your arms. The team had to admit that it was a cosy little thing out in the sticks. The interior design was no doubt your doing, a cottagecore vibe, considering the fact that Simon was limited to plain walls being his entire experience. Plants here and there, sunlight streaming through the glass paned windows, and pots and pans hanging with their herb friends. 

“Thank you for having us,” Price responds.

“What he said,” Came from the other two. 

“Where’s your lover?” Soap asks teasingly.

“Oh, he’s out in the garden gathering a few last minute spices,” You say, a gentle expression taking over your features at the thought of your love doing so much for you. You see the group share a knowing look and a few chuckles were heard from behind you. A soft reminder is all they need to stop with their shenanigans while you’re cooking. Of course, Gaz offers a helping hand with chopping up various vegetables for the stew and Price had called dibs on doing the dishes. He claims it was the least he could do for the host. Soap on the other hand insists on being the taste tester. A gentle ring of a bell alerts you to Simon coming in from the outside, completely drenched. 

“What happened to you? You look like a stray dog,” You laugh, leaning against the counter. 

“In my defence, it started as a drop before it ended up pouring a minute later,” Simon grumbled, 

“We’ve needed a good shower, wouldn’t you say? Good for the fertiliser,” You say, sending your lover a wink as you scoot over to allow him access to the sink.

A playful eye roll is what you earn in response as he says, “This is what I get for agreeing to hide out in the country.”

“Bite your tongue if you know what’s good for you,” You nudge him good-naturedly. 

“You know I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world, love,” He says, facial expression softening into pure adoration. He sends you this look even as he’s scrubbing his hands of the dirt and blood from the garden. The scent of decay quickly running down the drain, tainting the water black. 

“I know. My saviour day in and day out, wouldn’t you say?”

Before Simon got the chance to answer, the timer - the one in the shape of a chicken because Simon just couldn’t say no when you held it up to him with those puppy dog eyes - went off. 

“Your world famous strawberry pie? Again?” You click your tongue and shake your head with a sly smile.

“It’s world famous for a reason, love. And, we have guests that have yet to taste my creation,” Simon grins back at you. 

“Whatever you say, Simon,” You huff out with a laugh. 

Laughter filled the air as the dinner party continued later into the night before it all quieted down with the departure of the boys. A simple contentment washes over the two of you left on the couch, a fleece blanket encasing your figures. Something about it warmed your beating heart as you listened to the rhythm of Simon’s long after you drifted off into unconsciousness. 

. . .

“Simon, you wouldn’t happen to be busy right now, would you?”

“Of course not, love. What do you need?” Simon answers over the phone.

“There was a roadkill accident, and my car isn’t in tip top shape anymore. Do you think you could come pick me up? I’m about two klicks down the road from our house,” You say, your phone tucked in between your ear and shoulder as you slide latex gloves over your hands. 

“As you wish,” Simon’s voice rumbles in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. 

You drag the corpse into the bushes and thank whoever was listening that the only evidence left was the blood pool. It would be quite a shame if any innocent had to feast their eyes on the remains of the carrion. Vultures would have to find another meal elsewhere - this one was yours. Right on time, Simon’s car reverberated down the gravel lane. 

“I didn’t think you would become so reckless, angel,” Simon chuckles, hopping out of his truck to help you lift the body into the back of his car. 

“I like the word hasty more. It sounds better, don’t you think?”

“Whatever you call it, just remember I’m always here to help clean up your messes.”

“And I you, darling,” You nudge Simon as he opens the car door for you. 

“I should’ve seen it in your eyes when we first started seeing each other. You were trying to warn me,” Simon chuckles, humour lacing his words. 

“I always wanted to be able to see you in the morning, Simon,” You begin solemnly. “I don’t wanna be alone, it’s quite boring, isn’t it?” You shrug. 

“Oh, baby, let me finish. I’m keeping you, you menace. Until the day one of us kills the other,” Simon smiles, giving your hand a tight squeeze. 

“That would be how it ends, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course, there’s no other way,” Simon says, a simple grin on his lips. A rare sight, but a common one with you. And just like the rain, it was washed away just as quickly.

. . .

“Shit, love, did you go after a military man?” SImon asks as he gently wipes away dirt and grime from your face. Your clothes were receiving the same treatment in the washer after you took a shower.

“I somehow doubt her boyfriend got into the military with that weak of a punch. He just got the jump on me. . . and had a pocket knife,” You explain, wincing when Simon brushed over your wounds. 

“That would explain all these lacerations, now wouldn’t it?”

“Actually those were from the girl clawing me half to death. The guy did jack all if I’m being honest. Tried to run like a pussy too,” You laugh, your ribs protesting at the act. 

“Sounds like you did her a favour, showing her the real colours of her boyfriend. A shame she isn’t alive to make a change,” He hums, confidently bandaging your arms and face like he had done a million times before. And like he would continue to do a thousand times over. As he does that you down a cheap whiskey from the bottle to ease the pain. 

“Quite a shame. Almost as much as the fact that I have some cleaning up to do later. They were surprisingly bloody for how little it took to bring them down,” You sigh, raking your hands through your hair before realising your hands were still stained metallic red.

“You just take a shower and leave the rest to me,” Simon says with a quirk at the edge of his lips. 

“What would I do without you?”

“Probably end up in jail.”

“That’s both true and insulting.”

“Whatever you say, love.”

. . .

“Simon? I think it’s time for a change.”

“What colour?”

“You know me so well. I was thinking something colourful this time around, really make the sight a seemly one before they meet their end,” You say, looking in the mirror and preemptively mourning for the identity that would be no longer. 

Not if Simon had any say in it. He had a surprising knack for disguise; although, you suspect that a few missions would require a little bit of magic to make it work. Odd, though, considering it’s doubtful that anyone would be left to tell the tale of the infamous Simon “Ghost” Riley. 

“You just get into the bathroom, I’ll be there soon with the dye,” Simon calls out from across the house. 

“Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

“Not today,” Simon answers.

“Well, I love you very much for all that you do for me,” You say, expressing your thanks.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” Simon chuckles, entering the bathroom with all that you could ever need for an identity change. “Although, have you ever considered wearing a mask? Speaking from personal experience, it does make a wonderful impression alongside shielding you from the public eye.”

You hum thoughtfully before responding with, “I have, although I’ve discovered the personal touch makes it all the more better. That, and, I think between the two of us, you pull it off way better than I ever could.”

“If you insist, love,” Simon laughs, the sound reverberating throughout you. 

“It’s the truth, now which colour would suit me better?” You ask, alternating two dyes in your hand and in your favour. 

“Tough question. I fear we might need a second opinion,” He teases. 

“You know me too well, get the team on the phone,” You grin, practically bubbling over with excitement. Some may say you were too enthusiastic given the circumstances, but not Simon. He always supported you in your little hobby and dinner parties - much to your surprise. He was everything that you could’ve ever asked for, and more.

. . .

“Hey, love, are you busy right now?” Simon asks over the phone - a surprising event considering that he was never one for calls. They irked him, verbatim words that make you giggle at the absurdity of all.

“No, of course not, Simon. What do you need?” You ask, slightly busy with cooking dinner but Simon always came first. You did put him on speaker though to make it a little easier. 

“Could you come down to the station? Some stories need to be set straight, if you know what I mean,” Simon almost growls out.

“I’ll be there in five,” You reply, dropping the pleasantries as a dark look overtakes you. 

. . .

“What seems to be the problem, Officer?” You ask, acting the part of an innocent victim.

“Can I get you some water?” Fake pleasantries. Nothing upset you more.

“No thank you. I’d prefer to get this cleared up as soon as possible, sir,” You spit out, decisive and curt with your words. 

“Of course. There appears to be significant evidence that forty-eight hours ago your significant other was put at the scene of a crime near the Lincoln bar. Likely as a perpetrator,” Is what the officer tells you, much to your chagrin. Despite the calm facade that you were putting forth, you were fighting the urge to roll your eyes. You know exactly what happened, exactly who was killed, and the reason behind it was all because of a jealous spat between Simon and a man who had the misfortune of hitting on you in front of the infamous Ghost. He just couldn’t control himself when it came to you.

“I find that highly unlikely,” You say brusquely.

“And why is that?”

“He was at the Lincoln bar, but both myself and three other people were with him the entire night. Here, I’ll write their numbers down,” You say, quickly uncapping the pen on the table. 

“We’ve already checked the surveillance, but thank you for these witnesses. There is a gap of time between 9:31 PM and 9:39 PM that we are awfully curious about.”

“From what I remember, he went to the bathroom,” You answer genuinely.

They continued their line of questioning, asking if you had any connection to the victim, if you had seen anyone suspicious, along with other interrogations that all ended with the classic ‘if you think of anything else, notify us.’ You had high hopes that Simon would be released almost immediately and you were proven right when he walked right out of the building over to where you were on the curb. 

“There’s my saviour,” Simon says, embracing you tightly.

“You haven’t forgotten our promise, right?” You ask with a smile.

“Of course not, love. I simply wanted to show my appreciation, as per usual,” Simon chuckles lightly.

“Be your alibi, and never ask why,” You say, interlocking your pinky with Simons.

“Never ask why,” Simon whispers back, promising it like a vow. 

“The boys invited us out to dinner at Price’s, angel. You feeling up to it?” You ask.

“Always if it involves you,” Simon flirts.

You roll your eyes, replying with, “You menace.”

Ghost had received the call; he had looked down at his phone, seen the caller ID of ‘my love’ staring back at him, and he still chose not to pick up. If you had asked him why he had done that then versus now, his answer would probably have changed significantly. Although, he’s not entirely sure he could tell you his motive. It wasn’t born out of malice though, that he could be sure of. Nonetheless, he knew damn well that he had fucked up as soon as Price refused his call. He had never done that in all the years Simon had known him. If that wasn’t enough, so did everyone else.

Simon “Ghost” Riley was well aware that how he acted was not what his love deserved. He knew that he should have tried harder, done things differently, called him back time and time again. He didn’t know how to though. It was similar to riding a bike - something many people knew how to do by being taught by their parents. Simon was never taught; whether that was riding a bike or how to have a healthy relationship with someone that he was supposed to show love and affection to every day of every month of every year.

The fact that he could never break the cycle ate at his bones and drove his young mind crazy. He wanted so desperately to get help, admit he needed it, grovel at Soap’s feet like he deserved. To worship the very ground MacTavish stood upon and kiss all of the scars left on his heart and soul. All that he was able to do was hold Soap’s head between his collar and jaw, well aware that there was no weight at all. There was no intimacy in the very essence of what used to be love and devotion that would’ve driven the two to the ends of the earth for one another. The gesture had been empty for far too long.

Simon awoke in the front seat of the car that he had parked off in the middle of nowhere. If he was being honest with himself, he had no clue where he had driven to. All that the broken man knew was that he was running away from the very thing that has kept him semi-stable all this time. He regretted it with every fiber of his being, knowing it wasn’t the life that he had promised his beloved. Far from it.

To Soap he was just a man, to Simon, Johnny was all he is. There was no identity separating Ghost from Simon beyond the person he had left in the dust. If Simon could change all of this, he would. It was a slow and steady decline into how exactly the two had gotten to this point; one that Simon wasn’t aware of until the straw that broke the camel's back. It sent a jolt of pain down his spine that he no longer remembered what the fight was even about. To think, this is what it culminated in. He had poisoned himself again, and something in the orange sunrise told him Soap was never coming home into his arms again.

Staring down at his scarred, rough, and dusty hands stained with the metaphorical blood of his once beautiful relationship with the Scot. What he wouldn’t give to be taken back to dancing in their bar on the corner where the wood used to creak. The memories he once held in such regard were tainted by the light shone upon them by the laughter of Soap. The very same laughter that was carved into the ribs of the British man who felt it stab him every time his heartbeat. Something that he wished sometimes faded into nothingness, the very same way that his connection with Johnny did.

Where the hell was he supposed to go? A part of him wanted to run back and beg for forgiveness from someone who sure as hell deserved ten times better than him. Wanted to prove that he could be better and heal the cracks with time and patience one day at a time. Wanted to find hope that his life could be any better than it seemed at that moment. The other part of him forced pride to choke its way up his throat, presenting as a lump that made it hard to breathe. Stones in his lungs wanting to keep him exactly where he was and start anew. Shame erupting from his soul that told him he deserved to be shunned like a dog out on the streets. A life destined to live off scraps and die from getting hit by a car.

He needed to hear Soap’s voice again, the very same one that had been waiting all night to hear back from a living man that haunted him. It sent a flash of regret and humiliation through Simon’s veins. Although, he knew he deserved all of it and more if he truly was going to attempt to make it up to the love of his life. Who was he kidding about moving on and establishing a new life? It would never compare to the one he had built from the ground up with the foundation set in blood and unbroken promises. He would rather die than never, ever see Soap or feel the gentle touch of him again. Simon was damned if he went back, and damned if he didn’t, but he wasn’t one to give up. Not again. Not ever again.

Simon RIley wasn’t a man to back down from a challenge. He was a flight risk, that’s for sure, but he was willing to fight tooth and nail when it came down to it. He didn’t care how long it took, how many years, whether or not Soap would even hear him out. His mind was set on bandaging the wounds that had been inflicted on the relationship and left to fester for far too long. Infected with inflammation running rampant and flies buzzing all around the necrotic flesh. It had been done from the moment he had left the shared apartment with the last view of Soap being one that tore at his heart. A view of the Scottish man with tears running down his tired features; features that Simon knew damn well were so very close to giving up. He wasn’t stupid, well, maybe he was, but he knew that he had to clean his act up.

It’s the exact reason why his first stop after revving his black truck up - a truck that held so many memories of star gazing in the bed of it with his lover - was to a small town. One that he had visited many times before; one that he had befriended an old woman after preventing her from getting mugged. An old woman that owned a small pawn shop where Simon had spent countless hours staring up at the cracked ceiling while pouring his heart out to her. Maybe it was a tad unorthodox, but she had always made the best tea and encouraged him to speak his mind.

Soap had always accused him of never getting help, never talking to anybody, never trying. And it’s not like Simon blamed him, especially with the damning evidence of a torn-up letter from the facility Price had recommended them for therapy specialized for ‘people like him.’ There was an entire argument with his little spitfire about how Simon didn’t want to be looked at with pity. Didn’t want to speak to someone who was paid to identify issues that Simon already knew he had. He had tried it before, both specialized and not. Neither one felt like it was enough, and Simon never was all that interested in an acting career. That’s why he stopped going, stopped the medication that made him throw up everytime he took it - and the doctors didn’t do a damn thing to help that symptom - and why he tried to act better for Soap. Wanted him to be able to depend on someone that wasn’t so broken, but being confronted like that felt like he was being told he was fragmented and unable to be what Soap wanted. He tried, so fucking hard, but he couldn’t do it. Having to face that thought head on alongside it being thrown in his face was too much.

He couldn’t even tell his lover how much it pained him, because he knew they would keep trying like they always had, and it wouldn’t get them anywhere. Soap was like that, always determined to help Simon in a way he never could himself. Simon supposes that’s why everything had built up this far. Piled under the carpet until it couldn’t be ignored. Sometimes all Ghost needed was patience and silent comfort. Sometimes Soap was impatient and loud in his attempts to help. He could tell that it was breaking his sweetheart more than he would let on. Simon could always read him like that. Simon wanted Soap to stop pouring his heart and soul into someone Riley felt didn’t deserve it. He supposes he could’ve been nicer about getting that across, but he’d add it to the list of things to explain and apologize for.

Simon suspects that he never told Soap about him talking to the old woman because it would mean admitting that running away helped him. It wasn’t something he was proud of, and he was less proud that a pure stranger was able to aid him more than his own boyfriend. It would’ve made Soap feel like he should let Simon abandon him like that, which wasn’t something he wanted to let happen. It was a roundabout way of trying to protect Johnny. Or there was another theory in his mind that he wanted to keep it to himself for selfish reasons. To have something to himself away from the military life and taskforce that Soap had conquered easier than Simon could even imagine. Both in the tactical, domestic, and social way. He admits to being jealous there, but he didn’t want to seem it. This ‘him’ time was his way of protecting the one aspect of his life that was truly his own. What therapy was supposed to be as Soap said.

He acknowledges how stupid his actions were despite the complex reasoning behind everything. He should’ve been able to open up and explain his little quirks and behaviors before it had gotten to this point. However, he was going to try. If it was too late, he couldn’t tell. But the older woman encouraged him to do so. It was the least he could do after putting Johnny through hell and back as she said. As she said right after handing over the complexically designed ring that he had ordered the day he had left the shared apartment. The same fateful one two weeks ago to the day.

You had known John “Soap” MacTavish since you were wee little kids that had playdates together due to your mother’s long standing friendship with each other. They had spent their pregnancies together through the beautiful moments of wonder that comes with the first ultrasounds to holding each other’s hair back in the morning as they expelled their guts out of their body - all because the day smelled off. Your mothers had their water break on the exact same day; a wonder pushed by the divine forces as your parents would say. You were born first and then Johnny came a mere minute later. You’ve held that fact over his head for a long time.

You were raised together in matching onesies and moments spent rarely apart. You were as much of Johnny's family as he was yours. Seasons and holidays were celebrated side by side with photo upon photos to prove it - your mother still embarrasses you by bringing them out of their dusty boxes every time you come around. Which, isn’t enough as she states. 

New years parties that ended in cupcake crumbs on each of your faces. Valentine’s day arts and crafts that culminated in your mother’s unending giggling at the glitter that stuck to their children’s hands. Easter egg hunts that you suspect Soap always let you win; although he vehemently denies even considering such a thing. Fond memories of eating home-made hot cross buns with the icing always ending up smeared on the side of your mouth. April fools days spent with you two running around causing mischief around the neighbourhood much to the chagrin of your parents. Halloween costumes always matching to some degree even as you guys got older; and the tradition of Soap always giving you your favourite candy is something you still remember. The light shows viewed on your parents’ shoulders during Guy Fawkes night always bring a smile to your face as you remember the permanent face-splitting grins you two shared those nights. Christmases that had your parents wondering why they decided to have kids whenever the pair of you ran into their room at five in the morning jumping around and screaming about presents. Of course, they could never refuse the excitement that had an effect on even them as gift wrapping was ripped open and pretty bows were discarded in favour of the gift underneath the concealment. 

Every picture of every moment of you two together - which were most of the photos given that you two never seemed to be apart except for bathroom breaks - always had a toothy grin on each of your faces. A few images over the years exhibited the matching gap in your front teeth that you shared with your MacTavish. You vaguely remember Soap celebrating the fact that his very same tooth as yours was wiggly. Although, you also recall that the reason it was loose was due to the fact he got clocked after defending your - in his words - honour from an older school boy. However it ended up missing, it was always a sweet memory that you held close to your heart. 

You remember sneaking away after primary school to get ice cream - Soap always had the weirdest combination of flavours that somehow worked, magic as he called it. Everytime you got the sugary treat, MacTavish had always let you try his with the excuse that you needed to taste how good it ended up being. After the ice cream adventure the pair of you walked over to the nearby playground and stayed there until you were the only ones left; that and your parents began getting tired of waiting there after they ended up finding you. Swings were always the thing you two gravitated towards within the park because it let you guys talk about this and that. You also always had fun attempting to get yourselves in sync enough to hold hands. When spring came around Soap taught you how to make flower crowns while he continuously made rings of dandelions to propose to you with. It was always a promise to marry each other when you grew up - much to the amusement of your respective families. 

Of course, your school life just had to be spent with paper airplanes and study sessions that really were just spent gossiping about people around the school. You two hooligans were actually banned from the library at least twice, something that your mothers like to bring up whenever they can. Despite the library prohibition, studying was something done on the regular at each other’s houses the night before tests. In spite of the giggling fits and existential questions about the meaning of life, good grades were made on a majority of tests and assignments. It was always a point of teasing when one of you got a better grade than the other when “we practised the exact same shite!” 

Secondary school came and went, with so many hijinks occurring that you’ve lost count. Soap’s cousin came to visit once or twice during the holidays and it got him absolutely hooked on the possibility of following in their footsteps. His attempt to lie about his age was seen through, but he was promised first dibs whenever he was old enough to enlist for real. It was a topic spoken about a lot during the late hours of the nights, tossing a tennis ball back and forth between each other and sharing your thoughts out loud. 

If you were being honest, it was simultaneously intriguing and terrifying to you. You certainly weren’t going to stop him from achieving his seemingly heart set career, but at the same time it sent chills down your spine at the thought of losing him to a stray bullet on the field. A wound that he couldn’t heal from. A moment of pause too many that left the life that sparkled so beautifully in his eyes drained from the bright cadet blues. In all honesty, this very thought is likely the reason you decided to enlist as a combat medic. You wanted to be able to be out there in the field alongside soldiers in order to treat them then and there. Soap promised to keep in touch whenever he was deployed, and to his credit, he did for a while. 

The once abundant amount of calls that came from the familiar MacTavish son sizzled out as he got more and more busy and so did you. The once nightly tradition of talking to each other whether over the phone or a simple goodnight text had faded as your adult lives trickled into reality. It was something that pained you, and you thought of the man every day. You would’ve followed him to the ends of the earth if you had the time and heart, but unfortunately life moved on and the planet kept revolving. 

That doesn’t mean that your feelings for him faded in the slightest - in fact, they only grew stronger as you messed around with a few men at bars. You quickly learned that none of them would ever amount to anything compared to the Scot that still was all that you wanted. You climbed the ranks with the thought of Soap in the forefront of your mind, a single call made when you were drunk the last time you had heard from him two years ago. He could be dead for all you knew, but you knew he wasn’t from his family. They claimed that his captain had been giving simple updates. It just seemed like he didn’t want to talk to you - or anyone associated with you. Or maybe he was too busy with his new task force friends - and don’t get it wrong, you were goddamn proud of your old childhood friend achieving all that he wanted and more. It’s just the fact that you wish you were there alongside him. 

You remember that call like it was yesterday, regretting it just as much as you did when it happened. You got stood up by a soldier on base that you had been getting closer to until he asked you to go out to this one bar. Of course, it appears as if he wasn’t going to show up, effectively leaving you to the wolves. You figured it out after two texts and one call to him going unanswered after fifteen minutes of embarrassment. You sent one last call to someone that you didn’t even expect to answer, John MacTavish. It rang once, and then twice, and then his voice answered and sent your heart down to your stomach. 

“What are you doing calling at this hour, Bonnie?”

Bonnie. An affectionate term that he coined sometime around highschool to make you blush. He never meant anything beyond the simple compliment beyond it, but it became tied to you nonetheless that you’d still answer to, to this day. 

“I miss you, and-” You start babbling. 

“Are you drunk, love?” He asks. You can hear shuffling and laughter in the background. There’s the unmistakable voice of a girl asking if he’ll join her on the dance floor, and you swear your heart breaks in two immediately.

“I love you, I always have. No matter where we are, you still have my heart. You were all that I wanted, you still are. You’re the one I can see me growing old with.”

“Hold on, love-”

“No, let me finish. Remember how you said you’d build me a house and plant me roses in the front yard? I want to cash that in. I’ve been looking for love around - and maybe some of them are real good guys - but they’re never gonna be like you though. You set the bar above the moon, MacTavish. I don’t want to be twenty-something and still in my head about seventeen in my bedroom talking. You swore, you said by now we’d paint the walls of our shared apartment,” You start sobbing at this point, your makeup running down your face.

“I know, Bonnie, I know,” He says, his voice a low timbre that sends shivers down your spine.

“Now that you’ve finally got the job you like. I wish I was there with you. By your side. Are you with somebody right now? Should I even care? Is it wrong that I don’t? I still care about you, Johnny. Still have your faded t-shirt that I’ve kept this long from that one festival. I think I’ve always known that I would love you. Now and forever,” You let out, realising that there was a distinct silence on the other end of the line. “Johnny?”

“Bonnie, I can’t do this.”

Your heart freezes; your frantic nerves slowing to a gentle tremor manifesting through your shaking frame. 

“What do you mean? Shit, I’m sorry, I’m drunk and I don’t know what I’m saying. Forget I said anything. I won’t remember this in the morning anyways,” You awkwardly laugh, praying that he’ll go along. You didn’t know what you would do if he didn’t. You couldn’t bear the thought. 

“We can’t forget this happened. I can’t. Shit.” You hear an audible swallow over the phone, and you imagine his hands running through that oh-so soft mohawk of his. The very same one that you cut and styled for him when he was sixteen - much to the chagrin of his family. They learned to agree it suited him after a month or two though.

“I think it’s best if we move on from each other. I need to forget about us, and I think you do too,” Soap snaps, and it would’ve rang warning bells in your head if you weren’t so drunk and distraught.

“Please, please don’t leave me. I can’t do this without you Johnny,” Your knees give out and you collapse, clasping a hand over your mouth to stop the sobs from escaping. The harsh brick street would leave bruises on your knees and the cold puddle from the rain only empathised with the tears running down your cheeks. 

“Forget about me. It’s for the best, I’m sorry. . .” A click, and that was the last you ever heard from him. 

You turn that memory in your head over and over again. Every time coming up with a new theory as to why he would’ve said that - none being good enough to satisfy your depraved curiosity. Or maybe it was desperation. It didn’t really matter to you anyways; considering the fact that all you knew was that Soap wanted nothing to do with you. Wanted nothing more than to forget you even existed and to free himself from you. You’ve tried your best to honour his request even to this day. Even though it pains every single part of you from your bones to your blood cells. 

It’s the exact reason you’ve done your best to avoid anything regarding the infamous 141 Taskforce that you’ve heard so much about. The whispers across the battlefield through bated breaths tell you more than enough of what your old friend had achieved. You were proud of him, despite it all. It didn’t seem right to hold a grudge against someone just because he didn’t like you back - that and there’s always some part of you that remains stuck in the mindset of you as a teenager waving Soap off for his deployment. Letting go of that would mean disregarding all of the memories you two had shared together, and that wasn’t something you would do easily. Or willingly. 

What you could do though is actively avoid any conversations, transfers, or promotions that would be a step towards the one that broke your heart. Even though he promised he would never do that. You couldn’t move on though, not when he was never really too far gone. There were only so many times you could side step working with or towards the task force before your superiors volunteered you to be moved to their compound. Nothing you could reasonably say would sway their viewpoint, and if it could it’s already been used as an excuse in the past. The only thing you could do was take a deep breath and shield yourself as you walked past the gates. A small part of you wished there was something wrong with your ID and they wouldn’t let you in, but of course that wasn’t the case. Everything was up to date and your footfalls resounded down the long hall to Price’s office.

A renowned man that you’ve heard all too much about through both your fellow soldiers and Soap in the past. Always good, always with admiration lacing the words. Unfortunately that wasn’t what you were feeling right now - in spite of the fact that you knew you worked damn hard to be promoted to this position and deserved it. You wish you didn’t.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Seer. You’ve saved more men than I can count. Your skills are unparalleled and you hold yourself in high regard. Which is why I wonder exactly why you’ve turned down this position three times over,” Price says with his head tilted to the side. 

Seer. The callsign given to you after you had saved your entire team with simple intuition about a mission gone bad - quickly. You had gotten all of your men out and relatively unscathed with only a few singe marks from the explosion. The explosion from the bombs that you insisted had to have been rigged and live just as a trap for your squad. It was furthered by your uncanny ability to be exactly in the right place at the right time to save numerous soldiers that would’ve died without your intervention. Divine intervention as your old captain said, adding a religious spin onto your nickname. 

“I thrive on continuity and felt as if I was doing a lot of good where I was previously stationed, sir,” You reply, knowing it’s complete bullshit.

“That’s complete bullshit.”

He wasn’t wrong, but you were pissed to no end that he could read you that well. The only other person that you believed held that skill was your old crush. John “Soap” MacTavish. The real reason why you were so determined to stay away from this place. 

“Do you want to know something? I’ve looked at your file. Laswell has looked at your file. And we both noticed an interesting little tidbit about your birth place. Scotland. If that wasn’t enough, I’ve been around Soap enough to know a Scottish accent from a specific small town when I hear it - despite your best attempts to mask it. All of that might not be enough, but you had the exact same reaction to my soldier’s name as he did yours. What’s your history?” 

Damn, he was good. What you focused on in his rant the most though was the fact that Soap had physically recoiled as much as you did if you were to believe Prices’ words. And you did. There was no reason to doubt it, no reason for him to lie. 

“Childhood friends. We lost touch over the years,” You stick with, not wanting to blurt out how hurt you’ve continuously been about his abandonment of your relationship. Platonic or not. 

“And? I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t want you on this team; if I didn’t care about you as a soldier. I also wouldn’t be this concerned if it didn’t seem like it would be an object of vulnerability. A liability one might say. You deserve a position on this team, which is why we’ve been persistent in offering it to you,” Price says before he’s interrupted by a knock at the door. A single knock that seemed to only be one of pure courtesy before it was slammed open.

You’re met with a sight that’s haunted you for almost half a decade. A ghost of a person that’s still alive and kicking. Someone that’s been on your mind ever since he had gotten on that chopper and left you to fend for yourself with empty promises that he’d be back. That he wouldn’t forget you. Promises fueled by letters and flowers and a promise ring that he had gotten you when you were kids. One that you couldn’t bear to wear anymore but couldn’t imagine throwing it away. One that still rings true against the metal of your dog tags sitting so close to your heart. 

“Bonnie?” Ironic as it is, Soap looks equally if not more terrified - like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Sergeant,” You respond curtly, your body acting on a harsh auto-pilot immediately. 

A way of protecting yourself from ever getting your heart broken again. You bite your tongue in a feeble attempt to stop yourself from running into the arms - and screaming all of the little things you’ve kept bundled up - of your best friend. It wasn’t really him that you saw though, because he was always the first to sweep you off your feet and whisper sweet nothings after bittersweet reunions. Whether it was five minutes or five days or five months without seeing each other, he never failed to wrap you up in his arms and protect you from the idea of never seeing him again. Five years seemed to be too much to carry over for him though apparently. 

“Please don’t do that. I know I deserve all of it and more, but please hear me out. Bonnie, please,” His voice cracked alongside your heart at his words. 

You swallow harshly, speaking after a brief moment of silence. “Don’t call me that.”

Your sharp words met their mark, making the broken man in front of you wince like a kicked dog. Baby blue eyes sending a pleading look your way as he collapsed inwards, hunching over like he wanted to seem smaller. Small enough not to scare you off, as if it wasn’t too late. 

“Seer, let me explain.”

“I haven’t seen you in person in five fucking years, MacTavish. I haven’t heard from you in two. I think it’s a little late for that,” You hiss out sharply, a glare set on him. It didn’t seem to matter to you that Price was still there, watching intently. You pushed past Soap, begrudgingly brushing up against him as you did. It would be a lie to say that it didn’t satisfy you to see the look of hurt flash across Soap’s face as you all but shoved him to the side. 

“The night you called me,” Soap started.

That stopped you in your tracks, your nerves itching to run and never look back in anticipation of his next words. You were too curious to hear what he was going to say though, a small part of you hoping it was bad enough to make a dent in the walls you held so high for someone you used to open the doors to your soul for willingly. The rest of you was simply too curious and ready to argue that you couldn’t move from your spot. 

“It was the night of one last bar run before Ghost and I were sent into deep cover for a month. A month of hell and shame that still gives me nightmares to this day, but nothing compares to the pain of having to stop talking to anyone at the chance of risking not only my life, but theirs,” Soap admits, his eyes glazing over with tears threatening to fall. Real pain infiltrating his features. It’s a sight that you hadn’t seen in a long time. Not since his cousin - the very same that convinced him to join the army - had passed from a mission gone wrong. 

“Why didn’t you call me afterwards? Or better yet, let me know then and there?” You quietly whisper, staring down at your feet. 

“I was a dumbass. I thought it would be easier to not tell you that night. You deserved to move on with someone that was closer to you. Someone that you could talk to every night. Someone that wasn’t me. Someone who didn’t have a chance of dying every day. As for afterwards? I couldn’t drag you back if you had managed to move on, not after all I had put you through,” Soap says, his voice shaking almost as much as you were.

“I never moved on,” You say quietly.

“What?”

“I never moved on from you. I never could. They were never you, and if anyone came close; well, you still had my heart.” A single tear runs down your face at this, despite your best attempts to stop this. 

“You’re still as beautiful as the day I lost you, love. I never meant to hurt you that badly,” Is all Soap said in response. 

“Well, you did. It doesn’t matter anymore anyways. I listened to you finally and moved on, I think you need to as well,” You throw his own words back at him, taking sick pleasure in the way his face falls. 

“Obviously we need to have a talk. Privately. Both of you. This has turned into more than a liability. Letting either one of you go is not an option either. This isn’t something I want to let turn you two into loose cannons on the field. Sorting this out is happening, and then therapy,” Price intervenes. 

“Please, let me talk,” Soap starts. “I pushed you away, and no apology can fix that immediately. You trusted me with your feelings and I threw you to the wolves. Despite the situation, there were better ways to handle it - I understand that now. I loved you then. I love you now. I loved you when we were little kids on the playground and didn’t even understand what the word truly meant. What I did understand is that you deserved better than me. Better than someone like me,” He says, hanging his head low.

“Fuck, Johnny. You really fucked up,” You murmur, finally turning to face the man you had known all your life. Had grown up next to from diapers to enrolling in the army. You looked at him, truly looked at him. Truth and resignation for whatever you deemed his punishment was written all over his face - you never forgot how to read his signs, or maybe he never changed them. 

“I know, Bonnie. I know, and I’m sorry if that means anything.” 

“I love you too, if that means anything,” You reply, a bittersweet smile on your face. Something that pissed you off to no end was that you could never stay mad at Soap, whether it was for cheating off your test or ‘borrowing’ your favourite pencil. Or in this case, going MIA for two years. A hopeful expression dawns on Johnny’s face. 

“Shit, doll, I will love you till the end of time, follow you to the ends of the earth, spend the rest of my life worshipping the ground you walk on if it means I can even be in the same room as you. I know damn well I have a lot to work on making up to you, and I won’t stop until every crack is mended in your heart, I swear,” Soap blurts out, falling to his knees in front of you. 

You couldn’t help but let out a poignant laugh at the fact that this all could’ve been easily avoided. It pained your very soul at the thought that you both loved each other, but never openly said it. The nostalgic memories flooded your mind at the possibility of how your lives could’ve been so very different if you confessed at a different time and place. 

“To think, I joined the army to do the very same for you, Johnny. I wanted to be here with you, make sure you stayed safe.” You don’t know why you admitted that, but it felt like the right thing to do.

“I wish I would have told you sooner,” He says, taking your hands in his and laying a gentle kiss on your knuckles that had fought for even a chance to be where you were right now.

“I think we both wished we did things differently,” You admit, kneeling down to cradle his face in your hands.

“Sweetheart, you have a heart of gold to not only have fallen for the mess of a man I am, enough to want to risk your life for a chance of saving mine, but to continue loving me through everything that’s happened.”

“It hurt like hell, I’m not going to lie, but I also can see where you’re coming from. I can’t say I didn’t think of doing the same when I was put in the same situation.”

“But you didn’t, and that’s what makes you a better person than I am. But I swear until the day I stop breathing, I will work to make it up to you. I’ll even let you try my ice cream like when we were kids,” Soap says, offering up a hopeful smile at the nostalgic memory. 

“You’re such a dork. I don’t forgive you, not yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over this-”

“And that would be completely reasonable. I would understand if you told me to fuck off. I would leave this team and become a hermit if you wanted me to,” Soap quickly interjects.

“And, let me finish. I don’t know if I’ll get over this, ever, but I do know that I want you by my side while I try.”

“I promise I won’t ever leave you again. Not even for a mission. Not again. It would never be more important than you,” Soap swears, holding your face between his fingers just like the morning paper. 

“Now I wouldn’t say ever. . .” Price starts, but Soap sends him a glare that says enough without anything being spoken.

“But I’m sure we could figure something out if it did occur,” Price swiftly amends his statement.

“You’re something, MacTavish, definitely something,” You softly say, your heart beginning to heal. 

“But I’m your MacTavish, right?” Soap says hesitantly, almost as if he was scared you would pull what he did and run away. Not like he would blame you, never in a million years. It would be what he deserved anyways.

“But you’re my MacTavish, Johnny,” You gently say, leaning into his tentative touch.

“I think we have a lot to talk about you two, but I think it can wait until tomorrow. I still want individual therapy for the both of you, separate doctors, but I can see that you need time alone together,” Price breathes out, likely exhausted by the back and forth between his two soldiers. 

“Thank you, Price, thank you,” Soap says, meaning more than what his captain had just said. He was thanking him for dragging you here, letting him talk, allowing there to be a safe place for blame and forgiveness. 

Gaz was the epitome of a perfect boyfriend. He did all the classic things like buy you flowers and take you out on dates to places you had talked about the week before. He knew all your favourites and if he didn’t he made an effort to change that. Kyle worked around his schedule to please you no matter what instead of the other way around. His texts made a warmth blossom in your chest and made you want to giggle and kick your feet like a teen experiencing their first crush. And in a way, he was your first love. Your first true love in the way that nobody before him had ever even began to rival. 

“Do you remember how we met?” You ask him for the quadrillionth time since you’ve started this relationship. It wasn’t your fault that it was such a good story that he just told so very well in a way that made your heart melt. You grip the coffee cup with your perfected order - that Kyle had memorised from the very first time you told him - contained within the mug. You sat across from him in the bookstore you two frequented when your time off schedules aligned just right. Although, you suspect that Price pulls some strings more often than not when it comes down to it. 

“Of course I do love,” He laughs, “but do I really have to tell this story again? I feel like you already know how it goes, little bird.”

You shoot him a look along with a toothy grin that gets his hands up in the air in mock surrender. You always were his weakness; he simply couldn’t resist you when you looked so beautiful like that. You always did, or so he claims. He tells you such every hour of every day in the week and then some. 

“Alright, alright,” Kyle starts. “It all started when I came back from a mission. . .”

 The story always elicited a rollercoaster of emotions from you no matter how many times it was repeated. It never got old for you two to reminisce on the cute meet and subsequent mutual pining that occurred afterwards. Simply put, you could never get tired of Gaz, and he you. 

It all started when the taskforce returned from a mission gone wrong in which the intel seemed to be quite awry. There existed an ambush that ended in Kyle taking a bullet to the abdomen despite the team's best efforts to cover all aspects of their tight formation. The one that was quickly devised by Ghost in an effort to stand their ground against the newly developed enemies. Gaz swears up and down that his continuous misfortune - in reference to more than one helicopter incident - is what caused the team to escape out of that situation alive. He claims his sustained injuries caused the team to fight hard enough to create a gap in the enemy frontline that they ended up escaping from - although you say this is pure hearsay. 

Whatever had ended up causing the 141 boys to be strong enough to return home to the base had your immense gratitude. Your friend being sick and asking you to cover your shift was something that you were forever thankful for as well. What had started as a day that left you grumbling to yourself about the injustice of work and capitalism had eventually led you to the love of your life, so you couldn’t complain too much about it. 

Most of the day consisted of training gone wrong with strained muscles or someone had gotten into a fight they couldn’t handle because they said the wrong thing to the wrong person. This was the majority of cases when on a military base such as this. At least, it seemed to be until Gaz was rolled in with active hemorrhaging. It wasn’t a sight you hadn’t seen before given your job title. The surgeons on duty did their job well; well enough to save Gaz’s life much to the relief of everyone involved. 

He was well onto the road of recovery with a healthy dose of morphine to keep him comfortable as he healed. However, that morphine also turned him into a talkative little pest that kept bothering the nurses away with his prattling and brutal honesty. In his defence, the one nurse he had was quite the old hag that had an infected hair follicle on her face that you couldn’t help but stare at; although, you always chastise him for being rude about it. He claims he couldn’t help it when he was all hyped up on morphine, but you suspect that he just wanted to get rid of the older woman because she wouldn’t give him a candy bar. 

You say this because as soon as she grabbed your arm and shoved you in there - claiming that she wasn’t taking care of this ungrateful little brat any longer - he stared at you with puppy dog eyes and asked if you would, and this is verbatim, ‘pretty please get me a chocolate bar to ease my suffering.’ You stood there, blinking dumbly for a second before bursting out into laughter. At that his sweet gaze quickly turned into this grown ass man almost bursting into tears with a prominent frown on his face. 

At this you quickly reassured him that you weren’t laughing at his misfortune but simply the humourous situation. You also explain that it probably isn’t the best idea to eat solid food after his surgery to remove the bullet fragments, but you can get him some chocolate pudding from the cantine. He looked at you with shining eyes like you just told him you could give him a million dollars. You shoot him a small simper as you scamper off to get him that chocolate pudding that definitely wasn’t the greatest but would do the job. 

The period of time in which he shovelled the globs of pudding down his throat was the only few minutes that he stayed quiet in the hospital unless he was asleep. You always call him mouse as a pet name due to the similarity he held in the medic bay to the story “If You Give A Mouse A Cookie.” After the chocolate he asked for milk, which you substituted for the water you had easier access to. And then he needed another blanket because he was cold. And then one less blanket because he got too hot. 

Of course, he always said please and thank you after these asks so you didn’t mind too much. Especially since between the queries he entertained you with stories that you were convinced were confidential - whether because of the mission details or how embarrassing they were. That and the fact he said, “Don’t tell Price I told you that,” right as the mentioned Captain walked through the door. Price profusely apologised for what you must have had to deal with since he knows what Kyle is like on morphine. Gaz always vehemently denies the severity of how bad he was when he gets to this point of the story, but you promptly remind him that he had no memory of how he acts so he doesn’t get a say in this topic. 

A mysterious gift basket of chocolates arrives at the medic bay, addressed to you by the 141 team. It warmed your heart and got a good chuckle out of you, but for the time being you truly didn’t think that anything else would come of it. Especially when you have so many different individual patients to treat on the daily - it’s easy to lose faces in the crowd. Fortunately, or unfortunately in this case, the taskforce were prone to getting a tad bit rough during training - especially when they’re trying to show off in front of the recruits. 

Gaz came in with a strained shoulder and an odd bite mark on his arm from Soap who was respectful enough to have a semi-shameful look on his face. The story went that Kyle most definitely would have won that fight fair and square if Soap hadn’t been so bitey that particular day. Johnny claims that it was to show the recruits that sometimes you have to fight dirty, but it was also said that this was going to be a clean fight, so you don’t know what to believe exactly. 

Nonetheless, you looked at the morphine fiend and his apologetic friend for taking up your time with something completely preventable. You were quick to assure them that it was a slow day that needed something exciting, and it certainly was going to be an interesting experience for you. They ask if you received the gift basket, claiming that they felt it was only right to thank you for taking the time to tend to all of Gaz’s possible whims and wishes. 

Sitting Gaz down, you inspect the bite mark and marvel at either how sharp Soap’s teeth had to have been or how hard he must have had to bite down to break some of the skin. You quickly clean it, muttering apologies under your breath to Kyle in an attempt to comfort him from the stinging of the antiseptic. For strong military men, you’d be surprised how much mild, everyday things bother them - and don’t even get you started on that one time half the base had a cold. 

You question the boys on how exactly this happened and are treated to the thrilling account of how Soap handed Gaz’s ass to him - although even at the time you were pretty sure this was exaggerated. Your future lover corrects him on multiple occasions on details that were fabricated in an attempt to make you laugh; however, the story did elicit a few chuckles from you while you were bandaging the human inflicted wound. Not something you see everyday. You send the boys on their way with quickly spoken advice to ice that shoulder to keep it healing fast enough for their next mission. 

. . .

“Ah, sorry love, Price is calling me,” Gaz sends you an apologetic look as you send him a reassuring smile while shooing him off. Duty calls after all. 

You look down at your wrist, fiddling with the charms on the matching bracelet you shared with your boyfriend. He says it makes him feel more connected to you, but you’re inclined to think that it’s the cute trinkets that you could add to the jewellery that enticed him. He had things that reminded him of you and vice versa. It made a smile spread across your features at the charms that told a story as long as you were able to look beyond the mere image of them.

The small helicopter shines back at you with the memory of Gaz risking his life after he fell out of the chopper while still completing the mission. It still makes your heart drop thinking about how he had to cut himself free onto a moving vehicle lest he became a human pancake. Next to that one is a small jet black assault rifle charm that is an imagery of Gaz’s favourite weapon; something that he wanted you to keep close to your heart as a reminder of how he’ll always be there to protect you. Following that is a UK flag gem that you picked up from some tourist shop while visiting London to visit his family. You found that it reminded you of Gaz no matter how silly the fact that you got a flag of his nationality was. 

You remember that Gaz has a medic kit charm on his in order to honour your profession alongside serving a reminder of how you had saved his life on multiple occasions. He insisted on it, claiming that if the weapon on yours is a testament to his career, that he should carry something of your job choice close to him. It genuinely warmed your heart that he considered that you protected him as much as he did you throughout the short time of knowing each other. Kyle decided to add a small bird to his bracelet in reference to his affectionate nickname that he bestowed upon you. 

“Hey little bird. What are you thinking so hard about?” 

Speak of the devil.

“Nothin’ much, just about us,” You say with a dopey smile on your face.

“Speaking of us, we were just invited to a team dinner tonight,” Gaz said, mirroring the grin on your face. 

“Are you sure they won’t mind me being there?” You couldn’t help but be slightly insecure about your position in the tightly social knit taskforce. Kyle asserts the fact that you’re an honorary member - he reiterates the fact that you’ve been recruited on a few of their missions to be the on-call medic - and if you aren’t there the team always asks about you. 

“Love, I don’t think they’d let me in if you aren’t there on my arm,” He laughs light-heartedly, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb. 

“I’ll go, but. . .” You start, a teasing tone flitting about your words like a small hummingbird.

“But?” Gaz says leaning in to hear your next words better. 

“You gotta finish the story on our way home,” You finish with a laugh coating your honey sweet words. 

“I would tell that story a thousand times over just to see that smile on your face.”

“That was so cheesy, Kyle.”

“I know, that’s why I said it,” He says as a cheeky grin finds its way onto his features. 

You roll your eyes at that and hand Gaz the leftover coffee cup and the straw wrapper to go recycle - Kyle has always been weirdly conscious of what’s recyclable and what’s not. A little quirk that made you love him all the much more. As you walked out, Gaz held the door for you and soon interlocked his fingers with yours just to make sure you don’t get lost - or so he says. He opens his mouth to continue the story with you hanging onto every last word despite the fact that you know exactly what happens next. 

. . .

It was yet again another few weeks before you got a glimpse of Garrick, and you had almost forgotten about his kind smile and the way his words made your heart skip a beat. That was, until the group got back from the mission with a little less blood than they had gone out with - a lot less in Soap’s case. The man had unfortunately gotten into a little scuffle with more guards than he could handle and had gotten stabbed twice in the abdomen. The surgery he needed was out of your jurisdiction, so the only thing you could do was tend to the scrapes and bumps the rest of the taskforce had received out on the field. It was significantly harder when one straight up refused to be touched by you even for medical reasons and the other spurned your advances out of self-deprecation. Apparently Gaz was supposed to be with Soap but was busy escorting unknown civilians out of the area. 

“It’s not your fault, and I think Soap will tell you that ten times over when he gets out of surgery,” You hum, finally being able to bandage a scrape on his leg. 

“Like hell it isn't. I was supposed to be there, to cover him,” Gaz breaks down.

“There was no right or wrong decision in that scenario, especially with what you knew at the time,” You profess.

“What if he’s gone and it’s my fault? They would never forgive me, and I can’t say I would blame them!” He’s borderline hysterical at this point, seemingly unable to cope with the very idea of his close friend dying on his watch. 

“Based on the wounds he sustained and the locations, what I can say is that he has a high chance of making a full recovery. I know these people, these surgeons, and I can tell you they’re giving Soap the best chance he could have to live another day to spout his Scottish slang all around base.” You gently hover your palm near his cheek; not knowing whether he’s as adverse to touch as his coworkers. As luck would have it, he needed the comfort as much as you needed to give it to the broken man. You rub his back, whispering soft words as he openly sobs into your shoulder with a grip that accurately portrayed just exactly how affected he was by this situation. 

As he calms, you reassure him that you’re there for him, but that you need to finish dressing his wounds. Snapping out of it at this point, Gaz allows you to finish your tentative cleansing of the seemingly superficial scratches and cuts all around his skin. For all the protective gear these guys have, they get an absurd amount of non-lethal lacerations and abrasions from their environment. You stand up and are about to check the clock behind you for the time when Gaz grasps your hand lightly and begs you not to go with a crack in his voice that makes your heart absolutely break at the sight of this man that had such a defeated look in his eyes. 

“I’m not leaving you, I promise. Not if I can help it at least,” You reassure, treating him like a stray dog. 

You held him in a way that was most definitely not professional, but considering that the 141 were the only active patients in the building, it likely wouldn’t get you in too much trouble. You consoled him, empathising with his guilt that you knew all too well. That’s exactly how you were found by Price - with Gaz in your arms and his head burrowed into the crook of your neck. His tears were wetting your shoulder; although, you didn’t mind too much considering the fact you knew this was what he needed from someone. And if that person happened to be you, you weren’t complaining. 

“Hey,” A soft spoken word from Price interrupts the moment.

Gaz pulls himself together for the second time and stares down at his hands as if questioning how well you did your job of cleaning them of leftover blood. You would feel slightly offended if it wasn’t for how shellshocked the soldier was. 

“Captain,” You send a nod of respect to the reputable leader. 

He walks over, hesitantly laying one of his hands on the shoulder of his teammate. You could tell from looking at his expression and the look in his eyes that he was truly concerned for the man. You smile internally at the fact that it seemed Gaz would be in good hands when it came to dealing with his personal demons. It wouldn’t be wrong of you to suspect that all of the soldiers you met with on a day to day basis had at least some skeletons in their closet that they keep hidden away from the world. At least, until the cracks begin to become too much and it culminates into something like this. Something that brings them to their knees with the weight of the world on their shoulders. It still makes you cringe to this day at the thought of Kyle taking all of the responsibility - even with some things he can’t help. He’s been through his own personalised hell all on his own with expectations that only he would place on himself. 

You send a nod to Price and untangle yourself from Gaz, quietly whispering to him that you’ll check in later to which you get a small nod in response. You walk the halls filled with a deafening silence beyond the repetitive noises of machines. Your goal is to check on the condition of one John “Soap” MacTavish and to see when exactly he’ll be waking up. You find your answer in the words of a doctor who you’ve done a few favours for in the past. She tells you exactly what room you could find the quickly recovering Soap - much to your surprise. Apparently you had spent more time with Gaz than you thought, enough for Soap to get out of surgery and into the recovery unit. 

You peek into the room, attempting to be quiet to allow him to get some rest, but he was already up and babbling to himself. You scan what he’s all hooked up to and realise it’s a similar setup to what Gaz had that time he was shot. Morphine and all. You chuckle to yourself softly before you can even realise what you’re doing - meaning that Soap had indeed heard you and excitedly greeted you almost like a puppy would. You gently shake your head in an affectionate manner, walking up to his bedside and checking his chart. It indicated that Soap would make a full recovery from his wound. You exchange pleasantries with the disoriented man - as much as you coherently could when it comes to his nonsensical words - and state that you’ll be back with Gaz and Price soon. You get a spacey nod and a slowly spoken ‘affirmative’ before you exit the room. 

Gaz was still in a state of shock and guilt when you walked in, barely acknowledging the light knock you did against the door frame. The only thing he responded to was you saying aloud that Soap was both physically well and deemed okay for short visitation. The bloodshot eyes and running nose sent a pang through your heart; a certain respect forming in your mind of the man that appeared so broken up over the injury of a teammate. 

Leading the pair of soldiers to their friend’s room made you feel like you were doing something good. Although, you did make a point to off-handedly mention the names of your surgeon friends to Price who said he’d make sure to send them a thank you note. The heart warming sight of Soap and Gaz’s embrace made you feel like you were intruding on something. This feeling was furthered by the fervour of Soap’s consoling of Gaz, assuring him that he was not only okay but that nobody found any fault with his actions. You were about to slip out of the room quietly but you hadn’t gone unnoticed. Gaz’s voice cut through the air and reached your ears with the words asking you to stay. Soap seconded that and Price simply smiled and shrugged. 

“You’ve saved us enough times to be considered a member of the team, which means you’re allowed at the dinner table,” Gaz gave a soft smile with his words that cracked in his throat. 

“Aye, maybe if you were with us I would have kept my blood in me, every last drop,” Soap jokes, quoting your words on a previous mission that admonished him for getting so injured. 

“You would be welcomed on the team, Doc, you’ve already been on enough missions to see how it works. You have the training on your file, and I think we would all welcome you with open arms,” Price says.

“Agreed,” Ghost says from behind you in the doorway, effectively scaring the shit out of you. 

And that’s how it all started, joining the team and inevitably getting closer to Gaz. Getting to know him beyond the front of a tough soldier that he portrays in order to stay alive on the field. His sensitive side, his favourite things, his life outside of the SAS, his pure love and adoration for you. Something that you never thought was possible, but fate has a weird way of leading people to something they need.  And you two sure as hell needed each other, then and now. The many nuances of life with each other that led to this moment are always something you bring up from time to time - Gaz does too sometimes, but more often than not it’s if something in the present reminds him of the past. Although, this particular story is something that you always feel is what started it all, and it’s why you like bringing it up so often. 

. . .

“We’re home, love, just in time,” Gaz smiles, gently squeezing your intertwined hands. 

“You know I love you, right?” You ask, feeling a need to express the joy and fondness within you that’s about ready to burst out your chest. 

“Of course, and I you. Forever and always,” He says, staring into your eyes with a swirl of warmth and tenderness in his irises. 

“Forever and always. . .” You trail off, a thought appearing in your mind.

“What is it?”

“Can you tell the story of how you courted me on the way to dinner?” You say with a soft smile, knowing how much this tale embarasses him.

“Jesus Christ, you’re being a real menace today, little bird, you know that?” Gaz says with a toothy grin as he unlocks the door to your shared apartment. 

“But I’m your menace, and is that a yes?” You ask teasingly.

“Of course it’s a yes. I could never say no to you,” He says dotingly. 

You pulled yourself together, taking a deep breath in preparation for knocking on the door of your new Captains’ office. You held your hand up to the wooden door and then let it fall to your side again. You most likely looked like an insane person at this rate, but your nerves were getting the best of you. 

“I can hear your anxiety from out here, come on in, Lieutenant,” Price yells out, solving your dilemma just like that. 

You stood there, your eyes darting around the room in an attempt to avoid the harsh stare you were sure Price was sending you. As you stood there, shaking out your clammy hands, your captain finally broke the dreaded silence. Although, now that you think about it, it’s just as likely that the silence was the only comfort you had right now. You didn’t have time to dwell on that thought as Price’s voice forced you to lock your tired eyes with his equally if not more worn out ones. He disguised it well through a veil of focus, but you had seen that look too many times before in your own reflection. 

“I’m aware that you just got here, Lieutenant,” Price begins.

You brace yourself for next words as you stand there with a wince already on your face in preparation for the reprimanding you’re sure you’re about to get. You’re well aware that it’s incredibly unlikely that he would be admonishing you for simply walking out of the room without a word, but you’re also mindful that you might get a few questions asked of you.

“So I wanted to personally let you know that you’re scheduled for training with all three of my soldiers throughout this week. I know that you’re well suited for this position, but it’s always helpful for me to know where your skills stand,” Price says. 

“I was going to mention this before you ran off on me,” He laughs. “I know Ghost has a reputation for being scary but I don’t think he’s terrifying enough to scurry from the room like a little rabbit.”

Your face flushes in embarrassment at his words, although you’re pleasantly surprised that he seemed to take it in good humour. That, and he didn’t seem to question the flash of recognition within your eyes at the sight of Simon. 

“I just didn’t want to intrude if he had something confidential to say to you,” You sheepishly say, making up the half-truth on the spot. 

“I appreciate the sentiment, but you’re a part of this team now; that, and if it’s something personal we would have no issue of informing you of such,” Price chuckles, rubbing his knuckles against his cheek as a habit you presume. 

“Understood Captain, is there anything else we need to discuss?” You ask, getting into the professional mindset. You may know of him as a close friend that you can trust with your life, but to him you’re just another rookie soldier despite your rank. You’re not entirely surprised that he would want to see an exhibit of your skills through his own men, but it still sent goosebumps rippling across your body at the thought of being in such close proximity to Ghost. 

“That’s all for today. . .” Price trails off. “Actually, what exactly is the story behind your callsign?”

It makes you pause, similarly to how Price did at the thought of saying your given name. You were honestly surprised it took him this long to ask; although, you suspect he’s not exactly one to pry into people’s lives. It makes you wonder what exactly his interest in this part of your life is, but you don’t question it for too long before answering him. 

“I would like to say it’s a part of the full title ‘Angel of Death’ given for my ability to kill so silently and effectively on the battlefield, sir,” You tilt your head and smile at the attempt of your old base friends to add something to be proud of to your name. 

“But?” Price asks, raising an eyebrow with an inquisitive look.

You sigh and then start, “An old sergeant of mine back when I was in training always called me that as a nickname and it just stuck. Actually, he paired it with the pickup line about me falling from heaven. He always was a tad bit pushy with his advancements no matter how many times I shrugged him off.” You laugh at this, attempting to shrug off the prickling sensation of shame and embarrassment surfacing. 

You swear you see a flash of both anger and sympathy flash across his face, but it’s gone before you can even pinpoint what you actually saw. 

“Did you report him?” Price asks, seemingly completely serious.

“Did I? Fuck no, he was both my superior and the favorite of our Lieutenant. There was nothing I could do except wait out the end of my contract if I wanted to move up in the food chain,” You spit out, venom coating your words but not at Price. 

“Did he do anything that could be considered grounds of expulsion?” Price asks, a dark look in his eye all of a sudden. 

You avoid his gaze at this point, choosing your words carefully. “It was a long time ago, and no. He never did anything beyond the occasional cat call or accidental brushing up against me.”

“I hope you’re aware that if anyone, and I mean anyone, on this base makes you feel uncomfortable that you can come to me,” He says softly, appearing to wholeheartedly want you to believe this truth. “And if you want to change your callsign, that’s completely acceptable in my eyes.”

You smile at this, realising that Simon was right in his characterization of how honourable his captain was. You vaguely recall whispers about how he saved the lives of his team at the risk of his own over and over by your lover as you traced his scars at night. Price had your forever thanks for getting Simon home to your warm embrace over and over again. 

“I’ve thought about it a lot, but I think Angel just has some history to it. One beyond the old sergeant of mine, and I’m not exactly keen to erase it,” You say, honesty permeating the spoken words. 

It was the truth after all. Whether it was the good old days back at your old base with your Lieutenant at the time always complimenting your skills on the battlefield beyond your looks with the callsign title or the gently muttered pet name from Simon during the rare soft moments between you two; you couldn’t tell. Either way, the name wasn’t going away despite the pain that came with it. In fact, you’re beginning to think that that exact ache that plagues you every time the syllables are said is what drives you - what drove you - to get the opportunity at this position on the task force. 

“I understand, and I apologise if that was more than you were willing to share,” Price admits. 

“I find it nice to have a little push to open up to people, especially if I trust them. I find that it brings a glimpse of the humanity I once had back up to the surface,” You claim, being sincere in what you said. 

“Well, I’m glad you trust me enough to talk about these things. It’s not something so easily earned I sense,” Price gives a small smile at that, continuing, “And Angel?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“You probably exhibit more humanity than you would like to admit,” Price says.

“Who knew you had such wise words,” You tease.

“Ah, well. It was really one of the boys that said that to me,” He says, blushing a bit as he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. 

You smile at that, engaging in a conversation of small talk for another minute before he dismisses you to go back to your room and get some rest. You actually know your way around the compound semi well enough this time around to get back to your room with only one wrong turn. Coming upon the door, you take your key from your belt loop and unlock the door to open up to your new home away from home. It’s weirdly cosy, although that could simply be a byproduct of learning to love the barracks as your pad. It offers a sense of comfort because you end up decorating the plain walls and desk with objects that Simon had never touched and would never touch. 

You pick up the stuffed animal from your opened bag that Simon had won you at a fair and hold it in front of you - it’s beady eyes staring back at you. Something that’s lasted longer than the sweet treats and bittersweet memories of the fear flashing across the giant beast of a man’s face at being a mere 10 feet above the ground. It made a grin spread across your face that quickly faded as you realised how far in the past it was. Trotting over to the bathroom, you brush your teeth with the taste of blood filling your mouth at how roughly you did it. You spit into the sink, staring at the foamy white and pink running down the drain. 

The reflection within the mirror that stares back at you is something that you no longer recognize. The mask has become fused with your flesh, crude stitching locking it into your maw making it so you can no longer escape from it. Your eyes glint red, blood pooling in the irises that hold the lovecraftian reflections of the cosmic horrors you’ve come across in your line of work. A colossal and nameless blasphemy gaping entity that is named facetiously as a heaven’s angel.  The bony structure surrounding a thing that used to resemble a human - a human with compassion and empathy. No longer is that kind viewpoint casted onto you. Not anymore. 

You rip yourself away from that vision which gives way to the reality of a tired beast with sunken eyes and a soul that wants to shrink within itself. An obsolete self with marrow infused with the ineffable nature of sorrow that weighs you down like a ball and chain containing the blood and flesh of all those you failed to save. It makes itself known through your ever so wearied mortal body that shakes and trembles in the face of anyone that even resembles your once loved Riley. You let out a single shaky breath before pulling yourself together and trudging back to your room, taking your mask off as you do so. Taking off your protective shield from the world that you fear could know too much with your identity known. Although, your world is limited to one person, Simon RIley. 

Soap had come to terms with his fate in the cold cell with a bright fluorescent light hanging above him in a mocking way. All of the light from his eyes had already faded, his condition near catatonic due to the absolute heartbreak and shame that he was going through. This had to be rock bottom. Maybe if rock bottom had a basement, that was where he was. He was still minus the uncontrollable shaking of his frame like a house in the middle of an earthquake. It felt as if it all came crashing down as the foundation was taken away. Simon was his load-bearer, and now he was gone. Soap would be surprised if it wasn’t for good this time. 

He rotted away in the cell with the other men who had committed much worse crimes from the words being floated around the jail. He bet that they were better off than he was though, ironically. He stared down at his dirty hands that had kept him alive for this long and yet have been the very death of him. And to think, he was afraid of living life in Simon’s footsteps. Look where he is now. Exactly the same place that he’s had to bail his lover out of more times than he should have had to count. Soap had been lost for a long time. And yet, he trudged on the soldier that he was. Like the soldier he still is. Somehow, somewhere, some time in that cell had Soap find some startling revelations. About Simon. About himself. 

The pure despondency and despair that encased his nervous system thawed, melted away. He would’ve loved Simon until the ocean dried. He would’ve loved him until the sun had burnt out. He would’ve loved him until the end of time since the dawn of time. It made a singular tear with no real meaning roll down his cheek silently. If he had any more left in his body, his sobs that wracked his body just then wouldn’t have been dry. He had wasted his life, his opportunities, his friends and for what? A man that didn’t even love him back. Couldn’t love him back. He had spent his time and life being a sacrifice for Simon. Soap had poured his heart and soul into someone he no longer could say he knew. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a buzz and then the click of the lock on the cell gate. A guard came in and roughly gripped Soap’s bicep to haul him up. His instincts almost wanted to fight back, but that’s exactly how he had ended up in this situation, so he decided against it. His dazed eyes filled with the horrors that he had seen swirling in his irises darted around the room like a crazed animal. A direct juxtaposition from his body that was so very tired. A body that he had neglected to take care of in favor of filling it with booze and sorrow. 

Soap’s eyes finally focused on the men in front of him, staring at him like the stranger he felt he was to them. He noticed the bloody rag that Gaz was clutching to his face and a sharp pang of regret hit him suddenly. He hoped that his look of a sad stray dog sent their way accurately portrayed the message he wanted to convey because he no longer trusted his throat to speak. There was an indistinct voice that made no sense to Soap’s foggy mind saying words that sounded like pure gibberish. What he could tell was that Price and Gaz nodded solemnly and his mortal body was transferred into their possession. His soul was still stuck mourning the loss of the life he had with Simon back in that cell. Despite knowing that it was completely in vain. It should have happened a long time ago. 

Soap was quietly led to the car he recognized as Price’s. He thinks he muttered a quiet sorry to Gaz, but he’s not entirely sure. For good measure he repeated it over and over again until he felt Gaz in the backseat with him embracing his broken body and rubbing his back. The sick thought that Simon used to do this crossed his mind, but he tossed it to the side in favor of gripping with all the strength he had left in his feeble body to Gaz’s hoodie - his head buried in the crook of his friend’s neck. He swears he hears Gaz murmur gentle words of comfort that eased his feelings of grief and remorse. 

He’s not entirely sure when he passed out, but he knows he awoke in the driveway of Price’s house to Gaz silently nudging him away. The man whispered tender words of encouragement to get Soap out of the car. Out of the cage he felt trapped in. For once in his life, he took the hand that was reached out to help - not hurt - him. He shuffled slowly into the house, a quick thought about him getting mud on the floors crossing his mind. He attempted to take his boots off, but struggled with the laces getting knotted up too tight. Price softly moved his desperate hands out of the way and undid them for him, slipping them off like a parent would to a child. All the pain he could have saved if he had simply jumped ship over to the lifeboat his friends had forever been offering much sooner. 

Soap had no tears left to grieve over this fact, and so he settled for trembling shoulders as his lungs spasmed with the force of his emotions - leaving him breathless. Price forced him to look up at him, and through his bleary vision Soap could see him mouthing the words ‘breathe with me’ while demonstrating what he wanted MacTavish to do. Soap followed suit and eventually let the pain settle to a gentle simmer in his soul instead of boiling over. He was led to a bathroom and sat on the edge of the bathtub as Price ran a warm bubble bath for him. One thing he could notice was the scent that Price seemed to still remember was his favorite. It warmed his heart with a bittersweet emotion he couldn’t quite pinpoint. 

Gaz entered the bathroom carrying a plethora of fluffy towels and warm clothes fresh from the dryer meant for him. Soap stared up at Gaz who had a cut across his nose from the promise ring still on Soap’s hand. At that thought, he looked down at his shaky hands and reached for the ring to tug it off and lay on the countertop. He wasn’t quite ready to part with it permanently, but this was a solid solution for now. His two companions left him on his own with a smile, claiming that they would be right outside cooking dinner if he needed anything. They treated him with a kindness he felt he no longer deserved after what he had put them through. The gentle eyes still full of familiar love and care washed those worries away for the time being. 

As the door slowly shut, Soap peeled off the wet and muddy clothes that he felt suffocated in. He stepped into the warm bath, sighing at the feeling of sheer relief that the soapy water gave him. Scrubbing away at his skin until it was raw, he let himself just sit in a peace he hadn’t offered himself in a long, long while. He closed his eyes, letting the aroma of the room permeate his senses until a soundless tranquility washed through his veins. After a few minutes of that, Soap decided it was time to step out and face the reality that he had put himself in. Both the dirt and the bleariness was washed out of him. Drying himself off, Soap put on the clothes that Gaz had offered him, identifying them as the British man’s own. He suspects that Gaz intentionally chose oversized clothes from his closet to bring over to compensate for the height difference. He smiled at the thought of his friend running around to find the perfect outfit for the occasion, since he knew that with Gaz’s perfectionism nature that’s likely exactly how it happened. The smile quickly faded as the dire situation he found himself in became apparent. 

He must’ve spent almost five whole minutes just staring at the doorknob deciding whether or not he could fit through the small bathroom window. The decision was made for him as a knock on the door echoed around the small room as Gaz’s voice pierced his ears, asking if he was okay. 

“Everything’s alright,” Soap said, deciding to open the barrier separating him from the man that saved him in spite of everything that had happened.

“That’s good, real good. Price is almost done with dinner,” Gaz smiled. “I was kicked out of the kitchen after he deemed I didn’t know the right way to chop onions.”

Soap knew that it was equally possible that that whole situation had actually happened or it being an elaborate excuse for Gaz to take a break from cooking to check on him. Whichever one it was, Soap held only admiration and appreciation for the man with more strength than he could ever realize. 

“I want to thank you for, well, everything. I know I was kind of an asshole - I am an asshole to you guys. And despite it all you helped me, and I can never show you how thankful I am for that,” Soap rambled, nervously fiddling with a non-existent loose string on the hoodie he was wearing. 

“Shit, man, we served on the battlefield together. We’ve had our highs and lows and had each other’s back through all of it. You’ve saved my life more than I can count. The least I can do is carry it over. And seriously, don’t even worry about hitting me. I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. We all have our instincts y’know? Plus, that was a mean left hook,” Gaz said, grinning. “All that we really ask for in repayment is that you go to therapy.”

“I can do that, absolutely. I can’t thank you enough,” Soap trailed off, wanting to say so much more but not having the time nor words to express it. 

“Don’t mention it, think of it as a repayment for you fishing the bullet out of my stomach with your bare hands back in Paris,” Gaz winked.

“That has absolutely no correlation to this situation, you twat,” Soap said, laughing for the first time in a while. He almost felt a sense of normalcy in the banter, in this house. No, this home. 

“Hey you hooligans, get your asses in here before the food gets cold,” Price yells out from the kitchen. 

Soap and Gaz share a knowing look before Gaz says, “On the count of three. One,” and then proceeds to take off sprinting down the hallway. Soap was already running before Gaz had said the first digit, knowing the only way to win against a cheater is to cheat yourself. They burst through the hallway, their socks making them drift on the last turn. Soap emerged victorious, feeling triumphant for the first time in a long while. With a rare smile on his face, he sat down at the table and stared at the mouth watering food in front of him. For someone who had been living off simple rations for months previously out of lack of motivation to cook, the food in front of him seemed like a feast fit for kings. 

Soap reminisces on when he used to cook for himself and Simon, whole hearted enjoying it at the time. There were a lot of things he had given up on for Simon. Cooking and baking his mom’s classic recipes she had passed down to him, drawing in those plethora of journals that have been collecting dust around the apartment, tending to flowers around the house that have been long dead - the petals of the flowers that once reminded him of Simon’s beauty dead on the stained floor. Himself. 

Soap began stuffing his face with food, enjoying the taste of something he hadn’t seen in a while. Genuine, homemade food. The sounds of cutlery clinking against the plate and the passing of food and condiments around being the only thing breaking the silence besides the soft music playing on Price’s radio in the kitchen. The radio taunting him with songs of beautiful and heavenly romance. 

“So, how’d a muppet like you end up here,” Price said, partly amused, partly still concerned for Soap’s well-being. 

Soap looked up from his plate slowly after swallowing what he was chewing in order to stare his Captain in the eyes. Shame filled the window to his soul, making him feel smaller than he was. 

“I guess I kept hoping that he’d call me back,” Soap admitted, chewing at his bottom lip. He knew it was a simple answer to a complex question, but it was honestly the truth and all the men there knew it. 

“Well, we’re not doing anymore of that, Soap. You draw the line wherever you need it, Sergeant. End of the day, only you have control over your life. We can have your back whenever and wherever, and we will continue to do so, but you need to make the choice to move on and get better,” Price said, his Captain voice being brought out in order to fully convince Soap of the man’s confidence in him. 

“Affirmative, Sir. I’m going to get better, and I’m going to stick to it,” Soap said, knowing his last sentence was a little jab at Simon saying he would heal and never committing to it. Maybe never fully committing himself to his lover that always waited for him at home. 

“Atta boy, we’ll be here for you for as long as you need,” Price says.

“Whatever you need, we’ll get it for you,” Gaz nods, adding onto Price’s promise. 

“God, what did I do to deserve you guys,” Soap’s expression softened and a faint smile came across his face. 

“It’s what the 141 does for each other,” Price claims, the offering of his support showing through his tone. 

“You’d do the same for us,” Gaz murmured affectionately. 

“A toast to you, MacTavish. The life you knew before is gone. Today, we fight to bring it back,” Price raises his water glass to clink against Soap’s. 

“Amen to that,” Soap replies, “One step at a time.”

“One step at a time,” Gaz reassures him.

The rest of dinner is filled with pure laughter and jokes thrown at each other about humorous interactions on base. There’s a lot of catching up occurring, and Soap is exhausted by the end of it. He offers to help Price with dishes but that is shut down almost immediately with Price ordering Gaz to show Soap the guest room. Gaz gives a mock salute with a toothy grin accompanying it. He guides Soap’s soul to his resting place almost like a grim reaper would. His soul that had been lost for a long time. 

Gaz wishes him a goodnight, saying that both him and Price would still be there in the morning and to expect pancakes for breakfast - his favorite. Soap offers up an unconvincing smile, parroting the goodnight response that’s expected of him. Gaz shoots him a look but leaves him alone to rest. 

Soap looked around the room, observing how bare it seemed and deciding at that moment that he was going to spruce it up a little bit when he had the time. He somehow doubted that Price would let him be on his own until he was completely okay. At least, to his Captain’s standards. He was going to decorate it in a way that reminded him of who he was before Simon. 

Letting out a sigh, Soap lays down and stares at the ceiling fan spinning around and around. He could fool himself for a moment and claim that it was the new environment that was affecting his sleep; however, he knew that wasn’t the truth. Soap didn’t get much sleep most nights. He’s seeing Simon in every dream. If only he could fall asleep but it wasn’t that simple. He was lying awake, restless, his belongings in a military issued duffle bag that Gaz had brought over from the apartment and received back from the detaining officer from the jail. The phone that he knew was sitting on top of all the clothes was occupying all of his thoughts, stopping unconsciousness from coming to him. He didn’t have a strong willpower against temptation in this aspect of life and he inevitably reached for it to check the lock screen. An image of Simon and him smiling while on a summer vacation lit the dark room up. Soap wasn’t entirely sure whether it was anger or angst filling his chest. He wasn’t sure there was a notable difference between the two at this point. 

Soap stared down at his phone, scrolling through the notifications of missed calls and texts from Price and Gaz and even Laswell and Alejandro. Those last two hurt the most because they had no obligation to try and reach him, he didn’t even call them, but there were zero notifications from Ghost. Absolutely nothing. Apparently Ghost did not have time for his bullshit. Suddenly, Soap was filled with visceral rage and anguish. He knew he wasn’t getting any sleep tonight and so he stood up to go on a nightrun. Something that he’s gotten in the habit of after Simon started leaving him again and again. He expected Gaz and Price to be asleep, or at the very least in their respective rooms, but he found them sitting in the living room. He takes a look at the clock and realizes it’s only 9PM, way earlier than he thought it was. He supposes the tiredness warped his perception of time more than he thought. 

“Can’t sleep?” Price asks gently. 

Soap simply shakes his head, staring at his feet while he awkwardly stands there. He takes in his surroundings while shakily taking in a deep breath. 

“C’mere,” Gaz says, patting the seat next to him, wrapping an arm around Soap once he had sat down. 

“Why am I so obsessive over someone that doesn’t give a flying fuck about me,” Soap snaps, his Scottish accent coming out. Gaz simply rubs small circles with his thumb on Soap’s shoulder to comfort him, aware that he just needed to vent and get all of this out. 

“Not a single call or text from him. I called him as much as the officer let me, and then some! And not even a text asking if I was okay,” Soap cried, starting to shake and tremble. 

“Fuck him, Soap. You’re a strong soldier, a caring man, and a wonderful person. If he can’t understand that then you shouldn’t waste your time with him,” Gaz spits out, pulling Soap closer into his side. Price notices his phone vibrating on the table with a certain caller ID that he recognized and moved to click hang up. He notices Soap’s gaze tracking his movements.

“Laswell’s calling me back, are you okay with speaking to her?” Price lies, letting the call end on its own while inconspicuously hiding the contact information from Soap. Soap simply nods yes, not questioning his Captain’s words. Quickly Price messaged Kate and then pulled out the computer from under the table for the video call. Price had full confidence that she would answer a message from him. That’s why he chose her as the pinnacle of his white lie. He also quickly texted Alejandro, explaining the situation, wanting double the support for his broken Sergeant. He needed to hear the voices of his teammates. He needed to not bear all of this on his own. 

Laswell and Alejandro joined the call as Soap quickly wiped his eyes to seem semi-put together as he looked at the skeletal figure staring back at him from the computer screen. There was a chorus of greetings between all five of them to start the conversation out. Kate spoke first after the lull of silence, asking Soap if he was doing okay. 

“I feel like I’ve been through hell and back, but I feel much better now, thank you Kate,” Soap spoke, his voice full of emotion still. 

“You look like it too, hermano,” Alejandro jokes light-heartedly, eliciting a cacophony of laughter. 

“From Price and Gaz’s tone when they called us when you went on the run, we thought you’d ended up six feet under,” Kate says solemnly, eyes betraying her fervor. 

“I kinda wish I did,” Soap jokes. Simon’s dark humor had apparently rubbed off on him. Gaz lightly hits him and Price sends him a sharp look at his words. 

“Ay, none of that, chiquito,” Alejandro sternly says, his voice full of endearment. 

“MacTavish, I don’t want to hear that from you ever again,” Laswell states, her authoritative tone rivaling Price’s. 

“I don’t actually mean it, I’m just so fucking tired of feeling worthless and overwhelmed and so very full of shame and regret,” Soap says, his voice fading near the end. 

“You mean the world to us, Soap. I want you to know that we care so much about you and anything you need, anything you could possibly want, we’ll get you,” Price says earnestly. 

“You have accomplished so much on your own and will continue to do so. We’re just here as your little cheerleaders on the side-lines,” Gaz jokes, ruffling his grown out hair. 

“You have gone through so much, MacTavish, and I’m so very proud of you,” Kate says, her voice colored with extreme sincerity. 

“Cariño, you have endured these circumstances with such bravery that I wish you could understand. You have nothing to regret because you’ve done the best you could with what you knew. Treat yourself with kindness,” Alejandro finishes. 

“I don’t know what I would do without you guys. What did I do to deserve all of you,” Soap chuckles, trying to hold back tears of happiness this time around. 

“You survived, and that’s all we ask of you,” Price answers genuinely. 

“Just keep marching forward like the bad-ass motherfucker you are,” Gaz claims with a chuckle. 

“Give yourself permission to move on and heal,” Alejandro smiles softly. 

“You trying to get better is all I ask for,” Laswell says.

The group talked late into the night, beginning to turn to more lighthearted topics that left them wheezing with laughter and tears rolling down their faces. Soap had almost forgotten what it was like, and he realized he never wanted to let go of this again. The call came to an end as they realized how late it was, an echo of ‘goodnights’ and ‘stay safes’ were said as Price clicked the end call button. Soap sat there with a smile on his face, squished between Price and Gaz. 

Soap let out an affectionate sigh, saying, “I saw the contact info of the call you received, Price, and I know it wasn’t Laswell. I need you to know I’m not a fragile doll that you need to tell lies to in order to protect, but I thank you for your compassion nonetheless.” 

“I figured it would be easier if you didn’t have to face him right after what you had said, and I know you needed some kind words,” Price admits. 

“You’re right, you always are. I don’t think I’d even know what to say to him,” Soap confesses. 

“Hey, the time will come eventually where you have to face him, but not now. Not now,” Gaz reassures Soap. 

It eases the nerves plaguing Soap’s mind, but he still didn’t know exactly what he was going to do about Simon. One day at a time though as Gaz said. 

Ghost had always been a flighty person, and Soap couldn’t blame him. It’s a simple symptom of the ailment of a bad childhood. It had slowly gotten worse, progressively causing more and more heartbreak every time Soap had received a call through the grapevine from Price. Or maybe it was less, but Soap had honestly lost track of both the times and his emotions. On an occasional note it Gaz or Alejandro were the one to send a bolt of anxiety through Soap’s system. The one time it was Laswell had his heart drop to his stomach and caused him to curl up into a ball, bedridden until his lover - if he could even call him that at this point - returned home. Until he did, the dial tone was all Soap had, letting the pain metastasis to his very soul. 

It made Soap feel like a young soul in the 1940s waiting for their poor husband to return from saving the world. Except, Soap had been through the exact same battlefields on the exact same missions. And sure, one could argue that his childhood had raised him in this way to turn into someone that Soap no longer could say he knew, but it only took so many ‘I’ll do better’ claims to tear that small hope down. The small hope that maybe, just maybe, this time Simon would find that help in his life. He no longer wished for Simon to confide in him, knowing that was a lost cause, but he only wished that therapy was something he even considered. 

Simon had been gone for two and half weeks this time, the longest of all his run away trips to wherever he decided to let his heart guide him. Not like it mattered to Soap, it was all the same anyways. Once upon a time Simon’s sporadic nature had seemed charming, a challenge to Soap to weasel his way into the heart of the rugged soldier who had a broken look in his eyes. The window to his soul betraying cracks and rough edges despite the ever present silence that permeated most interactions between him and Ghost. 

Eventually Soap had lodged himself halfway through the walls that Ghost had put up around himself in an effort to keep everyone out and away. Planting C4 until he had blown his way into Ghost’s heart. In more ways than one. Those days of heartfelt dates that left Soap giggling and kicking his feet were long behind the couple. Some days he reminisces on the bar runs that left his cheeks flushed and soul kept warm in the embrace of his kind lover. The kind where they poked fun at each other and teased about their choices of drinks; although, Simon had always known his order by heart and had it ordered before he even sat down. Ever the gentleman. 

Now though? He wasn’t even sure if Simon could recall his favorite color let alone his birthday. He had untethered from the parts Soap could even begin to recognize, changing from charming to alarming in seconds. There were instances where Soap had been frozen with Ghost storming out of their shared apartment with venom still hanging in the air on a string of tension. One that snapped as soon as Soap found himself able to move, only to sit and draw his knees to his chest with a thousand mile stare imbued in his now dull eyes. The hundreds of bullet wounds didn’t compare to the anguish Simon leaving his side over and over again left him with. But that’s mourning, he’d forget it in the morning anyways. 

He took to drinking to quell his sorrows if only temporarily. Price was adamantly against it, but all of his attempts to help blew up in his face with Soap only rebutting that Price couldn’t say shit with his smoking habit. Soap had apologised the day after, but it was enough to get Price to stop trying. It hurt Soap more than Price could ever know that it felt like he had given up on him. Logically, Soap knew that it was well deserved, but his own self-hatred transferred over to his internal turmoil of Simon and his long lasting effects on the man’s own well-being. In the end, he said nothing for three whole days once his Ghost had returned, letting the doubts and resentment fester until he could no longer take it. It ended just how Soap had predicted, with Simon isolating himself until he eventually slipped out of the building they once called home to who knows where. 

The current day was overcast, it was raining and Soap was calling drunk to the number he had memorised. The number that was carved into his ribs and sounded out everytime his heart beat. The phone rang and rang and then beeped with Simon’s gravelly voicemail breaking the anticipation lined with hope that ran through Soap’s veins. He listened to it, despite knowing it wasn’t truly his love. It comforted him in a sick way, knowing that Simon’s continuity was something that he could always expect out of his boyfriend. Shit though, all he wanted was a simple response. A text beyond the ‘be back soon’ that he always sent when he ran away would suffice. He didn’t even need to hear Simon’s voice. He would settle for anything at this point more than the second hand calls that always instilled terror in him that this would be it. That they would be calling him to inform his poor soul that Simon had finally succumbed to his reckless nature. That he was lying dead in a ditch or found shot in an alleyway. It’s not like Soap had much to reassure him that Simon could be better than those circumstances. 

He sighed, stumbling his way over to the countertop where he opened the medicine cabinet. Besides the classic Ibuprofen or Advil everything in there belonged to Soap. Simon had continuously refused to get on meds, let alone take them. The one time that Soap had believed his love had actually started to try and get better, he soon found the still full pill bottle in the trashcan a week later. He thinks on this, deciding that that was when the cracks started to show and the burning train wreck that was their once fruitful relationship came into the light. It was long ago enough and paled in comparison to more recent events that it didn’t even affect Soap beyond a slight tinge of soreness surrounding his heart. 

He grabs an orange container, popping the white lid off and pouring out a small pill into his hand. Doing the same with another, Soap stuck them in his mouth and threw his head back with a swallow. His meds had been upped in the last month, anxiety and depression plaguing his very soul, infection spreading through his veins into his nervous system. He knew exactly who was to blame for this. Although he could never bring himself to mention it to him, aware that it would only bring about another fight that ended in Simon speeding past traffic lights into the ever present gap in space and time. Time and time again it had ended in exactly the same way, and yet Soap could never bring himself to end it completely. He wasn’t entirely sure which one of them would be more broken by that executive decision. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know

Staring out the window on the third floor of the apartment building with a cup of tea clutched in his hand; watching the raindrops race down the window and placing bets on which one would reach the end first. Simon, or himself? The bigger raindrop, or the faster one? There sat a lukewarm cup on the counter just how Simon liked it. He figured that if his beloved returned he would like a warm cup of tea to come home to. Or at least, that’s what he claimed to refute the allegations that he simply was too ingrained in the habit of making two. 

The phone rang, interrupting his thoughts, and Soap simply sighed as he trudged over to the countertop where it was laid to rest. He no longer felt his heart skip a beat at the sound of the ringtone, knowing damn well that it wasn’t going to be anything of value being said to him. He truly had given up on what little hope he held for Simon Riley. 

He clicked the accept button, composing himself for whatever words were going to be spoken. He recognized the caller ID as Price and had a vague recollection of conversation long ago about everything revolving around their Ghost. Soap had chosen not to respond at that point, but maybe he would come around at some point. Unlikely, but considering he was still with Ghost, anything was possible. 

Price’s voice sounded out, reminding him that he did in fact agree to an obligatory run to the pub on this day to simply catch. Of course, that was when Ghost was currently living in the house for once in a blue moon and had agreed to social interaction. They both knew it was bullshit and he would likely be away whenever the monthly tradition had occurred, but they agreed for a sense of shaky normalcy. Soap was right though, and he was doomed to engage with his teammates in an awkward exchange without bringing up the one who was not to be named. He didn’t know what was worse. Sitting there with a stranger in all senses of the word or being alone and facing the pity looks sent his way. Despite knowing the latter is what today had in mind, he responded that he would be there soon over the phone to Price. The man over the phone gave his good wishes and hung up. 

Soap breathed out a shaky sigh, rubbing his face with his hands in an effort to wake up. It was already well into the afternoon, and he had barely eaten anything except the spirits that brought upon numbing from the thoughts of his Ghost. He could barely be called his though. Not with everything that’s going on. The alcohol was warming his chest in a way that Ghost hadn’t been able to do in a long time. He dragged himself to the bathroom, almost slipping on a puddle made from one of the leaky windows on the way there. Simon had promised to fix it sometime soon, but obviously he hadn’t gotten around to it. 

After brushing his teeth, rinsing his mouth of the sickening smell of booze, and fixing his grown out hair into something almost intentional looking, Soap stared at himself in the mirror. He splashed water on his face with the thought that maybe, just maybe, it would rinse off the dark circles around his eyes and the reddish tint his eyes held. He attempted to shave if only a little bit, faltering as he had to focus on what patches he had already gone over. It seemed to pass by quickly, his consciousness transporting him into his room to pick out some clothes. In the end, Soap threw on some jeans that only had minimal dirt and stain on them and pulled over the black hoodie that Simon had gifted him a while ago. Well, gifted was a subjective matter, but Soap had always protested his innocence of stealing it. That memory seemed so long ago. Years if not decades in the slow passing time with Soap stuck in the prison of his own mind. 

Nonetheless, Soap pushed forward, finding himself walking in the rain down to the pub on the corner of the street with his hood up and only his wallet and phone to his name. He staggered along the street, taking a moment to almost feel sorry for what he had become. All for the shame of being young, drunk, and alone. Soap came upon the small run-down establishment and entered, scanning the bar room for familiar faces. He had a feeling he was hallucinating it, but it almost seemed as if he found Simon in all of the faces he saw. At least, until his eyes hazily locked onto the friendly appearance of Price and Gaz sitting in a booth. 

“Hey,” Was all Gaz said.

Price simply looked on with what Soap interpreted as both sympathy and disgust at what he had become. It would’ve hurt less if it wasn’t exactly what Soap was expecting given the fact that he sees the same look in everyone’s eyes. Even his own mirrored back at him. Price offered Soap a seat next to him, scooting over. Soap all but collapsed into the cushioned booth, observing the already ordered drinks. He nodded a simple acknowledgement to Gaz, taking a sip of the water in front of him. It soothed his throat that was sore from crying late into the night, every night. 

“How’s it been?” 

Soap didn’t exactly know who asked that, too distracted to discern the differing voices through the hustle and bustle of the bar on top of it. Nevertheless, he stared down at the water droplets left from his glass on the table and took a moment before speaking, clearing his throat before he did so in anticipation of his larynx protesting. 

“I think you guys know already, we’re past this. Long past it,” Soap croaked out, coughing before taking another sip of his water. 

Gaz and Price shared a silent look full of worry; Soap caught it but chose to say nothing. He had been through this song and dance too many times before to care at this point. He was tired, tired of it all. 

“Son, why do you do this to yourself?” Price pauses before asking this, treating Soap like a wild animal. 

“The fuck do you mean, Price?” Soap spat out, a hiss lining his heavily-accented words. 

“Jesus, dude, look at yourself. You’re losing any semblance of who you really are without. . .” Gaz trailed off, unsure if the name was allowed to be uttered. 

“Without who, Gaz? Without who? Without Ghost? Without Simon? Without my boyfriend? Say the fucking name without it seeming like a taboo word that’ll just send me flying off my hinges. We’re long past that pal,” Soap snapped, eyes bloodshot and bleary. 

His raspy voice had caught the attention of a few patrons around the establishment. He didn’t care, not in the slightest. All meaning to his pitiful life had gone along with Simon the first time he had left, and it had never returned. He fiddled with the loose string on the sleeve that he had been slowly unravelling every time he was nervous ever since he was given the article of clothing. 

“Shit dude, you need help. You need to get away from him. You can’t keep living like this!” Gaz exclaimed, shaking off the harsh words Soap threw in his face.

“He’s right, we don’t like seeing you like this,” Price said in a low voice.

“Oh, so this was just an elaborate intervention, huh?” His Scottish tone was sneaking out as his voice rose with irritation. Whether it was at them, himself, or the whole situation overall was up for debate. 

“Don’t say it like that. You know damn well that Simon doesn’t deserve your forgiveness over and over again just to run off on you. This isn’t a healthy relationship. This is barely a relationship at all. God love that boy, but he has issues that need to be addressed by a proper therapist instead of taking it out on you. We want to help you,” Price said, coaxing Soap into a sense of false security. 

Soap frowned, his jaw tensing up at the very utterance of the truth. The truth that he knew damn well was something he needed to hear. He refused to believe it though; didn’t want to face the facts that his once charming boyfriend had turned his back on him. His narrow eyes focused on an interesting spot on the table as he crossed his arms in pure silence. He chewed at the side of his mouth, eyebrows furrowed as his whole body tensed up. Soap had a vague idea of where this was going, and he didn’t like how it would end.

“Looking at you like this, it’s not right,” Gaz began. “I need to know you aren’t a danger to yourself.”

“I’m not going to off myself as soon as I go home,” Soap said, spite coating his every word. 

“That’s not what we mean. You’re drinking yourself to death, Soap. You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. That’s as much as killing yourself as you can get without tying a noose around your throat,” Price said, his voice echoing inside of Soap’s head, causing pain to evolve around his temple. He really should’ve taken an Advil today. Or maybe two. 

“I’m fine,” Soap says, tiredly. He truly was exhausted, borderline delirious; but if he could just make it through this interaction, he’d be home free to go home and pass out with a bottle in his hand. 

“Like hell you are, we’re getting you in therapy and you’re staying with one of us until you’re deemed okay,” Gaz shoots back.

“You are not seriously considering that? Babysitting me? Right Price?” Soap asks, turning his attention to Price. 

“We believe that it would be for the best; not letting you be alone going stir crazy,” Price explains softly.

“Fuck this, I’m going home. Leave me alone,” Soap brushes off Price’s hand, standing up and shuffling out to the exit. 

“Shit, Soap, wait up,” Gaz says, grabbing Soap’s arm in an attempt to make him stop. To make him actually think about it for a second in order to process it. Maybe if Soap had let him do so, he would’ve gotten help. He would’ve sat back down and listened to what his friends had to say and thrown up a bird to Simon and let that part of his life die away. These thoughts flashed through Soap’s mind for a split second, fading out to instincts as he swung back at Gaz - making sickening contact with Gaz’s nose. The second of silence seemed to never end, until it did. The sound of his own heart roaring in his ears faded as he saw the flash of pain and betrayal in Gaz’s eyes as he clutched his now bleeding face. Shit.

Soap didn’t know what to do except run, and so that’s what he did. It made his stomach turn as flashes of the night of Grave’s betrayal arose in his memories. A phantom pain plaguing his arm and side where bullet particles likely still laid. The environment around him flashed as rain pelted him and his- Simon’s hoodie. Shame bubbled up in his stomach, forcing him to double over in an alley and throw up the pure liquid in his gut despite his attempts to choke it down. That’s where he laid as he stared up at the grey sky. That’s where he laid as he was dragged into the police car by the cops that he presumed Price had sent to track down his pathetic ass. He was forced into handcuffs, something that wasn’t foreign to him. Soap wasn’t exactly surprised that he ended up here, he was only surprised that he didn’t end up in a cop car sooner. 

“Young man, how drunk are you?” A cop asked. Soap finally caught his question after three times of him asking.

Soap looked upon the man with his eyes tinged pink from crying and his throat destroyed from sobbing and mumbling to himself. 

“I beg you sir just let me call, I’ll give you my blood alcohol, I’ll rot with all the burnouts in the cell,” Soap babbled incoherently. He wasn’t even aware of what he was saying; his only thoughts being of hearing Simon’s voice to beg for forgiveness. Or maybe to yell at him for leaving him to end up here. Whatever Soap believed in, it brought good fortune to him and the officer let him pick up the phone to dial the number he knew by heart, even drunk out of his mind. It rang, and rang, and then the beep of the hangup tone rang out in the silence. 

“Just wait I swear he’ll call me back,” Soap cried out, tears of desperation beginning to stream down his face. 

“I’m sorry, I have to take you to the station now,” The officer was overly polite and gentle, able to see the fracturing of the broken man in front of him. His eyes expressed condolences for Soap being hung up on. Even the cops thought Ghost was wrong for hanging up.

“Fuck that, sir, just let me call,” Soap wailed, truly losing himself to the pure distress and anguish with his other half abandoning him in his time of need.