Call of Duty Fanfic

Series

Finished

Dude, Seriously? (Comedy: Soap really likes mean women. 20 parts.)

Is This Love? (Comedy: Soap and Weisz are two idiots in love. 26 parts.)

In-Progress

The Trouble with Tems (Fluff: The 141 find a cat.)

Ritual (18+ Angst: Soap would rather bathe with a toaster than be seen as a civilian. Unfortunately, toasters are waterproof. 11 chapters published.)

Yoga Instructor AU Masterlist (18+ OC x canon fluffy smut: Based on this post by l3ibnest. 4 fics.)

Caught (18+ OC x canon smut: Soap catches his teammate masturbating at work. And she catches him making audio porn as a side hustle. Four chapters plus bonus.)

His Heaven, His Hell (Angst: Heaven is supposed to be everything he ever wanted. ...so why isn't it?)

One-Shots

I Hate You, No Really (Mild angst: Reader gives a eulogy at Soap's funeral.)

Death In His Infinite Wisdom (Mild angst: "Rarely does death do you the favor of allowing you to say goodbye.")

Bullshit Bulldozer (Angst: Updated version of Death In His Infinite Wisdom.)

Leave for Simon (Mild angst: Simon's comes home after a mission. Based on this TikTok.)

How to Be A Pretty Boy (Fluff: Soap takes the 141 through his skincare routine.)

Would You...? (Angst: Soap and FMC confront their feelings for one another.)

Adjust Your Grip (Angst: Gaz asks Price for comfort. Price can't provide it.)

Blanched Palms, White Knuckles, The Blood Rushing Back (Angst: Twenty-seven was Ghost's unlucky number.)

Screen-Shot Through The Heart (Comedy: Price's laptop is broken. That isn't Ghost's primary focus.)

Can't Believe I'm The Woman (Smut: Ghost and Soap have always wondered what fucking a man in the arse feels like. Problem is, one of them has to be the bottom.)

He'd Do Anything for Love (Even That) (Smut: Soap finally agrees to let his girlfriend do him in the bum.)

It's All To See You Smile (Fluff: Eve and Ghost enjoy a day on leave. Turns out, Eve had something up her sleeve.)

Laid Bare (Angst: Gen (of @/sleepy-dino12) has to come to terms with how close she really is with one John "Soap" MacTavish.)

Man in the Mirror (Smut: Soap loves lingerie. Especially the way it looks on him.)

Muscle Memory (Angst: Sergeant Weisz had such bright hopes for her future.)

Sketches

The Base (Non-CoD. A servicemember and her shadow.)

Soap and Panic Attacks (Mild angst: So long as nobody knows, they aren't a problem...)

Beach Episode (Fluff: Gaz and Soap prank Price and Ghost. It ends, predictably, rather poorly. Based on this pic.)

A Dangerous Dance (Soap figures battle is as close as he'll ever get to a rave.)

Ghost and Soap Get a Divorce (Drabble. What it says on the tin.)

Nipples and Belly (Smut practice. Ghost is pierced. Guess where.)

Count (CoD poem: The beads on a dog tag and beads of a rosary are rather similar, don't you think?)

Waxing (Inspired by having to wax my legs recently.)

Tea Time (Mild Fluff and Angst: Ghost makes his teammates tea.)

Thistle and Bone (Mild angst: Ghost writes a letter after Soap's death)

Glasses Wearing Reader x Soap (Ask response)

Ghost x Reader with Foot Fungus (Crack!fic)

Headcanons

The 141 Is Protective

The 141 and Sleep

The 141 as Boyfriends

10 Ghost HCs

This what I'm gonna be? He closed his eyes, trying to blot out the mental image of him, muscles turned to useless mush under the cogs of average office life, unable to curse or get angry lest a manager younger than him by nearly a decade reprimand him. It was a joke amongst ex-servicemembers that it was better to just start your own business, so you didn't have to deal with civilians' fragile feelings. A thought zinged through him, the words leaving his mouth before he had time to catch them,

"You boys know anybody who's hiring?"

Kyle cracked an eye open, while Simon blinked awake slowly. Both slowly removed their headphones.

"Not in that shithole you call home," Ghost replied.

"I can ask around," Kyle supplied. "You think you're ready to go to work?"

Soap shrugged, "Might as well ask, aye?"

"Sure," Kyle replied, "I'll ask."

---

"Got everything?" Johnny stood, arms crossing and uncrossing as he watched Simon and Kyle pack their things. The tiny apartment felt suddenly as though it had expanded in all directions, so rapidly it left Johnny's head spinning. Twenty-four hours ago, he'd been sobbing in a hotel bathroom that his best mate paid for, and now he was saying goodbye for...  ...will it be the last time? He couldn't bear the thought.

"Yup," Gaz hoisted his bag, a bit heavier with a few things Johnny had insisted he take back to base. Just some biscuits. Tea. Other stupid sweets he scrounged up because they didn't buy anything in Glasgow. It was a hodge-podge. Embarrassing, really.

Gaz dropped his bag, giving Soap a proper hug, lung-busting back pats and all, before giving Soap a brisk nod and heading outside for a smoke to wait for Ghost.

Which left Soap staring down his old commanding officer who he's roundly tried to beat up, failed to beat up, burdened with both train rides and hotel stays...

"When d'you figure you'll have time again?" Soap shuffled his feet, scrubbing the rubberized toe of his house slipper against a scratch in the wooden floor.

"Never know," Ghost replied, hooking a thumb through one of his belt loops. "But I'll be sure to give you the heads up when we're due back."

Soap nodded. They stood, neither wanting to make that move, before Ghost let out a beleaguered sigh and took the step forward not for a hug, but for a heavy hand clapped on Soap's shoulder.

"Take care of yourself, Johnny," Simon didn't move until Johnny's eyes met his. Two more pats on the shoulder and a quick tap on his cheek - almost paternal - before Ghost was shouldering his own bag and following Kyle out the door. Johnny stood, watching as Simon rounded the corner and, with a brief glance back, began walking toward the train station.

Chill air gusted into the house. Johnny took a breath. Held it. And closed the door.

---

That night, Johnny went to Holburn's.

"You're back!" John gave him a wave, "Thought you'd gone to AA." Johnny couldn't muster a half-hearted chuckle.

"The opposite," he grunted as he swung his bag over the bartop, "half and half, please." He glumly allowed that at least his manners hadn't totally eluded him.

"I'll be dragging you home, then?" John peered over his shoulder at Johnny as he poured the whiskey with a flourish. A beer and water arrived moments later, with the beer sporting too much of a head.

"Hopefully not," Johnny said around the lip of the whiskey glass before pouring it down his throat in one go. John likely shot him a look, but Johnny couldn't see. He was sagged forward in his stool, eyes closed as he let the burn of the whiskey ease the tightness between his shoulders.

"Live music tonight," John said blithely, "couple university kids. They're not bad."

Johnny nodded, taking a bracing breath before opening his eyes, "Good to know."

"Girls'll be out in full force, I'm sure."

Johnny couldn't tell if that was caution to back away or a shove to move forward. He decided John hadn't been disappointed he'd gotten his dick wet in the loo before, couldn't hurt to try it again.

"Rog," he lifted his beer and took a sip. "I'm gonna..." he gestured toward a small booth in the corner, "watch the game."

"No game tonight," John replied, "but I'll put something on for you."

Johnny saluted him with his glass, leaving the water behind as he shuffled over to a corner booth. Patrons had already begun to trickle in, and he was just able to nab it before a couple who looked like they were freshly in love managed to take it to moon over one another in. He ignored the pointed glare from the shorter one.

John managed to fumble through some streaming hub just long enough to put on-

"Keeping Up Appearances?" Johnny grimaced, "Does he think I'm eighty?" But he settled in, eyes half-glazed as he watched the beloved sitcom, subtitles inadequately managing the running Bucket joke.

It was around 6pm when the uni kids showed up, settling on the corner stage with a drum set that near forced the singer and guitarist to stand with their toes off the edge. They settled into themselves, running a sound check and tuning their instruments. Johnny watched the drummer ineffectively flirt with the singer, who seemed to be interested in the guitarist, who seemed to be interested in the drummer. Which, with a Seinfeldian pause, Johnny supposed there was nothing wrong with a man going after a man. But they were hardly men - closer to kids at, what, nineteen? Setting out into the world to play at lives that were safe and cozy with their mild drama around love.

Had any of them been hit? Had any of them hit another person? Been shot? Stabbed? Arrested for more than public drunkenness? Done more than smoked some weed?

He doubted it.

Not that kids didn't get hit every day, but...

"Different, innit?" Ghost and Soap stood, hands on their hips, as they watched missiles light the sky as if it were daytime. Too far from the action to be doing anything. Too close to do nothing. They stood beside the poor sod frantically trying to match drone for drone, missile for missile, pausing to correct his course through their binoculars.

"Real different," Soap agreed, "it's like... you're so small, and you don't know why it's happening, so you figure-"

"Must be my fault," Ghost finished, "Yeah, that's how it felt."

"...I'm sorry, S-" Johnny caught himself, "I'm sorry, Ghost." The man beside them heard nothing over the radio chatter pouring through his one covered ear.

"Nothing you can do about it but move on. I know I won't do that- won't beat my kids. Or my wife."

"You're gonna manage a wife?" Soap tried.

"If she can get over adopting a dog," Ghost stared a moment longer at the missiles before turning on heel. Soap followed, carefully tapping the third man on the shoulder as they left. As was always the case, Soap felt clunky next to Ghost, who moved with a sort of sinewy grace - no elbows out to avoid his plate carrier, it seemed Ghost walked chest first, where Soap had a penchant for his shoulders leading the way. Easy confidence, that was Ghost.

"You want a dog, LT?" Soap raised his eyebrows, tilting his head. His imaginings of Ghost with a chihuahua were cut short when Ghost replied,

"You, Johnny. I meant you," Ghost paused, eyes crinkling just so at the jibe.

"...Gaz taught you about Golden Retriever energy, didn't he?" Soap sighed, "The bastard."

---

The uni kids were awful. Just awful. The singer wailed in a sort of mush-mouthed approximation of a jazz singer while the drummer did his best to drown out the guitar, who seemed to be the only competent one of the bunch.

"Play a different song!" Soap heckled. The singer faltered. Soap didn't have it in him to feel guilty. The guitarist shot the singer a look. They wrapped their song and convened over the drum set.

"Is it your birthday?" The drummer shouted back, and Soap could see why the guitarist liked him.

"If I say yes, will you play something else?"

"No," the drummer returned.

"Shame," Soap returned, and from the corner of his eye he saw John flick up the tap pull with a bit too much force. He quieted, not eager to be thrown on his arse. The uni kids returned to their gig, though less assuredly than before.

Johnny decided after the mic squealed for the third time in thirty minutes that the booze wasn't worth it. He paid his tab at the bar and dragged his arse back to his flat, throwing himself on his couch. Nothing good on, as usual. Nobody to talk to. No use in going to church.

"...shit," Johnny stared up at the ceiling. "What now?"

Masterlist for this and other works here

Short chapter this time around as we end arc one and settle into arc two. Johnny's been moping for 50k words, now. It's time he gets up and does something.

The next hike was to their hotel. Simon had once again been merciful, even at expense to his wallet. Characteristically, when Johnny tried to wheedle an amount out of him for how much it cost, Ghost simply grunted. But Johnny’s questions were answered when they opened the door. The answer was: not enough to be terribly worried about Ghost’s retirement.

It was functional - bright blue carpet and bedspreads on two beds, a single room for the three of them with a couch that pulled out. Serviceable, but not overwrought. Johnny felt a knot he hadn’t known had formed between his shoulder blades loosen. He realized, with sudden embarrassment, that he’d half-expected Ghost to have gotten them some over-classed accommodations with plush robes and a jacuzzi or some shit. As if his aches and pains had to be personally paid for by the man himself.

But no. It was Simon buying the room, and Simon was nothing if not practical. There was no reason to spend any money on a place they’d be storing their things and using only while horizontal and unconscious. In fact, Johnny realized, it put him at ease to see so little in the room. It reminded him of the dorms.

First day and he was agog. Everything was tidy - with old, yellow wood bed frames and matching desks and wardrobes. Two beds per room, like what he’d always imagined uni would be like. But instead of uni, here he was, his government-issued bag thrown at the foot of his government-issued bed, with his government-issued lifestyle awaiting him at the ripe age of seventeen.

His eyes lit up as he took in the size of the place. Sure, it was for two people, but he had his own space again. No cousin’s room where he slept on the floor, no flat that seemed to get smaller and smaller each year as rent went higher and higher.

And, he realized with sudden clarity, no more burden on his brother. As he stood in the empty room, taking in everything that he now had and everything he hadn’t, the clarity fractured and pierced him. He was the reason their flat got smaller. He was the reason Mikey had to keep getting shittier and shittier jobs. Because Johnny wasn’t studying in school, even though he had such potential. He’d been caught with weed, he’d been caught with alcohol, he’d been caught starting fights and stealing. Again and again, he’d forced Mikey to leave his shift to speak with teachers and concerned adults alike and fucked it all up for him in the process.

He fought back a sudden, hot wave of shame as he realized that he’d done all that, and he was being rewarded for it. Here he was in better accommodations than Mikey had. A salary promised in his future that his brother could only hope to claw his way out of. And here the fuck he was, beaming.

He was a piece of fucking shit.

“Thank God.” He muttered as Simon tossed their bags on the bed to the left. Kyle set his on the right. Neither replied.

“So, who’s the poor bastard who’s getting the couch?”

“More like who’s the poor bastard who’s getting wrapped up in Ghost.” Kyle quipped. “Nose goes.” He grinned and tapped his nose. Simon rolled his eyes.

“I’m not that bad.”

“Ghost, you’re an absolute kebab. Spinning around like you’re trying to get evenly roasted by the sheets.”

“Shut up, Garrick.” Simon groused. But a maskless Simon was a readable Simon. And Simon was amused.

Johnny couldn’t place the emotion that washed over him when he watched his two friends getting along so well. They’d been friendly while he’d been in, of course, but now… now they had jokes. They must have had to share beds and foxholes and piles of rubble. They must have saved one another’s lives another twenty times.

They’d moved on.

“‘Scuse me.” Johnny turned toward the bathroom. The door was heavier than it looked, slamming shut when he meant only to close it. The tiled space was blessedly cool thanks to the aircon pumping through the space with arctic temperatures. And it grounded him, to be able to further hole himself up in the wash closet and lock that door.

He made sure to be loud enough when he propped the lid open, intending to piss standing up. But his back was sending painful lances from his spine to his haunch, and his knee ache felt more like torment than he’d realized. He lowered the seat quietly, shucked down his things, and sat; collapsing forward with his forearms on his knees.

“Fucking hell.” He murmured to himself.

Who the fuck cares if you piss sitting down? He admonished himself. Who cares if you’re upset that they’re closer than they used to be?

But he did. He cared so much it made him sick to his stomach.

It wasn’t the time on the train. It wasn’t the time now. But he wasn’t going to find another sliver of peace for a while.

So, he let it happen.

Tears.

Hot and fast. Quiet sobs and less-quiet snorts wracked his frame as he further collapsed over himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried.

He must have been exhausted.

Teeth clenched around a roll of gauze, he’d been unable to think of anything except the persistent fire lancing down his leg. Not lucky enough for a graze, Soap had been properly shot. A through and through, just missing the important shit, but the hastily unpacked tourniquet didn’t care. He was bleeding. Badly. His leg was tingling and growing colder. He was certain whomever was cinching the tourniquet was cinching too tight because-

A snap. So loud and dull he was certain they’d dislocated his knee. That tingling, swelling cold under his knee. His skin was becoming a mottled kind of purple. And then, a fresh wave of nausea.

“I-I think I broke his shin, sir.” The private was shaking as he secured the swivel stick and stepped away. Ghost had Soap upright in a matter of seconds, dragging him toward exfil.

“Broken bone’s better’n bleeding out. You did fine.” The private - Soap was too busy trying to maintain consciousness to catch his name - supported his other side and dragged him forward. Soap’s vision swam and he realized as he mumbled around it that he still had the gauze in his mouth. He spat it out.

“Dislocated, maybe.” He offered.

“Maybe.” Ghost agreed. “What’re you feeling?”

“What do you think I’m feeling?” He groused, but he recognized it for what it was. “I’m feeling… my leg is cold and feels… tight… below the tourniquet. Don’t think it was totally properly applied.”

“Agreed.” Ghost readjusted, taking on more of Soap’s weight as the private stumbled. “What else, Sergeant?”

“Difficult staying conscious. Going into shock. Feeling… cold and distant.”

“As expected,” Ghost replied dryly, “and how about that brain of yours that’s always in fifth gear?”

“Downshifted to third, sir.” He replied.

“Well, we could all use a break from your interminable yammering.” Ghost replied. “So, thank God for small miracles.”

The back-and-forth continued as they made their way into the heli.

Johnny took one last deep, shuddering breath before fisting an obscene amount of toilet roll in his hand. He scrubbed at his face, heedless of the color likely blooming in its wake, and finally braced himself on the wall, rocking himself upright. For a moment, he felt so drained he wasn’t sure if he wanted to bother pulling up his pants and trousers. Perhaps he could just shuffle to the sink, instead.

Be a bloody man, MacTavish. He admonished himself, collecting those final scattered pieces of himself and managing to dress. He stumbled toward the sink. He ran the water as cold as it would go. He scrubbed at his face and hoped the chill would minimize the most obvious swelling. Then turned the water hot as he could manage, holding his hands underneath until he couldn’t stand it anymore.

That did it.

Blissful, empty silence in his brain for the first time since the boys had shown up. No frustration, no self-hatred, just… the sting of the scalding water and the knowledge that he could manage that. He could manage pain.

He took another breath, then turned off the water. Nose, eyes, and hands now pink, he toweled himself off and re-emerged.

If either man had heard, they said nothing. If they noticed the raw edges to both his skin and his soul, they said nothing. And as with this entire trip, they didn’t speak when they finally moved. They simply moved. Kyle was already finding another water bottle, and Simon was turning to pretend to give Johnny just a bit of privacy.

And when Johnny sat on the edge of the bed, clearing his throat wetly, he allowed them their space. He took a few deep, bracing breaths, and managed to croak,

"So, what's the plan?"

Simon checked his phone. "Dinner somewhere close tonight. Tomorrow we'll do a bus tour. And... day after is the train."

Johnny nodded vacantly. "Sounds grand." He replied.

"Absolutely brilliant." Gaz piled on.

"Sure." Simon said. "Unless... Johnny, anything you've always wanted to see?"

A small but amused smile graced Johnny's lips. "There's a necropolis here, isn't there?" He asked.

"...there is." Simon said after tapping through a few tabs. "Why?"

"Been thinkin' about going to a cemetery again." He admitted. "I like the one over in Aberdeen." He didn't mention why. Neither Gaz or Ghost probed him further.

---

Dinner was familiar. Ghost, unchanging, had ordered a burger the size of his head. Gaz, fish and chips ("with vinegar," he insisted. Soap didn't get it.). Soap had also gotten a burger, though he ate it at a far more sedate pace.

"That's something I never thought I'd see." Gaz quipped, glancing over at Soap. "Table manners."

"Bile yer heid." Soap shot back, grinning. "I'm just not hungry, is all." But he was thirsty. By the time the bill came, the table was littered with napkins, the remains of their dinners, and something like seven or eight dead pints of beer. They'd specifically ask they stay on the table - an old habit to keep track of how much they'd have so that their next morning was less groggy and more chipper. They'd thrown up during PT enough times to realize that a fun night out wasn't worth the morning after.

"Alright." Soap slapped his thighs and stood. "What now? Hit the town? Find some women?" He nudged Gaz playfully. "...or are we planning on acting like old gits and just going to bed?"

"Old gits." Ghost nodded.

"Seconded." Gaz burped into his fist. "Haven't had a proper night's sleep in..." He counted something on his fingers. "Oh my God - four months."

Soap caught the waiter's eye, motioning for the check (split three ways).

"So, movie night, then?" He asked. He was already on his phone looking up where to buy a few bottles for the hotel room. The other two nodded, and the three of them left, having paid by cash (a habit they likely weren't intent on breaking anytime soon).

---

Ghost and Gaz were out like lights not an hour into the evening. Johnny sat, propped against the headboard next to Ghost, and fidgeted with his phone. Ghost'd kill him. He would.

But it might be his last chance.

He stood, carefully snapping a few photos of the boys. Gaz, sprawled bonelessly on his bed and Ghost, fingers knit together and resting on his belly, looking for all the world as if he were in a casket. The thought caught in his brain.

Caskets.

Simon.

Kyle.

Caskets.

Mam.

Caskets.

Da.

Suits. Black suits. Sniffling aunts he didn't know, cousins he'd never meet again. A clammy hand pulling away from his.

No. He shook his head.

He took a breath.

Just his friends, passed out after a long couple of trips they made to see him. Because they cared.

"...okay." He turned off the lights, shucked off his jeans, and climbed into the bed beside Ghost. Unlike the couch, this felt easier. He remembered how body heat had been essential in safe houses on colder nights, when rain and snow pelted run-down barns or abandoned warehouses.

"Johnny," Ghost cuffed him none too gently, "no."

"Johnny yes." He mumbled from where he lay on his back, hands folded low on his belly. His head rested on Ghost's stomach as they waited for the crackle of a radio. "Just give me a few minutes." He yawned widely.

"You're on watch." Ghost grumbled.

"Nah, 's your turn." Gravity felt denser, the ground wavering under his body as exhaustion and adrenaline crash pulled him into blessed unconsciousness. He only started when Ghost's arm rested heavily on his chest.

"Twenty minutes."

Soap could feel the cool, hard lines of Ghost's rifle resting against his cheek, shoulder, and chest. "Aye, sir." He replied drowsily.

He lay next to Ghost, awake and restless, every ping and zing of his knee and back a reminder that he'd never be back there. He sighed, the tv doing nothing to help him sleep.

He shifted, turning on his side to stare at Gaz, then, when that didn't help, he rolled and found himself face-to-face with Ghost - the large man's eyes open and staring down at him.

"Can't sleep?" He shifted.

"No."

"Wanna talk about it?"

Johnny blinked, then frowned. Ghost? Talk?

"We'll wake Gaz."

"Already awake." Gaz mumbled.

"Nothing to talk about." Johnny evaded.

Ghost's grunt was one of abject disagreement. Soap rolled on to his back, staring up at the hotel ceiling.

"I just..." Soap sighed. "...miss it." He cringed at how uncertain he sounded.

"Miss it." Ghost replied. "Miss the blood and the broken noses and the constant fear of death." He intoned. "Miss the fact that you're responsible for whether or not your teammates see their families come Christmas?

"Miss the constant visits to hospital?" Gaz supplied. "Or the sound of those bloody engines on the APCs when they blast past you?"

"Shit food."

"Shit coffee."

"And tea."

Soap groaned, seeing this stand-up routine for what it was. And it would have worked, dammit, if he were still in the army. But it wasn't going to work on him anymore. It couldn't. Because he'd seen civilian life, and the answer to their questions was a resounding yes. But in spite of himself, his only reply was a weary,

"Yeah. You're right."

---

Johnny was still awake. He'd long ago opened a second can of beer from the four pack he bought himself. With the soft strains of an infomercial serenading him, he began to think. Probably a dangerous pasttime. 

What was it he missed so terribly? Not the food, or doing PT while hungover to shit. Not the FNGs asking stupid bloody questions while puffing their chests out (and that certainly wasn't due to the mirror it raised toward his own behavior when he was the FNG).

Not the fear of death. Not the lingering itching at the nape of his neck that left him certain he was late to something (always).

So, what?

Couldn't be these bastards. Couldn't be the men snoring to either side of him (one of whom had somehow managed to hook both arm and leg around him, pinning him rather expertly).

But, as he lolled his head to look at Gaz's sleeping face (jaw tight, brow furrowed) and then Ghost's (unnervingly smooth and emotionless), he had to admit it was in no small part this. Brothers. Real brothers.

"Johnny," Mikey had sighed from the kitchen table, "please tell me you're joking."

"I'm not." Johnny stood in front of the printed application. No computer at home.

"You're seventeen."

"I'm old enough." He puffed out his chest, standing at his best, untrained approximation of parade rest.

"Johnny." Mikey tried again. "Come on, now. Did I raise you to be a killer?" 

That was a low blow. Johnny deflated somewhat.

"I'll not kill anyone. I'm going to do demolitions." He insisted. "I'm going to be the guy that diffuses bombs." He recalled what the recruiter had said. "Or maybe a sniper. Means I won't be in the thick of it. I'll be safe." He promised.

"They're lying to you." Mikey insisted, eyes shining. Then, sounding more mother than brother, his voice cracked and he begged, "Did I do this to you? Did I drive you to want to leave?"

"I'm not leaving! I won't be that far!"

"Surrey." Mikey read the form. "You'll be in Surrey. You don't even visit your friends, and they're a 45-minute train ride. You really believe you're going to visit me when you're a whole day away?"

"Of course!" Johnny insisted. "God, Mikey, you're acting like I'm about to go to fuckin' Africa!"

"You might!" Mikey stood, planting his hands on the table. "You're too young to remember, but they deployed British troops to Rwanda!"

"Rwanda's over!"

"Are you even fucking listening to me?" Mikey rounded the table, cheeks red and blue eyes yet glossier. "You won't just be in Surrey, you glaikit fuckin' bastard! When you're done there, you'll be off somewhere else? Next time I see you, you might be in a bloody box!"

The air was heavy as he realized his brother was crying. Real tears, not that half-forced tears he'd seen him give at their uncle's funeral.

"It's just the Army, Mikey." Johnny said softly. "I'm not gonna die. I'll probably never see combat. Think of it - I'll get a good job. Get you a good apartment, take care of you, eh?"

"Do you know how our granddad died?" Mikey croaked. Johnny wondered if he'd even heard him.

"Sure." Johnny said flippantly, "Battle of the Bulge. And?"

"It was luck that Mum was even conceived." Mikey said. "Grandma didn't even know until after she found out Grandpa Callum died."

"Sure." Johnny replied, dubious this time.

"You haven't got a wife, or a kid."

"So?"

"So what'll be left of you? Who's gonna remember you?" Mikey's hands gripped Johnny's shoulders too tight.

Johnny blinked. Softer this time, insistent, he repeated, "I'm probably not even going to see combat."

Mikey scoffed in disgust, face crumpling. With a shaking exhale, he plodded back to his chair, sinking into it carefully.

"Fine." He said. "Fine. Go. Be a hero." Blue eyes clashed with blue eyes and he hissed, "But I won't be here for you when you get back."

It had been the last time Johnny had spoken to Mikey. He wrote letters: first excited, then dismayed, then once more excited. He sent pictures, when he could print them. After he passed Selection, he sent a long letter alongside a sketch of his new dress twos for Mikey to see.

That letter came back. Mikey had moved. He'd never received a single letter back.

With a sigh, Johnny turned, shoving Ghost's leg off of his now-aching hip. The infomercial blared on.

---

Johnny woke the next morning with a screaming back and knee. Not just the familiar sharp ache like a knife jammed in every time he moved, but a pain so severe it lifted him out of sleep with a groan. Simon had returned to his side of the bed at some point in the evening, but the weight of the big bastard had put more strain on Johnny than the walks had.

Maybe it was the walks. Johnny considered. An unmanly whimper left the back of his throat as he swung himself over the side of the mattress. A glance toward the other side of the room confirmed that Gaz was already up. Probably scoped out breakfast.

"Simon," Johnny shook the man's shoulder. "It's nearly 8. Up and at 'em."

Simon groaned, smacking Johnny's hand away. "It's my vacation." He murmured. "I'm gonna sleep 'til 9."

"You were up and running at 5 at my place." Johnny argued with an amused chuckle.

"That wasn't vacation."

"Oh, no? What was it?"

"Intervention."

Johnny rolled his eyes, limping over to the trousers he'd unceremoniously kicked off the night prior. On the small table beside the telly lay his brace, which he snatched up with no small amount of disdain. More limping, back toward the bed, and he began to dress.

Dressing was one of the major annoyances since he was discharged. Some days he could dress as usual, tuck his shirt into his trousers and call it a day. Others, like today, he felt as though he might have pulled a Rip Van Winkle and woken up around eighty years of age. His knee protested each small movement as he inched the denim up and over, and his back decided to join the fray when he bent to pull his trouser legs up and over his feet. His limp had done him in once more.

Trousers secured, shirt tucked, belt buckled (his beloved brown belt from his time in Mexico), he was ready to call Gaz and see what it was he was up to.

"Brace." Ghost grumbled, having evidently noticed the distinct lack of velcro separating before the mattress moved.

"I'm feeling fine." Soap tsked.

"Brace." Ghost repeated. "Or I'll do it for you."

"Do not." Soap snatched up the brace, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed once more. The unwieldy black thing fit over his jeans well enough, though its bulk was terribly obvious. "I hate this thing." He complained.

"You only just started wearing it." Ghost hadn't yet given up on his dream of another hour's sleep, burying his head under his pillow. "Can't hate a thing you barely know."

"That fact?" Soap stood, the stiff hinge on either side of his leg making his gait awkward. He hadn't noticed the day before, but there was a slight squeak to it with every step. There goes my stealth factor.

"I've worn one." Ghost said through a yawn. "They help."

Soap hummed blandly. "...I'm gonna find Gaz."

Ghost sniffed, finally rising. "Gimme five. I'll come with."

---

Gaz picked up on the first ring, evidently not carrying anything.

"Sup?" Soap heard through the speakerphone.

"Where are you?"

Ah, Ghost, Johnny smiled, Never change.

"Down the way. I'll drop a pin."

"Give us a name."

"Black Sheep."

"Cafe?" Johnny piped up. "For breakfast?"

"Yeah. It's expensive, though."

"We'll be there in five." Ghost said. Johnny could only imagine Ghost had woken sometime in the middle of the night and studied a map of the surrounding area. Perhaps for the bus tour. Or perhaps because he always got squirrely in confined places where the exits were liable to give a body road rash.

Ghost was on his way down the street at a clip Johnny had missed. A steady march that held no excess of movement. Ghost had always been, for lack of a better word, economical. But Johnny, having been away for it as long as he had, recognized another element to it, as well. Ghost, or maybe Simon, was wound as tight as a spring at all times. The only time he wasn't was when he was sleeping, and likely only because he was doing grappling drills in his sleep.

Johnny fell behind Ghost in a matter of a few minutes, his hip joining the fray of screaming fascia and ligaments that begged him to simply rest up already, to not push himself any further.

"What're you gonna get?" Johnny forced himself to jog to catch up. Only then did Simon seem to realize he was walking too quickly.

"Dunno. Haven't seen the menu."

Johnny shook his head, amusement evident, but said nothing more. They walked in comfortable silence, taking in the crisp morning air. Johnny smiled softly, suddenly fond for his flat in Aberdeen. Glasgow had a certain touristy charm to it - felt like a real getaway to go somewhere so much larger than home - but he was right to move back to the Granite City.

That said, by God did Glasgow have color. Whereas the most Johnny could ask for in his daily life was a few flowering trees, Glasgow seemed content to bustle and burst with life. Not greenery - that was much more Aberdeen's strong suit when it wasn't boasting its monochrome color scheme of grey on grey - but the sheer artistry of some of its architecture. Near everything gave off the impression that it was once a stately building that had better things to do than cater to tourists. Filigree and dramatic curves caught the eye no matter where he looked. And the pavement... the pavement was easier on his knee. He'd expected Aberdeen to care more, but perhaps it was that Glasgow had the budget.

A large group of American tourists passed by on their way and Johnny instinctively turned his head to see if he could see his favorite crow. Foolish, and needy, and altogether lovesick of him to do so. Simon caught it immediately.

"That bird of yours was American, wasn't she?"

"She wasn't mine." Johnny deflected automatically. "Ah, but... yeah. Yeah, she was from America. Just visiting for a few weeks."

"Never one for commitment."

"Not to a woman." Johnny agreed. They turned, and Johnny was given all of the information he needed - the cafe was so expensive because it was right back at the train station. No wonder Simon could lead the way so easily. "Wh-" Johnny blinked. "Seriously?"

"Why not?" Simon shrugged. Johnny followed him in until they wandered into the cafe, finding Kyle settled in a small wire cafe chair, nursing a coffee and surrounded by a spread of various foods and drink.

"Morning!" He toasted them with a paper travel cup. "Johnny, got you your coffee. Simon, your tea."

Johnny took up a small paper bag, peering in to find a ham and cheese toastie. "Thanks." He threw himself into the chair opposite Kyle. Simon pulled another chair to the small table, and the three men shifted and shuffled as their knees knocked together. Too large by half, all of them. Especially Simon, who seemed altogether too content to spread his knees widely.

"Lookit," Gaz turned his phone toward the both of them, "looks like there's axe throwing nearby. Whaddaya say?"

Ghost glanced down at his phone, "The bus," he reminded them, almost sounding put-out.

"Sod the bus," Soap grasped for Gaz's phone, "they've got axe-throwing."

Ghost squinted from under his ball cap, putting a show on of all the hurt and damnation that came from eschewing his plan for-

"That does sound better," he admitted, "good thing I took the option to refund."

They finished their breakfast and were on their way, Gaz leading the charge this time. The three of them continued to draw wary looks from those folks who hadn't been fortunate enough to acquaint themselves with tall, taller, and tallest.

Soap could barely contain his excitement, which drew matching amused glances from Gaz and Ghost. Arms crossed, he watched the spotty twenty-something hired by the punnily named Game of Throwing tell him about proper posture, how to take turns, all that shite, but Soap was hardly listening. His eyes were on the small, beat-up axes laid out on the side table before the “range”.

“Mhm,” he finally nodded as the kid wrapped up their speech, “Got it. Thanks, mate.” And they were off. Gaz and Soap positioned themselves in one lane each, with Gaz hefting the axe easily.

"What's the wager?" Gaz grinned, teeth glinting. Before Soap could answer, Ghost piped up with an easy,

"Fifty on Soap."

"What?" squawked Gaz, "God, of course you choose him."

"Trained him myself," Ghost shrugged.

"Is that what that was?" Soap drew his arm up and over, relishing the way he could feel his muscles bunch up as he did so. The slight resistance he felt with the top-heavy instrument. The narrow field of focus he settled into. "Thought you just liked grinding up on me."

"You have more confidence in your arse than you should, Johnny," Ghost returned.

Soap took a breath. And threw.

The axe bounced off handle-first, clattering about halfway back up the lane.

Next to him, Gaz's axe did the same. Both men gaped at their failed attempts.

Ghost snorted, and Soap couldn't bear to look back and see those brown eyes curved up in amusement.

"Like you could do better," he snapped childishly, stepping aside with a huff. He crossed his arms tight over his chest, brow furrowed dramatically as he watched Ghost pick up the axe, weighing it for a few moments. Soap watched as Ghost let the axe handle glide downward, gripping it near the end, where it curved ever so slightly.

"Balance, boys," Ghost raised his arm and - thunk! - damn near a bullseye. ”It’s all about balance.”

"Aw, fuck," Soap buried his face in his hands, "of course, the cunt's been throwing knives since before he joined." He drew his hand over his hair, laughing as he regarded Gaz, "How could we forget?"

The three men chuckled for a good moment as Soap tried one more time. This time, as Ghost had taught him in a past life, he paid closer attention to the weight of the weapon. He'd been balancing it, as though it would fly straight. But no, it was top heavy. No matter how much weight he put behind it, it would drag downwards. Better to put a spin on it and-

Thunk!

Barely on the board. Worse than Gaz's second attempt.

But it didn't matter.

---

"I'm not allowed to serve you more than two drinks each," the lank young man behind the counter hardly twitched.

It wasn't worth the effort, Soap decided, setting the empty glass down on the bar counter heavily.

"Fine," he sighed, "we'll find a pub. C'mon," he trudged out of the dimly lit place without so much as a glance back at Gaz and Ghost, nearly blinding himself in the afternoon light. He wasn't quite sure what it was he was trying to do when he turned left and started walking, only that he was tired of waiting for the other men to find something nearby. Let them walk, wander even, and find what it was they wanted to do that way. Fuck the knee and the brace and the ache in his back, and fuck the way Ghost had been eyeing him since they'd left the hotel.

And fuck the way Ghost and Gaz had been eyeing him since they left Aberdeen.

And fuck the way Ghost and Gaz had eyed him in that hospital bed.

Johnny slowed, reaching into his pocket for that now pitiful looking pack of cigarettes. He didn't even want to light one. Not really. He just wanted to do something to make up for the fact that he had stopped, toes curling in his trainers as he realized how ridiculous he looked, storming out of some arcade that children went to all because he couldn't get a bloody pint. The cigarette didn't do its job as Gaz silently offered him a light, giving him that look again.

"Alright," Soap took a deep drag, "where to next, boys?"

"Train soon," Ghost intoned, "we gotta check out and pack our things."

"What?" The cigarette nearly fell from his lips, "We're out of time already?"

"Yup," Kyle checked his phone, "looks like we spent a fair amount of time in there."

Johnny sagged, following Simon at a sedate pace as he navigated the pavement back to the hotel.

Masterlist for this and other works here