#abob

Right there, way too close to him, are sparkling eyes, deep blue like the eye of a storm is, framed by thick lashes. Right there is a tan, flushed cheek, splattered with freckles and honeyed laughter.

Simon's fingers bump into warm skin again, wrapping around a thick bicep, corded with muscle underneath the soft, dark hair.

"Johnny?"

Johnny laughs like filtered sunlight, presses Simon's cold fingertips to his lips.

"Who else would it be, love? Ye in the habit of invitin' other people intae our bed?"

"I- no- bloody hell, Johnny, course not. I just..." Simon squints, tries to sort out his brain. Gets distracted by Johnny's hot tongue licking at his fingers.

"Ye wha'?"

"I- sweetheart, I think..." Simon trails off, uncertain. Surges forward and presses his face into the crook of Johnny's neck, inhales him deep. Lets himself drown in the scent, knows every layer and every note of it. He has to know this is real. "I dreamed..."

"Oh." Johnny's arms wrap around him tightly, pull Simon in closer. Warm palms settle on the small of his back, rubbing soothing circles on Simon's sweaty skin. "Bad one, was it? Would ye like tae talk about it, love?"

"Mhh." Simon squeezes his eyes like that could make the branded image on the inside of his eyelids go away, but that only makes it worse. He slides his hands over Johnny's familiar body, anchors himself in reality with the feeling of that sun-kissed skin covered in a layer of fuzzy dark hair. Noses at his neck, where he smells sweet and salty all at once, and relishes the sweaty, sleep-thick musk of him. He’s real. 

His voice hitches when he tries to speak, breaks within the first syllable.

"I... Johnny, you were- you were— you..."

"Shh, breathe fer me, yeah?" Johnny's voice sinks into Simon's bones, deep and heavy in just the right way. It grounds him more than anything else could, putting that ache inside him to rest, and Johnny talks him through it, never stops, his brogue settling deep in his throat as he soothes Simon’s shaking body. "Breathe, just in and out... In… and out… There ye go, love, there ye go. It’s okay… 's okay. Yer okay. Just keep breathin' fer me, I’m nae goin' anywhere… Mhh, well done. I'm right here, aye?"

"Yeah," Simon whispers into the broad expanse of his chest, feeling small and shaky in spite of his size. Lets himself be held in those arms he loves so much. Has always loved so much. “Yeah, you... you're here."

"I'm here." Johnny presses a kiss into Simon's silvery hair, right where the scar cleaves through his cropped curls. His lips are soft, his hands a calming heat pressing into Simon’s back, and Simon can feel his steady, slow pulse against his cheek when he presses his face against Johnny’s neck.

Johnny shifts, the beat of his pulse fading for just a moment, and dread slips around Simon’s throat like steel wire when he remembers. It’s cold enough to burn away even the warmth of Johnny’s lips.

"You were dead," he mumbles, voice heavy with tears he refuses to shed. "You were- It was- God, Johnny, it was— it's never been like that. It was so... vivid. So detailed. Fucking months I went- fuckin hell, I was at your bloody funeral. Watched you being lowered into the ground. Watched your mum sob her fuckin’ eyes out at your graveside. I watched you- watched you die-"

"Oh, love." Johnny's hands never stop their movements even as Simon’s chest shakes with silent sobs, squeezing him all over as if to remind him that he's really here. "Fuck, that... aye, that'll get ye. I’m sorry, I’m right here, yeah? Right here… yer okay. I’m okay. I’ve got ye, doll."

"Mhhm." Simon has no words to describe the dreadful feeling of pure emptiness that still echoes in his bones. Doesn't even want to try. Might speak it into existence if he finds the words for it. His lips press into Johnny’s skin instead. "Christ, sweetheart. That was... sorry if I woke you up."

"Och, do nae apologise to me, Simon. I was already up. I don't mind, no’ if ye needed me."

Simon furrows his brow. Already up? Johnny sleeps like the dea– Well. He sleeps deeper than anybody else Simon knows when he is off duty. Like a fucking stone, doesn't rise until midday if he can help it. This is odd. Untypical. An anomaly im their little cosmos.

For a moment, Simon considers not asking the question that burns on his tongue, but he just can't help it. Has to assure himself that everything is as it should be.

"What were you-"

"Don't ye worry yer bonnie little heid aboot that, doll." Johnny’s fingers run through Simon’s hair, down his face to cup his jaw and kiss him softly. A wet tongue sneaks its way into Simon’s mouth, and he grows breathless. Forgets all about his troubles and instead presses closer to Johnny. It’s easy, it’s so easy. Johnny is always so easy, his hands on Simon’s body the only thing that feels like they might belong there, Johnny’s lips on his proof that Eden can exist even for someone like Simon.

It’s so easy to get lost in him.

Simon grunts when Johnny finally wrestles from his tight embrace, unhappy about the loss of contact.

"What are you doing?" 

Johnny’s fingers tap the scar on the bridge of Simon’s nose in the pattern of the freckles that surround it, and his smile is blinding in the soft morning light.

"Makin' tea fer the only Brit I can stand tae be aroond." Another kiss is pressed into the nest of Simon's hair like an apology as Johnny slips from the warm bed into the chilly morning air. "God, I spoil ye, don't I?"

A slow smile spreads across Simon's face. That silly man. The only one in the world he can bear.

"You sure do."

"Be back in two seconds, love."

Simon pouts, miserable at the prospect of being left alone, but then thinks of the excellent tea Johnny makes just for him. With just the right amount of milk, water never too hot, steeped to perfection. Johnny teases him about it, but he does it still, and even if the tea wasn’t perfect, it still kind of would be just because it’s tangible proof of his affection. And that might just be worth having to stay in bed all alone on a chilly morning.

Simon settles back into bed, closes his eyes for a moment. He breathes in deeply, tasting the lingering scent of Johnny in the air, mixed with his own, and smiles. This is how it should always have been. A quiet, perfect morning. He shifts, cracks his neck, his heart beating faster when he presses his face into Johnny’s pillow. Maybe he can surprise him when he comes back to bed. Maybe he can–

A half-rotten smile, staring up at him from dark red velvet, covered in decaying, slimy fungi. Not even the chill in the air can ward off the stench of death that drenches everything, soaks him until he knows he will never escape it. The reverend skull, bone cold as death and smooth as ice below Ghost's palm when he wraps it in the holy cloth. Brittle pages of a book beneath his fingertips, spelling out I love you over and over and over again until the ink turns thick and red and blood stains the carpet beneath his feet.

Simon's eyes fly open, heart racing in his chest. He can't breathe, can't fucking breathe, not with all this dirt pressing down on his chest, not without–

"Johnny!"

There is no response, just birds chirping outside the window. Simon rips the blanket from his body, doesn't even care to put on socks as he races down the stairs, almost slips on the worn down wood, catches himself at the last moment, hand clinging tight to the railing even though splinters rip his skin open.

"Johnny!"

No answer.

And Simon knows. Knows before he turns the corner what he will find.

The ground gives way beneath his feet when he steps, with shaky knees, around the kitchen island. There is a cup on the counter, tea bag immersed in steaming water, and a bloody hand print next to it.

Johnny's body lays, crumpled on the floor like a ragdoll with its strings cut, red oozing from the hole in his temple in a way that seems terribly familiar.

"Johnny-"

Simon stops breathing. His heart is sliced in his chest, so thin you could see through its layers, his chest ripped open to present his bleeding, rotten core to the world.

He wants to get up, but the ground just won't stop spinning, and there is so much blood that his hands are sticky with it and-

"Simon?"

A warm hand touches his shoulder, comforting, familiar. With tear stained eyes, Simon tries to see, finds the ground in front of him clean and empty. No blood. No body. Just... dark polished wood with its lighter pattern.

It wasn't real. It was all just a dream after all. He’s fine.

Johnny’s fine.

Simon’s shaking hand covers Johnny's smaller one, relief flooding every fibre of his being. He's here. He's alive. Everything is going to be alright.

He straightens up and turns around to Johnny, squeezing his hand tighter.

The words get stuck in his throat, rip him apart from the inside out. A horrible, beguiling skull grins at him, its sockets empty and sunken, its jaws held together by bloodied sinew, teeth clacking as it speaks the words that tear him apart:

"Simon, why didn't you save me?"

____________

When Ghost wakes again, warm sunlight filters through the foliage, through the small windows and settles on his face. It is light outside – still? again? He cannot say. The only thing that matters is that Johnny is there, sitting cross-legged on the carpet next to him, whistling soundlessly, hands drumming an inaudible rhythm on his legs.

Ghost groans, and Johnny’s eyes flick to him.

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

“Mh. Shit mornin’ more like, bloody hell. How- how long’s it been?”

“Ye should check, love.”

Ghost grumbles to himself, but shakes the blankets from his legs to make his familiar way out back again.

The carved skull shines lovely at Ghost when he lifts it out of the bleach. A few hours in the sun and it will be perfect, glassy and bright white. Ghost carefully settles it onto the wooden stairs that lead down from the back door, confident that the hours of sun this day has left will be enough.

Johnny’s arms wrap around his middle, sharp chin digging into the thick muscle of his shoulder.

“What are ye thinkin’, mo tannasg?”

Ghost turns his face, presses a kiss into Johnny’s hair absently.

“That it’ll be perfect.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Previous Chapter ← ⋆ → Last Chapter [coming]

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

what is what what was could've been. i loved writing this. come hurt with me.

Ghost's hand closes around the back of Soap's neck, presses down in warning. Soap's mouth snaps shut like a bear trap, words dying on his tongue. Ghost doesn't let his hand linger. Doesn't matter how much he wants to.

The crease between Price's brows deepens.

"Not the time, Sergeant. Do ya well to follow your Lieutenant's example. Now get packed. All of you. Briefing's in twenty, wheels up right after. Laswell pulled a big one."

_______

The briefing room exudes an inevitable aroma of stale coffee, cold cigarette smoke, and sweat. The chairs are so uncomfortable that Ghost would rather stand, which he does, most of the time. Soap keeps calling him a menacing fuck for it, but Ghost doesn't mind. Never minds when it's Johnny. Only serves to further his reputation anyways, lurking in the corners, silent as a spectre. Sudden death. All those ghost stories recruits tell each other come true.

Ghost considers the chairs, watches the way Soap leans back dangerously in his, spreads his thighs to keep balanced, grins in the general direction of Ghost's mask. Like he can look straight through the fabric into his soul with those ocean eyes. Ghost sighs and takes a seat.

Price, as always, is quick and efficient about it, barely a word more than necessary, sure of their attention on him. And he'd be right, if it weren't for Johnny's lips wrapped around his pencil, softly sucking it into his mouth. Pink tongue licking at the grey lead, leg twitching beneath the table.

Ghost is… distracted.

He grunts and spreads his legs, shifting with a vague apology, citing those fucking sorry excuses passing for chairs. Half day in a sniper's nest hot as the devil's arsehole isn't a problem. Ten minutes on these contraptions are fucking Ghost's back worse than sleeping on the ground for a week.

Price is still talking, tapping at different points of the map. Ghost's brain will remember later, but for now, his focus is on Soap.

Soap, who blinks at the layout slowly, lashes so long and beautiful they cast shadows on his cheeks. Ghost watches, drenched in darkness, and wonders how anyone can look like that. Should be fucking forbidden, the way Johnny's long, thick fingers wrap around that fucking pencil, how he taps it against his lower lip before biting down on the skin until it looks sore and reddened. Biting down on the wood of it as well, like a distraction, leaving teeth marks that Ghost wants to beg to have on his marred skin instead. Unwanted old scars covered by new ones he asked for.

He only snaps back when the smooth, freckled skin on Soap's forehead wrinkles in a way not dissimilar to Price's earlier. He is scrutinising the mission brief in his hands. Stares up at the map that's projected on the wall. Looks at his own map again.

"Cap." He doesn't look at Price, tips of his ears tinged pink in a way that almost isn't detectable. Is, if the person looking is Ghost.

"Soap. Questions?" Price raises his brow. "Thought I made myself clear."

"Aye, it's just.. says here Ghost is on overwatch for Gaz's stealth mission. And I'm… staking out their safehouse with you."

Price's moustache twitches.

"Got a question in there, Sergeant?"

The blush spreads down Soap's neck, vanishes into the collar of his shirt. Ghost wants to see how far down it goes. Johnny bites his lip hard, a drop of red seeping from the seal of his mouth and—

"Ach, jus' wonderin'… why?" He tries to be casual about it, tries way too hard. Gaz snorts next to him and Soap elbows him with so much force he winces. Ghost watches with interest, hidden beneath his balaclava, an observer in the face of Soap's defiance like so often.

"You don't want to run a mission with me, Sergeant?" Price is mocking him, amusement clear in his voice, visible in the way he attempts sincerely to keep the corners of his mouth in line. Ghost knows him too well to let it slide.

"It's jus'— see, it's usually— ever since…" Apparently unable to find the right words, Soap trails off. Takes a deep breath, then starts over. "I wouldae expected tae be paired with Ghost, is all. Been runnin' these kinds a' missions together ever since I joined here, ye ken?"

Price considers him for a moment, head cocked.

"Still don't hear a question, Sergeant. But if you want an explanation: I thought it was time to change it up," he says finally. Offers nothing else, but throws a quick glance at Ghost, who has barely moved, nailed to his chair. Why is Johnny so insistent? What the fuck does he care? He likes Gaz. A lot even, always touching him, spending time wi—

Price clears his throat.

"You wanna lodge a complaint, Soap? Do it now."

Soap opens his mouth, then… says nothing.

"No' complainin', sir," he mumbles instead, unable to meet Price's eyes. Or Ghost's. "Like I said, jus' wonderin'. Ye'll have had yer reasons, I reckon."

"Hm." Price grunts. "Like I said, time to switch it up. Now that that's cleared up… we're wheels up at 1100. Don't be late."

Nothing has been cleared up, Ghost thinks. Only more questions. He stares at Soap who doesn't stare back, and wonders whether Price knows more than Ghost is willing to admit.

____________

The mission goes surprisingly smoothly. Better than Ghost expected it to, if he's honest. Target gets away, but that was almost certain from the start. What they were after was intel, and that, they get in bounds — that coward didn't even take the time to wipe his hard drives when he found out his little compound had been breached. Cowardly, for sure. Stupid, certainly.

The only thing, and it shouldn't be as distracting as it is… the only thing that bugs Ghost is that he is away from Johnny.

Usually, they are only ever separated when one of them is out for a solo op, and even those have been few and far between. Ghost could count them on one hand. They work together too well to split them up purposely. And it bothers him to hell that Price did anyways. Bothers him more that he can't share his usual fag with Soap now, that one indulgence of every mission: Ghost taking first watch on every op, Soap pulling out his pack and lighting a cigarette — only ever one — to share.

"Just one 'fore bed. Helps me sleep better, helps ye stay awake." Always, always what he says, in those words or less, but the sentiment is ever the same.

Their rituals are intricate.

Dancing around each other, always just out of reach: Mouths touching the same filter, sucking in the same air. Like that could be enough. Has to be, in any case. All it does it make Ghost greedy for more.

He could share a fag with Gaz now, hell, he could light one just for himself, but it wouldn't be the same. It would feel wrong. It's not the cigarette he craves, if he is honest with himself.

Gaz comments on his twitchiness once, and then not again, shrugging at the constipated look Ghost throws him.

"Fine. Won't ask, Jesus. Keep it together, not like I was asking to fuck your mum."

"Couldn't, even if you wanted to," Ghost deadpans. "Unless you're into that necrophilia shit."

Gaz pulls a face at him.

"That's dark, LT."

He holds out the satellite phone like he is seeking reconciliation.

"You wanna do the check-in or should I? Don't think they've even made contact yet, but should keep in touch anyways. Update them on our findings, see if anything is moving on their end. Bastard's gotta go somewhere, he's too afraid to stay out in the open… might run into their arms if we get lucky."

Ghost has to restrain himself not to rip the brick of a phone from Gaz's hands. A chance — however small— Price could be offering the same to Soap —

"I'll do it." He tries very hard to keep his voice neutral; and fails spectacularly if the look on Gaz's face is anything to go by. "You go get some rest, Sergeant. Warm up some beans if you're hungry, or whatever you southerners eat for dinner."

"Hey, beans is an all-day food, LT," Gaz defends himself, shit-eating grin still plastered on his pretty face as he hands the phone over to Ghost. "If I didn't know better I'd say you're trying to get rid if me."

Ghost pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking of Price as he does. God, he's getting old.

"Good thing you do know better, innit. Good night, Sergeant." It's an order, even if not in words then still so in tone, and Gaz understands it as one. Ghost rolls his eyes when he hears him whistle on his way to the room with the cot, rolling out his sleeping bag, the rustling as he lays down.

Now, finally as alone as he can be, Ghost lights a cigarette and sits by the window, phone in his hand. He's nervous, stupidly so, like a teenager calling their crush's house and hoping it won't be a parent who picks up.

"Bravo 0-7 requesting check-in."

"This is Bravo 7-1 responding. All quiet on the western front." It's Soap's voice, staticky and grimy with distance, but Ghost's heart leaps in his chest.

"Nothing good to report, then?" He falls into it so easily. Is so eager to hear that voice again, the heavy tinge on the vowels, the thickness of the consonants falling off Soap's tongue.

"Nah. Cap almost ate shit, missed a step in the dark." Soap snorts. "Don't tell him I told ye that. Think he's too vain tae get glasses, ye ken? Ye should talk tae him about it. Wouldae done it myself, but I reckon he mightae clocked me right in the jaw fer callin' him old one more time."

Ghost huffs in amusement.

"Will do."

There's a pause, but neither of them said 'Over'. The line crackles, then Ghost hears the unmistakable clink of Soap's lighter.

"Sneaking a fag, Sergeant?" Speaking of — he brings his own to his lips to inhale deeply, blowing smoke rings into the darkness.

"Aye. Old habits 'n all tha' shite." And, so quiet Ghost almost doesn't hear it, Soap adds, "'s no' the same without ye here, though."

Fuck.

Ghost's heart is suddenly hammering in his chest. He can't mean it like that. Doesn't mean it like that.

"Mhm." He makes a non-commital sound, then inhales once more, letting the ash float down onto his desert-cameo'd pantleg. The line crackles again.

"Yer sneakin' one too, ye wee bestard!" Soap sounds so accusatory that Ghost chuckles quietly.

"Yeah. You see, Sergeant, old habits—"

"Och, feck off." It sounds like Soap is laughing, and Ghost melts into the windowsill. He stares out into the wilderness, like anyone could approach them silently in this fucking spot, and wonders why Price didn't let him go with Soap. Didn't let Ghost protect him like he is supposed to. Ever the loyal guard dog to his Johnny, who doesn't even know it.

He stays on the line, doesn't tap out, just holds the phone loosely in his hand, and waits. More patient than Johnny, always has been. Just needs to wait for him to give in.

"Hey, LT."

Ah. Ghost's pulse beats in his throat again, just like that. He's so easy for Johnny. Might be embarrassing if he let himself think about it. He doesn't.

"What is it, Sergeant?"

"What's a skeleton's favourite type of road?"

Ghost can hear the grin tugging at Johnny's lips as he speaks, and he can't stop smiling himself, face hidden by darkness if not by his mask when he brings the cigarette to his lips again.

"I don't know, Johnny."

"A dead end."

Joke so bad it hurts, and the only reason it makes Ghost smile is because it's Johnny telling it. He will never say so. Means admitting too much. Means being too vulnerable. Means acknowledging a weakness he shouldn't have, not him of all people. Invulnerable, unkillable, immortal Ghost.

"That one hurt." He raises the phone to his lips, doesn't want to risk waking Gaz with their stupid banter. Can just imagine the expression on his pretty face if he did. Gaz knows too much, is too good at reading people. "Had torture sessions that hurt less than that joke, Soap."

"Yer a fat fuckin' liar who lies, LT. Heard ye laugh, don't even try tae deny it."

Ghost can taste the smoke on Johnny's voice. Two fags instead of one shared, then. They really should quit.

"Must've been the wind, Sergeant."

Johnny snorts at the other end of the line, and Ghost almost hears the sizzle of his cherry when he sucks in the tar and nicotine again. Wants to be there next to him, gluttoning himself on the little smiles and the taste of Johnny's lips sticking to the filter, and on the touches that don't ever linger long enough to mean something. Wants to pull him into his lap and kiss the smoke from his lungs, inhale him, lick into his mouth and know the sounds Johnny makes when he does.

Not things he could do even if they were assigned to the same end of the mission. Ghost clears his throat and tries to get his head on right. Stares out at the tree lines like focusing on those silhouettes could replace the picture of Johnny in his head, leaned back against a window sill as they chat idly on the phone. Like they are actually allowed to miss each other's company. Ghost misses him so much it hurts, even if he is as close as they can be now.

"I've got one for you," is what he says instead of Johnny's name like he wants to, instead of pushing his hand into his cargos like he wants to, desperate for it just from Johnny's voice on the other end of the line.

"Do ye now." He shouldn't sound so tempting. That's not what this is.

"Mh. Why can't dinosaurs clap their hands?" Ghost waits for a moment, lets Soap think about it, but doesn't give him enough time to respond. "…because they're extinct."

Soap coughs like he is swallowing a laugh.

"God, LT, that was so much worse than mine. Think I'd rather get shot again."

And those images are not helping, of Johnny, weakly pawing at Ghost's arm for help, breathing heavy into his ear, hissing at the disinfectant sinking into his wounds, staring up at Ghost with huge, round eyes, like he is asking for something neither of them can afford.

"I can go all night," Ghost grins. "Got the title of torture expert for a reason, you know."

Johnny groans.

"Sick bastard."

And Ghost licks his lips, says nothing. Can't, because he'll give in if he does, say Johnny's name like he means to, and there will be no coming back from it. He will ruin everything, and he will be alone again. It's just not… he can't. Tries to come up with a question that's innocuous instead, fails phenomenally.

"So…" He bites his tongue, shouldn't ask, shouldn't care, "why'd you take first watch, Johnny? You hate taking first watch."

There is a pause on the other side of the line, so long that Ghost starts to wonder whether the connection was lost, before Soap's voice sounds from the speaker.

"Knew ye would." It's an admission; a confession. Soft words in the dead of night, so gentle Ghost thinks they can't be real. "Wanted tae— oh fuck."

The connection drops out all of a sudden, like Soap dropped the phone, and Ghost curses. He is still staring out the window, but nothing moves and everything is quiet.

"Soap?" He is not panicking. He's not. "Soap, come in."

Nothing. Then—

"Sorry, saw some movement. Thought it might be— yeah. I should— I'm not sure who or why— I should go get Cap. Soap out."

And just like that, Ghost is alone again, brick phone in one hand, glimming fag in the other, and hating the safety of his own cowardice. _________________________

Now.

It’s been days. Weeks, probably. Ghost… loses time, sometimes. Can’t really tell anymore. It’s all the same anyways.

Another shit mission, and another. Being away from Soap is the worst part. Ghost gets a bullet in the side, barely missing his kidney, and is almost happy about it: He is prescribed medical leave and bedrest. Leave means he can go home. Home to Johnny. Bed rest… well. Nobody needs to know if he doesn't follow the suggestions of medical professionals. What the fuck do they know, anyways. They couldn’t save him. Doesn't matter nobody could have saved him.

Ghost doesn't blame them, exactly. But he can't forgive them, either, just like he can't forgive himself. Everything has seemed so far removed for a long time now, life approaching too fast, too hot the moment Johnny stepped into the frame, and then… the inevitable crash and burn.

And now he is back, finally with the only person he has ever wanted around.

Ghost stares at Soap’s notebooks, nearly stacked on his desk. Reads and reads and reads them again, everything Soap ever wrote down: Bits of poems, grocery lists and reminders and diary entries and paintings. The page number of the book he was currently reading so he wouldn't forget. His macros, when he had an obsessive phase. (It took an intervention for him to see reason. Ghost understands. It was weeks of waiting around with fuckall to do. Johnny’s brain is always so fucking full, he needs something to do, needs it like he needs air to breathe). His workouts, too. Bits and pieces of Johnny’s life, memorialised in ink. Ghost worships each page with his fingertips, revels in their sanctity until he can no longer breathe in their presence.

Simon stares at stains of spilled coffee, at fingerprints in ink and smudged writing. And eventually, something grows inside him: A need to be memorialised alongside him. To be something, someone, to be real right next to Johnny.

He digs through his drawers, finds only dried up ink and dead bugs, until there's the familiar shape of a pen; a gift from his brother years and years ago. Before he died. Kept safe all this time, never used. Simon rummages through the piles of papers and old photographs until he finds an ink cartridge that still seems alright.

With a trembling hand, he raises the pen. Rests his palm heavy on the empty page, the corner stained with Johnny's coffee.

"I love you too," he writes, letters running into each other when salty tears smear the ink. "I wish I had known. I wish I had known. I love you too. All this time and forever. Don't think I can stop even now."

He falls asleep staring at the page, at Johnny's handwriting next to his own. Soap's chickenscratch and Ghost's strangely neat lettering. Can almost pretend when he wakes up, Johnny will have read it. That he'll know, somehow. That his own heart might feel less heavy if he puts the words somewhere to keep them safe. And he wonders if that's what Johnny thought, too, committing his thoughts to paper, hoping it might ease the pain.

Simon.

The hand on his shoulder is almost heavy, almost real.

Simon.

The voice in his head is almost like he remembers. So close to the real thing he can pretend it's really him.

Simon, love. Wake up.

When Ghost opens his eyes, blue is staring back at him. Soap's head rests on the page he wrote months ago, when his hand was still alive to write and there were words pouring from it that he didn't think he could tell anyone else. He is turned towards Ghost to watch him sleep, and Ghost stares right back, blinks sleep away, but doesn't stir.

Not even when the blood inches closer, drenches the side of his face that's pressed into the page of Soap's diary. He stays, and lets himself be painted red. Wishes he could taste it. There is a hole in Soap's skull, and he's bleeding and he's dead, but his eyes still look so alive that it doesn't matter, not really.

"I love you, Johnny." 

It's the first time he's said it out loud.

Not the first time he has admitted it. He knew. Has known from the moment he first saw Johnny, his crooked smile and his shining canines and his angel eyes. Ghost knew he was fucked way back then. Knew he would never be able to let this one go again.

He was right.

Johnny shifts, blinking slowly. Blood smudges on his cheek when he lifts his head from the table. Ghost watches him, traces the outline of the shadow of his nose, counts the freckles on his face. He can ignore the blood, the pain, the death, if only Soap keeps looking at him like that. The words crowd in the tight space of his throat, and he has to say it again to keep from choking.

“I love you, Johnny.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of Soap’s lips.

Get up, LT.

Ghost shakes his head, feels his neck crack with the movement. Shoves his arm under his head and keeps staring at Johnny’s warm, real face. Doesn’t reach out to touch him. Keeps the illusion alive.

“I can’t, sweetheart. Let me look at you a moment longer.”

And Johnny indulges him. Of course he does. Lets his eyes flutter shut like he can’t feel the weight of Ghost’s affection. Unbothered by the dark eyes fixed on him, tracking every movement he makes, the way his chest heaves with breaths as though he needs them.

Simon isn’t sure if he falls asleep again. Maybe. Everything here feels half like a dream.

When he wakes up, it’s to blue eyes once more, polished and shining, fixed on his own exposed face. Oddly enough, Simon doesn’t mind. Has never minded when it’s Soap. Johnny chews on his lip like he is trying to give Simon more time, but eventually, words drip from his mouth like an unwelcome guest sneaking back into a home.

Don’t ye have work tae do, love?

Ghost closes his eyes, like that might keep the words away from him. Squeezes his fists tight, breathes deep and tries not to let his heart fall out of his broken ribcage. This isn’t real. He’s not really here. Just a shadow of him, a memory. An imposter more than anything else.

It doesn't help. He loves him too much for it to matter.

“Let me have this, Johnny. Please.” Salt coats his voice, rough and dry and all wrong. He shouldn’t have to beg. A tear trickles down Simon’s cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away, lets it soak into the fibres of the page. Can’t bear to open his eyes again, not yet. Wants to live in this dream just a little while longer.

Soap is quiet, though his warmth never recedes. It takes all of Simon’s willpower not to reach out to him, not to try and feel his beating heart under his palm. Not to destroy this perfect illusion.

When Ghost opens his eyes again, there is no more blood on the table. Soap is gone along with it, no trace of him left where his head rested on the pages of his diary. Of course not. What a silly thing to look for. Ghost’s own neat handwriting is staring up at him accusingly when he lifts his face from the page. His vertebrae crack in order as he straightens up to sit, the sound much too loud in the eerie silence of this place.

A deep sigh wrenches itself from Ghost’s parched throat. Johnny was right. There is work to do. The bleach bath is already prepared.

“Johnny?”

There is no answer. Fear closes its icy fist around Ghost’s heart, squeezes until blood drips from it and no sound can be made. Where is he? His mouth aches, his teeth, his heart, his wounds. Nothing aches as much as being left alone like this. Again. Gets worse each time. He won’t leave me anymore when all is done. It’s a promise to himself, one Ghost can’t know will come true. But he has to believe it. Has to believe he will never have to feel like this again when it is finished.

This has happened before, he tries to calm himself. Remembers the time in Johnny’s apartment where he didn’t respond. And he came back, then. He will come back now. Sometimes, it seems, Johnny just… goes somewhere else. Like he would leave a room if he were still al-

Ghost shakes his head. A stupid thought. There is no 'if'.

Johnny's just left the room. He must be…

What was he doing again?

There is an odd ringing in his ears, the taste of iron in his mouth. A droplet of red drips from his lip and stains the page.

“Oh, fuck.” Hastily, Ghost pats the page dry, hopes it won’t smudge Soap’s handwriting. He has to keep it- keep it perfect. Soap will get mad if he doesn't, those diaries are important to him.

“Johnny?”

Still no response. He must have just thought of something he forgot to do, happens so often, Johnny's brain always humming with thoughts. Ghost shakes his head to rid himself of the ringing in his ears, digs the pads of his thumbs into his eye sockets like that could make this sudden pounding headache go away.

What was he doing again?

Ah. Bleach. Right… right. Everything is already prepared.

Ghost’s knees creak when he makes his way out back, when he sits down at the workbench. Johnny lingers somewhere just out of touch, and so do unwelcome memories, but soon, Ghost is sunken so deep into his work he does not notice anymore.

The bone comes alive under Simon's fingertips: Warm like the sun, and lovely in ways only dead things can ever be. If he closes his eyes for a moment - if he holds his breath and presses his fingers into the brittleness of it - it's almost like it really is Johnny. Almost enough to bring him back to life.

'Back'? Simon shakes off Ghost's thoughts, banishes that distracting ache in his chest somewhere else.

With gentle fingers, he scrubs and washes and polishes the beguiling skull. It stares back at him like it knows: Knows he loves it more than he should. Loves it more than he is capable of bearing. It hurts when the bone cracks beneath his fingers, hurts more to put a saw to it. But it has to be done. Has to be perfect. Ghost’s movements are slow and guided, conscious of every tiny wound he inflicts upon the pale bone. Nothing must go wrong. And finally, the shape he carves begins to take the form it was meant to be. Like a sculptor and his marble, Ghost shapes and behews the alluring cheekbones, tugs open the jaws. Files down the edges, sands them, polishes them, until there are no splinters left.

Simon loses himself in the work. Does not take breaks, always a cigarette dangling from his lips as he works, as he shapes and scrapes and files and bends so gently it doesn't feel like anything is happening at all. And just like that, Johnny is back.

Never seen ye so patient, love.

"I'm always patient when it comes to you," Simon mumbles. "Always have been. Too patient, if you ask me. Should never have waited. Should have told you the moment I laid eyes on you that I knew you were it for me. Should've taken you to make you mine before you were just bones in the ground."

Johnny clicks his tongue, leaning his intangible weight on Simon's shoulder.

I'm yers now, Simon. Is tha' nae enough?

Ghost swallows hard. Resists the urge to turn around, to try and place his fingers on Johnny's.

"No." His voice is rough and wet with unshed tears. "No, Johnny. Not enough. Can't ever be enough."

But ye'll make do.

"But I'll make do." Ghost sighs, puts down the file. Beholds his work and sees that it is good. "What do you think, sweetheart?"

Looks perfect, love.

The bleach burns Ghost’s hands when he finally places the bones in it. He doesn’t really feel it: Relishes the pain, even, loses himself in the thought of his own flayed skin making a home in the crevices of the skull. Embeds parts of himself in the last part he has of the one person he has ever truly let himself love. This work is a labour of love.

And then, the lid is sealed, and all of a sudden, Simon is so tired. A bitter taste lingers on his tongue when he drags himself to the couch, barely even makes it there if not for the soft, strong hands on his shoulders, guiding and tugging him in the right direction. Simon’s eyes are barely open as he sinks into the dark blue cushions, his voice rough as it scrapes its way out his throat.

“Johnny? Where did you go?”

Shh now. Ye have tae rest, love.

Quiet happiness settles in the wrinkles around Simon’s unmasked eyes.

“Johnny.”

I’m here, Simon. Rest now. Yer work is done.

Simon nods to himself and finally lets himself settle. His work is done.

Sleep takes him for an eternity.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Previous Chapter ← ⋆ → Next Chapter

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

hahaha. simon is doing so well. well-adjusted, normal man. regular human bartender etc.

Soap is covered in blood and viscera. Some is his own – a horrifying thing in its own way – he is hurt – but most is not. His hands are bare, his face pale beneath the eternal tan. Red drips from his lips, leaves streaks down his chin and soaks the collar of his shirt.

Ghost stares and stares, relieved that Johnny is alive, is here with him. Horrified by how they got here. Alive.

Terror mixes with fear, and dread with love undying.

It should be me, he wants to scream. I should be the terrifying thing that descends to kill in darkness. It should never have been you, should never have to be you, and yet- There is nothing you could do that would make me stop loving you. Nothing at all. Not even this. Least of all this. He doesn’t say it. Never says it. I love you always, for everything you are and for everything you have done. Never in spite of it. Always because of it.

Ghost blinks, and Soap’s hands are suddenly on his shoulders, gripping tight, his bloody smile right in Ghost’s face as strong fingers dig into muscle. Soap looks up at him, red staining his barely-there beard, smeared across the little cleft in his chin. His eyes are as blue as ever, all cruelty gone from them now, replaced by mild concern as he takes in the state of Ghost.

Simon wants to kiss Johnny’s freckles, to wipe away the blood and tell him it’s alright. Ghost wants to lick the viscera from Soap’s face and tell him well done.

Soap’s voice comes from far away.

“Ye hear me, LT? I got tha’ bastard. We’re good.”

Ghost can’t move, mesmerised by the way Soap’s tongue darts out to lick up a crimson droplet from the corner of his mouth without thinking. Terrified by it only because it’s a stranger’s blood touching the holy ground of Johnny’s mouth. Soap doesn’t even notice what he did, is used to the taste of blood on his tongue.

Ghost wants it to be his blood on Johnny’s tongue.

Soap’s fingers dig in harder, pulling at Ghost’s tactical vest. And finally, words come rushing to the tip of Ghost’s tongue.

“You got him,” he says, voice even and numb. “You got him, Johnny.”

“Aye,” Soap confirms with a horrible grin that splits his face in half almost like Ghost’s is. His hands drop down from Ghost’s chest, leaving dark stains in their wake, and still, Ghost misses their warmth the second they stop touching him. Always so warm. Even like this, even after all this. He almost reaches out, barely catches himself in time. Pulls himself together and focuses his eyes on Johnny’s face.

Dark brows drawn together in concern, nose wrinkled, teeth gnawing at his split lip. He smells like copper and gun oil and the stupid fucking hair product he uses to keep his mohawk in check. He smells like Soap, still, so he must be Soap, right? Must be his Johnny, even with his tongue blood-stained by another.

Still my Johnny. Ghost doesn’t say it. Never says it. Can’t say it, no matter how much he wants to. Can’t reach out for him, can’t kiss the blood from his mouth. Can’t taste him, lick him, devour him to make sure it’s really Soap. Can’t leave his own blood in the wake of his mouth to lay claim to him. But Ghost knows. My Johnny.

He blinks slowly. Soap’s fingers tap his vest before he steps back.

“We really gotta go, Ghost.”

Ghost hesitates. Can’t help but take him all in again, properly now that his eyes are focused, now that his head isn’t swimming with the heady smell of him. For a moment, he contemplates how fucked up it is that his heart still stumbles now. Then he calms his breathing and bans the fear from his heart. Still my Johnny. Mine.

“Get cleaned up first, Sergeant.” It’s an order, his own voice as calm as ever, not a tremble to be heard, though all Ghost wants to do is take Johnny by his shoulders and shake him. You almost died. You almost left me alone. Almost went away without knowing how you make me feel- without knowing that I lo-

Johnny vanishes from his field of vision for a moment.

Ghost tries not to stare too long at the corpse in the corner. He’s seen a lot of bodies. Been responsible for a lot of death. Lot of torture, too, slow and agonising and carefully planned. He finds a strange sense of calm in it, even, and he has made peace with the fact that he doesn’t feel guilty about it.

But Soap? Soap is a different beast entirely. Visceral and bloodied and so fucked up. He’s beautiful.

Ghost’s knives are always methodical, sometimes slow as they deal their suffering, quiet and deadly. Quick and merciful even, other times. But they always follow the steady hand that wields them. The anger doesn’t take him over, hasn't in a long time. Ghost is meticulous, a perfectionist in his efficient cruelty. A fucking weapon himself, tempered by loss and sharpened by pain.

Soap is all teeth and feeling. All rage and gore. All bark and all bite.

The enemy was on him the second he breached the door, when Ghost was too far to help out, couldn’t get an angle, only heard Johnny’s pained grunts.

Ghost has never run so fast in his whole fuckin’ life.

It was still close, too fuckin’ close. As good as they are, sometimes the enemy is better. Sometimes they’re faster, sometimes they are just uninjured. Sometimes, they get the element of surprise. And it gets too fucking close for comfort.

But Soap’s teeth are sharp. Sharp enough to rip out a man’s throat when it comes down to it, to leave only torn filament and broken bone. Cruel enough to smile as his foe chokes to death on his own blood and he watches.

Ghost’s fingers twitch.

Fuck.

“Oy, LT.” Soap is standing in front of him, holding his hands up, eyes aflame in the setting sun. Teeth still stained pink, freckles still painted in shades of crimson. “You solid?”

Ghost tears his eyes away from the body. Stares at Soap instead.

How beautiful he is. Even after all that. A demon with the face of an angel. I’d follow him to hell if I knew I could have him for it.

“I’m solid, Johnny. On me.” It’s a lie. Soap has to know that- must be able to tell- but he just regards him with sharp eyes, those long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Then sighs and nods.

“On you, LT. Let’s go.”

When Ghost walks out, he knows he is lost. Nothing can save him now. Johnny has him, whether Simon wants it or not. If Johnny asked for a finger, Ghost would saw off his own hand. If he asked for his heart, Ghost would tear open his own chest, break his own ribs, lay himself bare. Bleed himself dry just to please him, to see Johnny’s bronze skin covered in Simon’s own dark red blood, to envelop him entirely in ways that should never be thought about.

Take my heart, Johnny. You can have it. It’s all yours, anyways. This is how my flesh loves you. Please love me back.

He doesn’t say it. Never says it. He steps back into the light of the sinking sun and doesn’t know that Soap’s eyes follow him every step of the way.

________________

Ghost takes the first shift until exfil. He always does.

And Johnny looks so peaceful as he sleeps that Ghost can’t bring himself to wake him up. Soap gets so tired after missions, crashes from the high of the adrenaline. Especially after close calls like this. Sleeps like Ghost never could, rolled up like a cat, like he has no muscle mass at all, sleeps like a child would. Peacefully, even after tearing out an enemy’s throat with his teeth, even while his tongue still tastes like another man.

Ghost finds himself absurdly wishing, once again, that it was his own blood on Johnny’s tongue. Wants to shake his head to shake the thought, but it keeps coming back: His own blood dripping from Johnny’s mouth as he swallows and swallows what Ghost has to give. Makes him his own. Tastes him like nobody else ever has, and lets it linger. Revels in it almost like worship, and Ghost can imagine it if he just closes his eyes, the feeling of Johnny’s warm lips on his neck, of rough fingers pressing into his own flesh, of Johnny’s smell after battle, like sweat and gunpowder and blood. It should be disgusting, but Ghost wants to bury his face in it. Wants to press his nose into the crook of Johnny’s neck, into the fucking pits of his arms if he gets to, into the apex of his thighs, into his hair, into his-

He stops himself abruptly, forces open his heavy eyelids.

You’re on fucking watch, you dumbass, he scolds himself quietly. Checks his surroundings, gets up and checks again. And again. Carefully avoids the spot by the fire where Soap has curled up and is breathing calmly, his absurd lashes casting long shadows across his freckled cheeks. He is so beautiful Ghost dies a little more each time he looks at him. So pretty not even Simon’s heart knows how to keep beating.

When Ghost settles back down, he allows himself one deep sigh. Johnny stirs, but doesn’t wake up, lashes fluttering for the fraction of a second before he settles back down. Presses his face into Ghost’s sweater that covers Soap’s own pack: one more layer to make him as comfortable as is possible barely outside enemy territory.

I won’t need it, Ghost had said when he gave it to Johnny.

Ye sure, LT? The night is dark and full of terrors-

Shut the fuck up and take the damn sweater, Sergeant. You look like shit.

Aye, ta.

Ghost shakes the memory, forces his eyes to look away. Shoves his mask up his nose to drink some of the coffee that’s gone cold by now, but it’s better than nothing. He has canned beans, too – an atrocity to eat them cold, but what else is new. The hunger in his stomach finally settles a little when he finishes up the can, metal spoon scraping against the empty shell of the can with a noise that makes the soft hair on his arms raise.

Fuck.

Soap stirs, blinks awake, eyes barely open, but already focused on the exposed, scarred skin of Ghost’s face.

“”S-S’mon. Yer… Mmh. Ye look… look like home, LT.” His voice is rough with sleep. He is barely awake, but Ghost’s eyes snap to him, fingers hastily pulling his balaclava back down. Ye look like home, LT.

Something grips Ghost’s heart and squeezes so tight he can’t breathe. It’s his scars, his fucking scars. Home. His Glasgow Smile, etched into his face, never really blending in with his other scars, too pink, too fresh-looking still, even after years have passed. A cruel mockery of the real smile Simon Riley used to have.

Ye look like home, LT.

Ghost looks at Soap’s tired face and rubs his eyes, smears his eyeblack into his mask.

“Go back to sleep, Soap.”

And Johnny listens, goes down so easy when it’s Ghost who is asking, and when he wakes up, he can’t be sure anymore whether this wasn’t all a dream. He doesn't dare ask, but the face he saw never leaves his dreams.

Home.

_________________

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── Previous Chapter ← ⋆ → Next Chapter ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It must've been looooove, but it's oooover n-

“Nothin’ ye couldnae be teachin’ ‘em better if ye deigned tae show up on time, LT.”

If the Lieutenant is already angry, might be best to get it all out now in one swift go. Wind up and release all at once.

The hand on Soap’s shoulder squeezes harder; so hard Soap scrunches his face from the dulcet pain. He presses his lips together so nobody might notice his breaths are coming heavier, like oxygen is not enough to satiate him. And he refuses to turn his head, refuses to look at Ghost who is looming beside him, fully covered up as always.

“Captain called me in,” is Ghost’s only response to Soap’s teasing insubordination. 

They stay quiet for a second, Ghost’s hand finally dropping from Soap’s shoulder, leaving a pulsing imprint within the bruise. Soap immediately misses those cold, gloved fingers. His skin is tingling.

Come back, Ghost. Touch me again.

He doesn't say it. Never says it.

“What’d Price want then, eh?” he asks eventually, just to say something. 

“If he wanted you to know, he woulda called you too, don'tcha think?” Ghost’s accent grows stronger in turn with Soap’s own, settling low in his throat in a way that makes Soap’s cheeks burn. He clears his throat, buys himself some time to pretend he is totally not affected. Because he isn’t. He can’t be.

“Aye, jus’ thought ye might be more talkative than the captain, Sir. Ye ken, since I’m yer favourite?” 

Shut the fuck up, MacTavish, bleedin’ Jesus. That way lies only disappointment, ye absolute fuckin’ bawbag.

But he can’t seem to leave it. Soap never could just leave it.

Ghost’s masked face turns towards him then, away from the weak blows of those mediocre recruits that are still sparring on the sweaty gym mats. His eyes are barely visible in the low light of the room, but Soap swears he can see Ghost’s lips twitch beneath the fabric. “When have I ever been talkative, Soap?” Ghost doesn’t even have to say it. Soap sighs and pouts.

“I thought ye liked me by now, LT? Saved yer life often enough-”

“Thorsson, cover your side or god help you-” Ghost barks abruptly, then turns his attention back to Soap. Soap has to breathe for a second when brown eyes meet his own with an intensity he still has not gotten used to. “You were saying, Sergeant?”

“Ach, nothing.” Soap waves him off, puts on his most dazzling smile. Can’t just leave it. “Jus’ tha’, ye ken, I reckoned ye might betray the captain’s trust since ye like me so much… regular stuff.”

“Mmmhm. Committing treason on your behalf? That’ll be the day.” Ghost grunts, shifting on his feet. “One of these times you’ll fall flat on your face with that big mouth of yours, Johnny.”

“Ye don’t like mah big mouth, ye can always stuff it,” Soap mumbles under his breath, quiet enough that Ghost can’t possibly hear him.

A muscle in Ghost’s cheek twitches, shifting shadows on the fabric of the mask, but he doesn’t say anything. Can’t have heard anything. Soap exhales a shuddering breath. Ghost is right, he has to get his fuckin’ mouth under control, especially around his lieutenant. One of these days he will hear him, and it won’t be pretty.

“Fletcher, did ye nae hear wha’ the Lieutenant jus’ told ye? Are ye actively tryin’ tae make me look bad?” he barks, a little louder than necessary, trying to get rid of the flush in his cheeks, trying to squash down the thoughts of Ghost stuffing his mouth, trying to be normal, so fucking normal, because it is normal, isn’t it? It’s normal to think about your commanding officer pushing you to your knees and-

“Fuckin’ hopeless shite,” he murmurs to himself.

“For once I won’t argue with you,” Ghost agrees quietly.

Soap flinches, thinks for a second that he voiced his thoughts out loud – would serve him right, being as stupid as he is for Ghost – but then, Ghost goes on.

“Don’t know what the fucking recruitment office thought letting that tosser pass physical. Not an ounce of fighter in that one.”

The words are said low, spilling from the darkness of Ghost’s mask as he watches the spar between Fletcher and Thorsson with sharp eyes. His attention is so focused that, just for a second, Soap allows himself to watch him: to observe the sharp angle of his nose beneath the soft fabric of his balaclava, to search for the rise of his cheekbones, the flutter of white lashes when he blinks. Beautiful. 

Soap pinches himself, hard, when Ghost’s eyes flick back to him.

“Take a picture, Johnny, it’ll last ya longer.” His voice is so dry that Soap bristles, opening his mouth to defend himself – how, he doesn’t even know – but Ghost has already turned away again, raising his voice to the recruits still beating each other around the mat.

“Come on then, wrap it up!” 

The small crowd groans, but one look from Ghost shuts them all up. Something akin to pride stirs in Soap’s chest.

They all think he’s so scary.

And he is- Ghost is scary in the way a fighting dog is scary when you meet him in the dead of night. All teeth, no soft edges. No collar and no leash to yank on, not for most people. Most people will be dead before they get close enough to even look for it. But Soap has seen that leash, has found it, has not yanked it, never yanked it. Afraid he might lose it entirely if he does. But he knows it’s there- he has seen the softness in Ghost’s eyes when he dresses a wound: bloody, gloved hands pressed to Johnny’s side as he tries to keep all the blood where it belongs with the sheer power of his will.

Soap had almost expected his blood to listen, back then.

Ghost’s sandpaper voice rips him away from the memory of gloved hands on tan skin and back to reality, where a dozen recruits are gathering their belongings.

“Go on then, you lot are obviously not gettin’ any better tonight. Be back tomorrow. Maybe I’ll be a better instructor to you than your little Sergeant over here.”

Ghost’s shoulder bumps into Soap’s, who is lost again to Ghost’s careless words. Your little sergeant. Soap is not little, has never been little in his life, but something about Ghost saying it like that… makes him want to be. Want to be his little Sergeant, and only his.

Keep it fuckin’ tactical, MacTavish, come tae fuck on.

“Ya with me, lad?” Ghost’s dark eyes, framed in white lashes, stare down at him, arms crossed over his absurdly broad chest, a brow raised.

Lad. He has to know. Has to know how devastating his voice sounds when he says it, how it dips and crawls underneath Soap’s skin to wrap around his heart, so tight that its steady beat stumbles.

“Aye, with ye, LT.” Soap’s voice is rough – is wrecked from the mere thought of Ghost. Soap coughs, plays it off as something else. Catches a glimpse of Ghost’s throat when he lifts his balaclava to scratch the stubble on his neck, and loses himself in the sight of him all over again. 

Ghost cocks his head, stares at him. Eternally staring. Impenetrable as always, a fortress of black cloth and silence.

“Anythin’ ye need, Sir?” Johnny tries his hardest not to shrink under Ghost’s gaze as the recruits file out of the training room, giving the two of them a wide berth. The last one shuts the door behind him, and suddenly, it’s really and truly silent in the room.

Ghost stays quiet for a moment longer, just enough for it to get uncomfortable, just enough to make Johnny squirm a little. His eyes flick up and down Soap’s frame, catching on all the exposed skin- catching on the rumpled fabric of Soap’s tee, right where he left the bruise, marking Soap’s skin with his hand- but surely, Soap is just imagining it. He can’t know. He wouldn’t remember, and the blood-swollen skin is hidden beneath a layer of fabric. God, Soap is going insane and it's all Ghost’s fault.

The training rooms don’t have air conditioning, always smell of sweat and blood and used air, and they get hot as all fuck. Soap has always preferred his workout clothes short and short-sleeved. Ghost knows that. Ghost has seen him a dozen times around base in various states of undress. This is nothing unusual–

“You up for a spar then, Johnny?”

What?

“Fuckin’ hell, LT,” Johnny breathes, has to catch himself for a moment. “Do nae need tae rub it in, aye? Got it the first time. Everyone knows ye cannae be beaten a’ hand tae hand. Doesnae mean yer a better instructor than I am, tho. Ye’ve no patience.”

“Don’t I?” Ghost’s eyes look… amused, though his tone remains frustratingly neutral.

Soap thinks back to all the missions they have run together: thinks of Ghost’s unwavering, steady hands and of the endless endurance with which he sees them through gigantic shitshows, and of his meticulous plans and his straight shots and how he never ever gets impatient with him; and amends his statement.

“Don’t have any fuckin’ patience when it comes tae teachin’ people.”

“Not when they’re fuckin’ stupid, innit? Not when they don’t take instructions well,” Ghost mutters.

I take instructions well, Soap wants to say, but that would be a flatout lie. Even though he knows he could if he wanted to- could be so good for Ghost. Could listen so well if it was Ghost who asked, Ghost who was the reward for obeying. But he can’t say that. So he takes a leaf out of his lieutenant’s book and does what Ghost usually does: he stays silent. For once in his life he stays fucking silent. Better that way.

Ghost’s elbow bumps his shoulder.

“Come on, Soap. I’m not doing this to prove anything. I’m doing this because you’ll be a challenge. Been too long.”

“Thanks fer the vote of confidence, LT. Didnae think ye had it in ye tae admit tha’.”

“Oh, I’ll win,” Ghost says easily, and Soap’s jaws snap shut incredulously. “Just think the fight might last more than a couple seconds if it’s you.”

Shut up shut up shu-

“Too many jokes I wanna make aboot ye lastin’ more than a couple ah seconds.” Soap’s muttered response earns him a dry snort from Ghost, and a short burst of joy explodes in his heart. He wants to make Ghost laugh more often- wants to make him laugh properly, to hear what he sounds like when his whole chest shakes with it–

“Aye, fine. I’m in,” is what he settles for instead. “Jus’ don’ destroy mah pretty face, aye?”

“Not in a fight, I won’t.”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Ghost?

“Wh-”

“Shut the fuck up and get in the ring, MacTavish.”

And Soap scrambles, because it’s still his commanding officer giving instructions, and because it’s Ghost and that fucking voice of his, and because he will fight him on a lot, but getting to wrap his arms around the man – even if it is in a brawl and not for love (although - isn't it?) – is not one of those things.

When he gets in the ring and turns around, though, the air is punched from his lungs. Not in a physical way, not by a fist to the stomach or a kick to his chest. But no less violent: by the sight of Ghost shedding his hoodie.

He is pulling it over his head so nonchalantly as if he has done this a million times, and Soap supposes he has, but never in front of Johnny. Never. The most Soap has ever seen of Ghost is the pale skin of his throat, a few times even glimpses of his jaw as he smokes, and the side of his stomach as he slowly almost bleeds out beneath Johnny’s tanned hands. One time, notably, his cheeks, scarred and beautiful, though whenever he thinks about that time too long, he decides it must have been a dream. He looked too perfect, lit by the glow of a fire, shadows dancing across his scarred smile, catching on the perfectly misaligned crook of his nose. It must have been a dream. Must have, because if it was not, then Johnny is well and truly lost.

Never, in all this time, never has Johnny seen Ghost’s arms, his shoulders, his chest- bleedin’ Jesus, his chest- never the planes of his back that ripple as he sheds the hoodie entirely.

Steamin’ hell, LT.

Soap blinks way too fast. And casts his eyes down at the worn out mat beneath his feet before Ghost can catch him staring, pretends to stretch, looks anywhere but at the hulking figure of his lieutenant approaching.

“Alright?”

“Aye, ge’ on with it, then.” Soap is proud his voice comes out normal. “Try yer fuckin’ be-”

Ghost’s gloved fist hits him square in the jaw.

“Fuck! Oh ye fuckin’ cunt-”

Ghost assumes a defensive stance, dancing around Soap in a way that should be entirely impossible for a man of his stature.

“Told you, you talk too much, Johnny.” His insult is laced with something else, something Soap can’t quite put his finger on.

He grumbles to himself and prepares, determined not to let that first – and, frankly, unfair – hit throw him off his game. Hands raised, bent on not leaving his left side open as he is prone to do – Soap knows his own failings – he decides that attacking may just be his best defence.

Two high, one low, each faster than the other, but Ghost blocks them all seemingly without effort. Soap grunts in frustration, while Ghost makes no noise at all. Again.

One low, one high, a kick for good measure- and Soap lands flat on his arse when Ghost catches his foot midair, easy as plucking a ripe apple from a tree. Strong fingers close around his socked foot and pull and that’s it.

“Gonna have to try harder than that, Johnny.” Soap can hear the grin Ghost is wearing, and it makes his heart beat faster. Adrenaline from the fight, of course. Of course.

Soap squints, gets up, calms his breathing. He wills himself to assess the situation, rationally, analytically. Usually, he is better at this. Usually, he is smart. Something about Ghost just makes him dumb as hell, all his neurons ceasing fire at once when he looks at that stupidly handsome face – is he even handsome? Johnny thinks he must be – Ghost has told him as much – that stupidly handsome face behind a stupidly sexy mask.

Focus, MacTavish. Keep it tactical. 

When Soap attacks again, it’s with more precision, registering every tiny move, every shift in Ghost’s stance, every flicker of his eyes. It’s like a dance, well-practised – better than it should be, really, given they have barely ever sparred together. 

All Johnny knows is how Ghost fights in the field. All he knows is the efficiency and the cold, detached slice of his knives through the flesh of their enemies, the silent violence of his hand around a throat. The way his deep breath sounds before he fires a shot when he’s sniping, his voice when he’s on overwatch a steady companion in Soap’s ear, teasing, mocking, praising.

And, as Soap finds out, that is all it takes.

Well- not all it takes. He can’t win. No matter how hard he tries, no matter how sharp his focus, he can’t seem to overwhelm Ghost. But Ghost doesn’t get in more hits than Johnny, really. He just hits harder when he does, faster, strikes like a snake, less pure muscle than one would expect from someone of his build. He is methodical as he is with everything else, just as if this were real combat, eyes shining behind the mask whenever they get close enough for Soap to see, white lashes casting shadows darker than the smudged black greasepaint around his eyes.

When they break apart, both of them are panting, sweat staining their shirts, dripping from Soap’s forehead and matting his hair. Indignantly, he pushes some damp strands out his face, then drops his hand to massage the bruise on his shoulder. It’s giving him grief now that he is moving, nothing bad, just pinching uncomfortably. 

Ghost’s eyes follow the movement of Soap’s hand, the rest of his face hidden underneath black fabric, sweat staining it darker in places, the eye region askew on Ghost’s face.

“Oy, LT!” Soap calls, lips twitching. “Ye ever take tha’ thing off? Must be hot as balls under there, aye?”

“You would know,” Ghost shoots back. “Been that close to many balls in your life, Johnny?”

“More than you’d think,” Johnny mumbles before he can hold his stupid fucking tongue. Haud yer weesht, MacTavish, fuckin’ numpty ye are.

But Ghost just huffs and pulls his mask back into place.

“Another round,” he orders.

Five minutes later, Soap is wrapped around Ghost, trying to choke him from behind, when he gets distracted. He gets distracted because he is finally close enough to see them: light freckles, spattered across Ghost’s shoulders, down his arms, down his chest-

Soap gets an elbow to the face, and his tooth goes crack. Bitter blood fills his mouth, and he curses, but it’s not enough to make him let go, never enough to make him let go of Ghost, who is so close, whose skin is damp beneath Soap’s palms, scarred and soft and freckled, and Soap wants to lick it and-

Ghost drops on his back, drops himself on Soap with all his weight until the air is pressed from his lungs and he feels like he is being crushed.

Drunken on violence and the smell of Ghost, Soap can only think that it’d be a good way to go, holding Ghost so close he can count the freckles on his shoulders. Dark spots start to dance in his vision as he gasps for oxygen and gets none. The world flickers at the edges, goes dark for just a moment.

Freckles like stars behind closed eyelids.

Then, all of a sudden, the weight lifts from his chest. Soap’s lungs fill with air and when he opens his eyes again, Ghost is staring down at him with raised brows.

“You ever heard of tappin’ out, Johnny? Fuckin’ hell.”

I fuckin’ passed out?

“Be too easy, wouldn’ it?” Soap shakes it off with a laugh and a grin, lets Ghost help him up from the dirty floor. He holds his hand a little longer than strictly necessary, under the pretence of having to find his footing again. Maybe not just pretence. “Don’ worry yer bonnie little heid aboot me, LT, I’ll be jus’ fine.”

“My ‘pretty little head’, huh?” Ghost shakes his head. “I think I should take you to medical, Sergeant. Seems you have a concussion in addition to being a massive fuckin’ loser.”

“I- oy!”

Hm. Very intelligent comeback.

Ghost is still staring at him with that unsettling intensity. As if to make sure Johnny is really alright.

Soap lets go of his hand.

“I’ll be fine, LT,” he says gruffly. He knew this wasn’t a fight he was gonna win, but a tiny part of him had still hoped he might. Hoped he might at least do good enough to impress Ghost.

“Uh-huh. See that you are.” Finally, Ghost turns around, wanders over to the pile of his hoodie and pulls it over his head. He looks back over his shoulder, hood still up so Soap can’t read the expression in his eyes at all when he says,

“Well done today, Johnny.”

And just like that, he is gone. Soap is left alone on the mat, where the air still smells like Ghost’s sweat, and when he closes his eyes to breathe, freckles dance like stars behind his eyelids.

Johnny presses his own fingers into the bruises that Ghost left, and hopes the pain will linger for weeks to come.

_____________________

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── Previous Chapter ← ⋆ → Next Chapter

This was my favourite chapter to write out of all of them I can't even lie.

Ghost squints and closes the chemical concoctions he prepped to put away. For now, the water will do just fine. Might smell. Of rot and decay and death. But nothing cleans bones better than their own bacteria and a bit of warm water for them to propagate in. Close the bucket with a tight lid, leave it out in the sun… and most of the work will be done for him, without any risk of damaging the bone. He’s done enough research to be sure of it.

The thought of the smell makes him grateful that he keeps a place outside of their home base, glad for the childless great-great uncle who forgot to write a will and unwittingly left his small cottage to Ghost as his closest ‘living’ relative. Rileys aren’t exactly known to have long lives. Runs in the family, it seems, all that violence, all that drinking.

He’s glad for Price who had decided that familial connection was loose enough to let Simon keep it even after his official death. Glad the cottage is situated in bumfuck nowhere, with no nosey neighbours to come sniffing around. Not even tourists or hikers come by this place. Quietest cabin in all of England. Loneliest house at the edge of the world.

That uncle was a fucking weirdo, and Ghost is better off for it.

It’s isolated, sure. But Ghost has never minded that. Not until Johnny. Being alone had always been the way. Johnny changed that, changed him.

Ghost had always enjoyed the peace and quiet of this place before Johnny. Had liked it; how tranquil it was, how much it eased the pain of his sensitive ears, how far removed it seemed from the reality of the job. Barely even birds singing out here. But after Johnny, he’d realised he had started to miss the noise. The very specific noise made by Johnny: the clattering of his various stupid themed mugs, the sounds of his steps, his snorting laugh, his voice (god, fuck, his voice, with that stupid fucking rasp and that stupid fucking accent)...

So, after Johnny joined them, Ghost simply… didn't come here. Why would he leave base when Johnny remained there, spilling over with energy and light? 

Ye goin’ home fer christmas, LT? he’d asked that first year.

And where would I go to find that? had been Ghost’s mumbled answer, barely loud enough for Soap to hear. Johnny had never asked again after that, and he’d stayed on base with him from then on. Had become the home Ghost had so desperately, silently longed for. It had been him. Ghost had never needed anyone else, neither before him… nor now after.

Nothing could ever fill that void.

And so, Johnny had always been there with him, barely ever left if not on missions, and even those, they did together most of the time. Stupidly, Ghost had assumed that Soap’s family must be dead as well, or at the very least so dysfunctional he would not visit them even for holidays. Now he knows that isn't true. Saw Johnny’s mother crying at his funeral until her eyes, blue just like his, were red-rimmed and her lids puffy and her face blotchy.

Johnny never went home to her. Stayed on base with Ghost instead, even though he had a family, one that loved him enough to mourn his death.

Did you stay for me, Johnny?

The thought crackles through Ghost with the force of lightning. He looks up from the floor, finds Johnny right there. Of course he is. Hasn't left his side for long since Glasgow. Clings to him so close it’s like his presence is wrapped around Ghost.

Bit cocksure of yerself, aren't ye, Ghostie?

Shut up.

Johnny snorts, his feet dangling from the metal workbench. Tan skin, flushed and lifelike, covers his hand that’s hovering right next to Ghost’s face. No more rot. No more bone or muscle shining through decaying flesh. He seems almost… whole again. When he bends forward to stare down at Ghost and inspect the bucket he has prepared, Soap’s eyes are shining blue and curious.

What are ye plannin’ tae do tae me, love?

“Whatever I bloody well need to to shut you up,” Ghost grunts, heaving the bucket up to carry it outside.

Och, don’t be like that.

“Like what? Goin’ fuckin’ insane, aren’t I? Talking to you like you can hear me, fuckin’ hell. If Price ever makes me go through psych eval again that’ll be my career done for.”

Ye were fucked in the heid long before this, aye? Don’t tell me ye wouldae passed even a single psych eval withoot a bit o’ help from Price. Ye’ve always been fuckin’ gyte. ‘s what I loved aboot ye.

Ghost just hums to himself. Takes in the carefully placed bones that lay before him. Soap’s skull shines beautifully, gilded by the warm light of the afternoon. Barely any flesh remains; a week in the water should be enough to get the last bits off cleanly. 

He is beautiful.

Ever since Ghost took his bones, the Johnny that keeps him company has started to look less and less rotten: Flesh restoring itself, colour returning to dead eyes. The only wound that won’t seem to heal is the goddamn hole in his temple, just as red and deep in his head as it is ingrained in his skull.

Whether that’s a good sign is up for debate, but Ghost chooses not to think about it too much.

He takes a deep breath and tries to ignore that Soap’s hand on his shoulder has no weight to it at all when he hops down from the bench to stand behind Ghost and watch him work.

His fingers trace the pale, cool bone before him in something akin to reverence. In worship, perhaps, though his heart aches at the sight of it.

I’ll make you whole again, Johnny. His thumb presses into bone, imagining the flesh there and what it might have been like to stroke Soap’s cheek. What it might have been like to wipe tears and sweat and blood off his skin like Ghost had wanted to so many times.

"You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen," Simon says quietly, eyes fixed on the empty sockets of the skull in front of him. “First time I saw you, I knew. Knew I’d never have you, and I’d always want you. Knew you were it for me. Just… fuckin’ knew. Couldn't have you because I would never deserve it. Just thought it’d be me who’d die first. Never even entertained… the- the fuckin’ possibility of being the one left behind, did you know that? On missions, always worried for you. Never about me.”

Soap blinks up at him, all long lashes and sad eyes.

And look where we are now, huh? Finally got me, LT. Even if it is from beyond the grave. Should be yer job to haunt me, really. Ye go’ the right name fer it an’ all.

His voice is too sad to make the joke work, and a bitter laugh drips from Ghost’s lips. Simon’s been talking so much lately. Maybe more than he has in the decade before this.

“Like I don’t know that. Should always have been me goin’ first. I’m already dead, aren't I? More so without you, Johnny.” His scarred fingers curl around the bone of Soap’s skull, carefully avoiding the bullet hole that forms the only imperfection, but his eyes are fixed on Soap’s hand that remains weightless on his shoulder, always almost touching him and never quite managing. Just like it was when he was alive. “Yeah, look where we are now. Me taking the skull from your grave shouldn’t be less bloody insane than the fact that I’m talkin’ to you like you’re actually here.”

Mhhm. Do nae worry too much aboot it. Ye said it yerself- 

“-it’ll all be fine once this is done. Has to be.” Ghost sighs deeply, rubs a hand over his face and is still somehow always surprised that there is no eyeblack on it afterwards. Civilian clothes, civilian mask, civilian face. No grease paint, no balaclava. His bike helmet is the utmost protection this world will afford him without raising too many eyebrows. He can't get used to it. Thinks that somehow it might have been easier if he could have held Johnny’s hand. Reckons he won't find out now. Not ever.

Soap taps his shoulder, and this time, Ghost swears he can feel it. Has been touched by Johnny so often the weight of his hand is familiar like the slash of a knife sinking into skin. It’s so easy to imagine that it's real. So natural. Hard to remember that Ghost is just insane.

Ye’ll have tae leave me here while you go back tae base. Ye alright with tha’?

“Gotta be, I guess.” Ghost shrugs, but feels his stomach drop. He knows Soap is right. Knows he can’t have weeks off to watch Johnny’s skull macerate. Knows he can't take it with him, either. He might be insane but he's not fucking stupid. Wouldn't make any sense to, either. Nothing he can do but wait. The real work starts after this. Shouldn’t even take that long – Ghost has done his research and done it well.

But the thought of leaving Johnny alone – again – makes his fucking hands shake, makes him place the skull in his hands back on the workbench so he won't drop it. 

Ghost drops to his knees, wills his bloody hands to calm down. Presses bruises into his thighs until he remembers he is a real person again. He can't even see Johnny like this, but it's alright. Simon knows he’s there. Can feel the weight of his gaze in the back of his neck, just the way he used to feel.

The empty sockets of the skull stare dully at Ghost. He strokes the sharp cheekbone with his thumb, calms himself with the touch, but his heart aches and there is blood in his lungs, viscous and heavy.

“I don’t want to leave you, Johnny.”

Be alright, LT. 

“You can’t promise that.”

Could never promise that, could I? But I can promise I’ll still be here when ye get back.

He’ll be here. He’s not going anywhere. It’s a mantra, the best he’s gonna get. He’ll be here. He’s not going anywhere.

“Gotta look in on you every few days anyways, change the water. Helps the maceration if I do.” Ghost is mumbling to himself more than anything. Hopes that the one week might be enough. Maybe two, just to be safe. He prays to all gods that never existed that Price won’t send him away on long missions. Maybe he’ll get lucky, just this time around. Just this once.

With careful hands, Simon carries Johnny’s skull outside. Places it in the water bucket and seals the lid.

“See you when I see you, Johnny.”

Not if I see ye first.

________________

The mission is fucked from the start.

Always is, when it comes down to it. Bad intel, bad conditions, traitors- everything that can go wrong piled into a shitheap of fucked missions. It’s not the first mission gone wrong since Soap’s death, but it’s the worst one yet.

Gaz ends up in the shitty field hospital, almost dies on the table. Price’s fingers get crushed in a wreck – Lucky they’re my left ones, eh? he jokes and cocks his gun in defiance of death. Ghost’s ears are still ringing from an explosion going off way too close to him when he gets off the helo and steps onto the plane back to British soil. 

If he had to guess why they all made it out alive, in spite of everything, in spite of almost everybody else dying there… his first answer would be Soap. And people might look at him like he’s lost the plot, and maybe he has – he probably has – most definitely has – but it wouldn’t change his answer: It was Soap.

Like Soap’s voice nagging in the back of his head that there's enemies ahead. Soap’s fingers pulling him in a different direction than he had planned on going, and there, Ghost sees the reflection of a sniper in a dirty window and shoots the guy before he has a shot at Price. 

Soap, always Soap. Never more present, never more alive than on missions. Always vibrating with it. Let’s get ourselves a win, aye, LT? Ghost never loved him more than bathed in the blood of their enemies.

He doesn't show up like a ghost in the warzone, though. No, that’s reserved for the privacy of Ghost’s time on base, at home, off-duty. First time his spectre has left Ghost’s side in days. First time he has felt truly gone since Glasgow, save for those little glimpses that feel like he is tugging at the edge of Ghost’s consciousness.

And Ghost knows that it’s just instinct, is just training and honed reflexes. He knows it. And still he can’t help but ascribe his survival – all of theirs – to that feeling of Soap that lingers in the back of his mind the whole mission. He wishes he could see him. Swears he sees Johnny’s reflection in a window, but it’s just another enemy for him to shoot, brownish mohawk stained red with blood after Ghost’s perfect shot rips through his head. 

Ghost swears he can hear the clicks of Soap reloading, hear him mumble the maths when he does his complicated shit to do with explosives. Used to drive Ghost mad, all the noise Johnny made. He was quiet on ops – of course he was, he was good – but never as quiet as Ghost could be. Always had to voice his thoughts to keep them in order. Said there was too much in his brain all the time when Ghost asked why he was always talking to himself.

Over time, it shifted. Went from Soap mumbling to himself, to Ghost overhearing. From overhearing to listening, and to Soap no longer talking to himself but listing things to Ghost as if it meant anything to him. And Ghost nodding along, playing the game, willingly becoming the blank slate that Johnny could place his thoughts upon.

Good teamwork, Price used to call it. If Ghost had to call it anything now, he would call it love.

Irrationally, Ghost misses Soap’s battlefield noises and memorised chemical reactions now. Misses all the little sounds that meant Soap at his six. Misses him even more than he did before he went insane and started talking to him like he was alive. He feels Soap’s absence so much heavier now. Hopes it’ll ease once he completes the process, can take Soap with him again, the way it was always supposed to be. The two of them together. Against all odds, against the world.

The mission is way too long. Usually, Ghost relishes the time in action, hates nothing more than idly sitting around on base, waiting for something to pop up. Needs the thrill of the kill, needs to be bathed in blood and fury; needs distraction so he won’t lose it.

Now, all he wants to do is go home. Check on Soap. Make sure he’s safe, he’s alright. Make sure he’ll come back to him, that he’ll still show up when Ghost calls, that they’ll do their call and response like they always did, until that one time when-

Ghost interrupts himself. Focuses on his reflection in the broken window and barely even notices that familiar blue eyes are staring back at him, framed by long, dark lashes.

Reload, shrug it all off, and get it done.

He gets them out of there, saves who he can save. Because the one person he wants to get back to, wants to come home to, isn’t here anyways. No need to draw it out. And if the fates won't let him die and the thread of his life will not be cut, then he won't let anybody else die either. He is already unravelling. Needs the others to intertwine with him so he won't curl into a fucking ball of yarn drenched in blood.

Price lets him leave base without question after Ghost’s medical checkup comes back clear. Well. As clear as it ever is. Nobody asks too many questions. The Captain himself and Gaz are out of commission for a few days at the very least, and no intel means no solo missions either, so there is no point for Ghost to hang around. He used to. Used to stay for Soap; stay with Johnny. But now the base feels so much less like home than the cottage where Johnny’s skull rests.

After a little more than a week away, relief brightens Ghost’s heart when he steps through his creaky front door and into his empty living room to find the shadow of Soap perched on the couch, slowly soaking the fabric with thick, imaginary blood.

“There you are. Have you been waiting long?” Ghost’s voice is soft and quiet. He can allow it to be, in the silence out here. Nobody here but two ghosts, staring back at each other: One real, one not. Ghost isn’t sure which is which anymore.

His heart aches, longs to touch. Longs to beat in unison with Soap’s again as it did when they worked together, as it did even when they were just sitting close.

Was always right there, wasn't I?

“Mhh. Haven’t seen you for too long, though.”

Aww, startin’ to miss my mug already? Yer goin’ soft, LT.

Ghost grumbles out a curse when he stubs his toe in his haste to get to the work space out back. To look at Soap, properly, and to know if it worked.

His steady, reliable sniper hands tremble when he pulls the lid off the bucket. The smell makes his eyes water: even after mere days, the bacteria has done more gentle work than even Ghost’s reverent hands ever could.

He looks perfect.

Ghost has to say it out loud, has to let him know.

“You look perfect, sweet’eart.”

Johnny’s eyes are wide and dark when he looks back at him; stares at his own skull and at Ghost’s face, covered in his balaclava still, too anxious to bother taking it off.

For you. This was all you.

The shake in Simon’s fingers subsides as he lifts the perfectly cleaned skull out of the nasty water, not caring what he touches. He has to know what this bone feels like against his skin.

Warmed by the sun. Smoothed by the water. Brittle, too brittle to leave it, to work with it. 

Carefully, Ghost examines the skull, determines he wants to bleach it first.

What are ye thinkin’ aboot, LT?

And all Ghost can answer with is the truth:

“How to finally make you mine.”

------------------------

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── Previous Chapter ← ⋆ → Next Chapter ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Oh Johnny.

But now Soap is dead, and the world has crashed and burned so bright that there is no difference anymore. The line between Ghost and Simon has been eaten away by grief and rage. Soap died, and so, Johnny is dead. Ghost survived, but when that bullet tore through Johnny’s brain, Simon died right there with him. Again. Simon Riley has long since been dead, but pieces of him bubbled to the surface every time Johnny smiled at him. Now, Ghost is all that remains.

Ghost has never liked looking at himself much, but now, he avoids it like a pest. He knows all he will see when he looks in the mirror is the unbearable sadness of his eyes he just can’t seem to shake, no matter how hard he tells himself that he has nothing left in himself to feel with. No heart to beat, no lungs to breathe. Ghost is all that is left, an empty shell in the wake of Johnny’s death.

Ghost looks through people now, instead of at them. He functions. Barely. He works – Price wanted to send him home after Johnny’s death, made him ‘consider’ a leave of absence. Just for a few weeks, he’d said. Just until you feel… better. More yourself.

Nothing will ever make Ghost feel anything, least of all better. But he doesn’t say that to Price. The Captain would just be worried, even more so than he is now. And he is worried. Ghost can tell by the grey in his temples and the wrinkles on his nose, and by the fact that Price smokes twice as much as he used to. Natural stress reaction. So, Ghost nods off everything Price tells him to do. He goes to Manchester. Home, Price had said.

My home is buried six feet deep, Ghost wants to say. Nothing was ever home like Johnny was. His lingering smell in my room was the only reason I could sleep at night. His smile was the reason I felt like a person again.

But Ghost does not say that – Ghost doesn’t say anything. Ghost takes his leave of absence, and he stays the fuck away from base for one whole week before he can’t bear it anymore. He smokes an absurd amount of cigarettes and lets the smoke fill his lungs until he can tell himself that tar and nicotine are the reason he cannot breathe anymore. 

When he comes back, Price furrows his brow in disapproval, and Gaz’s hand lingers on his shoulder when it really shouldn’t. But they accept him back and don’t ask too many questions. They know better than to try.

Ghost wouldn’t know what to do with himself if not for the military. If not for the sharp glint of his knives, and the rough call of orders and the rigid routines and the stupidity of new recruits. And since Ghost is all that remains, all that remains is working.

Simon finds it too hard to breathe. He chokes on the blood flowing from the hole in Johnny’s head in his dreams each night, drowns in it and sinks to the bottom of a deep red sea of pain. Lets himself be buried by it, in a watery grave right next to Johnny. But Ghost… Ghost knows how to cope: With violence.

______________________________

Weeks have passed since the funeral before a thought comes knocking at Ghost’s mind. Could be months. The days tend to melt into one another now. Now that Johnny’s sleepy smile in the mess isn’t there anymore to differentiate between them, to make Ghost remember how Johnny looked especially tired yesterday, or how his eyes shone the other day because for fucking once the sun was out. Doesn’t matter anymore. Time somehow passes, and Ghost does the work that is required because it’s the only thing he knows how to do. He tries not to think too much. Tries not to think at all, if he can help it, because he is drowning in memories.

Ironically, it’s a dream that pries this particular thought loose, makes it tumble to the ground and shatter until its ashes spread everywhere, like fungi taking root. The thought invades Ghost’s brain, takes over until it’s all he can think about.

The dream is of Johnny: Of course it is. Ghost dreams of nothing else. Of no one else. Hasn’t since the first time he laid eyes on Johnny. In his dreams, Johnny smiles at him, just at him, his sunshine smile with cheeks flushed from adrenaline. In Ghost’s nightmares, Soap dies, over and over and over again. It was like that before Makarov. After Makarov, even Ghost’s dreams have become nightmares, because Johnny is never there when he wakes up. Will never be there again.

This time, the dream is of Johnny’s rotting, decaying corpse. He is military – was military. Of course he wasn’t cremated. Of course they put his dead body on show, with a proud flag of Scotland and a fanfare to congratulate him on dying, the hole in his head covered up by skillful hands until it’s barely visible.

Almost like he’s sleeping, Gaz had said at the funeral.

No, Ghost had thought bitterly. I know what Johnny looks like when he is sleeping, and it’s not like that. I know what he looks like. Not like this.

He hadn’t commented on Gaz’s words. In fact, Ghost could not remember the last time he had commented on anything. Silence had always been easiest. Except when it was Johnny asking. Now, silence is all that remains.

They had lowered the coffin into the ground, and Ghost had stood and watched, his black mask hiding the tears. And then, Johnny was gone. Not cremated. Buried. This is what Ghost dreams about, for the first time:

Johnny is buried.

Johnny is rotting.

The thought haunts Ghost. He knows the process, knows what it looks like, smells like, feels like under his fingertips. Sometimes he wakes up and swears he can taste the decay on his tongue.

It goes on like this for months: Ghost dreams of Johnny. It never used to be like that. When they were still together, still alive, Ghost never dreamed of anyone but Soap while they were on missions. Never Johnny. He wouldn’t let himself. Dreaming of Johnny was a privilege only Simon held. But now that the world has imploded, Ghost cannot bring himself to care anymore. Not when Johnny is in his dreams, sweeter than life itself, with his sunshine smile and his too-large hands, and his rosy cheeks and his freckled nose. Not even when the Johnny in his dreams is mottled with coffin flies, rotting, falling apart, decaying right before Ghost’s eyes. Not even then. Ghost would rather have nightmares about Johnny than dream of a paradise without him. 

Unspoken words hang in the air when Price asks him how he is coping.

You loved him.

Price doesn't need to ask, never needs to say it out loud. They both know it. Simon loved Johnny just like Ghost loved Soap. Maybe more. Now that he is dead, Ghost loves all of him, and that love is like a festering wound. It bites its way deep into Ghost’s heart and makes him rot from the inside out.

You loved him, Price doesn't say. 

And so, the thought takes hold, spreads and infests every corner, nook and cranny of Ghost’s mind: What does Johnny look like right now? Are there larvae eating at him? Has the earth absorbed him yet? Is the hole in his head visible still, through the rotting flesh that falls from bone?

When Ghost is not working, he thinks about Johnny. Sometimes – fatally – he thinks about Johnny even while he’s working. Of the way his eye sockets must be sunken in by now, the way his pretty lips must be gone to expose his sharp canines and his perfectly straight front teeth. How cold he must be down there, all by himself.

And a plan begins to form in Ghost’s mind.

He can’t grasp it at first – can’t put it into a shape that makes sense to his brain. Can’t comprehend how fucked up his own mind is, can’t bear for it to be true. Ghost has done a lot of awful things in his life. Objectively, much worse than what he is thinking about now. But it’s Johnny, and so, Ghost pushes the thought away, back into the rotting bog of his own mind. He smokes three packs of fags a day and tries to forget about it.

He doesn’t notice in the beginning that the thought does not die after he shoves it away. Doesn’t notice it taking root, nor how it festers and kills everything else, sneakily creeping forwards, slow and steady. He doesn’t notice until it is far too late.

He pretends that he doesn't feel incomplete, even with his mask on, even covered up with the hard shell of a skull that once made him feel safe and whole. Ghost pretends that the only thought that rings in his brain when he catches a glimpse of his own reflection is not of a different skull. Of a skull he misses more than anything else in the world. A skull he loved when it was still covered by flesh, and a skull that he still loves now that it’s rotting in the ground.

Johnny.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── → Next Chapter ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Ghost totally kept it tactical, right? Taggies taggies for the beloveds.