#comradekitten45

“Do not get worked up, Simon Riley. We have not even started yet,” the tall man states as he slowly and methodically places monitor pads on Ghost’s chest and head. He places a pulse oximeter on his right middle finger. A soft beeping starts as the man turns the heart monitor on. Ghost stares straight ahead at what is surely a two-way mirror, refusing to give the man even an inkling of his attention.

That attempt fails when the man pulls out a medical-grade IV needle. Ghost’s breathing picks up. Fuck, he hates needles. The heart monitor is beeping faster. Simon is slipping through the cracks.

Maybe Ghost can’t go through this again.

“Scared of needles, Simon Riley?” The man sneers as he holds out Ghost’s arm, tying a tourniquet just above the vein. Ghost tries to fight, to move, to do something, but his body won’t listen. He attempts to brace himself instead. The man cleans the section and inserts the needle. Ghost’s vision goes dark. He feels dizzy and nauseated. The man pulls the needle out, leaving only the plastic catheter in his arm. Ghost might puke.

“See? I told you not to worry. I am professional, after all.”

Ghost glares at the man, tempted to use the nausea as an excuse to puke on him.

The man ignores Ghost shooting daggers at him with his eyes as he pulls out an IV bag full of some green looking liquid. “This, Simon Riley, is why we use heart monitor,” the man begins. Why does he always call Ghost by his full name? Why does he keep saying it like that? “This is memory serum. It targets hippocampus. Brings back worst memories. The only issue is that too much stress can cause seizure. We do not want that. So we monitor. What are your worst memories, Simon Riley?”

The man starts the line, squeezing the bag slightly so that the serum enters his bloodstream faster. It stings as it runs up his arm.

“FUCK!” Simon screams. In his peripheral, he hears the heart monitor beeping faster. He closes his eyes, hoping, no—praying it doesn't work.

“I hear you had bad time in Mexico, Simon Riley. Maybe we start there,” Ghost can hear the smirk in the man’s voice. Nobody knows about Mexico. Not even Soap. How does this bastard know that? What intel does he have? The man runs his finger down one of the scars on Ghost’s abdomen, tracing where the knife flayed him open all those years ago. Simon opens his eyes. He’s no longer in Romania. He’s laying on a gurney, being sliced apart by one of Roba’s men. Someone barks an order in Spanish.

Simon flails and squirms. He squeezes his eyes open and shut. The hallucination stays.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. ThisisntrealthisisntrealTHISISNTREAL. He knows it isn’t. These men are dead.

So… why can he feel every cut?

Simon bites the inside of his cheek hard so he can’t scream. He can’t do this again.

Simon’s vision warps. He's outside. It’s midnight. A man stabs a hook through his ribs. Simon screams as the men hang him from the tree. Roba laughs. He watches as the cartel executes his remaining teammates. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Simon gasps for air. Something feels off. He’s shaking. Violently. His mind is full of static. His vision blurs. He can’t hear anything. Can’t see anything. Can’t feel anything.

Everything goes dark.

…

Ghost wakes up in a semi-abandoned Soviet-era bunker that feels uncomfortably warm, especially for the middle of fucking December.

His head is swimming and everything fucking aches.

He scans the room, checking for hostiles, abandoned weapons… anything that he could use to make his escape. To his right, he spots a downright ancient furnace that is—wait.

No.

He’s been here before.

This time, though, his body is cuffed to a wheelchair. The IV catheter is still in his arm, connected to a line of saline. This is the fourth day he's woken up like this after seizing from the “memory serum.” It’s the fifth day he's woken up in nothing but his boxers. The fifth day he’s had to stare down at his bare skin. His scars.

Every night—around 2100, Ghost has deduced—the tall Romanian man enters, checks his vitals, and asks him a billion medical questions as if he thinks he’s still a doctor. Ghost gets a punch in the face if he doesn’t answer. Once the man is satisfied that Ghost won’t keel over, he wheels him into the makeshift interrogation room, chains him to the dental chair, and injects the memory serum into Ghost’s IV.

Every night, Ghost is forced to relive some of his worst memories—Ghost digging out of his own grave. His dad beating the shit out of him for breathing too loud while he’s hungover. Soap getting shot and being hunted by Graves in Las Almas. Simon’s failures. It ends with everything going dark as Ghost has another violent seizure.

Ghost looks down and notices that, once again, he's puked on himself. The sickly sweet smell of rotting vomit makes him want to throw up all over again. He hasn’t eaten since before the mission, though, so the only thing that would come up is stomach bile.

Ghost has nearly given up on the thought of anyone finding him. Hell, he doesn’t even know where he is. These bastards won't break him, though. He already has nightly terrors of these memories. In fact, these sedative induced naps have led to some of the best sleep Ghost has had in a long time. He just has to wait for the perfect moment to escape. And then he’ll kill them all. That’s what he did with Roba and his men.

He just hopes that they didn’t find Soap. He could hear his young sergeant running back to him through the comms after everything went to shit. Ghost never turned his radio off. If the men had been paying any attention, they would have realized.

He doesn’t know what they would do to Soap.

After the first night’s fiasco, Ghost pushed Simon even further down. Locked him in a box and threw away the key. He thought that would help—that it would protect him—but now Ghost is realizing that he feels too. Maybe not as dramatically, but enough to fall into a spiral if he isn’t careful. There isn’t much he can do to distract himself, either.

So fucking hell, now he’s alone with his thoughts, worrying about whether his sergeant made it out okay or not.

Ghost stares at a spot in the floor, burning a hold into it with his eyes. It’s been 3 hours since he woke up, meaning it’s probably around 1300.

The tall man barges into the room, unscrews the saline line from Ghost’s IV, and pushes him into the interrogation room. He didn’t even stop to check Ghost’s vitals. He seems rushed. Ghost says nothing.

“You are tough man, Simon Riley, but we need you fast. It is time for more… drastic measure,” the man speaks as he starts the line. The familiar burn prickles up his arm, making Ghost feel dizzy and sick. His head spins and his vision starts to blur.

“Now, Simon Riley, it is almost Christmas. Something happened to you on Christmas, didn’t it, Simon Riley?”

No. Fuck. Not that one. Please, not that one. Ghost tries to fight it, but he fails.

He blinks and is back in that small Manchester flat. It’s Christmas Eve. Beth had just baked gingerbread. Little Joseph was gawping at the twinkling lights on the tree. Even Tommy and mum seemed happy.

And then everything went wrong.

“I hear, Simon Riley, that your family died that night.” The lights go dim. Suddenly, the man is in the room, walking towards Simon. He’s holding something in his hand. A gun. Is he going to kill them right in front of him? “I hear, Simon Riley, that you killed them that night.” He places the pistol in Simon’s hands.

What? No. No. Sparks and Washington killed them. Simon still realizes that…

Doesn’t he?

Simon looks around. Blood spatters paint the flat a deep red. He walks over to the Christmas tree. A gunshot wound pieces the front of little Joseph’s skull. Simon collapses to his knees.

“I hear you killed your nephew first, Simon Riley.”

“N-no. No, I didn’t,” Simon shakily replies. The gun in his hand is suddenly smoking though, and it is strangely pointing at Joseph’s little body.

But Simon knows he didn’t kill him… he thinks he didn’t kill him.

“I hear you went for your brother’s wife next, Simon Riley,” the man’s voice sounds from behind. Simon turns around and shoots the man. The body that falls is Beth’s.

“No! Fuck!” Simon screams as he rushes to Beth’s rapidly cooling body. Blood pools behind her head.

Simon didn’t kill Beth. He didn’t.

Did he?

“You killed your poor mother next, Simon Riley. She didn’t stand a chance, did she, Simon Riley?”

Simon looks over at the body right next to Beth’s. It’s his mum. Her terrified, lifeless eyes stare accusingly towards Simon.

“And then, Simon Riley, your brother walked in and saw what you did,” someone grabs Simon’s shoulder. He instinctively turns and shoots. It’s Tommy.

“You killed him, Simon Riley. You killed your entire family.”

No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t. No he didn’t.

Maybe he did.

Simon looks around the room again. His entire family is gone. It’s his fault. He crumples to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his ears. His breathing picks up. His heart rate spikes. The man’s voice persists.

“You covered it up, Simon Riley. But you cannot run forever. What will your fellow soldiers do when they find out what you’ve done? How will they react when they find out you killed your family, Simon Riley?”

Simon gasps for air, but it doesn’t come. It’s just a hallucination, he tells himself. But the gun in his hands feels so real. The blood—their blood—is hot and sticky on his skin.

Suddenly, he’s in the Credenhill interrogation room. He has no mask. The man walks around the room, continuing to mock Ghost. The one-way mirror shuts off, revealing the rest of the SAS base. Price, Gaz, and Laswell stare at him, disgust plastered on their faces. Soap—Johnny—stands in the corner, eyes full of fear as he looks at the monster cuffed to the table.

In the center, though, the rotting corpses of the Rileys stare back at him.

Ghost feels himself starting to convulse. He’s seizing again. His vision swirls and starts to darken. At least it will be over again soon.

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

It’s been seven days since Ghost was taken, and Soap has spent six of them stuck in the safehouse, delerious and bedridden from a fucking cold of all things. Not to mention his rolled ankle. Yesterday was the first day he could stand and walk around the room without feeling like he was actively dying. He’s so fucking pissed about it. Soap never gets sick. Why now, when Ghost needs him? Fuckin’ useless piece o shite. Why wid Ghost need you? It’s yer faut he’s been captured in the first place. He probably fucking hates ye.

Gaz and Price are trying their best, but so far they haven’t found anything that could lead them to finding their lieutenant. Yesterday, Price even seemed like he was close to giving up. Soap is pissed about that, too. If he had just ignored his captain, he probably would have found Ghost already. It’s not like Soap is unfamiliar with the concept of insubordination. In fact, he’s kind of known for it.

It’s 0900, and Soap is feeling much better today—so much so that he’s ready to go searching for Ghost himself. As he walks into the safehouse kitchen, he spots Gaz mulling over some papers.

“What’s this?” Soap asks as he pulls up a chair.

“Well good morning to you too, sleepyhead,” Gaz replies without looking up. “Back with the land of the living, eh?”

“Och fuck off, mate. I’m fine. What’re ye looking at anyways?” It looks like the schematics of some building—possibly a bunker.

“Well, while you were on your death bed, Cap found the mole. He interrogated the fucker early this morning and got… these,” Gaz gestures to the schematics and hands Soap a manilla folder.

Soap takes the folder and opens it. What the fuck..? Inside is a whole bloody fucking dossier on one Lieutenant Simon Riley. The folder includes his entire military history—including a very detailed, very disturbing section on his capture in Mexico and the aftermath. Steaming fucking Jesus. Betrayed by his own team, tortured for months, raped, and buried alive? Soap feels his pulse ticking in his neck. He knew Ghost had a rough history—Soap just always assumed it was because of his father’s abuse.

Then he sees it. Fucking Christmas Eve.

“Bleedin’ Jesus, did anyone know about this?” Soap asks, but it barely comes out as a whisper.

“No–not even the higher ups knew,” Gaz replies darkly. “The only person besides Ghost who knew the whole story was Price. He was fucking pissed when he came in earlier. Went through six bloody cigars in an attempt to blow off some steam.”

“How’d they get this?” Soap mutters.

“Seems like we had more than one mole,” Gaz states. “Someone broke into Price’s office and copied Ghost’s file just after we left. Bloody bastard was caught for breaking in, but they never found the copied records.”

Soap stares at the folder. Ghost lost his entire family in one night. No fucking wonder he seems to hate the holiday.

Wait…

“If those bawbags know about Ghost’s history, who fucking knows what they’re doing to him now,” Soap growls. “We cannae let him go through that again, Kyle. We have tae find him.”

“I know, Tav. I know. That’s what this is for,” Gaz points to the schematics. “This is an old Soviet bunker just outside of the town we passed a few weeks ago. Price suspects they’re keeping Ghost there.”

A lead. That’s a lead. Why are they waiting?

“Well, what the fuck are we still doing here? We know where Ghost is—why aren’t we going to get him?” Soap shoots up from his seat.

“Woah, easy mate,” Gaz grabs Soap’s wrist. “We can’t just run in there. We don’t even know if that’s where they’re keeping him. Price is doing recon now—he should be back in a few hours. For now though, we wait.” Gaz’s voice softens, and he gives Soap a knowing look, “We’ll get him, Tav. We won’t let these bastards break our lieutenant.”

That doesn’t make Soap feel any better, but he pretends it does for Gaz’s sake.

And so they wait.

…

It’s nearly 1300 and Soap is getting antsy. Price still hasn’t returned. Soap’s leg is bouncing so hard that it hurts. He and Gaz have already played through the Uno deck that Soap had brought. Soap had tried to draw in his journal, but nothing looked right. Now the floor is littered with crumpled sketches.

Realistically, Soap knows that reconnaissance can take a while, but he knows that Ghost is in that building. He knows that Ghost is suffering. They’re torturing him somehow. Soap needs to get him out of there.

“This is bullshit,” Soap grumbles. As he gets up to prep his gear, Price barges through the safehouse entrance, covered in snow and blood that isn’t his own.

“We’ve found him,” Price smiles. “Soap, Gaz, get ready. We’re leaving in thirty.”

Soap feels like all of the air is sucked out of him. They found him. They found Ghost. And based on Price’s reaction, he’s alive.

They spend the next twenty-five minutes gearing up and replenishing their packs. Price explains the plan. The bunker is underneath a country cottage just outside of the city. It’s mostly abandoned, save for a few members of the local Romanian mafia.

“We need to be careful, Sergeants. These men have strong connections to the local government. If they call for backup, we’re in deep shit,” Price explains.

“Mafia? I thought we were dealing with terrorists,” Soap asks.

“We are,” Price states. “Turns out it’s all connected. The mafia and their connections here are a part of the same terrorist organization that you and Ghost were tasked with gathering intel from. It’s a lot of bio-medical bullshit. Right now, they’re harvesting and trafficking organs.”

“Fuck,” Gaz whispers. “Do you think…” He cuts himself off. Price shifts but shakes his head. “No, Kyle. These wankers want to use him. It won’t work. We know this—he’s been through this before,” Price scrubs his face with his hand. “But boys, I need you to prepare for what you might see in there. They had Simon’s file. We don’t know what these bastards are doing to him.”

Soap’s jaw ticks. He keeps his mouth shut and stares a hole into the schematics. He doesn’t trust himself to not blow up on his captain. He knows he shouldn’t be angry. Price made the right call. And then there’s the cold and the rolled ankle, which were both 100% Soap’s own fault. He would have died if he stayed out there overnight.

But still…

They continue preparing, Price continuing to go over the infiltration plan. Soap can feel his heart rate increasing. What if ye fuck it aw up again? What if they catch on an kill Ghost before ye get the chance tae get him oot? Soap bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. He shouldn’t be this nervous.

“Alright boys, our entry point is here,” Price taps his pen to the bunker entrance. “I’ll stand back for overwatch until we can guarantee the outside is clear. Once we’ve picked off the guards, we’ll use a heartbeat sensor to check for hostiles inside. Gaz, I want you to clear out as many rooms as you can, but watch your fire. We don’t know where they're keeping Ghost. I’ll be on your six the whole time.” Gaz nods while staring intensely at the schematics, mentally mapping the bunker and all of its possible danger spots. Price continues, “Soap, I’m trusting you to find Ghost and… just make sure he’s breathing. Once we clear the bunker, Gaz will prep for exfil while I head to wherever you are for assistance. Are we clear?”

“Yes sir,” the sergeants both reply.

Soap stares down the scope of his rifle, picking off the rest of the outdoor guards with Price and Gaz before infiltrating the bunker. If the guards call for backup, the sergeants and their captain are royally fucked. Twenty-five downed men later, and the coast appears to be clear. 

Price stays behind to watch for movement as Soap and Gaz run down the hill to the entrance of the concrete bunker. Once the sergeants reach the door, Gaz uses his heartbeat sensor to check for nearby hostiles. It’s surprisingly clear at the entrance.

Soap reaches for the door, but Gaz grabs his arm before he can open it. 

“Hang on, Tav. The lack of bodies is suspicious–something’s up,” he whispers. “Let’s snake a cam through first. Door could be rigged.”

Shite, he’s right. Reckless fuckin numpty. Whit’re ye thinkin? Could’ve blown the both o ye up wi that behaviour. Gaz places the snake cam at the base of the door as Soap takes a look.

Nothing.

“Looks clear,” Soap whispers. He opens the door. Unlocked. What the fuck? Soap and Gaz step into the hallway. It’s completely deserted. Soap’s gut twists. He glances over to Gaz, whose expression matches Soap’s concern. 

Gaz keys the mic on his radio, “Captain, something’s wrong. It’s too quiet. We need you down here.”

“Copy, Gaz. Still appears clear up here. Heading your way now,” Price replies. 

The men begin sweeping the rooms. No sign of the slimy mafia gits or Ghost. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Are they too late? Did they catch on somehow? Soap’s heart begins to thump harder. He sneaks into the next room, finally spotting a guard. He slices the man’s throat, blood spattering across a window. 

“Oh shit,” Soap whispers. It’s a viewing room. The room on the other side contains a huge light shining directly onto an ancient dental chair caked in blood and vomit. Medical supplies lay scattered across the floor. Fuckin hell.

“Soap? You good mate?” Gaz steps into the room, freezing at the sight of the interrogation room. “Bloody hell,” he whispers.

“What the fuck did they do to him?” Soap hisses. 

Gaz squeezes Soap’s shoulder. “Well, we aren’t going to make any progress by staying here. C’mon Tav, we should probably check the other rooms.”

Before they can turn around, an alarm sounds. 

“Boys, we’ve got a problem. Someone found the bodies.” Price’s voice comes in through the radio. Shite. Of course it gets worse. The captain continues, “Gaz, you’re on me. We’re going to prep for exfil. Soap, there are only a few rooms left. I’m trusting you to get Simon out of here.”

“Yes sir,” Soap replies.

Gaz and Price run towards the exit to defend the exfil vehicle while Soap clears the last few rooms. He guns down the few men he spots before reaching the end of the hall.

Soap runs into the final room, spotting three men. Two men in labcoats and… Steamin bloody fucking Jesus. It’s Simon. Soap grabs his pistol, slotting the two scientist-looking men before rushing over to his lieutenant. 

Shackles chain Ghost’s arms above his head and to the wall. His head hangs low. His clothes are completely missing save for his trousers. Fuck, even his mask is missing. Strawberry blonde curls darkened and matted with sweat plaster his head. Ghost doesn’t even seem to acknowledge the bodies dropping right in front of him. “LT?” Soap slowly walks closer to his lieutenant. No reaction. “Ghost..?” Still nothing. His breathing comes in slow and deep. That’s a good sign at least. Soap kneels down to meet Ghost’s eye level. He doesn’t look up. 

“Ghost–Simon it’s me. It’s Johnny. Can you hear me, love?” Soap desperately attempts to coax Ghost to just look at him. Ghost blinks slowly, but doesn’t move.

“Johnny,” Ghost whispers. A response. 

“Yes, yes it’s me, LT! I’m gonnae get you out of here, but I have to touch ye. Let’s get these chains off of ye.” Soap turns to grab the set of keys off of one of the bodies.

“Let’s… get these chains… off… of you…” Ghost slowly echoes Soap.

“What?” Soap turns around. Ghost doesn’t react. “Ghost? Ah’m gonnae have to touch ye.” 

Again, Ghost slowly echoes Soap in broken Scots, but doesn’t move. His face remains flat. Soap unlocks the shackles, expecting Ghost’s arms to fall. 

For a couple seconds, they don’t. Then, slowly, the muscles release and his arms fall to his sides. His head still hangs low. What the fuck?

Price’s voice suddenly comes through the radio. “Soap, we need to leave. Now. What’s your status, Sergeant?” 

“Simon, we need to leave. Can ye walk?” 

Soap attempts to help Ghost stand, only to receive a hard kick to the shin. 

“Fuckin hell–Ah’m not gonnae hurt ye, but we need to go. C’mon, big man.” This time, Ghost allows Soap to help him up. His body is unnaturally warm. Shite, does he have a fever? 

At a snail’s pace, they make it to the doorway. Ghost barely acknowledges the movement.

“Sergeant. Status,” Price repeats through the radio. 

“Captain, I found Ghost, but something’s wrong. He’s awake but barely responsive—keeps repeating my words back to me.” Soap replies. “We’re going to need assistance—and a fresh set of clothes. Bastards completely stripped him down tae his breeks.”

Price sighs through the radio, “Fuck. Copy, Sergeant. I’m heading back down, but prepare for exfil to be hot.”

“Solid copy, Captain.” Soap continues down the hallway, practically dragging Ghost along.

Suddenly, an explosion rings through the bunker. The men are knocked off of their feet.

“No, no, no, steamin’ fuckin’ shite! Ghost, we need to go! Are ye h–?” Before he can finish the sentence, the ceiling collapses on top of them. Soap pushes the rubble off himself. The cold air bites at Soap’s cheeks. He can’t see Ghost. The man had no protection. He’s probably injured and freezing now.

Finally, he spots Ghost’s hair under a pile of rubble. Soap pulls his lieutenant out, only to spot a nasty gash along his right leg. “Fuck, okay. We need to make it to exfil, then we can patch ye up, ok LT?” Soap goes to grab Ghost again, but Ghost’s body refuses to move. Fuuuuuck. Soap hears the gunfire from outside the bunker growing increasingly louder. “Ghost, we need tae move. C’mon LT!”

“Soap, Ghost!” Price runs down the crumbling ruins of the hallway, freezing for just a moment when he spots the state of their lieutenant. He looks him up and down, not allowing his composure to slip. “Right. Simon, we are moving. On your feet, Lieutenant.” Somehow, Ghost’s body seems to obey. “Soap, grab his right side. We’re going to need to carry him.”

The addition of Price’s assistance makes the dash to the exit significantly faster. They reach the bunker entrance, where Gaz has parked the exfil vehicle. 

Soap and Price haul Ghost into the back seat, Price slamming the door shut before taking shotgun.

“Gaz, floor it!” Price yells as he returns fire through the window. Soap hastily grabs the medkit and works to clean and wrap Ghost’s wound. Once again, he doesn’t react, though his body begins to shiver—either from the cold or the fever, Soap isn’t sure. 

As the bunker slowly disappears into the distance, Soap attempts to coax his lieutenant into a conversation. He tries to joke, to tease, to lean heavily into his accent, anything that would typically result in a reaction. 

Nothing.

Ghost stares down at the floorboard, face completely flat, as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Now that Soap has a better look, he realizes that Ghost’s face and body are covered in punching bruises—some are days old, while others seem fresh.

Eventually, the men reach the safehouse. Price guides Ghost into the bathroom to dress the large man. Soap follows to assist, but Price shoos him off. He makes his way to the couch, where Gaz sits. They stay in complete silence for a few minutes. 

“This is all my fault," Soap whispers.

“What? No, Tav, don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself. None of this is your fault,” Gaz grabs Soap’s hand.

“Yes it is, Kyle,” Soap starts to bubble over. “If I had just paid more attention, I could’ve gotten him out of there in time. If I hadnae tripped on a fuckin’ tree branch and fuckin’ rolled ma ankle, Ah could've gotten back tae him.”

“Woah, mate, slow down–” Gaz starts.

Soap continues, each sentence faster and louder. “If Ah'd worn the proper gear, Ah wouldnae've gotten ill and we could've gotten tae him sooner. If Ah stayed in the buildin’, Ah could've helped him fecht aff the bloody wankers. If Ah had shut the fuck up an no’ mentioned Christmas, he wouldnae hae been distracted.” Soap’s voice breaks and his eyes begin to prickle. 

“Tav…” Gaz rubs his thumb over Soap’s hand.

“Ah’m such a fuckin’ disgrace, Gaz. Always fuck everythin’ up. Look whit Ah’ve done noo. Ma mistakes hae fuckin’ broken Simon.” Soap goes to wipe his face, but Gaz pulls him into a hug. Soap’s failing bravado shatters, and he cries silently into Gaz’s shoulder.

“It’s alright, Tav,” Gaz whispers as he rubs Soap’s back. “You did everything you could. It’s not your fault. Base should have notified us about Ghost’s files being stolen the moment it happened. Look at me, Tav.” Soap looks. “You are not a disgrace. You do not fuck everything up. You did not break Ghost.” 

Before Soap can reply, Price walks into the room. Soap quickly wipes his eyes, praying that his captain did not just see him greeting like a fucking bairn.

“Captain, what’s wrong with him?” Gaz asks.

Price stays silent for a moment. “I don’t know, Kyle. I’ve never seen him like this.”

That hits. Price has seen Ghost at his absolute worst, and even he doesn’t know what’s wrong. 

“Soap, you alright son?” God damn it, Price sees it. Soap doesn’t want to say no, but he can’t bring himself to lie to his captain right now. Soap feels like sobbing all over again.

“Will… will he be okay?” He asks instead. Price’s mustache shifts—he fucking knows Soap is avoiding the question.

“Yes, I think he will be,” Price replies, turning his head to look at the bedroom where Simon stands at the edge of the bed, now donning a fresh pair of sweats and a black balaclava, staring into nothing. Price looks back at Soap, “Go check on him, son. He could benefit from the company of his favourite sergeant.” 

Gaz scoffs, lightly punching Soap’s shoulder, “Go get ‘em, Tav.”

Soap complies, walking towards the open bedroom door. Ghost doesn’t react.

“Um… Ah’m just gonnae… shut this door. Give us some privacy. That alright, mate?” Ghost doesn’t respond, but his eyes flicker over to meet his gaze. Acknowledgement. Soap shuts the door before turning back to Ghost. God, he looks so tired. His body shivers slightly. He definitely has a fever. 

“Ye want tae sit down, love?” Ghost doesn’t move. Soap really wants to take a look at his leg, but he knows better than to touch his lieutenant right now. Instead, he sits on the bed and starts to talk.

“Ah’m so sorry, Ghost,” he starts, “This is all my fault. Ah should’ve been more cautious. Ah should’ve paid more attention to the cams. Ye shouldnae’ve been captured…” Ghost doesn’t respond, so Soap just keeps going. “Ah dinnae even ken if ye’re hearin’ me right noo, but Ah wish ye would just say somethin’.” Eventually, once he’s run out of apologies, he just starts talking about everything and nothing. About the snow. About his journal. About how bored he felt while sick. About Gaz cheating in UNO. About how worried he was and how useless he felt.

After around ten minutes of Soap’s rambling, Ghost gasps, eyes going wide. His knees buckle, and he collapses onto the floor. Hard. He winces at his leg.

“Simon?!” Soap shoots down to Ghost, who is gasping on his hands and knees. He tears off his mask, covering his ears with his palms. He starts to choke on his own breaths. His trembling increases. His eyes are wide and unfocused. He’s having a panic attack. Soap has seen this before. 

“Johnny, I–” Simon gags. 

“Woah woah, hey, Simon! Just breathe, love. Ah’ve got ye. Dinnae try tae talk. Can ye look at me?” Soap whispers. 

Simon tries—he really does—but his gaze flutters back into the middle distance. He clutches at the sides of his hair with his fists. Slowly, like he’s relearning how to speak, Simon struggles through the gasps, “Killed them… Johnny.”

“What?” Soap doesn’t like the sound of this. 

“They’re dead… my fault.” 

“Who, love? Who’s dea–oh,” Before Soap can finish the question, he realizes. Of course he blames himself. Bastard torturers probably used his family’s deaths to get to the poor lad. Simon’s breathing hitches as he covers his face with his hands, nails digging into the top of his forehead. He’s going to hurt himself like this. Slowly and methodically, Soap pries Simon’s hands from his head and just holds them. 

“No, love. You didnae kill them, love. It isnae yer fault.” Soap ignores the hypocritical feeling he gets while trying to convince Simon not to blame himself. Suddenly, Simon folds himself into Soap. The gasps turn into soft, soundless sobs. That’s new. Simon doesn’t cry. 

To be completely honest, Soap didn’t know he could.

Soap cups the back of Simon’s neck with his hand, using the other to hold Simon’s hand over Soap’s own heart.

“Mo chridhe,” Soap whispers. He rubs the back of Simon’s neck while humming a Gàidhlig lullaby his ma used to sing to him and his sisters on stormy nights. 

After a few minutes, Simon’s sobs slow and his breathing starts to level itself out. “Sorry. Fuck, sorry. ‘M sorry, Johnny,” he repeats himself a few more times, pain radiating from his chest with every apology. 

“Shhh, ye’re alright, LT. You dinnae need tae apologize. Ah’ve got ye,” Soap whispers as he firmly squeezes Simon into him. “How’s yer leg?”

“Hurts,” Simon murmurs. 

“Bet it does. Can I take a look?” 

“No.” A pause, “Sorry…” It breaks Soap’s heart, the way Simon keeps apologizing. He seems almost childlike—as if it’s young Simon, innocent and frail—instead of Soap’s strong, unmovable lieutenant.

“Okay, that’s fine, love. Dinnae apologize. Can ye eat something for me?”

“...”

“Simon?”

“Ok.” 

Good. He at least wants to eat. Poor laddie looks like he’s tint ten kilogrammes in just seven days. That can’t be good for a man of his size and muscle mass. Soap attempts to get up, but Simon doesn’t move.

“Simon, love, I need tae get up,” Soap keeps his voice low. “Do ye want tae come into the kitchen with me?”

“No.”

“Okay. I’ll grab something for ye. Let’s sit you up on the bed, eh?” Soap practically carries Simon up onto the bed, where he sits with his hands clasped in his lap. He picks up the balaclava from the floor, gently placing it next to Simon in case he needs it. He then opens the door, noticing the way Simon flinches at the creaking sound and sudden increase in light.

“Be right back, ok?” Soap steps out of the room, leaving the door open so that Simon doesn’t feel alone. He steps into the kitchen, where Gaz sits, staring down into a cup of coffee. Price smokes a cigar outside. Gaz looks up, spotting Soap’s now tearsoaked shirt.

“Bloody hell,” he utters, concern etched into his face. “Was he—”

“Shhh, door’s open,” Soap whispers. “I’m gonnae fix something for him to eat—don’t think he's had anything since before the mission.”

“Need help?” Gaz stands, ready to assist Soap with whatever he may need.

“Honestly? Yes. Can ye start the kettle?”

The two sergeants work together in silence, Gaz steeping tea for Ghost as Soap cooks a simple rice porridge. Once the tea is ready, the men switch so that Soap can fix the tea the way Ghost likes. Eventually, Price comes back inside, but he doesn’t enter the kitchen.

When Soap returns to the bedroom, Ghost is in the same position, save for the balaclava that he put back on. He stares at Soap as he walks in.

“Made you some rice porridge—thought that might be easy on ye. Oh and some tea. Earl Grey with two sugars and some cream.” Soap hands the bowl to Ghost and sets the mug on the nightstand. Ghost stares at the bowl, hands visibly trembling. 

“I can’t,” he whispers.

“Simon, I need you to try.”

Slowly, Ghost pulls the balaclava just above his nose. Soap watches as he takes a spoonful of the porridge and eats it. He swallows thickly before setting the spoon back in the bowl.

“I can’t,” he repeats. “Sorry, Johnny.”

“That shite, eh? You can blame Kyle for that—bloody bastard must’ve burned it,” Soap jokes. 

Ghost hangs his head low. “No, Johnny… ‘S not shite… I just… can’t.”

“Do ye at least want to try to drink somethin’? I can get you some water if the tea isn’t up to par.”

“The tea is fine... Thank you...” His voice is strained, like visible cracks along the edges. Soap hands him the mug and takes the bowl.

“I’ll, uh, just take this back out—”

“No,” Ghost grasps at Soap’s arm, missing by a fraction. “Please stay,” he begs. It hurts to hear him like this.

“Okay LT. I’ll stay,” Soap sits back down on the bed, setting the bowl on the nightstand. Ghost’s shivering is getting noticeably stronger. Soap can feel the heat radiating off of the man, too. His fever’s getting worse.

“Ghost, let me look at your leg. Please.”

Ghost grunts.

“Simon…”

“Fine. Just… please don’t hurt me,” he replies.

“Wasnae planning on it, LT,” Soap smiles, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He helps lead Ghost into the bathroom, where the larger man sits on the edge of the tub. He squeezes his eyes shut as Soap pulls his pant leg up.

“I’m going to unwrap this now, okay Ghost?” Soap asks. Ghost nods his head, though he keeps his eyes screwed shut. Soap carefully unwraps the wound, but Ghost still flinches as the dressing peels off his skin. What Soap sees underneath concerns him. “Shite, LT. I think this is already infected. I’m gonnae have to keep this clean until we can get ye back on base and to medical.” Panic flashes across the visible parts of Ghost’s face. His breathing picks up again.

“No,” he manages.

“No what, love?”

“No medical.”

“Simon, ye have tae. This isnae something ye can just will away. Not this time. Ye need antibiotics.” Eventually, Ghost allows Soap to clean the wound and redress it, although he flinches hard at every touch. His breathing never slows down, either. He needs to rest. His body’s only going to get worse if he doesn’t. Soap places his hand over Ghost’s knee.

“Simon, do you want tae go lie down?” He asks. Ghost nods, eyes still pinched shut. “Okay, okay love. Hang on, let me help you stand.” Before they can make it to the door, Ghost freezes. He turns back to the toilet, rips his mask off, and starts vomiting. Violently. So much for the tea and single bite of porridge.

“Oh shite. LT?” Soap crouches down to Ghost’s side. He rubs the larger man’s back as he continues vomiting. Jesus. Is this why he seems to have lost so much weight? Once he stops, Ghost sits on his knees, gasping for air.

“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Simon apologizes over and over again. Before Soap can chastise him for apologizing again, Simon freezes. He crumples to the floor. 

“Simon?!” His eyes roll back and his body locks up. He lets out a groan as air forces itself out of his body. His lips start to go blue. Simon’s body starts violently convulsing and he starts making gurgling sounds. Nonononono.

“CAPTAIN,” Soap screams. Price and Gaz rush into the room.

“Fuck,” Gaz gasps. Price rushes down to the floor.

“Price I–I don’t know what happened. One moment he was fine and now,” Soap feels like he can’t breathe. His heart feels like it's going to hammer out of his chest.

“He’s seizing,” Price checks his watch. “Gaz, call Nik for exfil. Now.”

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