captain mactavish has a low quality, torn apart and faded photo of roach and ghost, sitting together in some random safehouse, smoking and smiling. he keeps it tucked away in the journal, the picture burning a hole through it by the time he and price focus on hunting down makarov. he traces the faded edges before sleep, each night, like his mere touch could bring them back. he doesn't cry, doesn't let himself feel anything other than rage, channelling it through each bullet. as he dies, there's a childish hope that if he manages to reunite with them, they won't blame him. he dies with regrets, pain, and memories he failed to bury, and finally breathes out. punishment and justice has been served. his failure to keep them safe — rectified. there won't be any eternal rest for him; he wouldn't have it any other way.
