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The cold so penetrated his bones that when he shuddered in his sleep, he immediately woke up, hissing through his teeth in pain and fatigue. The stone floor of his little cell in the middle of nowhere was not at all conducive to lying down, but his ass was already sore from sitting. The cold was his only indication that he was alive and could still muster at least a semblance of himself from the past to keep waiting for... For something. He didn't even know what he was waiting for anymore, because it was, strictly speaking, pointless.
That's what Graves told him. "Waiting for a miracle is pointless, Johnny, no one will find you here." And he stopped waiting three weeks later, when any movement caused a piercing pain and the cold that soaked into his bones made him shiver to intensify his personal hell. Counting time in the dark basement was, of course, pointless - no clock, no window, nothing. The stale air of the vents, the dripping water in the corner, the noise of flowing water behind the wall. It helped to count, but at some point he just lost it and stopped. The constant darkness, hunger, thirst, and cold were exhausting, the torture wounds were eating away at him, and the cries of worthlessness and promises that none of his crew would find him were burning away the last petals of hope.
It wasn't supposed to be long, Soap didn't even think it would turn into captivity. A simple assignment - there were a couple of guys in Somalia who were willing to sell some information about Makarov for a gun. He was to infiltrate with Farah's help, investigate, verify the validity, buy this information, turn these fighters in to the nearest patrol, and go home to base. Things went wrong as soon as Farah helped him and left. She figured he could handle it faster alone. Price confirmed via video link, too, that it would be better that way. Soap only shrugged - if it was better, why would he argue. Except the gunmen turned out to be from the Shadow Company, and the meeting place had simply received him and taken him away to an unknown destination. He figured they'd start looking for him right away, since he hadn't made contact at the appointed time, but his hope dashed as soon as he saw his phone in Graves' hand, smiling happily and claiming that he'd keep TF-141 in the dark about their sergeant for now.
"Things got complicated, need more time."
"Demanding more weapons, trying to get the price down."
"Trying to manipulate through hostages, negotiating."
Philip told him time after time what excuse he'd come up with for Price this time before continuing to beat him, or cut him, or pour acid on his already old wounds. At first he screamed, but as the cold of his solitary confinement chilled all his wounds and bones, to any torture he simply mooed, wondering rather how he would lie this night so that the new wounds would not sting and the old ones would not make themselves felt. Eventually there were no such positions left in space, and he just lay there waiting for the pain to subside so that fatigue would knock him out. Graves mercifully fed him occasionally, not wanting him to die so quickly, even pouring a bottle of water into the helpless soldier, but invariably increasing the torture these days so that John knew for certain that he would pay triple for the kindness he showed.
Soap had no idea what Philip wanted from him. He didn't ask any specific questions, just that once in a while the Shadows would pull him out of the cellar, drag him to the torture chamber, and there their leader would amuse himself on the tortured body and enjoy the pain and blood. Only once did McTavish hear an indirect reason: revenge. Well, it was logical in his eyes - they had ruined everything for him, eliminated the missiles, stopped a war that had almost begun. It was a good reason. But it seemed to Soap sometimes that it would have been better for him to be killed than to keep his frozen barely alive body alive for an unknown reason.
It took him a long time to find the reason, though. Until this morning, when pain accumulated in every cell of his body, forcing him to sit down, leaning against the wall so he could see the door. He was already used to complete darkness, and navigated his new "home" at random. No dishes, no mattress, no blanket. Just bare walls and an empty floor, his pants and shirt already ripped to shreds and soaked through with his blood. Even his underpants were gone. And he was almost gone, too. But he kept listening, absorbing information, sometimes trying to break free of Shadow's grip and invariably getting a butt to the face or another part of his body to keep him quieter. Hope sometimes flashed as a dead weight, only to disappear into torture hell.
But this morning was the first time he got lucky. In a long time. Outside the door, he heard Shadows approaching, but Graves was with them, talking to someone.
"... I'm telling you, he doesn't have long to go. "
"Try a little longer. It won't be easy to lure his crew out, especially given Laswell's paranoia." He didn't immediately realize the voice was Shepard's. But his brain could no longer wonder - only listen and remember how his last days on earth would go. "Price will be extremely angry when he sees this picture, and we need to use that to our advantage. "
"Shall we send him back to them?"
"Well, no, there's a better plan. Just let me see what condition he's in."
The doors opened and a bright light hit his eyes, causing him to turn away and cover them with his hand. Footsteps on the floor, and two pairs of hands picked him up and carried him outside.
"You did your best."
"As hard as I could, sir. So?"
"Let's dump him in one place. Let's see how fast Price gets there. You still have his phone, don't you?"
"Sure."
"You take a picture on the spot. And put your best snipers and a couple of teams on it. Better yet, you're gonna plant a bomb around the place to make sure. You know our Russian friend doesn't like them at all."
"Will do, sir."
"Hey, LT."
"Sergeant?"
"Do you mind shooting a little?", the annoying Scottish accent literally pulled Ghost out of his sleep. He looked sternly at the smiling McTavish, hoping to scare him off, but he continued to stand and stare at him, waiting for a miracle. There were a lot of people in the rest area, and any one of them Soap could have yanked, but for some reason it was Riley who stuck to him.
Ghost nodded faintly, rising from his seat. He could feel Roach's mocking gaze on his back - Gary would have to listen to his mute rage at Soap again, which he characterized as "come on, you like it, stop being a jerk." He did like it, but he shouldn't show it to the smug Soap in any way.
They walked together to the firing range, and McTavish kept one step behind, trying at least occasionally to keep up the rank between them - most of the time he didn't care who was in front of him, he would just talk the hell out of even a general. Only Price, of all the TFs, quietly tolerated it, even happily, and didn't push the guy to the limits of the rules. Riley tried to do the same, but it worked out badly - McTavish was too chaotic an energy. Somewhere he managed to tell him something, somewhere he told him piss off, thinking his own opinion was more important. It was only after a while that Ghost learned from Price that sometimes it was better to listen indulgently to the Scotsman, nod according to him, and do as you liked, then there was no conflict and the job was done.
There was no one on the range, so they took up their regular pistols, not wanting to go to the trouble of doing anything heavy today, though Soap grumbled rather quietly that he hadn't been allowed to fire his sniper rifle for almost a month. Riley only squinted at him, but remembered that it was worth giving the sniper-bomber some practice after all, and not ruining his talent for the weapon.
"Hey, LT, my money's on knocking out a few targets," he smiled broadly and stood behind the counter, aiming childishly, playfully. Riley stood over his shoulder, staring now at the target in the distance, then at the sergeant beside him, focused and silent. That was the kind of Soap he tolerated a lot easier - he liked working with McTavish in combat, because he talked less, worked more. And he was reckless many times more than the others, even if it made the operations more successful.
Sergeant did hit four targets, laughed happily, putting his gun on the rack and stepping away.
"Your turn."
Riley took the warm gun in his hands, reloaded. His shoulder stung from the attentive gaze of Soap, who tried to look at the targets but couldn't help himself and threw admiring glances at the LT. It wasn't distracting, and it was even kind of nice - Ghost was only looked at with apprehension and concern for his career, but never looked at in a friendly way. Roach and Soap stood out from the crowd, trying to look into his soul, which annoyed him enormously. So while he was speculating about his relationship with his sergeants, the magazine was shot at five targets. Soap sniffed resentfully behind him, and Riley took great pleasure in watching it, putting his gun on the rack and turning to him.
"I'll do better than you, Lieutenant."
"I will, Sergeant."
Roach touched his shoulder for the third time, calling out. This time he shook it to be sure, waiting for the dark eyes, hidden beneath the mask and hood, to look away from the sights and targets and turn toward him. Ghost didn't even hear what Gary was saying to him for the first few seconds until he concentrated.
"... Price seems a little agitated out there. Maybe something happened."
Ghost's gaze grew cold and he looked at the targets again. They were all extremely disturbed by the fact that McTavish had been missing on a simple mission for two months. Waved off with some bizarre reasoning about the trades being hard and the fighters being too tedious. It accumulated gradually - at first Ghost just wasn't worried about the sergeant. The usual assignment, the usual complications. He'd already done a few operations himself, uncomplicated ones, coming back and not finding Soap at the base. But with each new clause, fear grew in him. No longer anxiety, but a direct living fear, growing into nightmares where Soap came back to them in a coffin, or they found him in bloody Somalia too late. He shouldn't have worried like that, but he couldn't help it-the Scottish boy had a deep wound sitting somewhere in his chest, and Riley couldn't think of how he was there or why it hurt so much.
Attachments in the army are stupid. Today you're alive, tomorrow you're not. He hadn't felt like a man for a long time, just went from mission to mission, set by those he recognized at least somewhat as his commanding officer. He didn't always like everything, didn't always have anyone who cared about his opinion, before Captain Price he was feared at all. But he felt almost at home in TF-141, though he didn't say so. He liked everyone there, and he was willing to help them out on every outing. With Roach, it was something between friendship and brotherhood. Riley sometimes wanted his company, and Gary was perfectly fine with it, welcoming him and shutting him out. With Soap, he wanted to be human again. He didn't know how it happened, but at some point he needed vitally at least once a day to listen to his stupid accent, his unclear English, his laughter when he and Gus discussed something. He never wanted to show the real him in front of anyone as he did in front of Johnny. But, selfishly believing that this man needed nothing but friendship from him, he kept everything to himself, occasionally drowning in a glass of clear bourbon, bought by the same Scottish boy somewhere between missions. His heart was burning for him, and for a long time he had been reluctant to acknowledge it as even sympathy, but when, on another wound, he had disobeyed Price and dived under bullets for his Johnny, and then was gagging in the captain's office about what an idiot Soap was, somewhere in these events he realized that sympathy was too small a word to contain all his feelings about Soap. And hiding was getting harder, so he disappeared more and more into Roach's company, hoping that his unnamed brother could at least dull his urgent desires with his presence. It worked, until McTavish was sent to the backwoods of Africa to find a needle in a haystack.
"... So are you coming? Maybe the old man can tell you something."
"He's not that old," Ghost deposited his weapon and followed the anxious Gary into Price's office.
The captain did look worried. He and Laswell had already laid out a map and some papers on the desk, talking quietly, when Roach and Ghost walked in. Gaz was already there, as was Yuri, their new squad member, whom Price had brought in and announced that this Russian had a lot of information on Makarov.
"Soap didn't check in at the allotted time," Laswell waited until the door closed, then looked up from the papers and looked at everyone in the room. "Count one more hour, and if he doesn't come out at the reserve time, we're out."
Ghost ran out of oxygen in his lungs for a few seconds, but Roach's anxious gaze made him breathe again, see again. If something had happened to Soap, then Riley... He didn't even know what he would do. Kill, he thought. Kill all those involved. Until he died himself.
"What's taking him so long with this?" Gaz leaned over the map, standing next to Price.
"We don't know. He wrote strangely, as if he'd been compromised on the subject, and delicately skirted the details."
"He'd better get in contact after all," muttered Price. They just stood in silence for a while, looking now at the map where Soap was thought to be, now at each other, fearing the worst.
And as if their prayers had been answered, the installed phone squeaked. Price immediately grabbed it, opening the message.
And he froze, his face a mask of fear, his hands trembling. Gas glanced over his shoulder and then turned away, turning pale and whispering curses.
"What?" Laswell grabbed the phone from his hand, but immediately dropped it, shrieking and pressing her palm to her mouth. The phone had fallen, screen up, so the three remaining men could see the picture.
Soap, in his bloody clothes, emaciated, covered with thousands of bruises and cuts, lay face up on the stone floor, gray.
For Simon, in that second, it was all over. All life, all dreams and hopes fell into the abyss as he stared at the apparent corpse of his sergeant, his Johnny, and realized that he had left him alone in the unknown place, and he was being tortured. Simon Riley died with him in a convulsive sigh, giving his whole self to the Ghost, an unsubtle shadow filled with rage and hatred for every living thing that now had anything to do with what had happened. That included even Price, who threw a warning glance at him, pulling up his phone and opening another message. If Roach hadn't been there, clutching tightly at his elbow, he would have lashed out at everyone in the room, killing with his bare hands those who had sent Johnny on this pointless assignment where he...
"I hope you enjoyed the spectacle. Don't worry, he's still alive, he's just been in a cozy jail cell for a long time. I hope you know the place, Captain Price, because little Johnny won't last long in there. We'll leave you his cold corpse as a gesture of goodwill, so that in the future you'll think twice before prying into our affairs. Respectfully, Graves. SON OF A BITCH," Gas managed to get the phone out of the hands of Price, who was reading the second message, and it was a miracle it didn't hit the wall.
"Do you know where that is?" Ghost leaned forward, looking glassy-eyed at the captain. He nodded, pulling out another map and unfolding it on the table. In front of them was Siberia, and little marks of camps and bases that only the captain knew about. Damn McTavish ended up in Eurasia instead of Africa.
"It's a trap, you know," Yuri looked at the map skeptically. "Even if you know the building where it is, technically, it's a trap."
"Are you suggesting we leave him there forever? In the place where McMillan, my captain, was tortured and killed? For me to bury both teacher and apprentice there?" The anger that trickled from Price's every word caused Yuri to retreat, raising his hands.
"All I'm suggesting is that you don't break in there without a plan. I think they won't just wait for us, they'll do anything to kill us."
"I'll take him from there anyway," Ghost replied in an even voice, leaning in and looking only at Price. "Where is it?"
"Here," he jabbed at an unnamed building on the map, around which there were plenty of places to ambush.
"You're not going in there without backup," Laswell grabbed her phone, frantically dialing another number. "Delta will help you."
"Then the plan is simple-let's take out what's around us first, then what's in the building?" Gaz shifted a little closer to Ghost and looked at him anxiously. The little fellow might have been even more annoying than Price, but right now Riley wasn't worried about him. Somewhere in the Siberian wilderness his Johnny was dying, and he would subject Graves to every torture Soap had endured a thousand times over. He would not even ask permission to do so, but would simply take the war crime upon his already sinful soul, just to save the one man who was purer than any of them.
"I guess, but they could plant a bomb in the building. It would be very dangerous to go in there."
"I'll go in alone," Ghost drew attention again. "I already have experience with mined buildings."
Price nodded to him. Of course, he remembered the reason Riley had been considered Ghost - going in and out of a locked, mined building and getting people out of it was something he'd been forgiven a lot for in his day. He didn't expect forgiveness now.
"Delta will help us with fire support," Laswell dropped the call and looked at them. "They know this place, and they have a score to settle with the Shadow Company, too."
Price nodded and ordered them to pack up.
Until this moment, Ghost never realized he'd been held by Roach the whole time. It wasn't until they were out in the hallway that he felt the aching pain of the tight grip, and then heard a quiet apology from Gary as he followed him into their rooms.
"Hey, we'll save him," he tried to encourage LT as he continued to wring his hands. Roach was probably the only one who knew how deep Riley had fallen into the abyss named McTavish.
"Are you hurt?"
"A little banged up, I'm fine, LT."
"At least bandage it up," a bandage flew at Soap as Ghost fired off the last magazine of his M4 from behind cover to change it for something else lying underfoot from the mountain of corpses.
"Told you it was okay," grumbled sergeant behind him, but he bandaged the wound so blood wouldn't spurt with such force that Riley couldn't think of anything but his bloody sleeve in the middle of hell. LT nodded, dropping his weapon and picking up another.
"We need to break through to that building," he pointed to the house across the street. Soap nodded, crouched down, checking his weapon, then yanked on Ghost's sleeve, pulling something out from behind his groove.
"Entertain them, eh, LT?"
Riley nodded at him, stepping back. He'd never fully seen a McTavish bomber work before. Only from afar, when he'd seen tanks, cars, and houses go up in the sky. But now he'd have to work in that environment right behind the shoulder of a sergeant quickly attaching something to a makeshift C4. He smiled over his shoulder, gestured for him to follow. Then the bag flew around the corner, there was a loud sound, screaming, and then John sprinted across the street, throwing another bag as he went. Riley just followed him without firing, ducking low and quietly admiring the sergeant as he continued to scatter small grenades that concealed their movements and did substantial damage to the enemy. One of the grenades hit a building and it collapsed, screaming creepily, but Soap didn't even bat an ear, running up to the right house and standing around the corner, waiting for Riley to press in from the other side and give the signal to go in. LT nodded to him, and a couple more grenades flew in through the window before they kicked down the door and mopped up the remnants of the enemies. Soap glowered smugly, but remained silent as he walked between the tattered corpses and searched for magazines for his weapon. Riley did the same, but tried not to let Mactavish out of his line of sight. It seemed to him that this reckless man would disappear at once if he didn't look at him, burn up with his bombs and grenades somewhere under the collapse of yet another building.
"Hey, Lieutenant. Is this what we're looking for?" Between picking up supplies, Soap looked over the papers, and one folder turned up with exactly why they'd brought a big squad into this town in the first place. Ghost quickly ran his eyes over the text and nodded, letting Soap stow the folder in his backpack.
"Let's go," Riley cautiously looked out the window. "Bravo 0-6, this is Bravo 0-7, we have the package."
"Copy that. Smoke from Soap?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then have him set off more fireworks, the locals are extremely frightened of such a thing, almost all have scattered. Tell him to make your way to the outskirts of town, where the church is. I'll meet you there."
"Copy that," the lieutenant looked at the sergeant, already laying out his remaining bombs on the table, looking skeptically at the supplies. Then Soap looked around, rummaged through the crates, finding more C4s and grenades, quickly gathered more sets of explosives, humming softly something under his breath.
"Fighting, LT?" he handed him a couple of strange-looking grenades. "Noise grenades, but with a shrapnel effect. I advise you not to get caught by them, but they're good for distracting and disorienting the enemy."
Riley took the grenades from his hard, bloody hands and nodded. Then pointed to the door, gripping his weapon more comfortably.
"Lead on."
Soap smiled brightly, adjusted his backpack on his shoulders, and then disappeared out the doorway, throwing his gifts in all directions.
Soap twitched from another cold current of wind seeping through holes in the wall, groaning as new wounds opened up again, causing a slight bleed. This basement was much better than his cell of unknown where, if only because there was air here, even if it was icy, indicating that it was far from the sweltering Somalia outside. The permafrost beneath him was perpetual, and it sometimes seemed too hot, as much as the cold pierced him. He no longer knew if there was anything healthy left in him after that, if he could get back on track after all this. One stupid mission had ruined his one life's work, and he'd lost another family in the form of the TF, who were walking into a trap right now in their desire to save him - and he had no doubt that Price would come climbing in after him, even if there was a threat of a nuclear strike on this building. And he would drag the others down with him...
While he was conscious of his situation and swallowing bitter tears, praying that the TF would give up on him and he would just rot away here alone without putting their lives in danger, the image of Ghost calling him during another delirium after his injury was on his mind. LT, perpetually cold and distant, was the best friend he ever had, more than that, he loved madly, sincerely hoping no one would notice. Riley was a role model, a mysterious figure in disguise who showed at least favor with Soap, and that was more than enough to begin to respect him and want his friendship.
McTavish would never say how he felt, but he was willing to keep just following Ghost even into hell, because he couldn't imagine his life any other way. He was willing to endure yelling and anger on his part at the rashness of his actions, to drown his laughter in the bloody sleeve when Riley made an unfortunate joke trying to support sergeant, to feel the tight, heavy stare on back of his head when Ghost thought he was undetected for watching the Soap. John reached out to him like the sun, wanted that friendship more than anything, and sincerely wished, on his deathbed, that LT wouldn't blame himself for his death, because he knew that he would think he had miscalculated and lost the fighter anyway. And he would yell at Price and Laswell for condemning him to death. Sope wished he could tell him that it wasn't Riley's fault, that he was the only thing McTavish had lived for so far.
The tears ended quickly, for he was dehydrated. The cold stopped gnawing at his gut and he was able to rise, ignoring another wave of pain. The red lights burned at the entrance - the mines that Shadows had planted, hoping to kill both him and whoever came in to save him. John looked at these beacons of light in the darkness and thought that he could at least try to clear them so that TF, if they did happen to make this suicide mission to save him, would not die in this building with him, but just look at his mine-torn body and walk back away, leaving him with this makeshift grave. All that was left was to crawl up and lie down on those mines with his body.
He stared at the flashing lights for a long time, then sighed nonetheless, and with his hands he poked around him - the icy ground and a couple of rocks in the corner he'd occupied when he'd been dumped here after another round of torture.
"I hope they do find you, Johnny. And that will break their morale, because I can do that to every one of them."
Graves stabbed him one last time and then hid behind the door, ordering only the entrance to his cell to be booby-trapped. Philip's self-confidence was his weakness, and Soap hoped the local directional mines wouldn't kill him at the same time.
"Forgive me, Simon," he allowed himself a second of weakness, grabbing a rock. "I'm sorry, please," there were no tears, but his throat ached with pain. He closed his eyes, concentrated, then opened them and threw the stone at the landmine.
The explosion stunned him, knocking the door open. But he didn't see that anymore. He just lay there in the corner and watched as the shrapnel from it sliced into his leg, causing another, final bleed in his life.
"Simon..."
"There are several punitive squads here, a couple of tanks and choppers, Price. We need some heavy artillery to knock them out."
"We don't have much time, Sandman. Probably not much time at all."
"Well, then, we'll do it the old-fashioned way."
Ghost listened to them half-heartedly. He was lying in his sniper's box, looking through his scope at the building Johnny was in, unable to overcome his panic and fear for every second of sergeant's life that was lost. They had found the trap Graves was trying to drive them into and were deciding what to do about it. The support plane was ten minutes away, but they didn't know if Soap had those ten minutes. Price insisted on going on the offensive while Sandman suggested they still wait, or at least not go there in droves.
"I'll go," Ghost put the sniper away, rising. Price next to him yanked him by the elbow, laying him back down.
"Where are you breaking in? It's all monitored and shot through. You won't even make it to the building."
"I'll make it," Ghost stated stubbornly, crawling to the side, taking the M4 with the silencer from Roach's hands. "Cover me from particularly inquisitive eyes, Captain."
"You're crazy," Price moved into his stock, bracing himself for the rifle.
"Be careful out there," Roach touched his shoulder, genuinely worried. Ghost just nodded to him, and then moved toward the building, low and quiet, hiding behind the trees.
"I'll lead you," Price's voice echoed in his ear, quiet and undistracted. "There are two ahead, you can try to kill them quietly."
Ghost emerged from the shadows, shooting at the heads of the two mercenaries, then dragged them around the corner by the scruff of the neck, hiding them from the stranger's gaze, ducking some snow. Looked at the building again, waiting for Price to give the go-ahead.
"Plane's five minutes away. Lieutenant..."
"Price."
"Go, the wind's picking up a blizzard, but it won't be long."
Ghost hid behind the nearest tree, and when that cold wind picked up the dry snow around him, hiding everything around him, he sprinted toward the fence beside the house, crashing into it with his back. Price was silent, waiting for the gust to subside, but someone was cowering behind the wall, and Ghost managed to pick him up with his knife, then buried him under the snow just as he was approaching the house. He managed to jump inside, checking for land mines, and stayed under the window, waiting for at least some movement.
"Inside," he whispered into the connection, looking around. An empty, cold room that reeked of dampness and death. There was a lot of writing on the wall, but Ghost couldn't make out the language they were in. Perhaps a many had been tortured to death here, and these were their suicide notes.
"Plane three minutes, begin deployment. Ghost, you've got it quiet around here so far," Price got on the radio as soon as the snow subsided.
And then there was an explosion in another part of the building, and Riley's heart skipped a beat.
"Johnny," he rushed over there quietly and quickly, listening to Price yell that they should open fire on the approaching targets.
"Is that Soap out there determined to blow himself up at the last minute?" he shouted to Ghost as he walked, hidden by the raised dust and firing single shots at the arriving Shadows from the other side to check out what was going on here.
"Plane in position, open fire," came the mechanical voice on the comms, and then Ghost heard the large-caliber gun begin to work, destroying the very trap Graves was counting on there. On the dead Shadows' radio he shouted for everyone to go to the house and kill everyone there, but in the end they were covered by a deadly rain of twenty-caliber, and Ghost had little time.
"I'm right behind you, Lieutenant," came the voice of Roach somewhere behind him, who ran up to the building and stayed near the window he'd come in through. "I've got your back. "
"Copy that," he wheezed out, finally finding the door that had been blown out by the explosion. He looked around cautiously before he ducked inside and froze in mute horror at what was happening.
Soap, white, lay in the corner with new wounds that weren't even bleeding anymore, they just froze right on top of him. Only his leg was bleeding thickly and sluggishly with fresh blood from a shrapnel mine, which he must have activated himself to be found. He reacted in no way to the appearance of anyone in the room, and it was killing Riley with every step he took on his unruly legs toward his body.
He fell down beside him, dropping his weapon, pulled down his gloves, grabbed the sergeant's icy hands, pulled at him, forcing him to turn his head to feel for a pulse. He held his breath for many twenty seconds, praying that there was something beneath him, any life at all lingering in that body, and his prayers were rewarded with a quiet, barely hearable pulse, too faint to be real.
"Come on, Johnny, don't die on my watch," he got a tourniquet first, and rewound his leg so it would stop bleeding; he dared not pull the shrapnel out, so he carefully picked up Soap, rising to his feet, then slung it over his shoulder, constantly apologizing for every bit of pain he caused with his movements. Since there was not a single living spot on McTavish's body, Riley hoped that he would still be forgiven for his rude attitude.
Roach appeared in the doorway, tears in his eyes as he stared at the nearly corpse on the lieutenant's shoulders. He covered him with a white plaid to hide him from his enemies in the snow, gave the lighter weapon to Riley, and moved forward himself, listening and shooting at those who had made it to their house and tried to kill them.
"Bravo 0-6, I found him. Got him, urgent evacuation required," Ghost tried to walk as fast as possible with a dead burden on his shoulders, hoping the escape route would be many times easier.
"The chopper is waiting, Ghost, hurry up," Price even stopped using the call signs, just firing around them at anyone who tried to get close to them. "Damn Roach, how'd you get in there?!"
"Sorry, Captain, I couldn't leave them there," Roach unloaded magazine after magazine as he walked ahead and checked the corners.
At one point, just as they were about to disappear behind the wall, a quiet voice on his shoulder made him turn around and fire a round from the hip, killing the two Shadows who were already aiming in their direction.
"Johnny?" he interjected, following Roach. The grip of his bruised fingers tightened only slightly on his shoulder, but there was no answer. He ran with his burden through the snow, listening to the whistling of bullets all around him, the shouting of Shadows, Price, Laswell, all mingled into a jumble of sounds in connection, but all that mattered to Ghost now was the light grip and the heavy breathing on his shoulder from Soap, who wheezed and hissed with his every movement, but waited patiently for this agony to end.
"Be patient, Johnny, almost there," the helicopter in the distance was already starting up, medics standing near the entrance shouting at him to hurry.
"Rog, LT," Soap barely exhaled, grasping a little tighter to make Riley's stride a little easier.
He carefully placed him on the stretcher and had time to appreciate the looks of the medics, who were clearly in shock at what they saw, but they quickly stepped back and loaded into the helicopter.
"Our other one, Lieutenant," Roach pointed to the next chopper with Nikolai at the helm, but he stubbornly stared at Soap, unable to look away.
"Let him fly with him," Price nudged him in the shoulder as he caught up, almost pushing Ghost inside. "Hurry up, Riley."
There was no need to ask him twice, and he sat on the outermost seat, continuing to watch intently as the medics tried to pump and somehow anesthetize the sergeant's condition.
"Live, Johnny. Please. "
He felt that something else, different from the floor, was underneath him. Too soft, too warm. And it didn't smell damp and musty or urine and sweat. Just the hospital, the ethanol and the drugs, choking his lungs and making them burn with the heat.
He remembered passing out from the pain, and the next moment hot hands grabbed him and pulled him toward them, feeling for a pulse. A quiet, monotone voice, asking to be at least alive, really made him come alive, and give signs of life. Then came the pain, solid, endless, as he was thrown on his shoulder, continuing to apologize for every second he would have to spend in this state. Then another voice cursed softly, and something soft rested on his shoulders, irritating his frozen skin. He wanted to get it away from him, to throw it away, but he knew he couldn't move, because he was twisted with pain in every joint, and all he could do was try to figure out whose voice it was and why the hell he was still alive.
"Johnny, c'mon, be alive," he didn't recognize the voice immediately, but when his nose slid over the elbow of his backed hand to pull out the magazine, he realized that he was being carried by Ghost, with Roach firing nearby. Price was swearing in Ghost's headphones, and the air was ringing out from the large-caliber cannon, tearing Shadows apart.
It was the same miraculous rescue he'd long since given up hope for, and a wave of relief flooded his mind, blinding him for a second with its brightness - Riley had come for him after all, hadn't left him for dead, hadn't abandoned the sergeant. And then he twitched and saw two Shadows behind him that Ghost and Roach clearly hadn't seen.
"Behind you," he barely squeezed out, but it was enough to make Riley hear him, turn around, and fire from the hip. He felt nauseous at once, wanting to crawl back into a corner and not breathe, but the lieutenant's voice, persistently calling to him, pulled him out of the darkness time and time again and kept him afloat.
"Be patient, Johnny, almost there," he heard the helicopter blades, saw that Ghost was carrying him very hard, so he gathered the rest of his strength and strained slightly, gripping tighter on his forearm to ease his movements. Dead weight is worse than live weight.
"Rog, LT," he faintly exhaled, hoping it would soon be over for him.
He had little memory of the rest, because the anesthesia instantly plunged him into darkness. It was only now that he felt, most likely, the bed beneath him, something normal, real, from his past life. The machines beeped very quietly, but allowed him to at least keep track of time - because he was just used to doing it that way by now.
After a thousand ticks a door creaked in the distance, the smell of coffee hung in the air, soft footsteps were heard. At the third, he twitched, jumping up, trying to crouch in the corner, away from the new torture, away from the cold, leather gloves of the Shadows.
"Johnny, hey, slow," a second later someone who sounded like Ghost was nearby, but no one ever touched him, and all he could hear was the rising beep of instruments and the convulsive alien breathing of a man who didn't know what to do. "Johnny, c'mon, open your eyes and look at me."
Soap struggled to open his heavy eyelids, blinked away the tears from the bright light, covered himself with his hand, and between his fingers looked at the skull mask and Riley's big, frightened eyes, hands outstretched toward him, never touching him. He was in the room, alone, with his lieutenant beside him. The devices were still screaming for him to panic, but they gradually slowed down, and the doctor who appeared in the doorway only nodded at the lieutenant's mute request to give him time.
"It's okay, you're safe," Riley cautiously reached forward, waiting for Soap to react in some way, instead of a panic attack. But McTavish continued to stare blankly between his fingers and not move, only breathing heavily.
After a long five minutes, when his breathing had evened out and his eyes were more or less used to the light, Soap allowed himself to lower his hand and hold it out to Ghost, immediately feeling how hot his exposed skin was. It was the first time LT had been in front of him without gloves. It was also the first time he was wearing what looked like a civilian uniform-a wide hooded sweatshirt, the simplest mask that didn't really hide his eyes, and wide sports pants. It was as if he lived here with him, and the military uniform was not suitable for that. As he glanced around the room, he noticed that Riley really did live here-the bed next to it looked lived in, as did the nightstand beside it. So did the sofa by the door, where Roach appeared to have slept.
"You've been here a month," Soap returned his eyes to Ghost, still gently holding his hand. "Been in a coma for a while, but managed to come out on your own."
Riley, as always, read the sergeant's mind perfectly, understanding him by mere glance. He wouldn't comment on his time here, apparently, just this month, but Soap hadn't asked. Though the question that maybe they'd classes during that time had almost slipped off his tongue. But he was curious about something else now - how he'd survived, all he could do was open and close his mouth - his throat refused to produce sound.
"You survived on goddamn stubbornness, Johnny," Ghost realized again. He squeezed his arm again and moved a little forward, invading the sergeant's personal space, just for a second his shoulders tensed, and it was like a blow to the lieutenant. "No one would have survived with injuries like that, but you did."
McTavish nodded, turning away. He didn't want to remember a second of the pain he'd felt there. But he also didn't want to think about what awaited him now, because his career had really been ruined.
"Nothing's lost yet, Johnny," Ghost moved closer still, watching Soap's shoulders pucker with tension. Tried to ignore it. "You can still shoot and run, you just have to try," the lieutenant's intense stare still made the tears that stood in his eyes stream down his cheeks, shaking his head furiously, trying to prove with one look that he was now a decommissioned unit. "Johnny, I'll pick you up myself, teach you all over again myself, just don't give up on Graves like that, don't give him a chance to beat you completely."
Soap shuddered harder at Philip's name, immediately settling back down on the bed, but he didn't let go of his hands. Panic rose in his chest, choking him, squeezing his throat, and he just ran through himself over and over the words Riley had just said - he would help him. He, cold, unfeeling, angry at the world, occasionally showing a drop of humanity, had just offered to babysit a mangled, battered, fatally tired soldier. Apparently, the irony was readily apparent in his eyes, for LT bent over again, almost lying on his lap, stared into his eyes, burning right through.
"I promise you, Johnny, I mean it. But you've got to get better for that."
Soap nodded at him again, turning around. He could barely tolerate that look, and he wanted to say something to reassure Riley, to keep him from burning himself up now, while he stared at such a sergeant.
"It's not your fault," he managed to say in a half-whisper, immediately going into a throat-cutting cough. A bottle of water was immediately in his hand, and he took a few sips of it greedily. He watched the bottle move around in his hands and realized that he would have a very long time to rehabilitate. And it wasn't certain that psychologically he would be able to pass even one test.
"I know," the lieutenant's hands now rested on his thigh, covered with the blanket, they clenched into fists with impotent rage. "But that doesn't make us innocent of what happened to you."
"Not your fault," Soap shook his head again, now looking stubbornly and a little angrily at his lieutenant. He could have sworn there was a weary smile blooming beneath the mask.
"You just woke up and you're already arguing with me."
Soap tried to smile crookedly back. He couldn't help it. They always had their dialogues confrontational, and Riley never yanked him for the title, unless it was a mission. Because he couldn't silence and obey that chaotic Scottish pain in the ass of every soldier in TF-141.
Roach flew in the door, holding food bags, and almost dropped them when he saw Soap sitting in his bed looking at him and Ghost sitting beside him. Roach politely apologized and wanted to leave, but Riley waved him to the couch, showing him he could stay, but at a distance. Or at least not so abruptly. Gary's a smart guy, he figured it out right away, heard what the doctors had said about the panic attacks and the fear of touch in McTavish. Wouldn't push it or make it worse.
"Sorry-sorry, I didn't expect that. Hi, Soap," Mactavish smiled at him with just his eyes, but shook his head.
"He can barely talk," Ghost answered for him, rising from his seat and approaching Roach.
Soap stared at them unreadable as they sorted out the food bags and whispered quietly about something. With difficulty, he could strain his hearing to catch that it was something about Price, but his head ached as badly as his whole body, so he lay down carefully, staring at the ceiling.
His chest stung, and he remembered that in his past life he had been jealous of the lieutenant for another sergeant. Not always, but sometimes an inexplicable emotion crushed his throat when he saw that Riley preferred Sanderson's company to his. And he could never quite understand why Ghost was coddling him at all, if Price was already looking after his neck. Couldn't understand, couldn't realize. Like now, when he was just a battered meat carcass who, at most, would be tossed out to civilian life with PTSD and numerous injuries that would keep him awake at night after he recovered. Why were they both living here, watching him? What was the point, anyway, if he was just a soldier who would always hide in the depths of his soul a bright and burning love for Simon Riley, and still not be able to even show a spark of that feeling to someone who was clearly more interested in another young man? What made Riley settle here, in the bunk next door, while he was in a coma?
"Want?" Roach stood a step away from him, looking worriedly, trying to catch his unfocused look for a minute now. There was a chocolate in his hand, a plain, dairy one. "Sorry, that's the most I could snatch for you. Anything else will get me and LT kicked out of here, stop letting us in, and Price will say everything he thinks about us."
"He already has," muttered Riley from somewhere behind him, lifting his balaclava up over his nose and eating potatoes and meat, hot, right out of the food container.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"And say what?"
"We're responsible for him with our heads now," Ghost threw a long look at Soap. "That he'll kill us if anything happens to him again."
"The old man might," seeing that Soap was just looking at him, but he didn't take the chocolate, he just put it next to his hand, tentatively opening it. "So I'm sorry, Soap, they only have porridge for you."
"He's not an old man," Riley replied out of habit, continuing to look at McTavish. He noticed that the look that had warmed him pleasantly immediately disappeared from him as soon as he stood beside Roach. He heard quiet, controlled breaths, as if Soap were suppressing something within himself. He knew little of the two men's relationship, and he could only guess what was going on, and why Johnny was reacting so acutely to Roach's presence near him. He was about to even get up and walk over, because Gary was just standing there with a candy bar in his hand, trying to catch the sergeant's eye, but he couldn't. Good that Soap at least looked at him.
"Price is coming today, by the way. See if he can finally get us a job."
"If you want to join the fight, please," Riley left the empty container, opened a juice box. "I'll stay."
Roach looked at him in surprise, tearing himself away from his food. They just stared at each other in silence for a while, until Soap moved, turning away from the ceiling and covering his eyes with his hand again, flinching with every movement. Roach pursed his lips and gestured toward the door.
"He'll be fine," as they walked out and away from the door a little, Roach spoke his mind. "We're certainly putting pressure on him with our presence."
"I left him, Roach, and look what happened."
"It's not your fault."
"It will always be my fault. And until I get to Graves, it will be my fault every heavy breath he takes, every movement filled with pain," Riley spoke quietly, looking out from under his hurriedly thrown hood with a heavy, weighty look at the sergeant before him. He didn't want Roach, who had moved into the ward on the fifth day of Soap's coma with the phrase, "Well, you're bored here alone, I'll keep you company," to think he was about to be traded. Ghost cared about their friendship, but the looks Gary sometimes left him forced him to prioritize right now.
"Well, if it's a mission to get him, you'll go, right?"
"I will," Riley nodded, then continued. "But I don't want to leave him to feel that loneliness again. You can't imagine what he felt down there in the cellar. I do."
"You want to share the torture experience? So he won't think he's the only one who's broken?"
"He knows as much about my past as you do," Ghost looked at the door where the attending physician had come in, and decided it was okay to continue talking for now. "But there was no one near me so I could get over it. He shouldn't have to."
Roach measured him with a long stare, folded his arms across his chest, as if trying to shut him out, but also trying to keep himself from being foolish.
"Attachments are forbidden, Lieutenant," he quipped dryly.
And then it dawned on Riley. Soap had sometimes looked at them in the past whenLT sought to avoid interacting with him in Gary's company, and it was exactly the same look he'd seen today when Roach held out a chocolate. Soap thought himself superfluous in their trio, didn't understand why he was being fiddled with at all. Johnny had a look on his face like he didn't even understand why he'd been rescued when everyone here was fine without him.
He pushed Roach away and walked back into the room just as the doctor was coming out. He walked swiftly toward Soap's bed, looming dangerously over sergeant, catching his bewildered look with his hard, angry one.
Soap thought himself superfluous in this squad, though he hid this feeling behind a mask of amusement. Ghost didn't want his Johnny to keep thinking that way, because it hurt a lot to love in the army, but Riley wanted to endure that pain for Johnny's sake.
"Don't you dare even think about it, do you understand?" he leaned his fists on the edge of the bed, continuing to hang a menacing cloud over Soap. He wasn't even scared, only looked more and more like a lost child who didn't understand what he was being scolded for. Roach's footsteps were heard behind him, and Ghost just wanted to show the other sergeant that he didn't give a damn about those bans if a bright man like McTavish was going to be ruined by war and captivity because of them. "You hear that, Johnny? Don't you dare."
"About what?" he whispered, his eyebrows drawn together at the bridge of his nose in an attempt to catch the lieutenant's mood. He could only wonder what the soldiers were talking about outside the door, and think about the fact that he'd barely managed to hide the chocolate from the doctor who'd stopped by to see it.
"That no one wants you here, and I'm here under duress," a hand rested on his shoulder, squeezing slightly, though he knew there was no living place on his skin under his palm. That there wasn't much life on Johnny at all, and that his wounds had only healed while he was in a coma. He still dreamed of that bloody body, drenched in acid, the lacerations that Soap himself had patched up and frozen around himself, hoping it would help. The doctors themselves had nothing to say, only that it took a truly strong will to live to survive all this, and to live to be saved.
"I don't-"
"Shut up, that's what you mean," he grabbed his other shoulder hovering fully, staring into his eyes and couldn't just tear himself away now. He'd slept so little in the last month, watching from the next bunk as another man's chest rarely heave from another breath, listening to the beeping of instruments and praying, though he didn't believe in God, still praying that he would wake up. Roach supported him with food and company, but truth be told, Ghost didn't need it. "I work alone" had morphed into "I'd rather have McTavish on the team" in the time he'd spent with Soap, and it was absolutely true-their tandem was a far greater success than any other unit. Price didn't mind, and even praised Riley for stopping cackling under his mask and at least believing in someone a little more than his own sniper rifle.
He could hear Roach crumpling in place behind him, whose feelings he was about to break now, but he hoped it still wasn't as strong as his feelings for Soap.
He leaned low, lifted Soap by the shoulders, pressed his masked face against his neck, ran his arms under his back, embracing his still-cold body, and froze, listening as the other man's heart pounded under him, beating out an uneven rhythm. Roach behind him exhaled softly and walked out, closing the door. Soap didn't respond to him for a minute, and then his bandaged hands slid over his back, squeezing gently, forcing him to sit on the edge of the bed so he was more comfortable. Ghost tried to keep his full weight on his arms, but he couldn't help but give in to the sergeant's light pressure and snuggle closer.
"I don't understand," Soap exhaled, nuzzling his nose somewhere in his ear, hidden by his hood and mask. He breathed deeply, squeezed and unclenched the sweatshirt on his back, sometimes stroking it lightly, and just let him do whatever the lieutenant wanted with him.
"I need you, Johnny," he pulled his hand out from under it just for a second to lift the balaclava a little, and to rub his hot nose against the cold neck again so he could breathe through the cloth instead of through it. "I wouldn't leave you there, even if..."
He still couldn't admit to himself that he was scared to death to see the chilled dead body in that room, not the barely alive soldier clinging to life out of sheer stubbornness and will. Neither of them had anywhere near that kind of strength, and Ghost didn't even know how to make Soap see himself in the mirror - the unbreakable, stubborn man who would do anything for his own sake, even go under grenades. Or under a tank, for which Riley never had time to tell him off, saving him for later.
"Alive," he exhaled softly in his ear again, one hand moving over and resting on the back of his head, pressing weakly. He massaged his head lightly with his loosened hand, and Ghost pulled away again for a second to throw off his hood, and then pulled off his balaclava, placing it beside him, and hiding in the curve of the stranger's neck again. Soap's hand just hovered over his head for a few long seconds, and then his trembling fingers tangled in the wheat curls he'd never trimmed. The softness with which McTavish moved his hair, and the quiet breathing in his ear without any tissue, calmed him, too, still reeling from the horror of what he had seen only a month ago.
"I want you to know that I'm going to kill everyone who did this," Riley whispered into his neck, breathed his scent, just felt the pulse-beating vein on his neck with his lips, just to know that Johnny was alive.
"I know," Soap squeezed him a little harder. "Simon..."
Ghost broke away from him and lifted himself up, not only to show his face to McTavish, but to prove in this way that he trusts him enough to talk about such hard things. And he would never admit that that slight "Simon" made him flash a thousand lights of pleasure, as if there were champagne in his lungs. He saw surprise flicker in the stranger's eyes, but immediately a satisfied smile spread across Soap's face, and a hand moved from the back of his head to his cheek, gently stroking the scars on his temple and near his nose.
"What can you tell me?" he knew it might be too soon for that. But the sooner they put the nail in Graves' and the others' coffin, the sooner they could switch to Makarov. And he knew he'd only brought pain with that question, judging by Soap's eyes, so he got up, sat closer, so that the hand reached out to his cheek remained there, he even pressed it against his palm, just so he wouldn't lose that contact with Johnny. Just so he wouldn't lose him in the maelstrom.
"Lots. Not much," Soap shook his head, averted his gaze to the clear white ceiling, and sighed. "Pen."
Ghost took out the notebook and pen he'd saved for just such occasions and laid Johnny on his stomach, releasing his hand, letting him take hold of the letter. It was a long time, and all the while he sat unmasked, feeling almost naked in front of the man for whom he would jump to hell. Soap frowned, sometimes stopping in his writing, grasping his hand and waiting out the panic. Then he wrote again.
He wrote long enough that there was a delicate knock at the door, and Ghost hurriedly pulled his balaclava, which had been deposited nearby, and then his hood over his head. It was Price, with Laswell and Gas flailing behind him, and when Ghost let them all in, Roach was with them. He nodded to the lieutenant, indicating that he understood and they could talk later. Riley accepted this reply and shifted his eyes to the captain, who pushed him off the bed and stood at the headboard, watching as Soap put aside his lengthy letter and looked a little guiltily.
"If I didn't know it was you, I wouldn't have believed this nightmare for a second," a hand gently touched his shoulder. Soap pursed his lips and shrugged, "Well, there's that. Still smug as a goose. How are you, boy?"
"All right," he said quietly, hoarsely. Then he wrinkled his nose and looked at his letter. "Finish it?"
"Yeah. Did Riley force you to talk?" Price sat down beside him, looking at the lieutenant approvingly.
"No," Soap dutifully wrote out a few more lines, then handed the scribbled sheets into Price's hands.
The captain read it silently for a while, then looked proudly at the sergeant.
"Work, even if it hurts and can't breathe?"
"Yeah," Soap shrugged carelessly again, then looked at the lieutenant. Ghost stood in his line of sight and was ready to come over and calm him down if panic set in from the crowd of people around him. Or just panic from the experience. McTavish understood that his loneliness was not waiting; Riley would not let him go through the same thing he did.
"And you're sure about that?"
"Yes," Soap nodded, looking at the captain again. "Read it."
"First, Shepard is communicating directly with Makarov, and they have some kind of plan involving the nukes the general smuggled out of the Kentucky base some time ago," Laswell was immediately over the captain's shoulder, transcribing the information into her phone. He knew it was urgent, that they would act on what was provided, and for the first time, Soap was grateful to each of them for getting him out, and he remembered it all for a reason. "Second, Graves is based in Poland, near Belzice, and the main headquarters of the Shadow Company is there. They also have many connections with the Russians, as well as militants all over Africa, to whom they sell arms, in the hope of new conflicts that will keep attention away from their operations. Well, that makes sense, son."
"Next," Soap only rolled his eyes at this treatment.
"Third, I was kept in a prison somewhere in Kolyma, the old Soviet Gulag, which had been sold to Makarov, and in which he deployed his bases and bought missiles from various black market suppliers. Now that's serious, "Price looked closely at the sergeant. "Are you sure about this?"
"Saw the nuclear one," Soap mumbled inaudibly, coughing as he took the water bottle the captain held out and sipped. "Heard it from Graves."
"Well, if you've seen it yourself, then it's far from a joke."
"Gulags aren't built for this sort of thing, it's hard to hide weapons in them," Gaz voiced from somewhere in the doorway.
"Easy," Soap took the notebook from the captain's hands, opened a blank sheet, and in quick, short sketches outlined what he saw. The central room, with a slight conversion, could easily become a rocket launcher, and that was what Soap had seen a couple of times when he had been dragged sort of unconscious to the torture room.
"Even remembered what it looked like, well done," Price smiled at him, turning back to the text again. "Fourth, Shepard is hiding somewhere in Urzykstan, because that's where he was headed 'on a long trip' when he gave Graves his last order to create a trap for TF-141. So Shepard saw you... In that condition? ' Soap nodded. "I wonder what Graves reported on the success of that operation."
"Weak," McTavish smiled slightly, then turned away, stopping to breathe altogether. Ghost was immediately beside him, sitting down and folding his arms nearby on the other man's chest. He seemed to just put them down, looking out from under his hood at the sergeant, but it was as if he remembered that he needed to breathe, and started churning the air again. Turned to the captain, bowing his head apologetically.
"He'll get his, son, don't worry. You know he won't get an easy death," the captain only glanced at Riley in passing, then back to the text. "And I also hear they're preparing a raid on the rebels, so Farah's in danger because they've got a tongue in their crew. They've been tried before, Soap, but they fought back the first time. The Shadows will attack them, I assume?"
"Yes," Soap lightly squeezed the lieutenant's palm, which was still on his chest, and he immediately withdrew it, but did not move from his place, looking at the sergeant gravely.
"So we'll try to take preventive action. Kate?"
"Yeah, I think, wait," she had already sent a message to someone, and was pacing back and forth across the room, waiting for a response. "We'll probably have to storm their base in Poland, I'm trying to get some confirmation from local contacts. But somebody's going to have to get into an unspoken war in Urzykstan."
"It will be used to transport weapons," Gaz again. "We'll have an uncontrolled flow that we can hardly trace. Shepard will take care of that."
"Or we'll take care of it. So here's the deal," Price got out of bed, tore out the sheets Soap had written out, leaving him with the rest of the notebook, stepped back and looked around at everyone. "We're going to Poland today and scout it out ourselves. We need to talk to Overlord."
"They've already confirmed everything, John," she quickly showed him something on the phone screen. "They agree to forge the PMC out of there by any means necessary."
"And Overlord?"
"The alliance forces won't disperse yet, you know they still think the threat is unlikely."
"Need to prove what Soap saw."
"Yeah."
"Yuri has a couple of people he knows who might be able to... Provide a little more information," Gaz shrugged as they looked at him. "What? He likes to drink, he's Russian."
"Then let Yuri handle it."
"And we're on our way out tonight. Ghost?"
The lieutenant tore his gaze away from Soap's profile and looked at the captain. Nodded to him, turning away again.
As everyone left the room, he felt Soap grab his elbow, forcing him to look at himself. He was still struggling with his throat, so he took the notebook and pen he had left behind and quickly wrote something, giving it to Ghost. "Don't let go to his level, you're higher than that. Stronger than that. I believe that." Riley turned away for a few moments not to show his trepidation at the excess of feelings for sergeant, but when he turned, he let the part of himself that still wanted blood and suffering for Graves take over and convince Johnny that it was best for him.
"I can't promise you that, but he will suffer. And it will be many times worse than your wounds, Johnny. After the cartel and their captivity, I know how to hurt without even touching the man."
"Simon," the grip on his wrist again, his head bowed. He saw a deep sadness in his gaze, but also a complete resignation that there was nothing McTavish could do anyway. "Take care."
"I'll be back," he pulled up his balaclava, stooped down, leaned his lips against Soap's icy forehead for a few seconds, as if promising everything with that kiss, then pulled away, stood up, dropping the cloth around his neck, and walked out the door without looking back.
"Bravo 0-7, it's Bravo 0-6, how's the movement?"
"Difficult."
"Frost and his squad are on their way to you, meet them."
"Copy that, sir."
Ghost saw them with his side vision as he fired off magazine after magazine of his sniper rifle at Shadows from the house they'd been occupying for half an hour now. It was lucky the house was full of guns and ammunition and was a warehouse, or they would have rolled back long ago and their advance would have stalled. But they were lucky, and they stood there, shooting off the Shadow squads bursting from the fortress one by one, waiting for the allied forces to approach from the other side. Ghost never let his guard down for a second, and only had time to throw back empty magazines, working in tandem with Yuri from the upper windows. How they hadn't been hit by RPGs yet, he didn't know, but apparently the information just didn't have time to spread around for anyone to think about it. Behind him, Roach was opening boxes of ammo and reloading magazines, throwing them under his feet. Gaz stood in the doorway, glancing to the other side of the building, occasionally shooting off those who decided to go the rounds.
They really didn't expect there to be a fortress. A real, full-fledged one that couldn't be taken overnight. They had to ask for a support plane and more soldiers of the Alliance, which, after some leaked information, was happy to provide weapons for the capture of the PMC base. Ghost just looked through the scopes at the towers, shooting snipers and counted the corpses of people who in his brain, clouded by the battle, personified all those Shadows, who tortured Soap in the Gulag. He longed to launch an offensive to find Graves in the middle of this chaos and take him away. He was more than sure that Price would let him do it-because others would trivialize it in their conscience. And his conscience was now lying in a hospital bed, asleep and recovering from the side effects of the Shadows.
"We're on our way," Frost's voice came over the radio, and then he appeared in the doorway assessing the situation.
"You'd better get into position and start firing, too. There are a lot of them, but we won't get past these walls without equipment," Gaz distributed the Delta fighters into windows and niches, spreading out their weapons and ammo, and then began methodically filling Ghost and Yuri's empty magazines again.
"Air support three minutes, stand by."
Ghost heard them, as did the screams of the Shadows as the bullets pierced their bodies. He put his hatred into every round, hoping to lighten at least a gram of his burden, but he was failing. And Roach's heavy stare in the back only made the situation times worse.
"Support in position, work," a trail of large-caliber rounds sprinkled from the sky as Ghost rose from his box, picking up something lighter and stuffing his pockets with magazines and ammo. Yuri was doing the same.
"Our job is to go in, find Graves, get him, and get out," the lieutenant quickly brought the Delta Squad up to speed, looking at each of them from under his mask. "Without him, they'll be confused and easier to catch or kill, whatever your prefers. Price will help from the helicopter, the tanks are on their way," he checked his weapon, glanced at his watch. "We don't have more than an hour to do anything, then all hell will break loose here. Let's go," and was the first to dive through the black doorway, ducking low and firing single shots at the Shadows he saw. Their team of fifteen under cover fire quickly reached the wall.
"Bravo 0-6, any contact?"
"Bravo 0-7, in position, waiting for the mark," Price took on an unusual role, but he said he'd be better off leading everyone there. Ghost only hoped that this chopper wouldn't repeat the fate of the one in Mexico that had caused Johnny to have to run with Rudy against the tank.
Frost pointed at the doors, waiting for confirmation. Ten seconds later two shells flew at them, revealing a huge area, with the sights of enemy rifles gleaming from every window.
"Enemy in the buildings, can't get in," he reported over the general communications.
"Copy that, Bravo 0-7, working the buildings."
A second later, everything in the area blew up, and Ghost only managed to shoot a couple of Shadows before bursting into the square, immediately ducking to the side, hoping the team would keep up with him. They were systematically sweeping the premises on their way to the main building, Price's helicopter, the Alliance troops coming in from the other side, and the support plane helping them along nicely. They saw panic in the windows, shooting at any Shadows that moved around them.
Finding Graves was a challenge for them, but they succeeded, breaking through the elite unit that protected him. Nothing could stop Ghost's fury, and the soldiers fell one by one just from the sight of him, though they fired from behind his team, covering the movement of the group leader.
"Hey, Lieutenant, nice to meet you," came Graves' voice from somewhere on the floor above. "How's little Johnny doing? Has he been diagnosed dead yet?"
"He'll tell you that himself," Ghost hissed back, ducking into the shadows and crouching to muffle his stride. The whole squad dispersed, and only Roach followed his trail, lagging five paces behind and checking the rear.
"Did he make it? He's stubborn. The best of you, it turns out, gentlemen," Graves' laughter filled the great hall, and it was hard to tell where it was coming from. Ghost, however, knew how to pick out the little from the big, so he walked confidently toward his goal, trying not to breathe too much, lest he spook the target.
"If you wanted him dead, why didn't you kill him?" Gaz from somewhere below was a distraction, leaving Ghost precious seconds.
"It wouldn't have been interesting to watch him wriggle from the knife and the acid spilled on the soldier's skin that way," Ghost had already seen him, and in three short strides came up behind him, with a special effort he put his machine gun against his head. Graves collapsed unconscious on the floor, dropping his weapon, and while lieutenant cuffed his hands, Roach tossed the machine gun away, then proceeded to cut the entire tactical vest off Graves, exposing him to Ghost.
"Well?" when that was done, he stepped aside, wiping the sweat from his face. The lieutenant looked at him interrogatively, then checked the loops on their hostage's arms, and began tying a knot around his neck to be sure. "Are you going to torture him right here?"
"No."
"I thought you'd fall into a berserk state just by getting it," Gary said with slight irony. Apparently, he'd decided to settle things right here, in the face of the enemy. "Avenge every wound on Soap, eh?"
"And I'll get my revenge, but not when there's war around," making sure all his loops were in place, he lifted Graves on his shoulder, signaling the others to come out. "Bravo 0-6, we have the package, take it."
"Copy that, Bravo 0-7, the evac chopper will pick you up from the square, wait there," Price was still circling above them, and you could feel the pride in his voice for the lieutenant - not snapping in the middle of the fighters, but taking a hostage in cold blood and putting him in the hands of the authorities. He's a decent military man, and Roach's skeptical look only strained him.
They should definitely talk before Ghost walks into Graves' cell and stops being Simon Riley even a little bit.
"I really didn't know it worked like that."
"What?"
"Well, an explosive package that I stuffed with not only explosives, but chemical elements as well. I didn't know there was going to be a gas attack, too."
"You don't have an education?"
"What? They teach that somewhere?"
"You did it yourself?"
"Sure, I used to blow up animals in the woods with traps."
The carefree way Soap sometimes described his childhood strained Ghost quite a bit. As if there was nothing tragic about the fact that he had hunted since he was young, seeing the blood and guts of animals, if one of their soldiers had his arm or leg ripped off in battle--he just watched for a few seconds with his lips pressed together, and walked on. The absolute inhumanity of war with extreme love for every man when he didn't have his hand on the gun - it caused such dissonance in Riley that not being interested in this sergeant was beyond him. Then there was the bomber, whom Price kept on a short leash, giving only him the task of blowing up and otherwise destroying other people's property. And yes, Soap was good at it, except he seemed to have gone through some elite school for such knowledge. What Riley hadn't expected was absolutely zero knowledge of how things worked in explosives, and he was picking things at random, and the effectiveness of his projectiles was several times higher than standard equipment. He remembered how the bomber group had come especially to learn from him, but he had only shrugged his shoulders in confusion, looking at Price, begging him to save him from this nightmare. What he had taught that group was how to fantasize, because terrorists didn't always have access to everything, like the military, which meant they could use anything.
"You could have warned us."
"LT, I don't sign my shells, I just make them. I didn't know this particular bag was filled with a chemical fuse. "
"Start signing them though. "
"How can I sign something if I'm putting it all together on the spot, right on the battlefield?"
"Get a marker. "
"Thanks for the advice, LT, I'll take it under consideration."
And he laughed infectiously, continuing to conjure up his weird charge with a bunch of lethal elements while Riley, having nothing to do, sat with him and listened to the report on why, on the last mission, instead of just collapsing the building, the sergeant also killed everyone inside with chemicals. Not that he was blaming him-that was the target, just a preventative conversation with a deranged Scotsman who wasn't afraid of him at all, and didn't feel rank. He didn't care at all from a high bell, only if Price had already put bayonets in his ass. Otherwise, he felt safe in the knowledge that Riley wouldn't turn him in, and he was just here for company.
"Hey, LT, do you know who needs air support?"
"Well."
"Midgets. "
Riley could barely restrain himself from slapping sergeant on the arm for making dumb jokes, but he saw the broad smile on Soap's face and couldn't help but smile back.
"I just didn't notice it."
"What, exactly?"
"That you avoid him in my company because you're afraid of getting attached."
"So?"
"And I took it personally. Though you didn't mean anything of the sort."
"Roach, you're like a brother to me, but I don't have what you're looking for."
"I've already figured that out."
"I won't apologize for using you. Not because I don't want to, but because you don't need to."
"'Kind of, Lieutenant. But all right, for not turning me in, I won't turn you in. Maybe at least someone will get something out in this damn hell."
"Only two people are going to hell. Graves and Soap. "
"Why Soap?"
"Because rehab under the current conditions will be extremely difficult."
"Can I help?"
"Only if he doesn't become jealous."
Roach snorted, tapping Ghost on the shoulder. Then he pursed his lips and nodded at the door, quietly wishing him good luck and asking him to keep his head up the stairs, leaving the makeshift basement. Price gave him a few days, which was not just generous, but magnificent, and all he asked in return was that someone be with Soap the whole time. Gaz volunteered to entertain the sergeant. After all, he had nothing to do yet.
Behind a blank door, in a damp and cold room, lay Graves, and it was their makeshift torture chamber. Nothing Ghost had seen from the cartel. He had to pack it himself, with Laswell's help, who just silently got him what he needed and asked him not to show his face until he was sane and without blood on his hands.
He quietly stepped inside, turning on the lone light that hung just above a specially bolted chair that looked as much like the ones used in the gulags as possible. Ghost lifted Philip's breathless body, set it in its new place, and began to fasten whatever would hold the prisoner in place. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Johnny's voice begged him to keep his sanity, but he cut him off sharply and harshly, saying he wouldn't feel any calmer until he got what he deserved.
Graves never regained consciousness, so Ghost had to wake him - a thin pin with a sharp tip, inserted into his hand at just the right angle... Caused overwhelming pain, which made Philip immediately awake, screaming at the entire room, trying to somehow move away from the unbearable pain, but Ghost kept holding pin on his nerve, searching for a pain threshold.
"Already with me, Graves?"
"Ahhhh, Ghost, glad to see you," when the spoke came out of his hand and he was able to catch his breath, he began to yell again, looking at the lieutenant's completely black figure, and all that was visible was the skull pattern and the bright sparkling eyes. "How's it going?"
"Fine. "
"Well," he laughed again. "Keeping your promise, Lieutenant? Blood for the blood of your inimitable sergeant?" when he saw the tweezers next to him, he didn't even flinch. "Oh, I'm sorry, you have two. For the other one, would you be as crucified and tortured all over just to save him?"
Ghost knew that his guest today would talk his teeth to the bone. Just as he knew that Philip would press the sore points, for he recognized them well enough, including from Shepherd. But he was little affected by it, even if he would spend all his days screaming about how much he enjoyed Soap's suffering. Now it was Ghost's turn to enjoy it.
"Tell me how you tortured him," Ghost leaned toward Graves, practically nose to nose, then inserted tweezers into the same hole and pulled the nerve outward. Tilted head of the head of the PMC in a deafening scream almost collided with his, from which he recoiled slightly, carelessly pulling again, pulling the nerve right out of the wound. There wasn't much blood, for he did everything carefully, the way cartel did in front of him. Patience and precision were the key to other people's screams, which he would drink and drink until the rage and hatred settled under a layer of satisfaction. So he could return to Johnny himself, and continue his work.
"Damn, and you know weak points," Graves spat sideways, raising a mocking look at him. "Oh, I can tell you everything. Everything from being stabbed like a pig to having brooms shoved up his ass from nothing to do."
Ghost only bowed his head to the side. He didn't know that Soap had injuries even there, but truth be told, he didn't even want to read the sergeant's medical report on his injuries because he thought it was too much for him. He'd seen with his eyes, heard at night, and didn't want to know all the details. He'd live, he'd get back on his feet, and he'd be thankful for that. He could drag him out of grave himself from there.
"You've seen these injuries, they're like art, a canvas I painted exclusively for you guys," a sick laugh filled the room as Ghost listened to him. Each word scraped a layer of calm from his rage, and he was no longer sure that torture would bury his emotions at the bottom of the pit.
"Seen it. And?"
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
"No."
"C'mon, you care about him, it was obvious," Graves grinned wider and wider, leaning slightly toward the black figure. "Tell me, what would you do if all you found in that building was a mutilated body rather than a barely living piece of meat?"
"I guess that."
Ghost went around him, taking the thin, small scissors, fastened the straps tighter around someone else's neck, and then began carefully cutting through the upper skin, making his way inside. Graves jerked and hissed and cursed at him and Soap, but that wasn't a problem for Ghost. Cutting the very thin skin on the back of his neck was problematic as the victim jerked, but he managed not to damage the nerves inside, and, taking pin again, he pushed it gently in, listening for another scream of pain from Philip. After a few moments he was knocked out, and Ghost found someone else's pain threshold. Deciding not to wake him up just yet, he took out a few more pins, and drove them in next to the first, rising and falling back, admiring the unfolding picture. Needles under the nails no longer surprised anyone, but spokes, driven into the nerve endings, which at any movement cause uncontrollable pain, and when you try to pull them out paralyze the spine, was clearly something new to the former SAS. Ghost knew how to pull them out, but he wouldn't talk. As he tugged on one of the pins, he again faced Graves' stunned eyes, wishing he could see him smile.
"Would you like me to tell you how the cartel tortures, and specifically their best torturers, do it all their lives? You and I will have long nights, Graves, before you tell me about every torture of Soap with such remorse that even the heartless I will believe you."
Soap was truly glad they were back at the base. He was never able to get up, but Gaz, who flew into his room, gibbering at once about what Ghost had done in the operation, and how the Deltas had helped them, and how Price had shot coolly from the helicopter, made him smile happily. He didn't need to know that Ghost wasn't coming to see him-now he had Graves in his hands, and he wasn't likely to rest. But hope lived in him all the same, until tonight, when everyone had already come and told him all that had happened. And almost at night, Roach came into his room, holding chocolate again.
"You seem to have been made human again," Soap grinned at his remark, gratefully taking the little present.
"Well, my legs still feel cold and won't listen."
"It'll pass, soldier," Roach grinned crookedly, then all mirth was gone from him and he looked very seriously at the other sergeant, who instantly caught the change of mood. Soap tilted his head slightly to the side, waiting for Roach to speak. "He loves you."
"Who?"
"Riley."
Soap blinked at a confused look. He stared at the guy in front of him and tried to put something together in his head. Two incongruent words in the same sentence were disorienting and made him wonder if sergeant had suffered head injury on this mission.
"What?"
"I mean it. It's unclear to you, but very clear to me, even though I tried to hide it with veil of my dreams and hopes."
"Gary-"
"He was hiding from you in my room because he was afraid he would fall into you even more. But he only made it worse. He was always looking for you if he didn't know where you were supposed to be, always listening to what you were saying, even though he pretended he wasn't interested at all. He loves you, and that's the only reason right now Graves is suffering for every cut on you. He will retaliate until Price gets him out of there, and I'm very unsure the captain can do that."
Soap was silent. He did not know what to say to a man whose feelings seemed to have been left aside. Ghost's priorities made both of them suffer, and it reminded him involuntarily of something he had said many times.
"The people who approach him suffer the most," he murmured, lowering his eyes to chocolate. It was many times more painful to realize that Roach suffered from unrequited love, and Soap suffered from what awaited him after this torture. He knew that in the torture chamber there are always two torturers, the one who sits in the chair and the one who is the executioner. Soap sincerely didn't want that, but there was no way he could stop Riley.
"I'll stay his friend. It's for the best," Roach turned and headed for the door. "And I hope he doesn't go missing with you in the abyss you cause in him."
Soap looked at the closed door and thought. All he wanted was to see Riley, to stop him from self-destruction. To stop what he wished he had done himself.
He could throw his legs off and sit on the edge of the bed. Get up, gently holding on to the wall beside him. His head was dizzy and his legs were still refusing him in an upright position, but he must at least begin to help himself a little. For LT's promise to help him get back in line.
First lap around the room seemed like hell. His head still dizzy, his back was aching, and his feet still only felt the icy floor of his stone prison, memories of which he would apparently never get rid of. After catching his breath beside couch, he stubbornly made his second lap, and he was more chipper. His strength was still extremely low, but at least he felt a slight piercing in his legs. On the third lap, he felt like he was walking on glass wool, because thousands of needles were sticking into every cell of his feet, and it was so painful that he could not hold back tears, just letting them flow down his cheeks as he paced and stepped on different legs, hoping that blood would still rush to them. On the sixth lap he stopped for a drink of water, broke into a couple of squares of chocolate, and tried to walk without a wall. He was wobbly and still incredibly dizzy, but he was able to get halfway through the lap without support. "Stubborn idiot," Riley's voice echoed in his head, and Soap hissed as he realized that if he went into that basement right now, at night, he would probably be brought back on a stretcher.
But he couldn't resist his need to see Riley. Let him see hell.
Door opened silently. He examined himself - he had been given cotton pants and a T-shirt from his hospital gown yesterday, but he was still barefoot. He couldn't feel cold, though, and he couldn't feel that tile of their base beneath him had any temperature at all. It was quiet all around, but he wasn't trying to sneak around much, just praying that no one would see him on his way to basement. He had to walk down the street to a nearby building, but he knew how to get there unnoticed, thanks to Ghost.
Soap crawled through the hospital itself without any trouble - his steps were too quiet, even now, when all he could feel with his feet were sharp needles and endless pain in his calves and knees. But his joints did not fail him, and he continued on his way, looking around lonely, hoping that everyone was asleep and no one cared that a soldier wounded in every possible way was escaping from his bed on tenth day after his coma.
As he stepped outside, he leaned against wall for a moment and exhaled blissfully. Freedom smelled like a regular base - guns, food, fresh air. No hospital, no standing basement. A couple of patrolmen loomed ahead, but Soap got around them quickly, even managed to do a short trot to back door, dropping to floor beside it and giving himself a moment's rest. He had assumed it would be very bad, but he didn't know he had been crippled to that degree. It hurt, but he endured it. He wanted to see Ghost more.
He couldn't get into basement right away. There was always someone on the stairs, and it was only after ten minutes of watching that he realized it was Roach who was crumpled up and afraid to go there. He didn't want to open up even to another sergeant, so he waited patiently in his hiding place until Gary tiredly waved and walked out of building, muttering that he couldn't do anything anyway.
Already on stairs he could hear Graves' creepy howl, and as he descended into basement he could hear the sweet voice of Ghost, who was in utter oblivion of hate and was burning through his former partner's life in every way possible. Door to torture chamber looked closed, but Soapy wasn't sure he wanted to see what was in there. Instead he rummaged around, finding the darkest and coldest corner behind a slightly torn sheet of metal, checked which side he could see, and realized that in theory there was no way of detecting him from anywhere except if he gave signs of life himself. But there were sounds coming from room very distinctly.
Soap collapsed in that corner, tucked his legs under him, exhaled wearily, leaned against the wall, and listened.
"Price! Price!"
"What, Gaz?"
"Soap's gone."
Captain broke away from the papers he was reading and looked up at sergeant.
"What?"
"He's not in room, sir. We wanted to look at cameras, but they were turned off at night because of an update in the system."
"Somebody saw him?" Price put everything aside and rose to his feet, pulling his gun from the drawer and holstering it.
"The alarm hasn't been raised yet, hasn't asked anybody."
"So raise it," Price was first out of the office and headed for another. "Laswell!"
"What?" the woman looked out of door first, before Price burst inside.
"Soap escaped."
"Escaped?"
"Well, I don't think anyone broke into the base and kidnapped him."
"He couldn't stand on his feet, where would he run off to," she too grabbed her gun and followed the captain out.
"He's a stubborn son of a bitch, he could have fooled us."
"And why would he run?"
"I don't know."
Kate grabbed his elbow just as they were walking toward the hospital wing. Somewhere ahead, worried soldiers were already running around, and Roach and Yuri were walking half-asleep toward them.
"If he escaped, how are you going to find him?"
"We will, if we think about why the hell he want to run."
"Captain," the approaching sergeants saluted.
"Soap escaped from his room," Price looked at each, looking to them for an answer to this morning's question. "Ideas? We were all in his room yesterday, maybe he said something, gave some kind of warning?"
"No way," Yuri reported. "Only about the gulag, nothing else."
"Maybe..." Roach rubbed his neck uncertainly, looking at Price guiltily.
"What did you tell him?"
"What's going on in the basement."
"And?"
"This is going to end badly for them, Captain, I don't want-"
"What did you tell him?" Price hovered over the sergeant, still writhing in place, staring at the Gus who had approached them.
"You know them both, sir," Gary spoke quietly. "Ghost, the always-lonely man, suddenly agrees to paired missions with him, their constant communication somewhere hidden in the shadows, silly jokes you never get from lieutenant in your life, and here he's showering them on..."
"What did you tell him? I know it all, there's no problem."
"Is there a problem in love, sir?"
"The statutory relationship..." began Laswell, but fell silent when Price threw an ironic look at her.
"We've got global problems here, Kate, what kind of statutory relations in the middle of a war? It's a good thing at least there's something, not all scorched by war."
"They're both pretty dumb, sir, and they're not likely to admit this relationship," Roach straightened up a couple of times, then sighed. "I just told him that it's hardly a brotherly relationship, and it's all about love here. He didn't believe me, and... Well. Probably wanted to ask the lieutenant."
"Did you check the basement?" asked Captain.
"There's nobody there but a screaming Graves and a silent Ghost."
"Do you think he's in there somehow?" asked Price again.
"Yes, sir. I think he is there. Or was there."
The captain rubbed the bridge of his nose, then looked at Laswell. She shrugged, looked at her watch.
"He's got two more days."
"In that condition, tell him that Soap is missing again would be a direct death to Graves," Yuri looked skeptically at the captain. "You can't tell him, or he'll take us to the grave with him."
"So that's why you're looking."
The sergeants were silent for a few seconds. Then they saluted, and scattered around the base, deciding to take different parts of it to look for Soap.
"Damn McTavish," Price smoked. Laswell beside him hummed.
"That's why you love him, admit it. There isn't a soldier as strong as him among these guys."
"His stupidity would be put to good use," the captain shook his head, then moved toward the hospital. Kate followed him.
Roach got the building where the lieutenant tortured their prisoner in the basement, without sleep or rest. Certainly Soap must be in here somewhere; it was unlikely he had escaped from bed just to take a walk. Sergeant, though reckless, more often than not showed amazing intelligence and equally boundless courage. Being close to Riley must have been written into his genetic level, so Roach headed straight for the stairs to the basement. Screams were still there, sometimes replaced by hysterical laughter, and he was frankly terrified to go down there. Ghost would kill him if he thought for a moment that McTavish was missing again. So, gathering his strength, he slowly made his way down. Here the sounds were as if amplified many times over, and it seemed as if Graves was screaming his pain from every corner. A fair punishment for him, Gary thought, but there was no time for that now. Ghost was taking breaks, and judging by the clock, he should be out of there within half an hour, and he needed to check the whole damn basement in that time.
Gary decided he wouldn't escape the Lieutenant's punishment anyway, so he leisurely checked all the corners, shining a flashlight on them, trying to stifle the screaming in his head with the thought that Soap had no clothes at all, and if he was here all night, he must be cold again. Even though he said the cold was his friend now, it was a lie anyway, because the guy was clearly not himself after the torture, and he needed help.
He'd only looked around part of the room when the torture chamber door creaked open and Ghost emerged from it in one huge shadow. He was wiping his hands with a bloody rag, and glancing over his shoulder, where Graves sat unconscious in a chair. Roach was just ten paces away from him, shining a flashlight somewhere in the direction of another door.
"Roach?" the lieutenant's voice was quiet, planted, the darkness still lurking in it, which he reveled in as he engaged in torture. The door to the cage slammed shut, and the only light for them was the sergeant's flashlight.
"Yes, Lieutenant?" he cautiously retorted, shining a little light on himself, showing that it was really him.
"What are you doing here?"
"Walking, sir."
He knew it sounded so ridiculous and stupid that there was little point in trying to deny it and save himself. He would die in this basement because of Soap deciding to escape, and it would be the most ridiculous event of his life that even in his drunken delirium could not be imagined.
"Roach," he didn't even realize how Ghost was one step away, looming over him. He reeked of blood and sweat and death, and he wanted to be as far away from here as possible so he wouldn't even know all the latest developments.
"Looking, sir."
"What?"
"Who, rather."
Ghost tilted his head sideways. Gary didn't even know which of the two had started doing that first, but he assumed Soap, with his Scottish mannerisms and strange gestures that were hard to interpret in any way. The lieutenant looked extremely angry, and was on the verge of giving the sergeant a good crack for standing there mumbling nonsense.
"Who are you looking for?"
"Sergeant McTavish."
Ghost even pulled away for a few seconds, blinking in surprise-the flashlight's glare strangely stained his blood-black mask and highlighted the mad eyes of the brutal wolf. The lieutenant didn't seem to realize what had happened at once, and when he did, Gary didn't even have time to react before he was trapped between the wall and the lieutenant, with an elbow and a knife to his throat.
"What does that mean?" he growled in his face, and such danger made Roach's knees tremble. He thought he would be afraid on the battlefield, in war, but he never thought his fear would be concentrated in the basement in the hands of his lieutenant.
"The doctor came to the room in the morning and he wasn't there. The cameras were turned off at night, and we don't know where he went, if he's alone, or what's wrong with him. Here, we're looking, on Price's orders."
"How could he have gone if his legs won't listen?"
"I don't know, sir. That's why we're looking."
"Fucking McTavish," the lieutenant let him go, took a step back, then waved him off. "I'll help look. Any guesses?"
"Well, I thought he went looking for you, and maybe down here in the basement somewhere."
"McTavish!" he shouted, echoing through every corner of the basement, but all that could be heard in response was the dripping of water somewhere in one of the rooms. "Soap!" repeated lieutenant. Still the same silence.
"Shall I keep looking?"
"I'll check the basement, you go upstairs. Maybe he's not crazy after all."
"Yes, sir."
Roach even shined a flashlight to check, but he didn't see anything but bars and cameras. Well, if the lieutenant had spared him, he really ought to get out of here before he changed his mind.
"Soap!" the lieutenant's shout made him wake up, twitch in his seat, but stop one step away from answering.
He had heard all night and half the morning how the man he loved was pulling a piece of life out of Graves by all forces, and it frightened him beyond belief. Now the phrase "you should stay away from me, Johnny, there's a reason Ghost legend goes around," took on new colors, and Soap really tried to justify his actions and understand, but it was extremely hard to even try to comprehend.
Ghost was a master of torture, and though he knew it in words, he was not ready to face the reality of his already shattered psyche. He tried several times to rush through that door and beg him to stop, but he knew he would simply be escorted back to his room. Ghost wouldn't stop, and not even his word would be decisive, because he had no such influence over his lieutenant. And the time allotted to him would be spent to the best of his ability, to inflict as much damage as possible on Soap Graves, who had dared to touch him.
There were footsteps somewhere nearby, and he had to freeze and breathe very slowly, hoping that he really wouldn't be found here. That Riley would just go back to the cage and carry on while McTavish tried to just reconcile himself to the idea that torture was okay, especially in a rank like tf-141. They didn't recruit just anyone here, and if he was a reckless sniper-bomber, there had to be someone who would torture and seek information.
So what in the whole universe did he fall in love with this particular man and justify him in his head with all his might?
"McTavish, if you're here, please show yourself," the lieutenant's voice was planted, full of rage and now it was clearly directed at him, for running away from the hospital, deceiving everyone that his legs were not particularly good. As usual, lying to achieve his goals, but to be fair, everyone around him was lying to achieve his goals as well, and he had carte blanche to answer. "Johnny, you should be in the hospital, not sitting in a cold room..."
Ghost's voice was interrupted, but he was no longer standing near his hiding place, walking around other corners of basement. He wanted to believe and show himself, but the fear was stronger for now; he was just afraid to look at Riley and not see his friend there again, who had made bad jokes, ignored him, but stubbornly stayed somewhere near him so Soap wouldn't feel lonely. Now there was an assassin walking between the rooms who would forget about his injuries and try to force it into his Scottish head that he was a complete jerk and he would kill him later, after Graves.
So Soap continued to breathe slowly, not move, and listen. Just listening, something Graves couldn't take away from him, though he wanted to cut his ear off.
"Riley, is he here?" came Price's voice from somewhere on the stairs. Soap almost groaned when he realized his escape had reached the higher-ups. Now they would nail him to the bed to keep him in line and then send him the hell out of the detachment for going away.
"No," came footsteps nearby, and then somewhere near the stairs. "He ain't here."
"Damn McTavish, he's nothing but trouble," muttered the captain. "Come on, there's talk. Come back later," Soap heard Price take the lieutenant away, and the basement became eerily quiet.
He sat a little longer to be sure, and then cautiously climbed out of his hiding place. His legs were stiff from doing so, but a little bouncing helped to bring back the feeling of needles in his feet and he was able to walk again. The front of the door was clear, but from behind it came the smell of death and blood, which you didn't notice much in combat, but in civilian life it hit his receptors acutely and scared off even seasoned warriors like him. The door creaked, so he opened it very quietly to look inside.
Graves was sitting in a strange chair in the middle, covered with straps that were attached to the ceiling near his single lap, which prevented him from moving at all and caused his limbs to swell. There was not a living spot on him, and blood, dried in places, covered not only his body but also the floor around him. There were pins driven into the back of his neck, the purpose of which Soap could only guess, as well as the pins in his calves sticking out in all directions. Philip didn't react to his appearance, only laughed softly. Perhaps he thought it was Ghost who had returned.
"Lost your sergeant, Riley?" he laughed again, hysterical. "Maybe he crawled off to some hole to die there and you couldn't find him?" he looked up and saw that Soap was looking out from behind the door, not Ghost in any way. "Ahhh, little Johnny escaped from his bed and came to see someone else's torture, how nice."
"You deserved it," McTavish replied hoarsely, but he never went inside. He didn't want to get his feet dirty in the blood, because then they would find him on the trail. So he stood outside, covered by the door, and just stared at the man who had most likely ruined his life. And maybe for a second, McTavish was glad to see what Ghost was doing to him, but then that passed and he wrinkled painfully.
"Oh, I deserve a lot of things, McTavish. But you're a smart boy, you know it's always two people who suffer in the torture chamber."
"And what have you suffered?"
"By not being able to take not only your body, but your soul as well."
Soap disappeared behind the door for a few seconds. Something Alejandro had told him about when they were still in Mexico. "That guy looks at you funny, hermano. Be careful, I'd twist his balls off for that." Didn't pay much attention, because basically everybody looks at a Scotsman funny, but it turned out the Colonel was right.
"Hey, Johnny. You do realize you gave me a huge knife that I'm now going to use against your precious lieutenant, don't you?" Graves laughed. "Army love, it's obvious even to a blind man, but you're both dumb and blind. And if you're not so overreacting, Ghost will be furious."
"Worse for you," whispered Soap, closing the door.
"McTavish! I hope you're enjoying this performance! Because I like it a lot! Breaking you is my goal, and I will achieve it, even sitting in this chair and bleeding, because you will choke to death in fear of Ghost!"
Soap is already hiding in his niche, curled up again. He must wait until nightfall to return to his chamber. It was dangerous to go now - they were looking for him, they would catch him at once. Behind this sheet of metal was not just a corner of his hiding place, but a wide arc of ventilation ran nearby. Soap, assessing the magnitude of the problem with the hidden return, thought for a while, then climbed up there, immediately going a little higher, so that he could get out at night and try to return to the hospital without incident. He was lucky that the pipe led directly outside, and he could just sit by the grate and breathe the fresh air. Dying of thirst and hunger, but he decided to just endure it, since he had to hear what was going on in the basement. Obliged.
"Ah, Lieutenant," even though he crawled away from the basement, he could still hear Graves, albeit much quieter. "You won't believe who I saw today."
"And who," Riley's voice was barely audible, and Soap had to strain, filtering out the sounds outside to hear what was going on downstairs.
"Little Johnny visited me here. Hey, hey, don't get so angry, he's a strong soldier, ran off to see your work," there was silence for a while, then Graves' inhuman scream filled every niche in the building as he received, apparently, something very scary into his body. "Aaahhhh, Ghost, yes, it hurts. But it's much more painful for you to realize that Soap will never turn to face you with a smile again. After all, you're a monster to him now."
"I was a monster, he just didn't understand."
"He does now," he laughs hysterically. Graves said he was going to use it, and he was getting off on it full force. "Now for you, little Johnny is lost forever. And that's like a blessing in disguise, Lieutenant. I couldn't break him in there, so I'll break him in this chair. I won anyway."
Further screams were interspersed with groans and back, and Soap just fell asleep into the evening. When it got dark outside, he started figuring out his route. The cameras hadn't picked him up just by a miracle, but there were plenty of blind spots from where he was now that could be used. Cautiously leaving his hiding place, he stretched out again for a bit and then walked back to the hospital building at a brisk pace, bypassing a couple of patrols that were keeping a watchful eye on everything, but were still not optimistic enough. Soap had the advantage of training from Ghost, and he was a good student in that regard.
The hospital hit him on the nose with medication again, and he realized that he would not be able to walk down the corridors. Still, he tried.
Near the door to his room stood Price with Roach, and it was the last frontier on his return. He had to hide in the closet to wait for them to leave. And to listen to the conversation.
"... He won't last long without food and water, sir."
"Do you think Graves gave him much food and drink? Skin and bones. Believe me, he can go a couple of days without it now."
"We've combed everywhere, several times. He's nowhere to be found."
"Then all we have to do is wait. He'll come back himself, and at least we'll know where he's been."
"Will he come back?"
"Absolutely, Sergeant. And will gladly put himself under my wrath, knowing full well that I can't nail him."
"Sir, I'd still be under the tubes with those injuries, and he's running around the base? That's impossible, isn't it," their voices began to recede, indicating that they were walking away from the ward door.
"You should get to know McTavish better to have an idea of his unbending no one will, his overly gigantic ego, and his equally gigantic desire to live."
Soap waited a little longer to be sure, then slipped out of the storeroom and into the room. Everything was just as he had left it, except for a clean set of clothes on the bed and an A4 sheet of paper scribbled, he realized, by the captain.
"I don't know where the hell you've been, but if you come back, don't expect a warm welcome. Change your clothes, at least, so I won't see any hint that you escaped by deceiving us about your inability to walk. Maybe if your reason is reasonable, McTavish, I won't put you on punitive duty for the next six months, because I think that since you walk and lurk in the shadows, you can be discharged and put back on duty.
Riley's pissed, and he'll be scarier than mine. I sympathize with you on that one, boy.
Try to at least warn somebody next time that you're out to get some air, so we won't be so worried.
Captain Price."
Soap read it over twice, realizing that he would have to answer anyway, then grabbed a clean rag and tried to wash himself in the little sink in the far corner of the room where the doctor was washing his hands. It wasn't working, and the rag was all black by the end, but at least he wiped away any trace of his time in the dirty corner. Then he changed his clothes and put everything dirty in the far corner, so that the captain would not immediately notice it. Let him yell at his irresponsibility first, then tell him off for crawling around dirty with barely healed wounds.
Soap tried to get some sleep, though the panic that was pounding him wouldn't settle down, wouldn't let his body take over for long hours, and only by morning, when the first steps of the nurses began to be heard behind the wall, tiredness and excess of emotions turned him off from the outside world, curled up in a little lump on the bed facing the door, so he could see the whole room. Soap thought he would never be able to sleep in the common room now, for there was no place for him to cover the entire room with his eyes, and that was a psychological problem. But that was something to worry about later.
He could hear the creaking door, even though he was still asleep. A surprised woman's "oh!" and then a quiet exclamation to someone in the hallway, "he's here!" still couldn't get him out of his sleep. It was a very strange state for Soap - he had never experienced sleep paralysis, but apparently his brain simply could not rest, and he would have to suffer this for a long time, staying almost always somewhere in a suspended state between reality and sleep. It couldn't be called rest, and at some point they would just start giving him sleeping pills to keep him awake, and he didn't want to lose reality, not even for a second.
The nurse's quiet footsteps he ignored, as did the touch of a woman's light hand on his hair as she simply brushed the grown-out curls of his mohawk aside. For some reason the hair on his temples was still shaved off, but the mohawk growing out and sticking out in all directions annoyed him a little. Gaz said it looked sexier that way, but Soap only looked skeptically in the mirror then.
"Alive?" someone asked from the door in Price's voice. Then another footsteps, the doctor's, and there were two men standing beside him. They pulled the blanket off his shoulders and rolled him over onto his back-the sleepy paralysis prevented him from moving, only listening and feeling, and Soap even took some pleasure in what was going on, because it was strange and new. Of course, the cold still occupied a large spectrum of his senses, but sometimes something came through, like pain, or warmth, or soft women's hands. Or a man's rough, hot ones when Riley had hugged him a few days ago.
"Yes, but again, exhaustion. He's unconscious, I guess," the doctor's hands ran quickly over him, even shining a flashlight in his eye, but it did seem to be the unconscious part, and Soap was for a second grateful his body was hiding him from the captain's immediate wrath.
"I'll get the I.V.," the nurse walked out, and his captain's heavy, army-like footsteps rushed through the room again. Maybe Soap had overreacted, and Price would kill him just like that while he slept.
"How do you live up to your name, Soap," a heavy hand lay on his shoulder, squeezed lightly. "Annoying, pissing off absolutely everyone, but still slipping out of the situation in one piece."
For a while, Soap just felt the look on his face, and thought about what he had said. It was a remarkably accurate description of his life, and he matched it as best he could. After all, he couldn't have it any other way. Not to annoy, not to anger, not to do things his own way. Price appreciated him for that, after all, more than he could show. And they could have had a fight, for, after all, each of them was a lunatic.
"I hope you've got some sense in explaining your escape to me, because otherwise you'll be explaining it to Lieutenant. "
The hand disappeared from my shoulder. Footsteps were heard across the chamber, and at that moment Soap felt that the paralysis had let go of him and he could control his body again...
"Curiosity, sir," he wheezed, turning his head and squinting at the light. "I had... Had to."
"You weren't there," Price appeared in his field of vision again, covering the light with himself. It made it a little easier to focus on him. "You couldn't have been there, Riley was all over it."
"I didn't just learn from you, Captain," muttered McTavish, sighing heavily. "But I was there. For a long time."
"Riley's really going to kill you for this," Price sighed, turning back to the doctor. "Condition?"
"I don't think it's anything that lunch and some pills wouldn't fix. He didn't make it worse."
"You're lucky you didn't make your condition worse, Sergeant."
"What the hell does it matter if all I feel is cold to no end? Even blankets don't help," Soap turned away, closing his eyes again so as not to irritate them. "How can you make anything worse if nothing has changed in a month and a half, sir?"
"Problem complex, Sergeant," the doctor stepped away from him, checking something on the screen. A nurse came back into the room with an I.V. "Long dehydration, lack of iron, lack of sleep, frostbite-the feeling of cold will take a very long time to pass."
"Why did you lie about your legs?" Price was still here.
"Didn't lie," Soap replied. "I couldn't get up until... It hurts like walking on glass wool, sir. But can if want stand it. "
"From frostbite, many nerve endings are either dead or damaged. It's a recovery process, so it won't be long before the needles in your feet go away, either."
"So I feel pain, but I'll go and look anyway? Stubborn son of a bitch. Okay," Price sounded distant again, as if he'd gone to the door. "I'll take that as an apology for going away, and I won't get much of a scare - three months' fine. And don't you dawdle, McTavish. I'll have a guard posted."
"'Copy that, sir. Thanks," Soap smiled. Well, at least they didn't kill him.
It didn't stop him from dreading the hell out of a lieutenant who wouldn't be so loyal to his antics.
Ghost didn't come out until the night before. Tonight Graves told him more about the torture, as well as Shepard's plans for the world, and it was extremely tired to listen to it all, but he had to. Duty-bound to return every second of Johnny's pain, but also to get out other information in between. Fortunately, Philip was an extremely cooperative fellow, and he willingly answered questions without even thinking of hiding anything. Apparently, he thought he wouldn't get out of the basement, but Ghost hadn't spilled enough of his blood to survive the torture. Only pure uncontaminated pain and suffering, and death should be brought to him by MacTavish. Maybe that would be fair and that ugly feeling inside Ghost would settle down in his cave, calmed down.
Just as he closed the door, he remembered that Johnny had escaped from room last night. And he could still be anywhere if Price hadn't found him. Somehow that only made him feel vaguely uneasy now, and he didn't think Johnny was in any danger. He was bound to be found; he couldn't have gone far, all he had to do was find Price and ask.
Or check for himself. He was unlikely to be released to the hospital, dirty and bloody, but at least he could ask about his boy. Fortunately for him, on his way out he met Price, smoking his expensive cigarette.
"Captain," he greeted muffled, stopping beside him. He lifted his head up, looking out the window where Soap must be. There was a light on.
"He's there, if you need him. Came himself," Price didn't even turn to him, looking somewhere in the distance as if he were studying the base. "He heard everything."
"What, exactly?"
"Graves told you that McTavish came to see him. He wasn't lying."
"I looked all over, he couldn't have been there," Ghost tensed. If he missed Johnny in the dark, what kind of a scout was he? How could he not see the soldier in his hospital clothes, too light for that basement? How could Soap hide from him?
"Too well trained in his chips, then," Price turned to him, looking point-blank. "Look, he's obviously not himself, and he just claimed that he wanted... That he needed to be there."
"He wasn't supposed to be there."
"Obviously he heard a lot of things. I wouldn't advise you to go to him."
"Why not?"
"You're all dirty," Price sighed. "Also, I'm afraid you're going to get a lot of trouble. And he's exhausted from a night without sleep or food or water," seeing that the lieutenant was beginning to come to a boil from the last phrase, he threw up his hand. "And no need for that either, he's already admitted his guilt, the doctor said he's fine, and he didn't make the situation worse."
"Asleep?"
"Well, I think so now, he's been too sluggish to answer questions as it is."
"I want..."
"Wash yourself, then, at least. Don't break the sergeant's psyche, which has just begun to stand back up in its tracks by the smell and sight of the torture chamber, Lieutenant. You'll get more of him in the penitentiary for insubordination."
Ghost nodded. Price, as always, radiated too much confidence and cynical truth. And the fact that he'd forgiven them much also spoke of their exceptionality, but it was very shaky; for any vice they might have faced the punishment of heaven - Riley had once experienced it himself. So he saluted, turned, and headed for his room. On the way he was shooed aside, whispered behind his back, but he wasn't offended, because TF-141 had never done that, Johnny hadn't... He paused for a second. Graves' words echoed somewhere in the back of his mind that he was now going to be a personal nightmare for the sergeant. And that should have been a valid argument for staying away from Soap, but he couldn't.
Quickly cleansing himself in the shower, he found a fresh set of uniforms, got dressed, and headed for the hospital at a brisk pace. Not really wanting to show his face, he went in through the back door, flew up the fire escape onto the floor, and stopped immediately, realizing that this was the way Johnny had left the building, and then maybe he'd come back. He began to think like a lieutenant, and it warmed his shattered soul right now, like the hot sun drowning the ice that happened to fall under its influence.
There were no more lights on in Soap's room, and he silently entered, locking the door. Soap was asleep, curled up, facing the door, and from under the blanket two bright blue eyes looked up at him as he turned, indicating that Soap had returned to his routine of waking at any noise. Or maybe that skill was exacerbated in captivity, where any rustle could mean pain. However, his eyes quickly closed back, and his breathing was still deep. Ghost thought it was a reflex action, the head separate from the body, just saw that it was someone of his own, and did not even wake host. It was a bad skill, because the mind did not rest, but kept guarding against suffering. This made something in Ghost's chest prickle unpleasantly, a kind of fear for the sergeant's sanity if things continued like this.
"He will go mad, fighting the fear of captivity and the fear of his tormentor. We are both his enemies, Simon, and you will be actively helping me to drive him into this abyss."
Graves kept shouting this in his head as he stood staring at McTavish, unable to move. Well, Price wasn't lying, the sergeant really is here, alive, to be looked after. He doesn't need his presence, he really could have made things worse... And then he realizes that this is another way of manipulating Graves, and we should try to get McTavish's own opinion on the matter.
He crossed the room in four steps, put a chair beside him, sat down, and leaned slightly toward Johnny. The fact that the sergeant was hiding under a blanket made it hurt, but the first light touch on his arm made it clear - he was still bloody freezing. Cold of the basement never left the sergeant for a moment, and his posture might have meant not only an attempt to protect his internal organs, but also an attempt to keep warm, to keep some warmth around him. Ghost lifted the blanket to make sure-legs curled up, tucked so as to warm each other, one hand in his armpit, the other grasping his thigh. He was really looking for any way to keep warm, even in his sleep, and clearly wasn't finding it. And the raised blanket made him grimace and reached out to find it, but only came across Riley's hot palm, intercepting his action in the middle. Soap frowned, then reacted, but not at all in the way the lieutenant had expected. In a second he was no longer holding someone else's wrist, and McTavish himself was in the corner of the room, holding a fork left over from dinner, and he was all packed and ready to fight. Riley had to raise his hands in surrender, showing that he was not a threat.
"Johnny, it's me," he was used to speaking harshly, hard over the past two days, but now he softened, allowed a return to the playful, warm tones he had only allowed when talking to Johnny.
McTavish blinked frequently as he became aware of himself in space, then hissed something in Scots, and returned to the bed.
"Sorry, LT, didn't realize it was you."
"It's all right," Riley shook his head. Even in this situation, Johnny tried to apologize for his actions, though he clearly didn't particularly regret them. "You're cold," Soap was already back under the covers, curling up again and covering himself.
"I..." came a heavy sigh from under the covers, then a cold hand reached out and grabbed his palm. "I can't tell temperature of the food, the water, the bed beneath me. Everything feels icy. Not like this, not..." his voice cracked, the blanket found itself dumped in his lap. Soap wasn't afraid to show him the real him, and it sure as hell didn't match Graves' promise of being hated. How could he think of it when the sergeant was so openly showing him himself in the dark?
"Johnny, you don't have to-"
"You seem hot, and it even burns," he continued stubbornly. Only he didn't look up, as if he were afraid to see something. "But everything else is... Cold."
"Johnny, look at me."
He saw that it was worth the effort for Soap to raise his head and look him in the eye. Maybe he'd been hasty about Graves' thoughts, and was about to face the hatred right now.
However, nothing of the sort happened. The blue eyes looked with deep fatigue, a little sad, more concerned.
"LT?"
"What were you doing in the basement?" softly, as gently as possible. And don't move, don't try to press, don't try to hover. It cost Ghost a tremendous effort to suppress in himself the desire to just lie down beside him, rake the sergeant under him and let him bask against him, not be afraid and sleep for as long as he needed to recover. He sensed on some higher level that Soap would now keenly perceive the invasion of personal space.
"Curious," he replied, continuing to simply gaze into the lieutenant's eyes without particularly twitching. His emotions could only be felt on the hand still resting in Riley's palm.
"And where does your curiosity lead you?"
"That I know nothing."
Now he looked away. He seemed to be still there, but he was staring at some point behind Ghost and not trying to talk again. Maybe he wasn't ready, but better now, when all the fresh and burning emotions could still do something to them, than later, looking at the walls of indifference erected when it could no longer be fixed.
"I told you I would do it. You heard it from me personally, Johnny."
"Uh-huh."
"Then why are you surprised?"
"Used to think only of the good things. "
"There's nothing good about me," for some reason that very remark still made him lean toward Soap. He gave him a warning look in the eye, but he didn't move away, only tensed his shoulders and squeezed his hand tighter. "I bring nothing but..."
"Suffering and pain, I remember. And yet..."
Soap sighed. He was looking for words, not just for Riley, but for himself, to justify what was happening and just accept it.
"You know my past. You know it's impossible to come out of it dry. It's there, it has a huge impact..."
"I counted you stronger than your past."
Ghost was silent. He looked at the brightest man in his life and just couldn't believe that after that story, very detailed, he kept just believing in the goodness of his soul, that he wouldn't stoop to this. "You're better than this," Soap wrote when he couldn't talk much yet, and that little letter lay in the deep pocket of his jacket, and Riley would carry it there until it was frayed to atoms, because it was a reminder he didn't deserve, but somehow it was.
"But it's me, Johnny. This is the real..."
"Ghost, yes. A real one. But not Simon Riley."
"Riley's weak," Ghost growled dangerously. They had stepped into very dangerous territory, and maybe now it was just their fate that was being decided. Together or not. With one word he could really lose Johnny forever, but if that was the kind of man Soap didn't love him, then he had feelings for someone who didn't exist.
"Riley is you. And the mask on your face is just a way to protect the people around you, nothing more."
"You see things that aren't there, Johnny."
"Then I fell in love with a ghost."
Soap turned away after this phrase, took his palm from his hand, threw the blanket over his head again, while Ghost froze, unable to comprehend what he had said. He thought it was love. Friendly brotherly love. Any kind, but not the kind that breaks hearts and inspires even the dead. Not the kind that was now melting him down in front of this man, once again hidden by the blanket breathing slowly beneath him. Simon could love, surely, but Ghost could not.
Soap McTavish had just proved that Ghost could love, too.
And the pain of that realization came crashing down on him like a meteorite, crushing him, making him rub his forehead where Soap's knees had been. He was shaking-it wasn't every day he realized that your best image, your ridiculous jokes, and your naiveté about so many things hidden by layers of blood and death, could be loved so unconditionally and so much that the veins in his legs would go wild and his heart would skip a beat after beat. Johnny said it right-he loves a ghost, something hidden in the shadows of Ghost that even the owner didn't know about. How he could find that light, Riley didn't know, but right now he was ready to kneel before Soap and beg for mercy.
Somewhere in the basement Graves was laughing triumphantly, victorious. His hatred for him and his desire to hurt him had almost taken him away from Soap, who right now may have thought it a mistake of life to reveal his feelings. And Riley understood him-to bare himself in a moment when both were hurting, and to get no response, but to hear that he loved someone else. Johnny never hid from him as it was, showing almost immediately that he had a head on his shoulders, but no fear. To have the audacity to look him in the eye while others are afraid to even stand next to him is to have the utter fearlessness to get into the lion's mouth.
"Why are you still here?" It sounded muffled from under the blanket. Ghost fell out of his thoughts and into a reality that was hard and scary. He had another day for Graves. A day in which he could retaliate, indulge in anathema in the eyes of McTavish, but bask in his own rage. And he wanted to take advantage of it, to the fullest, he had already planned...
Ghost stood up and took three steps toward the door. A day in which he could retaliate, indulge in anathema in the eyes of McTavish, but bask in his own rage. And he wanted to take advantage of it, to the fullest, he had already planned...
Ghost stood up and took three steps toward the door. He stopped. He knew that if he walked out now, there would be no turning back. Johnny would check out of the hospital and ask for a transfer. Price would know from his eyes that everything had gone to shit and let Soap slip away, no matter how hard the captain clung to him. That his decision to coddle his evil inside will destroy TF-141 at the root, for the old man will not forgive such a thing to him. Will behave the same way, but oh so will not forgive the fact that his best student was taken from him. And even if worrying about Price's feelings was the least of his problems, Ghost was willing to obsess over just that, just so he wouldn't think that Johnny's departure would probably break him permanently. No more of Simon's ugly face sticking out of the grave, Ghost would just lie there and reality would bury them both.
It was very hard. Soap got hurt, Graves got blamed. Ghost was to blame. And even though he claimed he wasn't, that didn't absolve him of responsibility.
Simon turned around, pulling off his mask, then bent down and unlaced his shoes. He limped over to the bed, tapping his soles loudly, kicked off his boots beside him, took off his shirt, then pushed Soapy in the shoulder.
"Move."
No one moved, but after a minute of patient waiting, Johnny pulled the blanket off his head and looked incredulously at the lieutenant. Seeing him standing barefoot, in just a T-shirt and pants in front of him, even without the mask he had placed next to his pillow, Soap cautiously uncurled himself, then moved over. The bed was not conducive to lying down for two large men, but Ghost was now up to the high bell of that church in Las Almos, and he simply threw most of Johnny's body over himself and covered them with a blanket. He hadn't rested in a very long time, and he was still stung by every emotion, but the moment Soap relaxed his shoulders and, after a little fidgeting, lay back down more comfortably, he realized that he was dead tired, and could only sleep in Johnny's presence.
"Why?" Soap poked his nose into his chest and breathed; he was really all ice, and it cost Ghost a great deal of possession not to shudder at such a thing. Giving up all the heat that was killing him himself now seemed logical. Or was that not what Johnny was asking about...?
"Sleep, Mctavish, you look like death," Simon muttered back, turning slightly and raking Johnny closer to him, letting his icy body touch his hot one in large places.
After ten minutes of quiet and silence, he realized that Soap couldn't sleep now, because his temperature, normal for any human, seemed too scalding, but he still unconsciously reached for all the exposed parts of his body, just to snatch that bit of warmth. Ghost pulled away from him for a few seconds, pulled his T-shirt down by one sleeve, returning to its place, letting Johnny squeeze into it, listening to the reverent exhale. It was as if he were trying to warm a frostbitten soldier in the field, but it was the psychological chill of the cage Graves had kept him in for two long months. The impression could only be replaced by the warmth of another body, something ordinary that would not resemble the cold floor and the piercing frost.
"I heard a lot of things down there," whispered Johnny from somewhere below. Ghost floated in a light haze of sleep, listening to someone else's heart with his own, embracing the slightly warming body and breathing into the top of his head, but he was still able to catch his words.
"I can't explain anything to you," Ghost answered honestly, clenching his hands slightly into fists and then relaxing again and stroking lightly against the stranger's back.
"I don't think I'd understand, even if you had the words," Soap sighed heavily. He shuddered as he pulled away a little and looked up at Simon's chin. "I was sitting there trying to make excuses for you there, your words of cruelty."
"You shouldn't have," Ghost couldn't look at him now. Not when he started talking about the dark side again. So he continued to lie there with his eyes closed.
"Maybe I shouldn't have," his cold nose traced down his collarbone and stopped near his armpit. "Except that when I looked in, there was something inside me... Something was very excited about what I saw. For a long few seconds... I was proud of what you were doing with it."
"Johnny..."
"Yes, then I was horrified. But... Continuing to sit and listen into the night I just..." another sigh, his voice began to crack, and panic washed over him in light waves. Ghost pressed closer to him, trying to soothe him. "I don't understand this. And I shouldn't, probably not my specialty. But, then... I remembered what Price had told me when he first saw me working as a bomber. "I'll be gray with you so by 35 if you keep it up." In a way, I was doing my job of killing people with bombs and shrapnel, and I like that. Well, more like the explosion itself, not the death because of it, but..." the shuddering intensified. Ghost understood what Soap was getting at, but let him finish the thought. "I remember the horror in Gaz's eyes when he saw me come back, covered in dust, but a whole block blown up, and I was cheerful, and he just didn't understand how I could... And then in other missions where I killed women and children the same way... I'm not blameless either. Monstrous. Why have I any right to accuse you of this darkness, when I myself have fallen into it up to my mohawk? Who am I?"
"You can, Johnny."
"No, I don't have to. That's hypocrisy, Simon."
"You don't owe anyone anything," he still lowered his head to meet his eyes with blue eyes full of tears. They flowed sideways and Soap choked on them, but he didn't turn away, just watched as his lieutenant gently put his hand to his cheek and brushed the tears away with his thumb. "Not to me, not to Price. This is our way, and all we can do is either accept it or put a bullet in our heads. "
"I wanted to," a slight, hysterical laugh, lips curving in self-disgust. "Then, remember, I threw a gas grenade into the house? We were supposed to kill everyone, but... Then later, Price told me there were twenty kids there. He thought I could handle it. And I sat up all night with a gun in my hand and thought about what I was doing. Why am I..." he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to turn away, but Simon's warm hand held him in place, continuing to smear tears down his cheek.
"The good in you isn't dead. Not completely, Johnny. And I buried it in the grave where Simon Riley was entombed alive, before being tortured for a long time. We went our separate ways, and you were stronger on yours. I didn't."
"Then who are you now?" a warmer hand was already resting on his chest. Soap was still deathly cold, but it seemed that this mild hysteria, coupled with Ghost's hot body, had taken its toll, and he was warming up a bit. And he began to speak incoherently, mixing up the words, slipping more and more into a Scottish accent.
"I don't know," Riley answered honestly. He really didn't know who he was when he took off his mask. Was it still Simon, or was it just the naked Ghost? Who was he to Johnny - himself or the ghost he had fallen in love with?
"Then... How am I supposed to understand..." Soap's voice fell silent for a few seconds, drowning in sniffling and trying to draw a normal breath. "How do I figure out... Who am I...? Because I... It's so hard," he exhaled again hoarsely, bumped his forehead against his chest a couple of times, then looked up again. "How do you figure out who's who? Where does it end for me, John, and start for Soap, who blows up kids? How do you figure out where Simon, buried alive in a grave, ends and Ghost, the murderer and torturer, begins?"
"No way," Riley leaned lower, nuzzling his forehead with his own. Not very comfortable, but easier to keep eye contact. "No way, because both are one man, Johnny. You blow up these houses, not Soap. I kill people and bring them pain, not Ghost."
"So I am... Just you. There's just you, there's just me," his eyes sparkled as he gazed into Simon's darkness. "I love you, Simon."
Ghost didn't answer anything, only leaned even lower, pulling Johnny into a kiss. His lips were moist from the constant licking and tears, and Simon just collected that pain with his tongue, soaking it in, moving one hand to the back of his head, tangling it in his grown mohawk, pulling him closer to him. It wasn't how he'd imagined something like this, but it was still better than being silent and not responding to a scream in the void. McTavish had always screamed into the void, but now the void was answering him, crushing his lips softly, running his tongue over his lips and teeth, waiting for the air to run short and Soap to unclench his teeth, allowing the kiss to deepen. Simon reveled in it, drowning his rage and hatred under a layer of love from Johnny, who gave all he had left from the torture without hesitation, moaning softly as they caught a few breaths of air, and continued to explore the Lieutenant's sides and back with warm fingers, tickling lightly.
And surprisingly, it worked. The dark, rebellious thing inside him was giving itself up to Johnny's caress, like a discarded feral cat suddenly trusting a human hand again. It swallowed this love whole, and slowly it faded away, went to sleep, until another McTavish wound, until another trauma during the fight. It would never disappear from him, but Ghost knew that it was now a fully tamed beast that would attack only those who dared to shift the line of sight with Soap's body.
"Simon," he said with a gasp, soft, uncluttered, full of love. Oh, he felt another man's cock with his thigh, and allowed himself a slight wiggle of his leg to create friction. Johnny melted beneath him, moaning softly and almost purring, sucking in each kiss with a sharp passion that transitioned into boundless tenderness.
"Johnny," his hand, free from his grip on Soap's hair, wandered over the new map of the sergeant's back, marking with his fingers every scar, every barely healed wound, reminding him of his failure. At some point he could no longer recognize the echo of that pain, and pulled away from Johnny's lips, plump and flushed, lifted him slightly to his level to poke his shoulder, tongue tracing particularly large cuts from the knife, some through and through. He growled muffled as he did so, and didn't even immediately realize that Soap's hands were on his fly, gently stroking his cock through the cloth. He had to heal his wounds with himself, had to...
"Leave it alone," a quiet whisper near his ear as Soap pressed harder and then reached for the edge of his pants, drawing that dangerous line. "It'll pass, Simon."
"It won't," came out a little pathetic, because controlling his voice while Soap was doing this to him was quite difficult. "It won't, Johnny, not while I'm-"
"Shh, Simon," at one point he just realized he was lying on his back, and Soap disappeared under the blanket, tracing his scars with his tongue. "We're full of them, aren't we? They will be a reminder of weakness and strength."
"Yours certainly are," he didn't pull the blanket off Johnny; he was cold as it was, just warmed up, and the sergeant wasn't particularly anxious to throw it off. And it added points of excitement to the whole scene, considering their position. It was dangerous to do that in the room, but they were both living that danger, so what?
Johnny only snorted, running his nose near his cock through his clothes. He wanted to whimper and twitch under him, to take the power himself, but it was worth giving the reins to Johnny now - maybe it would be a kind of apology for revealing the truth about him. A truth he didn't really know himself. Ghost helped him pull down his pants and underwear, Johnny had already pulled them off his ankles, and when he was back in place, his hot breath touched the inside of his thigh, from where it worked its way from kisses and drool higher, until his wet tongue touched first his left testicle, then his right, and then it traveled up his entire shaft, causing uncontrollable shivers. It was impossible to be loud, and he pressed his emotions within himself while the sergeant under the blanket lingered on him, licking gently on all sides but not taking it in his mouth. It was as if he were mocking, but when he heard the roar of impatience murmuring in Ghost's chest, he licked the head one last time and took it hotly into his mouth, almost half at once, now running his tongue inside. Ghost gasped at such a thing, he reached under the covers grabbing for someone else's hair, but he didn't guide or push, he just had to hold on to Johnny.
Soap was good at that. He sincerely tried to relax his throat and take it deeper, but invariably he choked and coughed softly into his bib, only to return with a bunch of drool to lick again. He clearly enjoyed the slow pace and taste, driving Ghost crazy with his tongue alone, continually passing over all the erogenous points. Simon wheezed and squeezed his moans with his fist, promising himself that he would only allow them on leave with Johnny, when he had enjoyed himself to the full with his tongue, which was not all he knew how to talk and make idiotic jokes.
Ghost lost track of time when Soap did speed up. He also drew his cheeks in slightly, and invariably kept his tongue moving, a sensation that made Simon want to go crazy. He barely managed to catch the moment he was about to cum, so he yanked at Johnny's hair, forcing him to pull away, but he made a resisting sound, thrusting deeper. Simon cummed deep down his throat, gasping with sensation, seeing nothing in front of him but bright stars. Johnny disappeared from his legs and then landed beside him, and Ghost immediately pulled him to him, engaging him in a new kiss, tasting himself on those sweet lips.
"What should I do?" whispered Simon on his lips, pulling away. He wanted more, he wanted right here to take and drink all of Johnny, he wanted... This love was slowly melting him and he didn't want to escape.
"Anything you want yourself," the excitement in the stranger's voice hit him hard, and the lieutenant flipped them over, looming dangerously over Johnny. Their new kiss was more aggressive, deeper, drool and cum residue mixed in his mouth, and Soap just couldn't help but moan into his mouth. Simon caught each one, muffled himself as he pulled the hospital pants and boxers off Johnny, touching his cock with his hot palm. For a second he was glad that at least here Johnny was hot, but the first touch on his knee told him that the heat never got to his feet.
He lifted his head and looked around. It was not in the habit of the doctors to leave something like a cream, of course, but maybe Soap...
Sure, Soap, who reached deep under his pillow and pulled out a healing, greasy cream. It wasn't much of a lubricant, but for want of another, Ghost agreed. Generously squeezing it onto his fingers, he brought it up to Johnny's hole and froze.
Impatiently fidgeting beneath him, Soap looked up at him.
"Simon?"
"He said you're so- Wounds," he didn't know how to phrase it. There were no such words. But he saw Soap shake his head.
"Shadows wanted. He killed them. Said only he'd do it. He never did," Johnny chuckled softly, then guided Simon's hand toward himself, pressing lightly with fingers.
The short explanation was enough to dispel the Ghost's anxiety. He didn't want to hurt like that, but he couldn't help asking.
Fingers gently spreading the greasy cream, Simon just watched Johnny wriggle under him for a while, trying to get him to finally act. He gently inserted his first finger, guiding it carefully from side to side, feeling Johnny's muscles contract, but he tried to relax. Sincerely he tried.
"Johnny," he probably should have been distracted, so, squeezing more cream onto his fingers and entrance, he returned to Soap's lips, drawing in a light kiss, biting the line of his jaw, the cadaver of his collarbone, listening to the quiet song of moans and his name from Johnny's lips, the way his body warmed from Simon's caresses told him they were on a very right track. He was able to distract him enough to fully insert his finger, bringing it up here and there. Johnny was warm and tight inside, and he wanted so badly to take him soon, but he was patient, waiting as he inserted his second finger and caught stifled moans and sobs with his lips.
"It's a good thing there's . They help with that," Johnny exhaled and laughed at Ghost's questioning look. "Sorry, but there were no condoms, so I... Asked the nurse."
"Prepared, Johnny?" he let his voice become playful, and damn everyone in his life, he would talk to him like that forever, because the look in Soapy's eyes after that was all he lived for.
"Maybe...maybe," he answered hoarsely after a while, already wiggling his hips slightly and thrusting two fingers. "Thought... Thought, LT," Soap gasped at the sensation, bragging on his shoulders and melting beneath him in a way that left Ghost with so little patience for him.
He didn't wait much, and he knew from the faint hints on Soap's face that he too just needed to be fucked, so he poured some more cream on his long-standing cock and gently placed it against his entrance. He wished he could ease Johnny's pain, but he knew it was inevitable. So he just leaned in a little, letting the sergeant get a grip on his shoulders, and then gently, slowly, began to enter the tight, hot body. Soap tried to raise his voice, but a broad palm was immediately placed over his mouth, urging him to be quiet, and Soap just clung to his hand like a life preserver. He kept his eyes open, staring with his clear blue eyes, filled with tears that flowed down his cheeks in little beads from every inch that ended up in him. Ghost drowned in that look, drank in his lover's emotions and couldn't get enough of how good everything literally felt.
When he inserted his cock all the way in, he had to freeze himself just to keep from choking on the feeling of absolute heat. Soap contracted his muscles intermittently and it did nothing to keep him in control. Neither did the fact that he somehow moved his palm from his mouth and took two fingers into his mouth, sucking. Simon, who hadn't had any sex other than his hand in the shower in a long time, was blown to hell by this Johnny, he couldn't imagine him like this even in his best dreams, and he was shaking just at the thought that he could be fucking McTavish right now.
The first thrust knocked all the air out of Soap, causing him to bite his fingers, but he immediately licked his tongue apologetically. The second thrust made him clench his teeth, too, but on the third Simon grabbed his lower jaw with his fingers, leaving two in his mouth and the rest under his chin, and just watched the ragged exhalations fly out of that absolutely vulgar mouth as he swayed back and forth, searching for the edges of his sergeant. Soap scratched his hand with his short fingernails, ran his tongue shamelessly over his fingers, sometimes over his upper lip, drool flowing from the corners of his mouth, open with force, and at one point he began to swing his hips toward him.
Simon let go of his jaw and squeezed his hips, realizing that he would leave bruises that the doctors would see, but he didn't care so much about that as he pounded into the supple body, looking into Johnny's eyes and realizing that they were both just on edge.
Soap shoved him in the chest, lifting himself up, getting off him, eliciting a muffled growl, plopping him down on the bed and settling on top of his cock, tearing out a different angle and sensation. McTavish's hot palms rested on his chest as he slowly thrust himself onto his cock, a shiver creeping through him with each action. Ghost helped him lightly by holding his hips, and when he saw that his strength was no longer enough, he swung himself up.
At the peak, when Ghost could no longer contain himself, he slapped Johnny on the arm again a couple of times, unable to say anything, to which the sergeant only waved, continuing to ride his cock while helping himself at the same pace. He arched as he poured himself onto Simon's chest, and he wouldn't let himself off his cock, literally forcing himself to cum inside him.
Johnny, frozen over him, was a goddamn statue from ancient Rome because such beauty couldn't exist anywhere near Riley. He ran his hands over his mangled body and promised himself that each of those scars would only be a decoration, not a reminder of tragedy.
He helped Johnny collapse beside him, grabbed one of his towels and wiped them both off, hiding it next to his things. Then he thought for a while and found their clothes, forcing a swollen Johnny to get dressed so he wouldn't have to explain to the doctors tomorrow what the hell they were both doing naked in bed. The tube hid under the pillow again, Simon collapsed first, and Johnny lay down beside him, immediately hiding in the lieutenant's bear hug, breathing deeply. His body was all hot and clammy with sweat, but it wasn't embarrassing, because even his legs, which he intertwined, appeared warm.
Simon only had the strength to wrap the blanket around them again, to pull Johnny even closer, to lose all vigilance, because his most precious thing, the whole meaning of life, was breathing into his neck and snuggled against his chest lulled by warmth and sex.
-I love you, too, Johnny.
"Captain, no one's been screaming down there for eight hours. And I haven't seen the lieutenant go down there again."
"Have you looked at all?"
"Negative."
"He's not down there," Price turned to Laswell, who was walking by. "Graves can be transferred out of there, but only when Simon gets those awful pins out of him."
"Where is he himself?"
"Let's go."
Price followed her and was sure the lieutenant had done something awful, because they were on their way to the hospital where Soap was. Why no one woke him up because of the problem with these two, he did not know yet, but he was already afraid in advance.
"Look," Laswell stopped near the door of Soap's room and nodded at it. Price peered in cautiously.
The two were asleep in their arms, the blanket pulled down to the waist, and the blush on McTavish's cheeks indicated that he was quite warm and happy with his position.
"'Amazing,' Price closed the door and turned to Laswell. "Soap did stop him, though."
"You said yourself he's the strongest soldier in this squad. Well, who the hell is Simon Riley to resist him?"