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Numb.
That’s the best word Ghost could use to describe how he felt. Numbness.
Two weeks. It had been two weeks since Soap passed. No, not passed, he had been murdered. The image of the bullet entering his head flooded Ghost’s memories once more. How his pulse slowed under his fingers. How his breaths shallowed quickly.
Ghost looked at his own fingers, seeing red from where he had caressed Soap’s blood-covered cheek as he watched the life fade from his beautiful blue eyes.
Ghost blinked and he was back in his room in the base’s barracks, the blood was gone from his fingers but a metallic taste lingered in his throat from crying he seemed to find himself doing often. Crying was foreign to him but it seemed more than appropriate given the circumstances. He had cried himself to sleep last night, his throat was raw from screaming out too.
He, Price and Gaz had returned from sprinkling Soap’s ashes over a Scottish Highland the day prior and Ghost had locked himself in his room ever since.
Ghost blinked again then stood up, shuffling towards his desk. His fingers fumbled around the body of the scotch bottle. He tipped way more than two fingers worth into an old, used glass then slumped on his chair. The liquid sloshed over the side at the movement but he paid no mind to it. He swiftly took his balaclava off and took a long sip. It burned more than usual as it hit Ghost’s sore throat but he relished in the feeling, letting out a content sigh as it settled in his stomach.
As if on cue, Ghost felt a presence next to him. He smiled to himself and took another sip before turning slowly to the source of his pain.
“Johnny,” he whispered, his eyes roaming over his lover’s body. He was dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans this time, his casual clothes as he liked to call them. Ghost smiled again and just as he was about to turn away, he spoke.
“You need to stop doing this to yourself, Simon…” Soap said, pity evident in his eyes.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Ghost replied, taking another long sip of the golden liquid.
“You could die?” He offered back.
“Oh Johnny,” he knocked back the rest of his drink then placed the glass back on his desk and turned to him, “that’s the best thing that could happen…”
A pained smile settled on his scarred lips, “...because at least I’d be with you again.”
Soap’s eyes glistened slightly but no tears fell. He bit his lip then shook his head, taking a seat on Ghost’s bed. He breathed out slowly, as if to prepare himself, “My love you-”
Ghost put his hand up to stop him, clenching his jaw. “Don’t.”
“But-” Soap began to protest but Ghost shook his head.
“No!” He slammed his fist onto the table, making all the little trinkets on it rattle. “You do not get to sit there and judge me. You do not understand the pain I’m in Johnny.”
Soap didn’t say anything, just watched Ghost with a sad frown. Ghost licked his lips, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. He forced himself to swallow then looked away from him, unable to bear the look on his face.
They sat in silence for a couple of minutes before Soap stood up and settled behind Ghost’s chair. Ghost squeezed his eyes shut and breathed slowly through his nose. He could almost…almost pretend that Soap was actually there, massaging the tension from his shoulders like he used to do after a tough mission.
He kept his eyes shut, concentrating on his breathing and the phantom touch of Soap’s hands for another minute before he opened his eyes again and an apology on the tip of his tongue.
When he turned back around, Soap was nowhere to be seen and he felt that metallic taste return back to his throat.
“Fuck…” he whispered, pressing his knuckles to his eyes in a poor attempt at stopping the oncoming tears.
Through blurry eyes, he began to pour another drink.
*****
The hallucinations of Soap began two days after his death. Ghost had dissociated during their return back to base, the technicalities of the exfil a blur in his mind. One minute he was holding Soap’s lifeless body and the next he was back in his room, tactical gear already off and tucked away.
He had just come out of his adjoining bathroom when he saw Soap sitting casually on his bed, an easy smile on his face.
“Johnny…?”
“Hi, love.” In two quick strides, Ghost had crossed the room and hugged Soap…well he at least tried to. His arms had connected with nothing but empty air. Ghost quickly stepped back and realised that there was no one there.
He whipped his head around the room and after confirmation that Soap was in fact not there, he collapsed onto his bed with a wave of exhaustion.
“You’re seeing ghosts Simon,” he said to himself before trying to drift off to sleep.
*****
The next day, Ghost began drinking. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get Soap’s dead body out of his head. So he went to the nearest corner shop off base and bought the cheapest scotch he could find. He preferred bourbon but scotch was Soap’s favourite so it seemed logical. If he got blackout drunk, he wouldn’t have to deal with the images…the nightmares. It was this or sleeping pills, Ghost preferred the burn that the alcohol gave him, he welcomed it.
That same night, Soap appeared again. He didn’t say anything this time, just watched Ghost from the corner of his room, a frown on his face. Silently judging.
“You’re not real.” Ghost said to him…or perhaps more to himself as he poured himself a healthy serving of the golden liquid and began taking a drink.
*****
His plan had worked, he slept well into the afternoon the next day, the only issue was waking up with a nasty hangover but he figured it was worth the headache.
So he continued like this, for the next two weeks, Ghost got himself a bottle of cheap scotch and drank himself to sleep while Soap watched silently from the corner. Each day, more concern seemed to etch onto his face but Ghost chose to ignore it, he wasn’t real anyway.
It wasn’t until the day after scattering his ashes that Soap decided to talk.
“You need to stop doing this to yourself, Simon…”
Ghost replayed the short conversation in his mind as he stood in the corner store, looking over the small alcohol section.
Should he stop? He debated with himself as his hand hovered over the same small scotch bottle he bought every day.
An image of Soap’s dead body entered his mind as if to answer the question and Ghost walked determinedly towards the shop assistant…with the bottle in hand.
*****
Like usual, Soap appeared as Ghost settled into his chair and took his first sip of the potent liquid
“Welcome back,” Ghost said flatly, gaze focused on his glass. Soap hummed and settled on his bed, forearms on his knees as he observed Ghost.
“Your liver’s gonna be a mess if you keep this up,” Soap said, a little anger lacing his tone.
Ghost rolled his eyes and let out an annoyed sigh, “We’ve been over this, I don’t care. I welcome death.”
Soap barked out a humourless laugh, “If you wanted to die so bad, you would’ve done it already.”
Ghost’s brow shot up and he turned his chair to face him, “What?”
“You heard me. You’re a highly skilled, trained soldier Simon, you know how to kill a man in more ways than people could dream of. You know what bones to break, veins to cut, arteries to puncture.” Soap was suddenly in front of Ghost’s seated figure, looking down at him. There was no anger left in his tone, just curiosity. “So why haven’t you…?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ghost replied, dismissing Soap’s question. He looked away from the man and focused on the wall behind him, not wanting to make eye contact. But Soap stepped into his vision,
“Mo ghràidh"…” Ghost’s heart panged at the familiar term of endearment, something he hadn’t heard in over two weeks. He dragged his eyes back to Soap again, “you do not want to die.”
Ghost paused for a moment, processing his words before he shook his head, “No Johnny, I do.” Because if he really thought about it, like really thought about it, there was no life without Soap, no Johnny. Before him, he was a shell of a man, going about everyday life autonomously. There were no feelings there, no emotions, they died when his family did. Johnny was right, he was a trained assassin, an extremely good one. Having no emotions was a benefit, he could go in and get the job done with no hesitation. Empathy? He had none.
But then a Scottish, mohawk-wearing sergeant entered his life and it was like he was whole again. Those emotions and feelings were slowly coming back, and he began caring again.
“Because I can’t do this without you, Johnny,” his tone wavered a little as his eyes searched the bright blues one in front of him.
Soap knelt down and placed his hands on Ghost’s thighs and he swore he could feel the heat from his palms. “No Simon, you really don’t.”
Ghost shook his head again, “you’re not understanding. There is no one after you, there is no one keeping me here.” He stood up abruptly, his hand brushing against his empty thigh holster and he formed an idea. He quickly crossed his room to his bed and pulled his standard-issue pistol from under his pillow where he normally kept it at night.
“I do want this,” he reaffirmed, his eyes going back to Soap who had stood back up and was now watching him with the most heart-breaking expression he’d ever seen. His eyes had started to gloss over as he took a cautious step towards Ghost.
“Think hard about this Simon, think about who you’re leaving behind.”
Ghost laughed bitterly, “Are you not listening? I said there is no one keeping me here, nobody cares if I die. I have no family…no friends…you were the only one left.” He took the safety off the gun and quickly checked the bullets. A full mag, although he was certain he wouldn’t need more than one bullet.
“That isn’t true.” Another cautious step. “What about Price? Gaz?”
Ghost hesitated. His mind flicked through the memories he held with his fellow comrades. He knew they were concerned about him, their expressions said as much when he occasionally saw them on the way to the corner shop. But were they concerned as friends or just as colleagues? It wasn’t like they had tried to talk to Ghost at any point since Soap’s death, preferring to keep their distance and let the lieutenant deal with the grief in his own way. Ghost searched desperately for a reason to stay but ended up with the same image of a blood-covered Soap dead in his arms.
And that was enough for him to make up his mind.
“They’ll get over it.” He pressed the barrel to his head.
Soap screamed and attempted to rush forward. “NO!”
At least we’ll have matching bullet holes
His finger squeezes the trigger, the bullet entering his left temple.
******
In some disgusting twist of fate, Ghost woke up three months later with a scar on his left temple and his heart shattered into a million pieces.
When people attempt suicide and survive, they tend to realise the value of their lives. They’re grateful and try to live the rest of their life to the fullest. That wasn’t the case for Ghost.
“Why me?” Ghost spoke into the empty hospital room.
“Because you still have a life to live, mo ghràidh.” A Scottish voice spoke from the chair on Ghost’s left then phantom lips pressed against his temple.
******
When he does pass away, it’s nothing as dramatic as a gunshot to the head, it’s nothing significant. Just a heart attack that Ghost suffers from at home alone many years after he retires.
Except he isn’t alone, Johnny holds his hand as he takes his last breath and welcomes him into the afterlife with a big smile and a kiss, a real kiss to the lips.