Work Text:
Friendship is not on the field manual, he told Johnny a long time ago. No protocols for personal relationships between soldiers, no set procedures for what he asked for, so many months ago.
Despite that, what Ghost and Soap have can’t not be friendship - not with the way they practically spend all their free time glued to each other. Morning, sipping tea and coffee together. Noon, checking in before splitting for their respective duties. Afternoon, lunch and paperwork in Ghost’s office. Evening, relaxing in the 141 common room. Bid each other goodnight, go to sleep, rinse and repeat, ad infinitum.
His routine used to numb him. Same shite, day in, day out, only finding excitement on missions.
Johnny, in his own annoyingly endearing way, ‘blew it all teh high hell’, as he would gleefully shout after shaking the earth to its very core with an explosion.
And Simon, as much as he puts on a front and complains, wouldn’t have it any other way. Or… no.
Better not be greedy.
His schedule was clear for the rest of the day, something that in the past would’ve irritated him to no end (nothing worse than wasting time). Now, however, it just gives him a chance to trail behind Johnny.
His blue eyes flicker over the training recruits, sharp as ever as they search for weaknesses to correct. Ghost can pinpoint the exact moment he zeroed in on a soldier, his jaw working before he shouts, “Rogers! Put yer arms higher, don’t give ‘em easy access teh yer throat!”.
Soap stomps over to the pair, forcing Rogers’ hands to the right position. His Sergeant makes another round, tapping a boot at the back of another recruit’s knees. Ghost narrows his eyes when he sees the man open his mouth to retort, but the soldier thinks better of it. It may not be his lesson to teach, but Ghost wouldn’t pass an opportunity to put an idiot in his rightful place.
The second half of the recruits, who have been watching and learning from their peers’ mistakes, start talking in hushed voiced among themselves. Ghost doesn’t pay them any mind until Soap’s name comes up.
“There’s something… odd about Sergeant MacTavish.”
“Right?? He’s not this annoying usually.”
Ghost’s lips pull back in a sneer.
“Lieutenant Ghost must be rubbin’ off on him, the bloody bastard”
“Oh, you know they’re doing a whole lot more than just ‘rubbing’-”
Ghost places a hand on both the recruits’ shoulders, making them jump. They both turn their head comically slow to stare up at him, “s-sir, we… we just-”
“I don’t think you two are training hard enough, if you’re sitting ‘ere chatting like old ladies.” Ghost squeezes their shoulders, a gesture that would almost be comforting if not for his ice-cold tone, “think two weeks at the latrines will really make you appreciate the Sergeant.”
The recruits don’t dare talk back to the Ghost, so they’re left with gaping mouths. Ghost gives them a shove forward, making the two stumble, “go on then, bathroom’s not gonna clean itself.”
The rest of them are deathly quiet after the interaction. As they should’ve been from the start. Ghost internally sighs, refocusing back on Johnny. Who has noticed the commotion, and is now gazing at the retreating backs of the misbehaving recruits.
Ghost watches the muscles of his neck twitch, and Soap rolling his shoulders with a face of mild discomfort. It goes away quickly enough, and his Sergeant goes back to screaming at the soldiers, but he still makes a mental note to investigate that at a later point in time.
He keeps to the sidelines until the recruits are dismissed. The hungry soldiers practically run to mess, and while Ghost does his best to walk around them towards Johnny, when they finally fuck off Soap is nowhere to be found.
Ghost stands alone on the training mats, uselessly swiveling his head.
Friendship is not on the field manual, and blasted schoolboy crushes on your subordinates most certainly aren’t.
Ghost wishes he could say he knew when it started. Maybe, knowing the root of the cause would’ve allowed him to chop down the entire tree. Somewhere between Chicago, Soap’s life almost slipping between his fingers, and now, he fell in love.
Even thinking about it makes him want to scoff. Those words don’t fit someone like him, someone with enough blood on their hands to fill several swimming pools, someone that keeps everyone at arm’s length, so mistrusting of his surroundings he wears a literal skull mask everywhere he goes.
But how else would he describe it? That warm feeling that spreads through his chest every time Johnny smiles up at him? The urge to let a brief touch linger, the need to stay near him at all times? That desperate part of him, that wishes for more?
Love is a disgustingly soft concept, not made for men like Ghost. But it’s what Johnny means to him. Johnny is love, simple as.
If only it was simple as.
Ghost has been looking for him the entire day, since the incident on the mats. For someone as loud and bright as Soap is, he sure can just fuckin’ disappear with no trace. He’s about to give up for the day, a bitterness weighing heavy on his tongue, when he spots a familiar shadow walking around the edge of the base.
It’s a more wild area, a small bit of thick forest, a place usually reserved for sniping drills. The figure appears between trees, slowly walking deeper.
Ghost quickly catches up, trailing the man. Only when he’s in reach, he notifies Soap of his presence.
“Didn’t know you could physically be this quiet, Johnny.”
Soap doesn’t startle, nor does he turn to acknowledge him. They both stop walking.
Ghost tried to lean over to see his face, but his Sergeant turns away. “Ah know when Ah need to shut it, LT.”
“Never stopped you from going loud anyway.”
Soap huffs, “aye, guess no’”.
Ghost waits for him to elaborate like he usually does, the growing silence unsettling him more and more. Did those recruits really bother him that much?
“I sent those tossers to the latrines, you know.”
Johnny glances at him, before returning to watch over the quiet forest, “I know.”
Soap knows their opinion is worth fuck all, young wankers still wet behind the ears. He should know, he’s worth a hundred of them, on the field and off.
Johnny eventually breaks the silence, “think it will just make things-” he exhales heavily, passing a hand through his hair, “let’s jus’ go back to base, LT. Sorry I disappeared on ye.”
“Don’t worry about that…” Ghost lets his words trail when Soap starts walking without him, head seemingly drowning in thoughts. He follows him, overcast by his shadow.
He thinks the dark is playing tricks on him when he sees the muscles of Johnny’s back convulse weirdly.
Ghost tries to fight it. That all encompassing want, need, to have Soap. And while he’s no stranger to war, this enemy is one tough fucker.
The Ghost, most feared soldier in the SAS, survivor of the worst of the worst. Bested by fucking emotions. He felt like he was winning, for a while there. That no one could tell, just what’s going on behind the mask.
As the days go on, though, it is clear people are catching on.
“I haven’t seen Sergeant MacTavish around Lieutenant Ghost as often anymore…”
And people love to fucking gossip.
“Think they had a fight?”
“A love quarrel, perhaps”
The resounding laughs make him grasp his fork tighter. Couldn’t they at least wait long enough to be out of earshot of the person they’re talking about?
“No wonder the Sergeant has been this pent-up. Just heard Christopher got yelled at again, for being late by two minutes. Two minutes!”
Ghost is about to show them what yelling really is, when another Lieutenant comes by and shuts the bastards right up. He turns his eyes to Johnny, who is sitting in front of him, like every morning.
Unlike every morning, he doesn’t drink his coffee. Or speaks. Just stares at his breakfast.
“Johnny? Alright?”
Soap snaps his eyes to his, the blue in them looking almost… red? No… must be the light.
He blinks rapidly, and they return to their usual blue-grey, “aye, LT.”
“Not hungry?”
Soap smiles, or at least tries to, ending up with more of a grimace than anything, “think I’m catching something, not feeling up to it today.”
Ghost hums. Could explain his demeanor as of late, “get to medical after mess, I’ll take care of your assignments for the day.”
“Ye really don’t have teh do that-”
“Soap.” Ghost uses his commanding voice, “...let me take care of it.” he adds in a softer tone.
Let me take care of you.
Johnny smiles, a small but genuine thing, “...thanks.” he gets up, not before patting his bicep, “next time we’re in a pub, I’ll get ye a drink.”
Ghost basks in the brief contact, “it better not be the shite you like.”
Soap laughs as he walks away, “no promises!”
He can’t help the smile spreading on his lips. Love is a dumb concept, not made for him, but…
But fuck if it doesn’t make him feel elated, to hear that voice happy and laughing.
It used to scare Ghost, how colossal those emotions he felt for Johnny were, at first. Would keep him awake at night, spiraling into haunting himself with lines of thought.
‘What would I do if he died? How would I go on?’
It used to scare him, how at those moments, he knew he’d give anything to make sure Soap lived. Fuck his life, fuck the SAS, fuck the world, if Johnny MacTavish wasn’t a part of it.
Soap is damn lucky he loves him so much, if only because he wouldn’t go train these fucking daft idiots instead of him otherwise. Ghost is starting to understand why Soap is getting more agitated these days.
He ended their exercise early, when one of them managed to break a finger by misplacing it when shooting a rifle. It’s like they never held a damn firearm in their whole life.
Fucking hell. He needs to punch something, before he punches someone.
As he gets closer to the gym, Ghost starts hearing shouts. Sounds more like a damn fight ring than a military workout. The recruits are doing something stupid again, he can already tell.
Looks like he might end up having to punch someone instead today. That’s fine by him. He cracks his knuckles.
At least he’ll get to release all this energy somewhere.
The doors smack loudly into the wall behind them when he opens them, and very quickly his theory is proven right. In the center of the room, a large crowd formed a ring around two fighters, the grunts and cracks of punches thrown drowning in the circle of soldiers.
He starts making his way through, recruits snapping their head to shout at him before closing their mouth with a click when they realize who they’re talking to. The crowd begins dispersing, some attempt to run off before they could feel the wrath of their superiors. All the while, Ghost lets his anger build, ready to crash it all down on the unfortunate bastards that decided today is a good day to re-enact Fight Club on base.
When he reaches the center, that rage comes crashing down, alright.
The view of Soap’s bloody form, nose running red and knuckles redder, makes it all fizzle out. His opponent staggers away, clearly the loser of the match, but Ghost doesn’t give a fuck about him.
“What the fuck are you doing, MacTavish?!”
His Sergeant heaves a breath, spitting out a bit of blood, “what does it look like, LT?” he answers, an edge of sarcasm underlining his words. Ghost is well versed in Soap’s insubordination, but it was never directed towards him. Not like that.
He doesn’t look away from Soap’s eyes when he growls to the group, “out.”
The soldiers falter for a moment, so Ghost turns to them, snarling, “OUT! Before I make you all do ten more laps around base!”
They all practically sprint out, leaving Soap and him alone. Johnny holds himself up shakily, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, searching for another face to punch. Ghost grabs his bicep, and wordlessly drags him to the showers.
Trains of thought rush through his mind, trying to find reason in Soap’s actions. Anger and worry mix, most of all the frustration that comes with being unable to help.
Something’s clearly bothering Johnny, and Ghost doesn’t know where to start fixing it.
He sets the Sergeant down on a bench, and goes to search for a first aid kit, when Soap huffs, “yer overreacting. We were just sparring.”
Ghost slams the kit next to Johnny’s thigh, the man not flinching even a bit, “what was going on out there was not ‘sparring’, and we both know it.”
Soap’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t retort. Ghost takes his bruised hands in his, examining the torn skin on his knuckles.
“Johnny-”
Soap groans, “aye, I know, I fucked up.” he scrubs his free hand over his face, wincing as Ghost sanitized the wounds, “I’m sorry ye had to go and deal with the recruits. Guess it was all fer nothin’-”
“The fuck’s up with you?” the words come out not as gently as Ghost hoped they would.
Johnny glares at him, “oh, don’t you start as well! We all know what’s wrong with me, don’t we? Everyone’s got somethin’ teh say about MacTavish, about how Ah’m too loud, too annoying, too distracted.” he pulls his hands away from Ghost’s, when the muscles under his skin strain against the tension lining his form, “Ah know! Ah’m fuckin’- Ah’m tryin’, alright?! Don’t need ye teh start tellin’ me that as well!”
Ghost leans back, knowing full well shock must be written all over his features, but Johnny’s too far deep in his own head to recognize it.
“Johnny-”
“Ah’ll do better, sir, Ah just- they were talkin’ shit, and Ah had teh-”
“You’re enough, Soap.”
Johnny’s brows fly up, “...huh?”
Ghost sighs, “you’re good enough already. You’re the only one that comes close to beating me in sparring, excluding Gaz. You can make bloody bombs on the go with generic kitchen appliances. Your shots land, even when you’re tired and broken. You keep going, even if everyone else gave up.”
Soap’s eyes soften, and Ghost takes his other hand, starting to treat it as well, “the recruits can’t tell their asses from their mouths, Johnny. They don’t know what it truly means to be a good soldier, a good man.”
He lets his fingers gently graze Soap’s, “you’re… important to all of us.”
You’re important to me.
Johnny looks down at their hands, “I… I could be better, though.”
“You could”, Ghost agrees, and Soap’s eyes gaze up, “we all could. Won’t come from destroying yourself, though, Sergeant.”
Soap nods slowly. He breaks the contact, raising to his feet and rolling his shoulders, “aye. Thanks, LT.”
Ghost follows him when he chucks off his shirt, eyes trailing on the bruises littering his back. The thickly corded muscles (that Ghost will refuse to drool over, even if they are undoubtably impressive) twist as Johnny takes out his towel for the shower.
Ghost is about to turn around, let his Sergeant have his privacy, when those muscles start convulsing, like he thought he saw back in the forest. He hears Johnny hiss, and decides to voice his concern, “you seem tense.”
Soap turns around, a sheepish smile on his lips, “uh, aye, probably all the… ‘sparring’.”
He nods, back straightening in determination. Finally, something Ghost can fix. “Give it ‘ere, then.”
Soap blinks, “huh?”
“Come ‘ere, Johnny. Can help with that.” he guides Soap back on the bench, walking around and settling behind him.
Ghost takes off his gloves. He hasn’t given a massage to someone else in… years, probably. But he’s sure he remembers enough to help Johnny, even a little bit.
The moment he rests his hand on his Sergeant’s shoulders, he has to hold back his surprise. The muscles are so tense, they feel more like rocks than damn flesh and bone. He pushes away the shock, and begins slowly kneading them. By Johnny’s appreciative hum, Ghost reckons he must be doing something right.
He tries digging in a little into the solid muscles, but soon enough his fingers ache from the resistance. “You feel tenser than Price when he runs out of cigars.”
Soap gives him a half-laugh, “can’t say Ah had anyone teh give me back massages, LT.”
“No bird back home?”
That makes Johnny fully laugh, “no, Ah’m not… not the type teh keep someone fer that long.” he groans at a particular twist of Ghost’s hands, “where did ye even learn teh do this? Ye should consider changing jobs.”
He trails his hands down, mildly concerned that the muscles don’t get any less tense, “had a sister-in-law, she had muscle cramps when she was pregnant…”
Johnny turns his head to stare at him, “ye got a sister-in-law??”
“Had.”
He didn’t elaborate, but from Soap’s silence, he knows the other understood it wasn’t divorce that took her away.
“Ah’m sure she appreciated it.” Johnny sighed, “Ah know I am.”
Ghost smiled, patting his Sergeant’s shoulder, “feeling better?” he flexes his sore hands. Soap’s muscles certainly don’t feel any less tense. At least he seems cheerier.
“Aye, now I owe ye two drinks.”
Ghost goes to leave the showers, “just stay out of trouble next time.”
He hears a small, “...yes, sir.” before the door closes.
If someone were to look inside his head, it will very quickly be clear just how much he’s infatuated with his Sergeant. They might ask, ‘why not tell him?’.
Ghost could never. His vocal cords weren’t built for such soft confessions, his fingers not shaped for holding. And even if they were, Ghost is not one to ask more than he can receive. Being around Johnny as much as humanly possible is enough.
It has to be enough.
Still, he can’t help that ache in his heart, deep in his rib cage, that wishes it could hold Johnny, and never let go. It’s one he can ignore, like most of his aches, on the daily, but…
Soap isn’t around now to distract him. They were sent on separate missions, Johnny on an intel run, and himself on lookout duty, over this slimy bastard or another. Ghost doesn’t give a fuck, mounting his aches on the man behind his crosshairs. Can’t even fuckin’ shoot the bloody man, because he’s ‘too valuable’ or some shite.
He returned a couple of days ago. Soap’s squad is still out there, had some delay in their exfil. When he asked Price about it, apparently he didn’t have clearance to know more.
The Captain barely managed to kick him out of his office before Ghost went on a rampage.
Only after a long, painful, empty week later, does he finally hear some good news - Soap’s team will arrive in a few hours.
Ghost’s feet take him to the tarmac, and only once he sees the distant shape of the helo, does that ache subsides. He impatiently walks to the doors before they open, making sure to be the very first to see Johnny.
And when he, at last, sees him - those blue eyes were not all that blue.
Bloodshot, darkened by the shadows of the helo that seemingly wrap around his figure, Johnny didn’t spare him a glance before stomping off. The rest of the squad trickled out of the chopper, and Ghost saw 3 body bags in the back.
“You heard what happened on Soap’s mission?”
“He fucked it, right?”
“Well, it was more of Rogers’ fault, the idiot got caught and cornered. Sergeant just had to save him.”
“‘Had’. Should’ve left him for after the intel. Should’ve known it was rigged to blow. Isn’t he a damn expert at that?”
Ghost barely listens after that. They all filtered into the briefing room, generals looking furious. Soap didn’t even have time to change, still in full gear and absolutely covered in grime and blood. He has his arms crossed, and to Ghost it almost looks like he’s holding himself together.
It takes hours for them to finally leave, Ghost’s team dismissed before Soap’s. He stays behind, listening to the muted screams of the COs, before the doors slam open, his Sergeant walking away with unexpected speed.
Ghost, as he always does, silently follows.
He catches up to Soap while he’s struggling to remove his gear, movements uncoordinated, agitated, tense.
“Johnny.” his Sergeant ignores him. Ghost gently takes his hand, and lifts it off the straps of his vest. “I’ll get it.”
Soap, for his part, turns his head away. Ghost’s heart squeezes horribly when he feels the shakiness of him. It takes every cell in his body to not give in to the urge to wrap his arms around Johnny, a feeble attempt to shield him from it all.
“Ah’m…” Ghost slowly takes the vest off, and starts working on the various tools strapped to his hips, “ye told me Ah’m good enough.” Johnny whispers.
“You are.” the shaking in Soap’s limbs worsens.
He’s still not looking at him. “The… the mission failed. Because of me. Three recruits are dead. Because of me.”
The lights in the armory flicker. Soap crosses his arms again, forcibly.
Ghost risks crouching down, catching Soap’s eyes, “you didn’t know-”
“I SHOULD HAVE!” Soap’s voice quivers, the flickering light casting a shadow over his eyes. Yet, Ghost can still tell how much he’s hurting.
Ghost gives in.
He pulls Johnny into a hug, ignores his thumping fists, “let go- Ghost, let go of me!” Soap growls. He can almost feel Johnny’s heart thump hard against his chest as well, and he presses closer.
“Making a mistake doesn’t erase all the good you’ve done before.” he murmurs to his warhawk. Johnny’s hands stop trying to push him away.
“You’re a good man, Johnny.”
Soap grasps tightly at the back of his hoodie, “stop-”
Ghost softens his tone, “I’m serious. I…”
I love you. I love you as you are. I love you because of what you are. I love you I love you I love you-
Ghost swallows thickly around the words clawing their way up his throat, “let's go back to the common room, hm? I’m sure Garrick and Price will be happy to see you.”
Soap lets his head rest on Ghost’s shoulder, “at least someone is…”
Ghost delicately raises his head, “I’m happy to see you as well, Sergeant.”
Johnny’s answering smile may be only a shadow of its usual brightness, but it eases the ache. They leave the armory behind, the lights instantly stopping their flickering.
It hurts, sometimes, to love someone so wholly, Ghost discovers. Love makes you want, and for Ghost, that never panned out well.
And yet, he wouldn’t see a world where Johnny didn’t mean so much to him.
Soap knocks his knee to his, the action negligible in the eyes of others, but for his heart it means everything.
They haven’t moved an inch away from the other since their talk in the armory. Ghost was about to leave, let his Sergeant catch some well needed rest, when they were called back to action.
Less than 24 hours since the failed mission, Ghost and Soap are on their way back, accompanied by a fresh batch of recruits. He can tell Soap is determined to fix his mistakes, finish the objective, and get everyone out alive.
Johnny’s knee starts bouncing, his fingers dig into the flesh of his forearms, teeth ravaging his lower lip. Leaving dark red behind.
Ghost watches him for a moment, before intervening.
“What’s on your mind, Sergeant?” he lowers his head to privately whisper in Soap’s ear.
Johnny stops his movements for a second, “the mission, sir.”
“What about the mission?” Ghost lets a hand rest on his shaking leg.
Soap sighs, finally letting some tension bleed away, “Ah need… I can’t fuck this up.”
“You won’t.” Soap opens his mouth to argue, but Ghost continues, “you won’t. If something goes bad, it’s on me. I’m your superior, I’ll take the blame.”
Displeasure paint’s Johnny’s features, “ye shouldn’t do that fer my mistakes.”
I would take on each and every sin you committed, if only to lessen your burden a tad, if I could.
“It’s my job, Johnny.” he takes his hand away, “stay focused, now. Landing in 5.”
Soap frowns, the thoughts passing through his mind almost visible through those turbulent eyes, “...aye.”
The compound reminds Ghost of his time working as a butcher. Walls stripped to their foundations, rooms gutted and wiped clean. Dark gunpowder mixes with dried, flaking blood. The carcass of an animal, a bloody maw for them to pass through.
The farther in they walk, the more signs of life appear - makeshift covers, forgotten MREs, recently discarded ammo magazines. Hostiles that need to be dealt with.
In the brief he received on the helo, Ghost learned that the compound splits into two sections here: a research facility, where the intel was supposed to be, and a base for the soldiers protecting the sensitive information the former building contains.
“Soap”, his Sergeant turns to face him, previous anxiousness hidden away behind his professional facade, “take Alpha 1-3, 1-5 and 1-6, go clear the research facility. Might still have intel to salvage from there.”
Johnny recognizes the opportunity Ghost is giving him, “aye sir!”
“The rest of you, on me!”
He can’t waste time watching Soap’s form disappearing behind the corner. As much as he hates separating from him, if they do find intel, Ghost knows it will ease the guilt gnawing at Johnny.
Ghost clears hallway after hallway, finding only a handful of hostiles. The soldiers are obviously unprepared for another attack at this scale, still licking at the wounds Soap left on them. It all goes smoothly, far too smoothly for Ghost’s liking.
He learned to not trust his luck far back, in rooms with smoke-stained, peeling wallpapers, and broken beer bottles.
Static from his comms makes the hair on his nape raise, the crunching unnatural and disturbing. “Soap? Alpha 1-3? How copy?” he attempts to decipher the white noise, straining his ears to hear the almost-there words.
A shrill scream cuts through the buzzing, “-NO! GET AWAY-!!!”
“Johnny?! Answer me, now!” fear, a chilling venom, spreads through his veins.
The other recruits look back at him with a similar terror. Bits and pieces pass through their radios, “I DIDN’T MEAN IT, PLEASE-!”, “-I’M SORRY, I’M SOR-”, “-HELP!!!-”
“S-sir?” 1-4 wobbly asks, “what do we-”
Ghost bursts into a sprint, holding his radio tightly, “Soap! This is 0-7, we’re on our way to back you up!” he addresses the recruits, “keep yourselves sharp, and stay together! This could be a trap!”
A chorus of “yes sir!” sounds behind him, lost in the winding halls of the compound. His boots thump the tile floor with the beat of his heart, his fear carved into the burning in his lungs.
A deep rumbling takes over the static, the recruits wincing and pulling the comms away from their ears. A primal fear, one Ghost hasn’t felt since digging himself out of the grave, spreads through him.
“...LEAVE….. ME………”
Yet, something else rises within him. That voice… the words leave an ache in his heart.
“Sir… whatever the fuck that thing is… We can’t just go there, right?” Alpha 1-2 asks him, the rest nodding in agreement.
Ghost wastes a moment to tower over him, “your teammates are stuck with that thing. Are you going to leave them to die?”
“N-no sir.”
“Louder!”
“NO SIR!” the dread washes away from the recruit’s face, determination replacing it.
Ghost sharply nods, “then let’s move!”
He’s not leaving any man behind today. No matter what’s waiting on the side - a deranged hostile or a damn fairy tale monster. They go out as a team.
Ghost tries to push away the voice he didn’t hear yet, the glaring silence a hole burrowing into his chest. Nothing could distract him enough, the ache growing and growing. But he can’t sink just yet.
Soap still could be out there, incapacitated in some way, or without comms. Possibly having to go dark, in light of the thing that rumbled through their radios.
He’s not optimistic, never tries to be.
But he can’t accept defeat.
Only Johnny’s body would be the final nail in his coffin.
The first recruit their group encounters is alive. Covered in blood, catatonic, and deep in shock, but alive. Ghost attempts to question him, but it becomes clear the man doesn’t even hear him.
He leaves one soldier with him, ordering him to call for a med evac. The rest continue with Ghost, disturbed by the state of their teammate but obedient to his commands. He doesn’t voice the questions that keep rising in his mind. Ghost needs them as sharp as they could be about now.
The winding hallways open wider in the next turn, and the scene in front of them only confuses him further.
The first thing Ghost registers is red. His first instinct is to call it blood, but the webs covering the walls are very much not blood. They’re… unlike anything he has ever seen.
The recruits are the second. Alpha 1-3 and 1-6… the rest of the missing team. Except…
Don’t think about it. There’s no body.
Yet-
“Rogers”, he calls for 1-3, who’s crouching over 1-6’s still form, “give me sitrep, now!”
Rogers’ eyes are wide, akin to a prey animal cornered by its hunter. He looks anywhere but at Ghost, mumbling lowly. In frustration, Ghost twists a fist in his collar, and drags him up, “answer me! Where is Sergeant MacTavish?!”
“He’s not- not him- n-not him-”
Ghost grits his teeth, growling, “speak clearly.”
“There’s something wrong about Sergeant MacTavish!” Rogers finally spits out, tears springing from his frantic eyes, “that’s not- he did this- he did this!” his breath hitches on sobs, arm weakly pointing to the crimson tendrils hanging from the ceiling around them.
Fucking hell. Bastard lost his mind.
Ghost lets go of him, vitriol evident in his voice when he grounds, “stay here. All of you.”
He takes a step towards the red mess, when a hand grasps at his pant leg.
“Y-y-you can’t go there! Don’t go there! It hurts!!!” Rogers cries, the other recruits trying to gently pull him back.
Ghost gives him a cold stare, “stand down.”
Rogers, in the recesses of his mind, understands the threat for what it is, and lets his shaking fingers fall away from his leg.
The recruits look up at him, all expressions lost, and they don’t dare follow when Ghost leaves them behind, steps dead silent.
Whatever this shite is, he’s getting Soap out.
Whether it’s alive or dead, it doesn’t matter. He won’t let him rot in this literal hell.
Johnny deserves so much more than that.
The red webs become thicker, the deeper he traverses. They now cover the walls, the floors, every single inch of the compound’s structure.
Deeper into the beast’s belly Ghost goes.
The rumbling they heard on comms now echoes among these walls, a heavy breathing of a thing he dreads to identify. Every instinct in his body tells him to run, every step a monumental task to reject the need to turn back.
But he can’t. Not without Johnny.
Even the light is covered now, red beams barely peeking among the webs. Ghost attempts ignoring his current reality, if only to try and submerge the fear clawing at his very cells.
What he imagines instead, is him.
“Creeping Jesus, sir. Yer seeing this shite? Right out o’ a horror movie.”
Ghost can almost hear his lilting Scottish accent, the rough way it sounds the words.
“Ye fit right in, already got the outfit an’ all. Guess that makes me the helpless lass runnin’ awa’ from ye.”
His eyelids flutter, at the memory of Soap’s cheery tone, when he’s trying to joke but failing at holding his laughter back.
It sends a stab of pain through his heart, but Ghost would prefer that to the all encompassing terror. A distraction he welcomes, perhaps too openly.
It makes him lose his focus, and his boot crunches loudly on the red floor.
Ghost freezes, breath caught in his lungs.
“....LEAVE….!!!!!!”
The webs pulsate, winding tighter around the concrete walls. It shakes the entire building, threatening to collapse on everyone.
Ghost’s hands shake, even as he strengthens the grip on his rifle.
The world doesn’t matter, things both understood and incomprehensible, if Johnny isn’t by his side.
He rounds the corner, the lights flickering, the world blinking in and out of existence.
In front of him, is a figure.
As red as fresh blood, as twisted as corded muscles, as imposing as a knife to the throat.
The origin of the crimson strings.
His legs refuse to move, and Ghost is left helpless for the first time since he donned on the mask. His eyes drag down the imitation of a man.
Beneath him, a chest cavity is cracked open. The body is laid crumpled on the floor, a dark warhawk popping against the bright reds.
“......WHY….. ARE YOU HERE……..?”
Ghost understands the source of his ache, why his heart twists at every word of the bloodied man.
“...Johnny?”
The red man quivers, veins pulsating.
“......GET OUT……..”
Ghost inhales sharply, using every drop of willpower to make his legs unstick and move.
“I’m not leaving without you.”
The red tries to catch on Ghost’s boots, try to pull him away from the bodies.
“.........I TRIED… TO KEEP IT IN…… BUT THEY HURT ME… THEY HURT THEM…….”
He recognizes the rumbling sounds for what they are now.
Soap is crying.
“Who?”
“.....IT WAS A TRAP…..THEY BLAMED ME…AND THEY WERE RIGHT…I WASN’T ENOUGH…….NEVER ENOUGH……….”
The webs pull strongly at his right leg, and Ghost falls to the ground with a grunt.
“You’re enough, Soap. I told you, this time I take the blame-”
“IT WAS ME, GHOST! IT WAS ALL ME!!!”
The walls shake with the force of his voice, Ghost hastily covering his ears with a wince.
He crawls forward, inch by inch.
“Johnny-”
“I KILLED EVERYONE! LEFT THEM DEAD…. THEY TRUSTED ME! THEY TRUSTED ME!!!”
Ghost strains his muscles against the tendrils, belatedly realizing the contact is burning through his clothes.
“Who? Who did you kill?”
He can almost reach him… Just a little more…
“OUR TEAM, GHOST! I- I KILLED THEM!”
Ghost frowns, “they’re not dead, Johnny.”
The red man halts, his exposed heart thumping. His face is a mangled form of muscles and veins, eyes dark red and glassy.
“....DON’T……..DON’T LIE…………..” the man heaves, heart stuttering, “.....THE AMBUSH……I COULDN’T HOLD IT TOGETHER……….”
Ghost is close enough to see Johnny’s face, red splattering his pale cheeks, face twisted in pure anguish.
Hands around his chest, as if he tried to physically push the man back in and failed.
“I saw them. Alpha 1-3, 1-5, 1-6. They were scared shitless, but they’re fucking alive.”
Red tears drip down the crimson man’s cheeks, some falling on Ghost and burning his palms.
“......DON’T LIE-”
“Johnny.”
The red man closes his mouth, tilting his head and finally looking at him.
“Do you trust me?”
Ghost reaches a hand, but the man flinches away.
“......I TRUST YOU…….”
It hurts. Every touch of that crimson substance shoots pain throughout his system.
But more than that, the tone of his voice, the defeat. Ghost’s heart hurts with his.
“Let me help you, Johnny.”
The man shakes his head minutely, leaning back as far as he can.
“.....I’LL HURT YOU……”
Ghost lays a hand on the crimson man’s hand. It does hurt, it hurts a lot.
“Then we will be in pain together.”
Ghost uses the last of his strength to shoot up, wrapping his arms around the man.
The muscles convulse, red enveloping him. It feels like hugging thorns.
He squeezes harder.
“......WHY…?”
The heart, beating so hard it shakes Ghost to his core, feels so fragile between them. He pulls one hand away to gently cup it.
“I… I kept things from you as well, Johnny.” Ghost confesses, “I was afraid, you’d see the bloody mess inside of me, and run away.”
The heart in his hand beats louder.
“It doesn’t matter how ugly the things you hide from me are.”
He looks at the red eyes.
“I’d love you in any form you take.”
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The crimson heart melts, taking with it the man, and the webs that twisted around them. Ghost falls to his knees, body curling in on itself in pain. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing harshly.
A hand on his cheek lifts his head carefully. He cracks his eyes open.
Blue greets him.
“Simon…” Johnny whispers, eyes filling with tears, crystalline drops.
Ghost lifts his hand, ignores the aching. It holds nothing compared to the balm over his heart.
He doesn’t know who pulled the other first.
All that mattered at that moment, is the hesitant touch of their lips.
It tasted like a vow.
‘You may hold my heart
If I can hold yours.’