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“You broke a lot of rules, Price,” a gravelly voice drawls behind Price. It’s the same way it starts every time.
“No more rules,” Price snarls as he turns to look at the spectre haunting him. Ghost stands in his full kit, knife twirling in his hand and he stares his old captain down. The expression on his face is the same every time Price sees him now. Anger. Detachment. Resignation.
“A bit late for that, yeah? Your rules got Johnny killed, and then when it’s convenient to you, they are abandoned without a second thought.” Ghost stalks forward, the twisted snarl on his face distorting the skull pattern on his balaclava. Price can see the dried blood staining the white part of the design.
“What are you gonna do with that knife, huh? You’re not real. Just a fucking Ghost.” Price spits at his old lieutenant.
Ghost laughs. “Tell me, Price. Why am I the only one you imagine when you want to punish yourself? Is it cowardice? You can’t stand to see what you did to them? Or is it that my anger is easier to handle than their disappointment?” he sneers.
“Personally I think it’s the irony,” Price responds flippantly. “Too funny not to be. The Ghost a literal ghost, unable to do anything but haunt me from the shadows of my mind. Besides, you’re one to talk. Sentimental bastard. Wore that balaclava and scarf until the day you died.”
“And whose fault was that huh?” Ghost asks, stalking in a circle around him. “Left me and Gaz to the wolves when you offed an American General for nothing but your own satisfaction. Like you didn’t know we’d take the fall.”
“You made it out, just fine,” Price says dismissively. “It was your own choice to come after me until I had no choice but to put you down like a misbehaving dog. It didn’t have to come to that.”
“I’m not your loyal mutt anymore, Price. Not a war dog whose leash you can tug,” Ghost leers. “It doesn’t matter if I made it out. Gaz didn’t. You didn’t deserve to live after that.”
“Sheperd didn’t deserve to live. It’s not my fault Gaz was too naive to do what needed to be done to make it out.”
“Like Makarov didn’t deserve to live when you ordered Soap to stand down? Face it Price, you got each and every one of ‘your boys’ killed in the end.”
“Leave me the fuck alone Ghost,” Price sighs, suddenly exhausted by the whole thing.
Ghost cocks his head. “You know exactly what you need to do to make me leave,” he purrs. “The same thing you did in real life.”
Price grimaces and lifts his pistol, safety flicked off and fires directly between Ghost’s eyes. The apparition disappears in an instant.
“I’m sorry,” Price whispers as he stares at the blank wall he just put a bullet through. “It wasn’t meant to go that way.” He can never bring himself to say it while Ghost is still there.
*Somewhere on the coast of Scotland*
Johnny sits cross legged with Simon’s head in his lap, running his hands through Ghost wispy blonde hair. Physical shape is more of a suggestion for them these days, but they both find that it’s easier if they maintain the shape they had in life. Their minds feel more clear when they do.
“Had another talk with Price?” Johnny asks. Simon nods and nuzzles into his stomach, curling around him. The ex sergeant sighs. “Sometimes I think those talks upset you more than they do him.”
“Can’t let him forget what he’s done,” Simon mumbles into his shirt.
Johnny sighs, running his hands up and down the lieutenants back. “I know mo chridhe. But you deserve to be free of him.” Simon only grunts in response. Johnny shakes his head fondly. “Dia de los Muertos is coming up. What do you think about abandoning your crusade for a bit and visiting Ale and Rudy instead?”
“I could be persuaded,” Simon murmurs.
“And what would that persuasion look like, hmm?” Johnny asks playfully, slipping a finger under Simon’s chin, tilting his head up so he can look him in the eyes.
“A kiss?”
“I think that could be arranged.”