Chapter Text
Soap was a lot more sane than people gave him credit for.
Frankly, after everything he had seen over the last decade, he had every right to be completely off his rocker by now. Still, he thought he had kept his composure quite well. He figured the “crazy” title only came from the fact that he was Scottish and that most of the Brits just could not understand him most of the time. That was alright; he had no interest in understanding them either. Well, that, and he was also known for blowing shit up. He liked to think it was more about the Scottish thing.
This mission, however. Might end up being his final straw.
Soap shifted his knee, and the floor underneath him shuddered worryingly. He liked to think he was not that heavy - in fact, he was actually much lighter than he usually was after all of their recent training - but it was more likely because the building he was stationed in had not been touched in at least a hundred years. He was shocked that the city had not demolished it yet, especially given the building it sat next to.
The Garden of Eden. The smooziest bar in London. Only the richest and sleaziest billionaires could enter - or trillionaires, since apparently they had those now. Soap tracked them through the scope of his rifle like rats in a maze. The women’s skirts floated around them like clouds, and the ones dressed in suits had them so starched he was surprised they could even bend their arms to raise their champagne flutes.
“Fuckin’ christ…” he muttered under his breath as his bad hip started to flare up. It had gone numb a few hours ago, and he had hoped it might stay that way. Unfortunately, when he had shifted his leg to alleviate the pins and needles in his foot, that had apparently woken it up.
Worse than the pain was probably that Soap was just so exhaustingly bored. Watching rich people mingle had been interesting for about five minutes before it just became almost painful to sit through - or kneel through, as was his usual position by the window. In fact, he had become so bored that he had started to see how many prayers he could still remember how to recite from his Catholic school days. He had spent the last hour making his way through the Nicene Creed.
Soap muttered under his breath as he tapped his finger against the side of his trigger in tempo. “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son, who with the Father and the Son is adored and glorified, who has spoken through the prophets…” “Soap.”
If Soap had not been so well trained, he might have jumped straight out of his skin. The gravelly voice rattled from his radio, which he had left on one of the rotting tables stacked by the wall next to him once he had realized no one was going to call and save him from his dilapidated tower. He reached for it now, his fingers tingling slightly after holding his weapon for hours.
“Copy,” Soap said, his voice crackly from lack of use.
“Are you aware you’ve been talking to yourself for the past three hours,” Ghost’s deep voice rumbled over the radio. Soap glanced down at the LED on the side of the radio, and lo and behold, the indicator blinked green. It must have gotten flipped on by mistake when he set it down. “Sorry, Lt. Didn’t know anyone was listenin’.”
His eyes traveled dutifully back to the neighboring building, but his target was still chatting up the same pretty blonde woman he had been for the past half an hour. Even through his scope, Soap knew she was not very interested, but she liked his money. Good lass.
“Why are you listenin’, anyway?” Soap asked, switching which knee he knelt on. His hip screamed in protest and he tried his best not to grimace. “Figured Laswell would have you all runnin’ around like chickens with your heads cut off makin’ sure this raid goes right.”
“Nah, she did all that last night. Now, we’re just waiting for the signal,” Ghost said.
“You in position?” Soap said, his eyes flicking down to the city streets. No sign of them. Good.
“Would I be fucking around talking to you if I wasn’t?” Ghost asked.
Soap smirked. “Good lad.”
“What was this latest prayer you were muttering?” Ghost said.
Soap set the radio back down on the table, returning to his position at his rifle perched on the window ledge. As much as he loved talking to Ghost, he was a soldier first. “Nicene Creed. It was one of Ma’s favorites.”
“Didn’t know you were religious.”
“I’m not. Not anymore,” Soap said, knowing how his mother would get that pathetic, sad look on her face if she heard him say that.
“What kind were you?”
Soap huffed out a laugh. That question alone told him Ghost was not a religious man, not that he had any doubt, considering how often the phantom cursed out God at any chance he got. “Catholic. Roman Catholic.”
“So what, you worshiped those old stone statues?”
“Not quite. Worshiping idols is a sin, actually,” Soap recited. Damn, maybe he should stop reciting prayers to pass the time; he did not like how easily that slipped off his tongue.
“Well, pardon me.”
“You religious, Ghost?” Soap asked, already knowing the answer. His target was moving to the far corner of the room, finally releasing that poor blonde lass.
“‘Fraid that’s classified, Johnny.”
Soap hated how his name against Ghost’s throat sent a cold shiver down his spine. He blamed it on the draft seeping in from the hole in the ceiling. His grip on his weapon tightened. Focus.
“Is this the part where you tell me I’m going to hell?” Ghost continued, oblivious to Soap’s sudden chill.
“Nah. Ma might, though,” Soap said. “I gave that all up years ago. She probably thinks that’s where I’m headed too.”
“Guess we’re both lucky she’s not here, then.”
“That we are. She would march right in there and have this rich old bastard packed up in minutes,” Soap quipped. Richard Samuel, aka Rich Old Bastard. Soap did not know much about the man, other than the fact that he would be dead in about five minutes when Ghost and his team stormed the building. Apparently, he helped Markov smuggle weapons into the country and a lot of other fucked up shit. Soap did not care much; all he needed to know was where to point his muzzle. Technically, he was just there for overwatch, but if things got messy, then he would probably leave the night with a few kills under his belt.
“You still got eyes on him?”
“‘Bout all I’ve had eyes on for the past five hours,” Soap lamented bitterly. “He’s right where he should be.”
“T-minus one minute until we breach. Want to finish that prayer for good luck?”
Soap’s mind fumbled as he tried to remember the words. He felt strangely self-conscious now that he knew Ghost was listening.
“...I believe in one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church. I confess one Baptism for the forgiveness of sins, and I look forward to the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come. Amen.” There was a pause on the other end of the line, and for a moment, Soap thought it had disconnected. After another second, though, Ghost’s voice rattled on again, and spoke the one word Soap never thought he would hear leave his mouth.
“Amen, Johnny.”
The team breached. Johnny had no time to consider what wires had just been crossed in his head as Ghost’s words turned over in his skull like a washing machine. There was plenty of time for that later.
They executed flawlessly. Soap was not surprised; it was some of their best on this mission. Ghost, Gaz, and Price, just to name a few. He could tell Laswell needed this mission to go without a hitch. He just hoped he would not fuck anything up.
His scope followed the team as they ascended the tall staircase. Richard Samuel was starting to panic after hearing the sound of gunshots downstairs, but had not made a move to run yet. Soap had been given clear instructions to fire if he did. After all, they did not need him, just the intel with information that he had stupidly brought to this party to wave in the faces of all the other rich weapons smugglers. Dumb bastard. The team was at the door now.
His hip flared as adrenaline raced through his veins. He tampered it down, keeping his breathing steady as the team breached the door and flooded into the ballroom. He spotted Ghost’s iconic black balaclava as he took down one of the guards with a swift shot. Gaz took down the others as Price made a beeline for Richard Samuel, who had retreated to the far corner of the room. Soap felt his heart sink as Samuel grabbed the blonde from earlier and a gun from under his waistband. God damn it.
A familiar wave of guilt shot through his chest as he took the Lord’s name in vain. Okay, he really needed to stop with the prayer shit. Clearly, the Catholic school conditioning ran deeper than he thought. Through his scope, he could see Samuel bring the gun to the girl’s temple, probably shouting something about how they should not come any closer, or he would shoot. The girl was shaking. It was hard to tell from this distance, but she could not have been older than twenty-five.
His brow crinkled as he lined up the shot. He got a closer look at her face. God, she looked just like-
Soap took the shot. Usually, he would have lined it up better, but with the girl as a liability, he did not have time to make it stylish. It sufficed, and Soap watched through cold blue eyes as Samuels slumped over and the girl made a break for the door. The team stood aside, letting her go. Soap saw Ghost reach for his radio.
“Nice shot, Soap.”
Soap did not respond right away. His body was wired from pent-up energy from watching the raid and being kept in one place for almost half the day. Slowly, he peeled his hands from his weapon, finally free from its perch and reached for his radio with shaking hands.
“Learned from the best, Lt.,” Soap answered. It was a joke he had used before, but he was not in the right headspace to come up with any new material.
“Rendezvous at the pickup point,” Gaz’s lighter accent crackled over the speaker. “Let’s get the intel and clear out before more of ‘em show up.”
“Rog,” Soap said before turning off his radio - making sure it was actually off this time.
He let out a low grunt as he dragged himself to his feet. His knees felt like they were made of dry pasta and they cracked just as loud. He was only twenty-seven, not nearly old enough for this shit. Ghost might be, though. That man had to be at least in his early or mid-thirties.
He packed away his weapon with practiced precision, slipping out of the building like he had never been there. As soon as his feet hit the pavement of the sidewalk he gulped in lungfuls of fresh air, hoping it would clear out God knows how many mold spores he breathed in while trapped in that old building. As was London’s fashion, it had started raining, which was just the perfect way to cap off this overall piss poor, shitty fucking day - pardon Soap’s French.
The rendezvous point was easy enough to find, and Soap was more than willing to climb aboard and leave London, this mission, and that girl’s big blue eyes far behind him. Maybe just by habit, he sat down next to Ghost, who only acknowledged his presence with a low huff. Soap did not mind; for maybe once in his entire life, he did not feel like talking.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Ghost said, as if he could read his mind.
Soap leaned back against the metal hull of the helicopter as they took off. As was London’s specialty, it had started raining. The dull sound of the raindrops against the outside of the helicopter was starting to smooth down his wired nerves, and his hands finally lost that slight tremor.
“Just a lot on my mind, sir,” Soap said vaguely.
“You did well back there. Don’t sweat the small stuff,” Ghost grunted bluntly.
“‘S not that,” Soap said. He ran a tired hand over his face, his calloused hands running over his stubbled chin. “It’s just that lass back there… looked an awful lot like my sister.” Ghost was silent for a moment. His hands were resting against his knees, and his back was as stiff as a board. He stared straight ahead of him, like some kind of machine. Soap wondered if the dampness in the air ever bothered him while he wore that mask all the time.
“Can’t take that stuff with you, Johnny,” Ghost said finally. “It wasn’t her. Simple as that.”
Soap nodded, feeling like he was a fresh recruit being scolded for a simple mistake again. His neck flushed. “You’re right, sir,”
“Is that what all that praying was about?” Ghost asked. “Were you praying for her?”
Soap wished he could say he had, but there was no point in lying. “Nah. I gave up prayin’ for anyone years ago. After all, it didn’t save her, so why would it save anyone else?” Ghost could not have known Riley was gone, but Soap still felt anger building up in his throat. It was a Molotov cocktail of his lingering adrenaline from the mission, his ever-present anger at losing her, and probably a lot of other things.
“‘M sorry,” Ghost said.
“Why? You didn’t kill ‘er,” Soap said, more sharply than he had meant to. “That bastard’s rotting in a cell.”
“Glad he got caught.”
Soap ran a hand over his short mohawk, shaking his head. “It doesn’t bring her back.”
“It never does.”
“You know, her name was Riley,” Soap continued. He smiled sadly. “Just like you, sir.”
“Good choice.”
This was the last conversation Soap wanted to be having right now. Over the years, he had gotten better at talking about Riley without crying, but after everything that happened tonight, his eyes were feeling dangerously hot. He lowered his head, which probably only made it more obvious.
“It’s been a fuckin’ dreich day, aye sir?” he said, desperate to change the subject as he stared out at the rain pouring down the front window of the helicopter.
Ghost rolled his dark eyes. “Whatever that means. Hope you’re not planning on doing any more hours of praying tonight. I’d like to get some sleep.”
Soap slumped further into his seat, allowing his head to fall back against the wall with a dull thud. “Think I’m done prayin’ for real this time, sir. Never seems to serve me very well.”
“Amen to that,” Ghost grumbled.
Soap let out a soft laugh, shoving Ghost’s shoulder. “Shut up, ya wee git.”
“I could have you reported for that.”
“Sorry. Shut up ya wee git, sir.”
“Better.”
Soap hummed softly under his breath as the blades of the helicopter continued to whir above them. Ghost tended to put people on edge; he could see the way the new recruits flitted around him like deer in the presence of a wolf. For Soap, however, Ghost’s presence had always managed to put him at ease. He could not explain why, and he had never devoted much time to figuring it out. Ghost had always just been there, even before he had joined. A constant - one of the few Soap had.
“Did you like being back in London, sir?” Soap asked, feeling a bit of his usual chattiness returning. “Visit any family while you’re here?”
“What part of classified are you not understanding, Sergeant?” Ghost asked with no real malice in his tone.
Soap grinned. “Just makin’ conversation.”
“Well, you’re shit at it,” Ghost muttered.
“Learned from the best, sir.”
“Think I liked you better when you were moping.”
“I was not moping.”
“Yes, you were.”
“You gonna write me up for it? You’ll look like a right prick when I tell ‘em about my dead sister.”
“Maybe best we leave it alone then.”
Soap laughed. He had never thought he would be able to talk about Riley so openly, much less joke about it, yet here he was. Somehow, Ghost always managed to bring things out of him that no one else could. He never pushed; in fact, he rarely said much of anything, but just gave Soap the space to come around in his own time.
It was a welcome change from his own family’s typical prying. He was not looking forward to his next visit home, where he would have to remind them - once again - that he did not have a girlfriend. As the now only living MacTavish child, the responsibility of grandchildren fell on him. He had hoped that Riley would have taken that one.
“Do you like the rain, sir?” Soap asked.
“Can’t say I give it much thought,” Ghost said.
Soap knew when Ghost did not want to talk. He had tried to explain the difference to Gaz, but he said that Ghost just sounded pissed off at Soap all the time. Soap knew the difference, though, and he knew when to back off unless he wanted to get socked. This was actually pretty talkative for Ghost. Soap just hoped that it was not out of pity after Soap had almost cried about his sister. No, he reasoned, Ghost did not do pity.
“‘S fine from a distance, but don’t like being caught out in it much, especially after Las Almas,” Soap said.
“Were you not allowed to talk at home or something?” Ghost said.
“Not really. Roman Catholic, remember?” Soap said cheekily. Ghost raised a hand to fix his mask. “Still don’t know what the Roman part means.”
“No one really does,” Soap said. “Don’t know if I ever really believed in any of it. Really, only did it for Ma.”
“The one woman army?” Ghost asked.
Soap chuckled. “Yeah, that’s her. Love her to death, but she could be a mean lady, sometimes. Bet she’d be fumin’ if she knew half the stuff I’ve done since I left home.”
“You don’t visit often?” Ghost said.
“As often as I can. I just leave out the details,” Soap said, flicking a wink Ghost’s way.
Ghost, whose eyes had finally turned to look at Soap, turned away again, looking down at his hands in his lap. “Don’t know if there’s much to report. You don’t get up to much.”
“Or maybe you don’t know me as well as you think ya do, sir,” Soap purred, leaning in to his shoulder.
Ghost shrugged him off. “Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“Ah, come on. Not even a little bit curious?” Soap pressed.
“You’re not as interesting as you think you are, Johnny.”
Soap practically beamed. He loved when Ghost was mean to him, which was something else he should probably unpack at some point. “Ach, ya wound me, Lt.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll learn some humility one of these days,” Ghost muttered. “Which reminds me, Price keeps talking my ear off about this gala. He says you’re receiving some award.”
Soap’s smile faltered. His missions had been pretty standard recently, nothing insanely heroic to report. “Award? What the hell for?”
“Fuck if I know,” Ghost huffed. “It’s all just a bunch of chest candy anyway, but Price wants us all there.”
“Right..” Soap said slowly, his mind still trying to comprehend what he could possibly be being awarded for. Not that he was complaining. “So, you gonna be there?”
“Just said I was, didn’t I?” Ghost said gruffly.
“Nah, ya said Price wants you there. Those two are very different,” Soap corrected.
Ghost sighed heavily. “I’ve managed to get out of the last few. Don’t know if Price’ll let me off for this one.”
“You gonna wear the mask with your suit, then?” Soap asked.
He was half-joking but also half-serious. He had caught a glimpse of Ghost’s face once, but it had been a dingy, low-lit bunker and it had only been for a moment. That, and Ghost’s face had been mostly covered in black grease paint, so it had been hard to make much out.
“...Maybe,” Ghost said, his response surprisingly genuine. “It’s a closed event, so it’ll just be us. None of those sponsors or any of that bullshit.”
“You got your suit, then?” Soap asked.
Ghost shook his head. “Do I look like someone who owns a suit?”
“I could take you shoppin’, Lt. I’ll have to buy somethin’ for myself anyway,” Soap said, a little too quickly, even for him.
“...Suppose that’s fine,” Ghost said after a short pause.
Soap blinked, surprised. “Wait, really?”
“Don’t make me change my mind.”
“Right, no, ‘course. It’s a date then.”
Soap had not really thought about his words before they left his mouth - as was typical for him. The word “date” hung in the air like a curse. It was not as if Soap had not made jokes of a similar ilk before, but there was something about this time that felt different. Maybe it was the strange intimacy of the rain against the roof, the sunrise bleeding in through the front of the helicopter, or how they were sitting so close their thighs were almost touching, but Soap found himself at a loss for breath as we waited for Ghost to say something - anything.
“...Have to talk to HR one of these days,” Ghost said finally.
Soap laughed, anxiety still lingering on the corners of his mind, but at least Ghost did not seem upset. Not that anyone could ever truly tell what Ghost was feeling. Soap could take educated guesses, and he was mostly right, but even if he did not claim to understand the enigma that was Ghost.
“What? Gonna tell ‘em about all my funny jokes, and how I-”
Ghost’s gloved hand came up and slowly closed over Soap’s mouth. He paused, his breath caught in his throat, and his heart hammering much faster than it should have been. The fabric of Ghost’s glove was rough against the tender skin of his lips, but he did not mind. Ghost rarely ever touched him - not that Soap noticed that kind of thing, of course - so any amount of contact was something he savored.
“You talk too much, Johnny,” Ghost rumbled, letting his hand slip away to Soap’s disappointment.
“Sorry, sir,” Soap mumbled, his usual snarky retort dying in his throat.
He could tell Ghost had had enough now, so Soap did as he was told. He let the whirring blades of the helicopter and the soft rain lull him into an almost asleep state. He could feel the warmth of Ghost’s body resting near him, so close to him. All it would take is one breath of movement, and he would be lying against the other man.
Soap did not close the gap; he never did, and neither did Ghost. He wondered if Ghost felt it as much as he did. Ghost’s hands were still resting against his thighs, and Soap found himself wondering what would happen if he reached out and held one.
Ghost would probably cut his hand off, Soap reasoned, but there was still that stupid flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he would not. Soap had nurtured that flicker for years now, never quite letting it die but never feeding it much either. He was not in denial about his feelings towards his Lieutenant, but he certainly was not planning to act on them any time soon. Or ever, for that matter.
There was too much risk of losing what little connection he had with the mysterious man, and Soap was not willing to take that risk. So, he stayed content in the grey area, in the almosts and the maybes. It was all he would ever have, and he had come to accept that.
Still, if he just so happened to drift off and his shoulder lightly grazed Ghost’s, who was to say that was on purpose?