Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soap feels anxious. He knows they are all tired and worn out. This last week has been hell on them all. Back to back missions, all with the same goal to finally find a group of people, who have captured a handful of reporters, bring them and their leader in and free the hostages. Sleep has been hard to come by even if they finally have a few hours to rest between missions, and they are all running on fumes.

From experience Soap knows that the less sleep he gets, the more he talks. And he knows that this can be a little overwhelming for the people around him. It hasn’t been much of an issue since he was selected to the 141, but on his previous teams he had been told to shut up or bug off more than a few times. So, usually, when he gets to a point like this, and someone tells him to shut up or go away, he doesn’t take it personally. Because he knows everyone is as stressed as he is, and everyone works through that differently. Soap knows he gets even more talkative than usual, that he needs company to be around to not get lost in his head. But he also knows that others need quiet.

A briefing for a new mission is supposed to start in 20 minutes. He hasn’t seen Price for a while, but would bet money on the fact, that their captain hasn’t eaten anything or taken a nap since they arrived back from their last mission a couple of hours ago. So, Soap has found a not so horrible looking sandwich with Price’s favorite topping in the mess, grabbed some water, and now he makes his way towards the captain’s office.

Though his captain keeps an open-door policy, it’s not uncommon for the door to be closed like it is at the moment. With the pressure they are operating out of at the moment, it only means Price is probably smoking one cigar after the other in there.

Soap knocks lightly, only barely waiting for the muffled grunt of consent for him to enter. As he had expected, the air smells of heavy cigar smoke, even though the window is pulled wide open. His captain sits at his desk, buried deeply behind a wall of paperwork. Price doesn’t look at him, just continues working through the next form, filling or scratching words out, signing papers at the bottom.

“Cap, I brought you something to eat and drink.” Soap puts the sandwich down in front of Price, the bottle of water right next to it.

Price only hums but he makes a grab for the food and starts chewing. Satisfied, Soap retreats to one of the chairs and sits down. “Briefing starts in 20 minutes.”

“I know. Just have to finish this.” Still, Price doesn’t look up, only guzzles down the water absentmindedly.

Soap sees his captain is stressed, knows his own stress level is almost at the max. His knee starts bouncing, and he can’t suppress his urge to talk. It’s like his mouth has a will of its own. It’s not even mission related stuff. Just some random gossip he picked up while choosing a sandwich for his captain.

At last, Price looks up at him, tired and maybe a bit annoyed. “Is there anything in particular you need from me at the moment, Sergeant?”

Soap stops mid-sentence. Sergeant, not Soap or lad. He shakes his head.

“Then please, for heaven’s sake, just shut up and let me be, so I can finish this crap and be on time for the briefing.”

Right. Yes. He can do that.

“Sorry, Cap.” Soap gets up from the chair and moves to the door. “I’ll see you then.”

Soap moves out of the office and closes the door. Seems like he was a little too much for the captain at the moment. But at least he got him to eat and drink something before they have to head out again.

He makes his way towards the briefing room. Surely, someone is already there, someone he can talk to, be friendly with, someone to engage his overactive mind.

When he steps into the room, he can see the large figure of his lieutenant standing with his back to him at the counter, obviously brewing himself a cup of tea.

“Hey there, LT.” His greeting is met only with a grunt and a small nod. It doesn’t bother Soap. Ghost isn’t a very talkative person even on his days off. And they haven’t had down time in a while. He walks to one of the chairs and lets himself slump down in it, smiling a little as he watches Ghost going through his ritual of brewing a perfect cup. Soap has yet to master the art of getting Ghost’s tea perfect, but whenever he attempts the task, Ghost at least drinks it without spitting it out or pulling a face as he sometimes does when Gaz has tried. Someday, Soap thinks, he’ll get it right. And it’ll earn him one of Ghost’s rare smiles. A smile Soap will actually see, because Ghost always has to pull up his mask to his nose to enjoy his tea. And Soap will enjoy that rare smile when he can finally draw it out of his lieutenant.

He pulls his thoughts away from smiles and tea and focuses back on the upcoming mission. Maybe this time they’ll be able to snatch that SOB responsible for the kidnappings. They’ve been close a couple of times, but they’ve never found the hostages or the top man. Always only his minions.

Ghost has taken the seat right next to him, as he always does. Soap only notices when a gloved hand lands on his knee.

“Stop fidgeting so much. I haven’t even had my tea yet.”

Soap stares down on his bouncing knee and stills instantly. He never even realized it was moving. Nodding at Ghost, he concentrates on keeping still. It’s a lot harder than it looks. His body just buzzes with energy. It always does right before missions, but with the added exhaustion from the past week it seems to be even harder to keep still.

Ghost is back to sipping his tea while they wait for Gaz, Price and Laswell to join them, mask pulled up to his nose, eyes closed.

“Who won the zombie war?” Soap can’t keep quiet, and he shoots Ghost a lopsided grin as the man next to him groans and rolls his eyes, shaking his head slightly.

“Nobody. It was dead even.” Soap chuckles at his lame joke and is a little disappointed when Ghost just ignores it. “Oh, come on. That wasn’t that bad!”

Ghost just huffs and keeps sipping his tea.

“Alright, I got another one.”

“Not now, Soap.”

Soap doesn’t ignore Ghost’s low growl per se, his mouth just doesn’t seem to want to comply with what his brain deems sensible to do. And either way, he really wants to see his lieutenant at least attempt a little smile. “Why did the soldier detonate the bomb?”

Ghost turns his face towards him slowly. His eyes dark, tired, a little bloodshot. “Stop annoying me before I finish my tea, Sergeant. Go live out your pre-mission jitters with someone else.” He turns back to his tea and takes a deep breath.

“Alright. Sorry.” Soap mutters quietly and turns away from him. He’s been too much. Again. He shakes his head at himself. It’s a miracle he’s still on this elite team with the way he sometimes can’t stop himself from talking. Quietly, he gets up and moves to the door. “I… I’ll go check on Gaz. Back in a minute.”

Ghost doesn’t even open his eyes, just takes another sip.

Soap moves out into the hallway, his eyes searching for his best friend. His best bet of finding Gaz is their gear room. He’s probably checking over his gear as he usually does before briefings. Sure enough, that’s where his friend is. Standing at the table in the middle, his gear spread out in front of him, Gaz just leans against the sturdy construction, his gaze miles away.

“Gaz? You okay?”

Gaz’s head snaps towards him, a tired smile on his face. “Hey, Tav. Alright?”

Soap just nods. “Meeting starts in 10. You coming?”

“Just need a few minutes. I’ll be right behind you.” He turns back to his gear and actually starts packing what he’ll need.

Soap steps closer, leaning against the table. His things have been packed hours ago in an attempt to get rid of the post-mission /pre-mission energy. “I can wait with you. Keep you company. Got nowhere else to be.”

Gaz halts his movement without looking at Soap, then sighs heavily. “Soap, I…”

“I know. You don’t want to talk. You don’t have to. I’ll do the talking and you do the packing. I can even help with the packing if you want. You’ll be done faster if…”

“Soap, stop.” Gaz’ voice is sharp, and Soap stops instantly, looking at his best friend.

“What?”

“I can’t do this at the moment. Go annoy someone else.”

“But you’re my best friend!” Soap tries for a bit of humor, tries to ease the tension in the room. “Annoying you is part of the best-friend-contract.”

“Should’ve read the fine print.” Gaz mumbles then looks straight at Soap, his face stern, frustrated even. “Look. I just need a little more quiet time, alright? So, either shut up or even better, go away. I’ll see you at the briefing.”

“Fine.” Soap tries for a light chuckle, but his heart feels heavy. He’s managed to annoy all three of his teammates in under 15 minutes. Must be a new record.

He shuffles to the door and starts moving back towards the briefing room. Why can’t he just keep his mouth shut? It’s not like his yapping hasn’t gotten him into trouble in his career before. It has happened lots of times. He should have learned his lesson by now, even though it has been some time since he has been reprimanded for being too loud or too chatty. Not since he joined this team. Up until now, they have never seemed to be bothered by his loud mouth. But if they need him to be quiet, he will do quiet. He’s done it before, or he wouldn’t be where he is now. All it needs is to rebuild a few of the walls he so happily tore down since joining this team, and find less annoying stress-coping mechanisms. But he can do it. He will.

Entering the briefing room, he notices that both Laswell and Price have arrived since he left looking for Gaz, talking quietly over maps. Ghost is still sitting exactly where he left him a few minutes ago. Soap nods at the three and pulls up the chair opposite of Ghost to sit down. That earns him a raised eyebrow, but Soap ignores it and just stares at his lap, trying to keep his knee from starting to bounce again. Before Ghost can say anything, Gaz enters the room, and Price and Laswell stop their discussion to start the briefing.

This time Laswell has at last found where the hostages are being held, and therefore the team will have to split. One part of the team will go after the leader of the group, the other part will secure the hostages and take them to the secondary exfil location.

“Ghost, Gaz, you’re with me. We’ll get that bastard this time.” Price turns to Soap. “Soap, you’ll get the hostages out and blow that part of the compound as soon as you are a safe distance away. Two of the support team will assist you. There shouldn’t be much resistance, so those two should be enough. The rest of support will come with us.”

Soap just nods. He would prefer to help get the HVT, but he knows getting the hostages out safely is an important job, too. And he is always happy to blow something up.

“Good idea, cap, sending Soap to get the hostages. Minimalizing the danger of him coming back injured again.” Gaz chuckles lightly, and Price just huffs in amusement.

“Och, haud yer wheesht!” Soap growls out. “I’m not injured that often.” That gets him incredulous looks from all four people around the table.

“Ten stitches only last mission.” Price points to Soap’s forearm where the protective bandage is still in place.

“Bruised ribs on the one before.” Gaz chimes in.

“Pretty sure a concussion was the one before that.” Ghost growls from opposite him.

“And those were just minor ones.” Laswell smiles at him, no menace in her voice. “I’m convinced, you would already have a gold bonus card if our infirmary would hand out those.”

Soap just shakes his head. Those were mere scratches. All of them sport minor injuries after missions. That’s just part of their job. He knows they’re just teasing him, trying to lighten the tense mood before the op, but they make it sound like he isn’t capable of doing his job, and it stings a little. As if he is the weak link in this team. He never thought he would be seen as the weakest part.

“Would be nice for once not having to train your recruits while you rest your ass on sick leave.” Gaz smirks at him. “So, I’m all for Soap having the easier part this time.”

“You think you have it hard when he’s off on med leave? I’m the one stuck with the all the paper work explaining how he, yet again, managed to get hurt. Can’t get worse than that!” Price puts on an exaggerated scowl.

Ghost’s eyes light up with a teasing glint. “Stop complaining you two. At least your phone won’t blow up with whiny messages how bored he is on leave, and that he can’t wait to be back with us so he can chew our ears off in person.” Ghost finishes with a wink in Soap’s direction, but his words burn a hole into Soap’s soul. Because deep down he knows that in every teasing there’s a grain of truth. He never even considered that Ghost would be annoyed by his texts. But now that he really thinks about it, Ghost had always just answered with emojis or single words, if he answered at all. Soap had always thought that was just Ghost’s non-talkative personality. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Ghost really doesn’t like it when Soap texts him.

Looks like there is quite a few things his team doesn’t like about him, things he really needs to work on if he wants to stay on this team. But that’s something he has to put on the back burner for now. The mission comes first. And if they really catch their HVT this time and free the hostages, they will have some time off. He’ll have time to think this over after this is done.

So, he just forces a smile on his face, trying his best to not let his team see how much their words hurt him. He’s the first one out of the room, grabbing his gear on his way to the tarmac, and the first one in the heli, ignoring the exchanged looks and questioning stares of his teammates. They want him to be quiet? He can do quiet.

He’s a little surprised that Ghost takes the seat right next to him. After what he said before the briefing, Soap had thought the lieutenant would want a little more space. To not be affected by his ‘pre-mission jitters’ as he had called them. Because Soap can already feel his knee starting to bounce again, his nervous energy returning so close to take-off.

“Settle down, Johnny.” Ghost’s hand is back on his knee, and Soap can feel the man staring at him.

‘Johnny’? Soap is confused. First, it’s ‘shut up and fuck off’, now it’s ‘Johnny’ again?

He can’t do this at the moment, so he stills his movement and closes his eyes, trying to take centering breaths. But it seems this isn’t enough for Ghost.

“You doin’ okay, Johnny?”

“Solid, LT.” Soap doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t want to see whatever Ghost’s face is doing behind his mask. The hand moves away from his leg, and Soap’s body relaxes a little. They don’t have to go far he knows that, but it still feels like forever.

When the bird finally sets down, Soap is the first to exit. From there, it’s all business as usual. His nervousness makes way for his calm professionalism, and he leads the two from support away from the rest to the part of the compound where the hostages are being held.

Chapter Text

“Alright, folks, keep moving. I know you’re exhausted and hungry and hurt, but we’re half-way there. You’re all doing great.”

Soap tries to hold up a steady stream of encouragement to the tired group of people they freed from their imprisonment. He doesn’t tell them that they don’t have much of a headstart, doesn’t tell them that he’s worried the hostiles will catch up with them before they are able to reach the exfil point, doesn’t tell them that he’s not even sure their transport will be large enough to hold all of them. No need to stress them more. They’ve been through so much already.

Intel had been shit. The briefing about the number of hostages the group has taken has actually been held over a week ago, so Soap might not remember correctly, but he’s pretty sure Laswell said the hostages were four male journalists. Not four families, four sets of parents and seven children, the smallest a four-year-old girl.

Nothing on their part of the mission had gone smoothly. When they tried to make entry, they found their entry point heavily fortified, guarded in addition to the high-class technology by a set of two very observant guards. Soap had managed to take them out silently, but they had needed more explosives to breach into the compound than expected. Inside this part of the compound, there were a lot more men than they were told, and though the two men from support did an excellent job, it needed a bit of creativity on Soap’s part and some badass shooting to get the upper hand and finally dispose of the guards. It was sheer luck that none of them managed to call for backup.

When they had finally cleared the building and breached the doors to the holding cells, they had looked in on the scared faces of 15 people instead of four. Lewis, one of the soldiers from support and a medic, had instantly started to triage them, finding minor scrapes and bruises, a few broken fingers and a broken arm, but mostly dehydration that affected the kids most. Nothing life-threatening. He was worried about one of the women who was heavily pregnant, but there wasn’t much they could do right there but pass around as much water as they brought and get them all out and to the extraction point as quickly as possible.

Soap had updated Laswell on their status, on the increased number of hostages and their health status, and had requested a bigger transport and medical assistant on landing. He could hear her discomfort about the faulty intel in her apology, and the promise that she would try to get them what he needed as fast as possible. All of it gave Soap a bad gut feeling but there was nothing to do but continue the mission. Together with Lewis and Michaels from support, he herded the terrified hostages out of the compound and far enough away into cover before pushing the button to detonate the prison complex.

The building collapsed beautifully despite the reduced explosives he had to work with, and he couldn’t keep the delighted and satisfied grin from his face, earning himself worried looks from the hostages and headshakes from Lewis and Michaels. He ignored them all in favor of getting their group to start moving towards exfil.

They have been on the move for half an hour by now, and he knows they have a tail, has heard and seen movement behind them. Not close enough for a gunfight, especially here in between the trees, but drawing closer constantly. Soap has sent Lewis and Michaels to the front of the group and holds his position at the rear to keep an eye on the approaching hostiles, to keep an eye on all of the hostages to not lose any of the kids, and to keep them moving and encouraging them to move faster. He knows what he’s asking of them, can see the exhaustion in their postures, the terror of what they’ve been through in the tear tracks that run down the cheeks of the kids. The pregnant woman is struggling the most and needs help from her husband. Soap has seen the father instructing his maybe fourteen-year-old son to take care of his little sister, and the boy has risen to the challenge. The pair of siblings has fallen to the back of the pack, right in front of him. The boy holds tight to the hand of his four-year-old sister, pulling her along, as he promises her heaps of ice cream and treats if she can just keep going a little farther. Wesley and Eva, Soap thinks their names are. He smiles at the siblings, while his mouth keeps shouting encouragements and his eyes keep scanning their surroundings.

It all happens in the blur of a moment. Out of the corner of the eye, he sees movement in the shadow of a tree, a hostile moving his arm in an all too familiar way, dropping dead with a bullethole between his eyes from Soap’s rifle the next instant, but it’s too late. The little ball of metal lands with a thud and a bounce a few feet to his right.

“Grenade!” The shout leaves his mouth as he’s already on the move. He scoops up the little girl, pressing her tightly to his front, and grabs her older brother on the arm, dragging him away as fast and as far away as he’s able.

He knows they are still too close when the little ball explodes, sending him and the boy flying, a wave of heat pushing them off their feet, searing the exposed back sides of his arms and his neck and showering them with shrapnel. He lands hard on his left side, the little girl curled up safely in his arms. Pain radiates from his left side and his back through his entire body, but there is no time to rest and catch his breath and hope someone else will take over. It’s his responsibility, so he pushes through the pain, compartmentalizing it away as he has learned to do. He releases Eva out of his tight grip, pushes himself up to his knees, and starts checking her for any obvious injuries. The little girl stares at him with wide eyes, her mouth hanging open without any sounds coming out. His first injury-check of her comes up empty, so he hands her off to Lewis who has appeared at his side for a more thorough check, while he turns to her brother.

The boy lies on his stomach, unmoving, his backside blackened from the fireblast, a few pieces of shrapnel sticking out of his back and side. A quick thought flits through Soap’s mind that his back probably doesn’t look much better but it’s gone before it can grow roots. Carefully, Soap reaches for the boy’s neck, checking for a pulse. It’s there but weak, and he knows they have to be quick to give the boy a chance to survive this. He takes a quick look around to check on the rest. Michaels has taken up position at their rear, while Lewis has handed off Eva to her parents. The mother looks dead on her feet, clutching the girl tightly to her side, silent tears running down her face. The father has to support the mom so she won’t collapse on the spot, but he also looks stupefied with horror. At least they look unharmed. Like the rest of the hostages.

Soap doesn’t have time to console them now. He has to get them to the extraction point. They’ve already lost too much time, and he expects the rest of their tail to appear any moment now.

“Lewis, update Laswell. Tell her we need a trauma team on standby on arrival. Tell her we need that exfil now.”

Lewis nods and Soap rises slowly from his kneeling position at the boy’s side, pulling the kid up with him carefully, positioning him in a fireman’s carry over his shoulder. “Let’s move, folks. The faster we are at our rendezvous point, the faster we’re out of here.”

As he takes the first step, the people around start moving too, the kids crying into their parents’ sides, smaller ones getting picked up and carried by their fathers. This time, no one needs encouragement from him. They all move a lot quicker now following Lewis’ lead, as the rush of adrenaline gives them extra strength to master the last leg of their exfil.

Even through the adrenaline, Soap can feel the aches and pains his body has been subjected to, and he knows as soon as the adrenaline fades, he’ll be in a world of hurt. It doesn’t matter now, though. The only thing that matters is them reaching that heli. He can’t let his mind worry what will happen if Laswell didn’t get a bigger transport for them. He can’t let his thoughts drift to the other part of the mission, wondering if the others have met equally heavy resistant than they have. He can’t allow himself to worry if they got the HVT this time, if they made it back unharmed, if they made it out at all. Because he needs to focus on the here and now.

It doesn’t take them long to reach the LZ, but to Soap it feels like a lifetime. Michaels still covers their rear, but Soap still expects the hostiles to show up any moment. That explosion was just too damn close. Even with the adrenaline rushing through his veins, every step lets pain flare up in his side. His back hurts, his arms burn and his shoulder throbs. He’s lucky he’s still alive. Alive and walking. Wesley weighs heavy on his back, the body still limp and unmoving. He will get that boy to that heli no matter what.

Relief washes through him when he sees the heli they sent for pickup. They’ll definitely all fit in there. Lewis has already started guiding people into the bird when Soap finally arrives at the side of the heli, slowly lowering Wesley onto the floor, hopping up and in right beside him. As soon as Michaels is in as well, the bird lifts off and veers towards the base.

Soap turns to the boy on the floor. It takes him a second to realize that something is wrong. Wesley’s chest isn’t moving anymore. The parts of his skin that aren’t blackened from burns is pale, almost grey, the eyes are closed but the mouth hangs open, the lips a tinge of purple, unmoving and still. Soap’s shaky fingers find the pulse point on the neck, but there is nothing to feel. Just cold dry skin.

He shakes his head in negation. The boy can’t be dead. He’s been talking to his sister just a few minutes ago. Telling her how much ice cream he will buy her because she’s doing so great.

Soap turns the boy fully onto his back and starts chest compressions. He won’t let this sweet boy, this fantastic older brother, just die. Not on his watch. He doesn’t hear Lewis talking to him, throws Michaels’ arm off when he tries to pull him away. If he keeps the heart pumping, if he keeps the blood flowing until they reach the base, the trauma team might be able to get him back. Far off, over the thumping of the rotor blades, he can hear screaming. He thinks it’s a woman, the mother, but he can’t be sure, can’t stop to check. At some point, Lewis has given up trying to make Soap stop and assists him, shoving down a laryngeal tube and bagging the boy with an ambu bag, holding that too young lax face gently in his hands.

A soft shiver and a thud tell Soap that they finally landed at the base. Suddenly, the boy is gone from his grasp, and he can see the medical team rushing him towards the base hospital, Lewis at their side, probably filling them in on everything that happened to the kid.

Soap takes a deep breath, his surroundings coming into focus sharply, and he’s presented with scared faces. Michaels look at him for instructions, so he clears his throat and starts giving out orders.

Chapter Text

Everyone needs to be seen at medical, and Laswell and her team will want their statements at some point. With the help of Michaels and more staff from the base, Soap manages to get the rest of the group into the base hospital where a swarm of medics and doctors start triaging and sending people to be treated. Soap sees to every one of the hostages, talks to all of them, and makes sure they are looked after before he sends Michaels to find Lewis and get checked out, too.

Finally, without anything urgent to do, Soap stands in the middle of the busy ED, his mind going blank for a second, unsure where to go from there. Exhaustion pulls at him, and he would love nothing more than just to find his bed and lie down to sleep for a week.

Laswell spots him from the door and waves him over, so he makes himself move and weaves his way through the docs and nurses. He can read the concern on her face. “Soap, good to see you in one piece.” She moves them away from any prying ears and scans the many people that occupy the ED. “What happened?”

Soap sighs and shakes his head. “Your intel was off. A lot more guards than expected. A lot more hostages than expected.” He looks at her in despair. “Kids, Laswell. There were seven kids in that holding cell, minimal food and water for almost a week.” He clears his throat to choke down a sob. “We got them out, started moving to exfil, but one of the hostiles caught up, threw a grenade, and I…” He averts his eyes, his gaze roaming the room until he finds the little family that still waits on news of their boy. The mother clearly in distress, medical personal dancing around her. He just hopes she didn’t go into premature labor. He looks back at Laswell. “I was too slow. I only saw the man when it was too late. He had already thrown the grenade. I tried to warn the others, but they are civilians. They move… really slow.” He gives her an agonized look. “One of the kids, a boy named Wesley, he was too close to the explosion. Did you hear anything? Are they still working on him?”

Laswell takes his arm and squeezes lightly. “I’m sorry, Soap. He didn’t make it. His injuries were too vast.”

Soap nods, his eyes finding the mother again. The urgency around her has picked up, the father standing a little to the side, Eva pressed tightly into him. Suddenly, they are on the move, pushing the gurney with the mother towards the hallway marked “Operating Theatre”, and Soap’s heart breaks. Please, he thinks, don’t let that family lose two children in one day.

Laswell squeezes his arm again, and he looks down to her, her eyes warm and understanding. “I… I should have done more… should have moved faster… if… if we had treated his wounds right away instead of moving to exfil… maybe…”

“Soap.” Laswell’s hand squeezes a little harder this time. “There was nothing you could have done to save that boy. He would have died even if the heli had landed the second after the explosion. His body was broken.”

Soap struggles to accept that. He knows that looking for ‘what if’s’ and ‘maybe’s’ never helps, but he still feels guilty, inadequate, as if that wouldn’t have happened with any of his teammates.

“We can’t save them all, John.” Laswell gives him a sad smile, reading his guilt as easily as if he had spoken out loud. “But you did save a lot of lives today. A lot of people get the chance to go home because of you. It won’t bring Wesley back, but that is not on you. You did good out there. We’re lucky to have you on our team.”

“Thanks.” It sounds defeated, even to his own ears. Scanning the room one last time, he tries to shut his mind off from the thoughts of Wesley and his family. He can deal with that later in the confinement of his own room. There are more pressing things to do now. “What about the others? Are they back yet?”

She nods at him. “Yes. They caught the mastermind behind the operation. Didn’t come quietly and like with you there were a lot more hostiles than anticipated. But they managed. All three must be somewhere around here.”

Soap’s eyes snap to hers. “They are hurt?”

“Nothing life-threatening. Gaz caught a bullet through the thigh, Price’s right arm is shattered, and Ghost has sustained a grade three concussion. I guess the 141 is about to have a few quiet weeks to recover.” She gives him an encouraging smile. “Talk to the admission nurse. She can tell you where they are.” Looking him up and down, she adds, “But maybe you wanna clean up a little before you go see them or they will start mother-henning you right away.”

Soap stiffens at that comment. The memory of his team’s comments prior to the mission come back to him, and he’s not sure they really would mother-hen him. Probably just groan that he yet again didn’t make it through a mission unscathed. Because he can feel it now, his body letting him know about all the cuts and bruises. His left shoulder screams the loudest, and he thinks it might even be out of socket. Sighing, he nods at Laswell, grateful for her words, and turns toward the chaos again.

He should find a nurse or a doctor to look him over, pop the shoulder back in, clean out the cuts, but they all look so busy. It only takes a minute of him standing at the edge of that well-organized chaos for one of the nurses to recognize and approach him.

“Sergeant MacTavish?”

He looks at the petite nurse and nods.

“You’ve been with this lot.” It’s not a question, but he nods again. “Come with me, we’ll have a look at you, make sure you’re not going to keel over.” Smiling, she lightly takes his arm and guides him towards a free treatment room. He’s grateful for her discretion, seeing that most patients just get a gurney and a curtain. “Let’s see the damage. Take your gear off, and I’ll be right back.”

She’s gone as quickly as she appeared, but he doesn’t mind. Slowly, he starts unbuckling his vest. It hurts more than he cares to admit. His left shoulder throbs, sending waves of pain down his arm to the tips of his fingers. Now that he has time to notice, his whole left side burns with pain and his chest aches with every deep breath. Breathing feels better as soon as his vest is off, the heavy weight no longer pressing down on his aching ribs.

As he sets the vest down on the gurney in the room, his eyes catch on the pieces of shrapnel embedded deeply in his back plates. There are at least four larger pieces stuck to the vest. No wonder his back feels like being punched repeatedly in a sparring match. A new wave of guilt washes over him. He should have pushed the boy in front of him, should have been able to shield him as much as he shielded Eva. If he had, their parents wouldn’t have to mourn the loss of that bright and caring boy. He should have…

“Sergeant MacTavish. Back again, I see.”

He looks up to see one of the older doc’s stepping into the room, followed by the nurse. Soap knows him, has been treated by him a few times and remembers that he never talked down to him or tried to make him take more leave than was really necessary. Attempting a light smile, he shrugs one-shouldered. “Comes with the job, I guess.”

The doc chuckles lightly and steps closer, starting his examination. The list of injuries is longer than Soap anticipated. A set of x-rays confirm that his shoulder is dislocated but not broken, but a few of his ribs are. Not displaced but painful. Though his vest caught the most of the shrapnel, a few smaller ones scratched his skin where his vest couldn’t protect him. Two of the cuts even need a few stitches. The burns on his arms and neck are less severe than he feared but still painful, and the rest of his body, mostly his back and shoulder, is just bruised to hell.

“I would recommend at least 3 weeks of medical leave to give your body time to heal before diving back into the strain of the job.” The doc packs up all the supplies he’s needed and starts typing into the computer, giving him a sideways smirk. “But knowing you, I’m lucky if you’ll even take a few days.”

Soap smiles back at the doc, the words of his team still echoing around in his head. “Don’t need medical leave, doc. My team will be out of commission anyways for the next weeks. I can do light duty on base, help out a little.”

The doctor considers him for a moment, then nods his approval. “Alright. Light duty only.”

Soap nods and hops off the gurney with a grateful “thanks”. With those nice painkillers they gave him to pop his shoulder back in, his body feels fine. But he knows that won’t last.

He takes advantage of the absence of pain and moves towards his room to get changed, so that he can at last get eyes on his teammates and assure his anxious mind that they might be a little banged up, but that they are still alive.

Changing in his room isn’t as quick as he thought. Even though the pain is mostly numbed, his body is slow to respond, and when he moves his left arm a little too quickly, his shoulder sends sparks of electricity down to his fingers. He has to remind himself to go slowly, move deliberately, and take deep breaths repeatedly. Stepping into his bathroom, he sheds his dirty clothes and gets rid of most of the grime clinging to him. He’s surprised that there is barely any blood on his shirt. With Wesley draped over his shoulder, the blood from the shrapnel wounds should have run down onto him, dying his backside crimson red. But it didn’t.

‘No heartbeat, no bloodflow’, his mind supplies. It hits him like a wrecking ball. Wesley had already been dead all the way to exfil! He has to grab onto the sink for support as the realization floods his mind. His knees give out and he sinks to the floor, folding in on himself. He presses his forehead to the cool tiles and lets the agony wash out of him. The tears start flowing and a gut-wrenching scream is ripped from his throat. With his arms he tries to hold himself together, but it feels like he’s being torn apart from within.

He doesn’t know how long he is kneeling on his bathroom floor, crying and screaming, lost in the agony and despair of the loss of the boy, sitting in the guilt of his failure to protect him. At one point, nausea had taken over and he had lost all of his stomach’s content to the porcelain god.

When the tears finally subside and he can be sure he has a lock on his emotions, he hauls himself up to the sink again. Not able to look at himself in the mirror, he washes his face and body thoroughly, hoping to clean away any trace of his breakdown. He puts on comfortable clothes, and even though he usually runs hot, he pulls one of his favorite hoodies over his head, not only to cover the burn marks on his arms and neck, but also because it feels like the hoody protects his raw soul. Taking a deep breath, he opens the door to his room and steps out to make his way back towards the base hospital.

Entering the ED again, it has changed considerably. Most patients have been seen to and there is a lot less chaotic bustle. The admission nurse looks less stressed than before and he approaches her, asking after his team, and gets send to a ward down the hall.

The first door reveals his captain, already settled into a bed. His right arm is splinted and wrapped in bandages from the tips of his fingers to his shoulder, so is his left wrist.

“Hey there, cap.” He steps closer to the bed, studying the man. Price looks tired, worn out, but his face lights up when he notices his sergeant.

“Soap. Good to see you whole and healthy, lad.” He sounds genuine though a little slurred which Soap is sure comes from the ton of painkillers Price must be on.

“Good to see you, too.” Soap smiles back at his captain, but he doesn’t correct him. No need to tell him about all the aches and pains of his body. Not when Price looks like he’s been through the wringer. “What’s the damage?”

Price scowls and looks down on his arms. “Right arm is busted completely. They want to put some metal in it to make it heal faster, so I’m waiting for them to get me into surgery.” He sighs deeply and shakes his head as if he can’t believe his bad luck. “Left wrist is only sprained, but they want me to rest it as much as I can. The rest is just a little bruised.”

“That sucks.” Soap hums. He knows how much his captain hates to be out of commission, but to have both arms rendered useless must be hell. “If I can help with anything…”

Price shakes his head and keeps grumbling.

He tries to lighten his captain’s mood. “Look at the bright side, cap. At least you won’t have to do paperwork for the next couple of weeks.”

Price scowls at him. “Only means there will be a ton of it waiting for me when I come back to my desk.” Suddenly, the face of his captain lights up with a mischievous grin. “Wait a second, I have a great idea.”

Soap knows from the look of his captain that he won’t like the idea half as much as Price does.

“You said you would help with anything, right?”

Soap nods carefully. “Yeah…?” This doesn’t bode well for him.

“Good. You can do my paperwork. Most of it anyway. Will give you some experience for when you’ll finally get promoted to lieutenant.” Price chuckles, his eyes teasing.

Soap groans. He hates paperwork, but can’t find an excuse quick or convincing enough to get out of the job, so he just nods. “Fine.”

“There’s a good lad.” Price smirks before he turns serious again. “How did your part of the mission go? Laswell said you did a good job getting those hostages to safety.”

Soap doesn’t know how to answer that. Apparently, Laswell didn’t go into details with Price. And he’s just too tired and feels too raw to do it at the moment. He can’t yet bring himself to admit to Price that Wesley died because he failed to protect him. That he got only 14 of those 15 hostages to safety. And his captain is still pumped full of drugs, is about to have surgery, so there’s a good chance he won’t remember this conversation tomorrow, and Soap will have to go through explaining all of this again.

So, he opts for a more general answer. “We did alright. Couldn’t have done it without Lewis and Michaels. They did really good.”

“Make sure to mention their good work in your AAR.” Price gives him big grin. “Told you it would be a walk in the park, though it’s a bit strange to have the roles reversed.” At Soaps confused frown, he adds, “You coming back without a scratch and all of us being on medical leave for a few weeks. Have you seen the others yet?”

Soap shakes his head, but before he can say anything else, a nurse comes in to prep Price for surgery.

He says his goodbyes and moves out of the room, glad Price doesn’t notice his stiff movements. He can only hope that Gaz and Ghost will be equally unobservant due to painkillers because he really doesn’t want to admit to them that he fucking hurts. That it’s not quite like Price assumes, and that he managed to come back from this mission yet again injured.

He steps up to the next door, taking a deep breath before entering. It’s Gaz’ room, and his heart aches as he sees his best friend lying pale in that bed, looking small. Gaz seems to be asleep, so Soap tries to be as quiet as he can while moving to his friend’s bedside.

Glazed over eyes open when he reaches the bed, a loopy smile forming on the sergeant’s face. “Tav!” He slurs slightly, apparently on some good painkillers, too. “How are ya?” Gaz’ gaze wanders up and down Soap’s body. “Must be a first. You coming back in one piece and me being drugged up in the hospital. Shot through the thigh, can you believe that?” He gives Soap another big smile, his voice slurring even more, making him sound a little drunk. Then he tries to get serious, his face scrunched up in concentration. “Glad you’re okay though. Really. Was a little worried when Price sent you out alone without one of us covering you. Didn’t want you to get hurt.” His face splits into a smile again. “Seems it really was a milk run, yeah?”

Soap stiffens slightly at Gaz’s comment that he thinks he needs someone to look after him like he isn’t capable to handle himself. But he just nods, forcing out a smile, not bothering to correct Gaz. Doped up as he is, he won’t remember any of their conversation anyway. Let him think it was a milk run. Let him think Soap made it back unharmed. As soon as Gaz is back on duty, Soap will be fine, too, and he will never have to know.

“Oooh, I just realized!” Gaz is still grinning at Soap widely. “Now that I’m the one out on sick leave and you’re not, you’ll be the one stuck with MY recruits for once!” Gaz starts cackling a little madly, and Soap scowls at him.

“Not funny.” It’ll be a challenge to train those recruits on light duty. He usually trains them hands-on, but he’ll find a way to keep a distance and still do his job properly.

“Oh, yes! Yes, it is!” Gaz can’t contain his laughter, only wincing slightly as his laughing fit jostles his injured leg.

Soap shakes his head but keeps quiet, watches Gaz laughing until the exhaustion and the drugs pull him back into sleep.

He makes his way out of Gaz’ room and into the last one. Even from the door, he can see that his lieutenant is in pain, though Ghost is wearing a black surgical mask. The big man is lying in the bed, face pale and sweaty, his eyes scrunched together and his hands massaging his temples. Soap knows the signs of a concussion when he sees them, has had enough himself to know how Ghost must feel.

He enters quietly, trying to make as little noise as possible and leaving the overhead lights off. “Hey, LT.” Even his quiet whisper makes the other man nearly jump out of bed. “I’m sorry, dinnae want te scare ya.”

Ghost’s eyes wander over to him, his body relaxing in the bed a little, but his face turning even paler. Soap is at his bedside in an instant, shoving a sick back under Ghost’s face and ripping off the face mask just in time for the vomiting to start. He holds the bag with his right hand and awkwardly rubs circles on the heaving back with his left. Ghost vomits until only dry heaving wreaks his body. Finally, he leans back in his bed, looking utterly exhausted.

Soap takes the full bag and disposes it in one of the trash cans, getting a wet cloth and some water from the bathroom. He holds out the water for Ghost to take and wipes his face with the wet towel, handing it over for Ghost to clean his mouth.

While Ghost is busy cleaning himself up, Soap steps towards the cupboard, searching and finding more surgical masks.

“They are not black, but I guess they will have to do for now.” Soap gives Ghost a little smile, a soft teasing entering his voice. “They hide your pretty face as good as the black ones.”

Ghost grabs the mask and just nods, closing his eyes, not reacting to the teasing at all.

“Need anything else?”

Ghost shakes his head, not opening his eyes, his voice gravelly and quiet. “Just a little peace and quiet.”

Of course, he does. Concussions are no fun. “Right. I just wanted to check in with you.” Soap moves away from the bed, retreating towards the door. “I’ll… see you later then.” He’s not sure Ghost even registers him leaving.

Slowly, he makes his way out of the base hospital and towards his own room. The painkillers have long worn’ off, and his body is screaming at him again. He needs to rest, because starting tomorrow, he’s going to have his work cut out for him. Doing Price’s paperwork, training the recruits, checking in on his team.

This ‘light duty’ will be more hard work than any mission.

Definitely no milk run

Chapter Text

Opening the door to his quarters, Ghost squints at the brighter light in the hallway, waiting for his eyes to adjust and expecting the onset of another headache. But when the pain stays away, he releases a relieved sigh and steps fully out of his room.

It’s the first time he dares leaving the dimness and quietude of his quarters since he’s been released from medical. The concussion really hit him hard this time with recurring bouts of nausea and vomiting, sudden onsets of headaches and light-sensitivity. Only in the last two days have the symptoms finally started to abate.

Apart from feeling miserable from the dizziness and nausea, he had relished the quiet of his room. He’s had visitors of course. Price has been over, checking in on him and updating him on anything important concerning the 141. But with his right arm completely out of order and the left arm severely handycapped, the captain had been grumpy and only came by for short visits. Gaz hopped over on his crutches a few times a day, catching him up on base gossip, but because of Ghost’s headaches, Gaz’ visits have been short, too.

The person he wanted most to visit never did. Not really. Johnny never missed bringing him food three times a day, but he never stayed. And he kept quiet. Ghost doesn’t know what to make of it. Has Johnny just been considerate of his concussion, staying away to not aggravate his headache and nausea when he can’t stop talking? Ghost has a feeling that there is more to it. Because he knows that Soap can also be quiet company. He’s done it in the past when Soap couldn’t sleep and Ghost still had paperwork to do. He had just slipped into Ghost’s office, settled down in one of the chairs and started sketching into one of his notebooks. The silence had always been comfortable. Soothing even. And Ghost would have loved to have that kind of company in the last week. But he hadn’t dared to ask for it, and Soap never offered.

Then there is the thing with the hoodies. It’s taken Ghost a few days to pinpoint the source of the niggling feeling, but he’s finally found it this morning. Soap is wearing hoodies around the base, or at least every time he came over to bring him food. Ghost strains to remember any occasion outside of missions when Soap has been wearing long-sleeved clothing. Even when the temperatures near subzero, every breath visible on exhale, the Scot is still comfortable in his shirt. Now that Ghost’s mind is clearer and able to really think about it, the only few times he’s seen Soap in hoodies was when he was hurt. Sort of as a comforter. But Soap isn’t hurt. Not that Ghost is aware of at least. Laswell had told Price that Soap’s part of the mission went off without a hitch. So, why the hoodies? Is there something else bothering his sergeant?

Ghost is determined to find out, but before he can confront Soap, he needs some tea, so he turns his stride down the busy hallway towards their rec room. On entering, he notices that the room is almost empty. Only a handful of soldiers from their support team are lounging about. They don’t notice him enter, and he isn’t keen on interacting with them, so he just ignores them and starts brewing his tea. When he’s done, he leans against the wall in one corner, comfortable staying in the shadow, observing the young men while sipping his tea.

Three of the soldiers have flopped down on the couch close to him, not noticing who’s standing right behind them, hearing every word they are saying. Ghost doesn’t know them personally, has only been informed that they have been transferred to their support team a month ago, and can dimly remember seeing two of them on their last mission.

“Ah, guys, do you hear that?” One of them, a blond in his early twenties, sighs contently.

“Hear what? I don’t hear anything!” One of the other perks up, looking confused when there is nothing to hear.

“Exactly.” The first one chuckles. “It’s been real quiet this last week. Wonder why that is?”

The third one smirks at the blond. “You’re not seriously asking, are you, Freddy?”

Freddy returns the smirk, shaking his head. “Of course not.”

The second one gazes between the two, still looking confused. “What do you mean?”

“Ah, come on, Jonsey, don’t be daft.” Freddy punches him lightly on the shoulder.

When the young man still looks confused, the third one just shakes his head. “Who is always the loudest in any room? Or can be heard from a few rooms away? His annoying laughter audible even from the other side of the base?”

Freddy scoffs when Jonsey still doesn’t make a connection. “Jackson’s talking about that loudmouthed MacTavish, of course.”

“I don’t think the sergeant is loudmouthed.” Jonsey interjects timidly. “I’ve learned a lot from him in training, he always has a kind word if I’ve done something wrong, and I think he’s real funny.”

Jackson chuckles. “Sure, he’s always good for a laugh.”

Ghost realizes that he’s about to crush his mug in his hand by the force he’s applying to it at those vile words. He’s about to make those idiots eat shit, when he’s stopped by the next sentence.

“Didn’t have much to laugh this last week, did he?” Freddy smirks. “Not after he screwed up his mission. I heard the whole 141 is pissed and won’t even talk to him.”

“I heard Laswell wants him removed from the 141.” Jackson supplies. “And who would blame her. Who wants a sergeant who breaks down and cries like a baby when he loses a hostage? It was just one hostage! He should know by now that there’ll always be collateral in this line of work.”

“Exactly. And I even heard it was his fault that the hostage died. Something about neglecting to cover their rear or something.” Freddy shakes his head in disgust. “Not someone I would trust to watch my back! So glad we were with the other party and got to see the famous Ghost in action. Impressive, wasn’t it?”

Ghost’s blood is boiling. How dare those little fuckers talk shit about Soap? Soap would never leave their six uncovered. He wouldn’t break down over a killed hostage. Feel bad and guilty, yes, but he wouldn’t break down in the middle of a mission! They’ve seen so many people get killed, innocent men and women, and their deaths still affect them. Soap more than any of the others on 141. But he wouldn’t just break down and cry!

“Oh, just shut your ugly mugs, you assholes!” Another soldier from support has stepped toward the sofa and slams his coffee mug on the table in front of them. Ghost recognizes him as one of the soldiers that was with Soap on their last mission. Lewis, Ghost thinks. “Neither one of you were with us, so just stop talking shit about things you know nothing about! If it wasn’t for the sergeant, none of us would have made it to the exfil heli. Hell, without him we wouldn’t even have been able to reach the hostages in the first place! I’ve never seen anyone shoot like that. Not on the range and certainly not in the field. He covered our six all the way to exfil, always kept the hostages moving without exhausting them, and it certainly wasn’t his fault that the hostiles caught up with us! And if he hadn’t reacted as fast as he did, more people would have died. He shielded a little girl from an exploding grenade, taking the brunt of the blast.” He glares at the three men. “And just so you know, the one who died? It wasn’t ‘just one hostage’. It was a 15-year-old boy. A boy who – after enduring a week of almost no food or water – helped his four-year-old sister make the trek to exfil. Sergeant MacTavish tried to save him, too. He carried him all the way to exfil even though he was clearly hurt himself by the grenade. I for one don’t blame the sergeant for not accepting that the boy died and doing CPR all the way to base. I even helped him do it. And the way the two of you talk about this, make fun about this, you either are lucky enough to never have had a kid die under your watch or you’re just two cold hearted bastards. Neither option recommends you for this unit. I won’t stand for anyone sprouting this kind of shit about Sergeant MacTavish. He’s a damn good sergeant, one hell of a solder, and after all he must’ve already seen in his career, he’s still human enough to care. Something the two of you clearly don’t. I will report your vile comments to Captain Price and let him decide how to handle this.”

Lewis pivots abruptly and walks away from the three men, leaving Jackson and Freddy horrorstruck and Jonsey looking close to tears. As he walks past Ghost, he startles a little, only now registering the tall man concealed in the shadow of the corner. He nods his head, cheeks going a bit pink, but moves on with a mumbled “Lieutenant”.

At that greeting, the three men on the sofa whip around to stare at the dark corner in which Ghost is seething. Slowly, very slowly, he steps closer, his mask concealing his face but his whole posture radiating fury. “Names!” It’s only a low growl, but the soldiers immediately shout out their names and ranks. “Price’s office. 1200 sharp.”

He turns and moves quickly out of the rec room, not looking at those men or waiting for confirmation. He has a feeling that at least two of them won’t be around much longer. But that’s not what is fueling is fury the most at the moment. How did he not know that Soap’s mission ended that badly? That he not only lost one of the hostages, but a 15-year-old boy! And Ghost had thought that Soap was unharmed, but Lewis just said he took the brunt of the explosion, shielding a little girl! How does Ghost not know about any of this?

Yes, he’s been laying low since they came back, but Price has been to his room every day, has updated him on all the important stuff regarding their taskforce. Why didn’t he say anything about this? Why didn’t he tell him about these crucial details? Soap must be devastated about the death of that kid!

Arriving at his captain’s door, he doesn’t bother knocking, just waltzes right in. Price is in the process of struggling into a shirt, growling menacingly at the uncooperative garment.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ghost slams the door shut behind him, stopping in the middle of the room, taking on a challenging stance.

“Simon?” Price looks at him confused from out of the wrong shirt-hole. “What’s wrong?”

Ghost starts pacing, trying to calm his anger with little success. “You should have told me! I’m his lieutenant, and I need to know those things, even if I had a bad concussion. I need to know where my sergeant’s head is, don’t you think? I can’t help if I don’t know!”

“What are you talking about?” Price has pulled off the offensive shirt, standing in the middle of his room only half dressed. “Whose head is where? And why?”

He stops to glare at Price. “Johnny’s of course.”

Price only looks more confused. “What about Soap?”

Ghost shakes his head, even more frustrated than when he entered the room. “Don’t tell me you don’t know about Soap’s part of our last mission! You always read the reports before signing them!”

“I only know the basics about Soap’s mission. Just what Laswell told me.” Price shrugs. “I haven’t read the whole report yet. Soap actually did all the paperwork for me. Has been doing it for the last week, so I won’t drown in it when I can finally go back to do it myself.” He eyes Ghost more closely. “What did you hear that has you so upset?”

Ghost tells Price what he just overheard in the rec room, about all the vile shit those two soldiers spread around, about Lewis stepping in before he could and about Lewis telling them what really happened on their exfil. Price pales considerably throughout Ghost’s angry narration.

“He lost a hostage? A boy?”

“That’s what Lewis said.”

“Why didn’t he say anything?” Price doesn’t wait for an answer. An answer Ghost doesn’t have himself. He’s asked himself the same question. Why wouldn’t Soap talk to them?

Price is already out of his door, still shirtless, and moves quickly towards the door of his office, struggling to unlock it until Ghost takes the keys away and lets the door swing open. Price is already half-way to his desk when Ghost enters. He’s surprised by the state of his captain’s desk. He’s never seen it this tidy. All paperwork is tidily stacked on different piles, little post-it notes on top with instructions in Soap’s neat handwriting for Price what still needs to be done.

Ghost never knew Soap was this neat. He’s been to his sergeant’s room a couple of times, and it’s always been meticulously tidy, but he never thought more off it.

Price is already shuffling papers around, sifting through the pile with the reports he still needs to sign. At last, he finds what they are looking for, slumping down in his chair, already immersed in the report. Ghost steps behind him and starts reading. They skip the sections about their part of the mission and continue with Soap’s AAR. Reading everything that has happened in Soap’s own words breaks Ghost’s heart. The boy, Wesley Simmons, had just turned 15 right before the kidnapping. His mother was seven months pregnant and had been struggling to keep up with the fast pace of their exfil, and the boy had offered to take care of his sister Eva so his father was able to assist his mother. An informal note at the end of the report tells about the mother ending up in premature labor due to the stress of losing her son, but that she and the baby boy were fit and well. Another note outlines the steps the boy took to ensure his sister’s happiness, to keep her spirit up even if he was tired and hurting himself. Ghost can read how proud Soap was of the boy, being so mature as to keep a four-year-old happy. No easy task.

They keep reading. About the grenade, the explosion, the unharmed girl and the fatally injured boy. About their dash to exfil and the horrible chopper ride back to base.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

“No wonder I haven’t seen our sunshine in the last week!” Price shakes his head.

“Why did Laswell tell you his mission went off without a hitch?”

Price looks at him surprised. “She never said that!”

“She did! You told me so!”

Price shakes his head. “No. She said, Soap did a good job getting the hostages to safety.”

Ghost stares at him. He’s right. That’s what Price told him. And his tired and confused mind transformed it into a flawless mission. “Fuckin’ hell.” He lets out another growl.

“I’ll call Gaz. We need to talk. Need to help him!”

“Those three dimwits will be hear at 1200 awaiting punishment.”

Price looks at the clock, nodding. “That’ll give us enough time to talk tactics!”

Ghost nods absentmindedly, hearing Price make the call to get Gaz to them. He takes the report back up, and sifts through the attachments, looking for the injury reports, finding them at the end of the report. Gaz, Price and his own he expected, but seeing the fourth makes his stomach clench into a tight ball. “He was hurt in the mission.”

“That can’t be right!” Price shakes his head, looking up at him from his phone. “I saw him right before my surgery. He came to check on me. I didn’t notice any injuries!”

“Report says otherwise.” He hands the report over to Price, who blanches at the list of injuries Soap is sporting after that mission.

“How…? How is he not on medical leave?” Price’s voice mirrors the incredulity Ghost is feeling.

“Says here, Soap asked not to be put on medical leave, just light duty.”

“Soap was injured last op?” Gaz hops into the room, kicking the door closed again with one of his crutches, and slumps into one of the chairs.

“That stupid muppet.” Price sighs deeply, hands Gaz the report complete with injury report to read, then looks at Ghost. “Why would he not tell us? Why refuse to be put on medical leave?”

“I don’t know.” Ghost shrugs his shoulders. “Have you talked to him this last week?”

Price shakes his head at Ghost. “Not really. He came to check on me every day, updated me on the paperwork, brought urgent things to sign right away. But I’ve been kinda grumpy if you haven’t noticed.”

Both Ghost and Gaz snort at that, Gaz even adding a “no shit!”.

“I haven’t seen much of him, either. Every time I wanted to hang out with him, he had something important to do. I even followed him to the training field a few times, trying to rile him up with a little teasing, but he didn’t even have any comebacks and stayed professional for the recruits.” He looks around at Price and Ghost. “He’s been acting weird this last week. And what’s up with the hoodies?”

“What hoodies?” Price turns to look at Gaz.

Ghost sighs deeply. So, it’s not just him. “Soap is wearing hoodies.”

“Our Soap?” They nod. “The one who still wears shortsleeve when even polar bears go and get their coats?” They nod again. “Fuck, you’re right. I didn’t even notice. Holy shit, this is bad!”

Gaz and Ghost both look at Price for more information, the latter breaking the tense silence. “Why is this bad?”

Price scrubs his less injured hand over his face, looking a little uncomfortable sharing this next bit of information. “Soap only wears hoodies when he’s struggling mentally.”

Two pairs of eyes blink at Price, who continues. “They make him feel safe, I guess. Usually, he only wears them right after difficult missions until he’s worked through whatever is bothering him. Then he’s back being the sunshine we all know and love.”

“But why didn’t he tell us?” Gaz looks horrorstruck by his friend not telling them how bad he’s been doing this last week. “About the boy or about his injuries?”

Ghost lets out a frustrated growl. “I’ve asked myself the same question. And I can only think of one thing that makes remotely sense.”

“And that would be…?” Price looks at him, a frown set deep on his face.

“He didn’t want to tell us, because we teased him before the op that he always comes back injured. And now that I think about it, he didn’t brush the teasing off as he usually does. He took it to heart, thought we really think it’s a bother to us when he gets hurt.”

Gaz groans. “Ah, shite. I even mocked him after the mission how he had it all easy, a milk run.” He buries his face in his hands with another groan. “Coming back unharmed while we all are out of commission. I think I even laughed at him that he had to do all the work now.”

Price face is a mix of disbelief, worry and guilt. His shoulders drop as he lets out an exhausted sigh. “Fuckin’ hell. I did the same. Not the laughing, but I made him promise to do my paperwork. I trusted what Laswell told me, and the muppet didn’t correct me.” He shakes his head defeatedly, then looks at Ghost. “He was wearing your hoody. Right after the mission.”

Ghost closes his eyes and exhales. “And I sent him away. No wonder he didn’t offer to stay.” At the confused looks of Price and Gaz, Ghost just shakes his head. That would take too long to explain. “We all hurt him before the mission. We all hurt him in the last week. We need to make it right with him.”

The others nod and together they start forming a plan to make their sergeant see how much he’s needed in their team, how much he is appreciated, and that they are there for him to lean upon.

They won’t fail him again.

Chapter Text

The cool morning air greets Ghost as soon as he steps outside even though it’s already nearing noon, and he squints into the weak sunshine. They had decided for Ghost to go look for Soap and bring him in to talk in Price’s office. They would all be there to show Soap that he is an essential part of this team, that they need him to be okay and healthy, and that he can always tell them if he’s not. All teasing aside.

Now that Ghost knows what’s going on, he’s eager to lay eyes on his sergeant, and he knows that at this time of day, he should be outside on the training field with Gaz’s recruits, doing some drills. Even before he turns the corner, he can hear familiar shouts from the obstacle course. Quickening his stride, he is eager to get his first glimpse on how Soap is making the recruits sweat.

The training field comes into view, and Ghost scans the area out of habit. Soap is standing at the end of the obstacle course, his eyes searching the course for the last of his recruits struggling to make it to the finish line, while the rest of the group are already huddled together, gasping for air. Ghost moves towards the observation platform, the quickest way to where Soap is, and also the most unobtrusive way. He loves watching Soap teach, because he’s excellent at it. He’s patient to show difficult maneuvers over and over again until even the slowest can do it. He knows the recruits and what he can expect from them, knows when to push and when to help and guide. He is on friendly terms with his recruits but he never takes any shit from them. It’s a fine line that Soap walks effortlessly, and one of the reasons they respect the hell out of him.

Stepping onto the platform and into the shadows, Ghost gets his first good look at Soap in broad daylight in a week, and he doesn’t like what he sees. Soap’s posture is the first thing that stands out like a beacon of warning. The Scot usually stands tall and relaxed, his perfectly toned body radiating self-confidence easily. The man standing down there in the training ground holds himself stiffly if not a little hunched, his crossed arms looking more like he’s hugging himself to try and keep himself together than conveying a relaxed observer. Soap looks smaller somehow. Thinner. Ghost can’t be sure from the distance, but Soap even seems to be a little paler under his usually tanned skin. His face looks tired and there are dark bags under his eyes. And of course, he’s wearing a hoody.

Seeing Soap standing there, Ghost wonders how he hasn’t noticed all of this before. How none of them have noticed. It’s not even the careful movements that should have tipped him and the others off. Soap’s whole demeanor screams “hurt” loudly for everyone to see. But they hadn’t. Not until now.

He’s about to move down towards the field to finally get their sergeant out of there, when Soap’s voice rings out loud and clear over the training field. “All of ye, come over here, gather ‘round.”

Ghost studies Soap and notices his sudden tense posture. The recruits hurry to comply and stand in a lose circle around him, all of them looking at him in tense silence. Only one, a blond one that looks vaguely familiar even though Ghost knows he hasn’t had contact with any of these recruits before, gives a smirk and whispers to his neighbor. Soap sees but ignores it. Odd.

“I’ve been teaching you now for nearly a week.” Again, the blond whispers something to his neighbor who looks uncomfortable, nudging the blond with his elbow to shut up. “And I was being pretty patient, hoping this unacceptable behavior would stop. But it didn’t. It will stop now!”

The recruits look at each other, none of them seem to have a clue what unacceptable behavior has been going on this last week.

Soap turns to the blond recruit, motioning him into the circle. “Recruit Ashton. I’ve asked you a couple of times this week to stop your rumormongering and the undermining of my teaching, but you didn’t. As this seems something very important to you, but not important enough to bring to my superiors, this is your chance now to tell everyone what your problem is.” When the blond doesn’t move, Soap’s tone gets a little sharper. “Come on now, this is your chance. Step into the circle and tell the group what you have been whispering around all week.”

Reluctantly, the young man steps into the circle, at first looking a little embarrassed. None of his friends dare to look at him, and he shuffles his feet.

“So? Out with it. We are all here to listen to you.”

It looks like the man is considering how to phrase what he has been saying. Looking at Soap, Ghost knows his sergeant already knows what is coming, sees him nearly vibrate with anticipation beneath his outer layer of dangerous calmness.

“What’s up, Recruit Ashton? Cat got your tongue?”

“No, sir.” Ashton finally gets his shit together and with a little smirk, he starts talking. “I was saying that Sergeant Garrick is doing a much better job at instructing us than you do.”

“Hmmm. I see.” Soap’s voice is calm, but Ghost knows that it’s a very dangerous calm. A calm with which Soap is goading his prey to its own funeral pyre. He will guide him to dig his own grave, then make him an offer to hang himself and the guy will take it happily and even thank Soap for it. This is going to be interesting. “And why do you think that is?”

“Because Sergeant Garrick knows what he’s teaching us. He shows us exactly how the maneuvers go, lets us practice with him, is hands-on, not standing at the sideline yelling at us to do it differently. He’s always straight to the point, not boring us with anecdotes of missions I’m not sure you’ve even been on, or making us memorize information about explosive details we’ll never ever need in the field. And at the end of the day, there’s always a sparring competition and the winner can go one round against Sergeant Garrick.”

“I see. Anything to add to that?” Soap is still calm, and Ghost has a hard time not to explode on Soap’s behalf. They all have different teaching methods, all equally effective, and everyone has his own field of expertise. And yes, Soap can get excited when it comes to explosives, but Ghost knows he’s especially careful what and how much to tell those new recruits about the things that can go boom. So, whatever he shared with them, will have been something they will be very grateful for in the field some day. And usually, Soap is very hands-on teaching the recruits. Ghost suspects he’s been keeping his distance to not aggravate his injuries.

“Yes.” The insolent blond sneers at Soap, standing tall now. “I’d rather not be instructed by a gutless sergeant who broke down crying over a hostage who died because of his own incompetency.”

Ghost freezes. Did this idiot really just say what he did?

“And where did you get this information?” Soap’s voice is now icy cold, his glare burning into the recruit who doesn’t even notice.

“My older brother is on the 141’s support team.”

Ah, that’s why he looked so familiar to Ghost. Very interesting. The older brother is not only spewing vile and inaccurate rumors about Soap, he’s also sharing classified information.

“I see.” Soap eyes the recruit from top to bottom, and Ghost can see that the trap is about to be laid. “So, to sum it up, you don’t want to be taught by me because you think I shouldn’t be on the 141 in the first place. That right?”

Ashton nods.

“Okay. I’ll make you a deal, Ashton. As you miss the sparring competition at the end of the lessons so much, I’ll give you the chance to fight against me right here and now. If I make you tap out three times, you will apologize to me, you will never say another word about what you think is my incompetency, and you will walk around base for one week with a poster on your back that states and corrects all the bullshit that you just said.”

Ashton starts to disagree, but Soap holds his hands up. “If you can make me tap out only once, I’ll resign from my post at the 141.”

Ashton’s mouth gapes open, and Ghost has to remind himself to close his own mouth. What is Soap doing? You never know how those matches go. And Soap is injured, far from being 100%. He needs to stop this before Ashton regains his wits and they seal the deal.

“Deal.” Ashton moves forward and they shake hands.

Shit. Too late.

Ghost watches in horror as the circle of the recruits widens to give the two competitors more room. Soap steps to the side and pulls off his hoody. A gasp goes through the recruits standing close to him as his shirt slides up a little, showing his lower back littered with a myriad of barely healed cuts in a sea of green-yellow bruises. Soap pulls his shirt back down and steps back into the circle, rolling his shoulders to warm up a little, and Ghost can see the small wince at the motion. This is the worst idea Soap has ever had. Ghost should’ve stepped in by now, but he can’t do anything anymore without Soap losing face. Ashton smiles at his friends, a superior smirk on his face as he watches Soap shake out his arms, the pained wince this time clearly visible for all of them.

“Let’s do this.” Ashton shouts cockily and attacks.

Ghost smiles widely at the elegant display of Soap’s strength, speed and abilities. It doesn’t even take five seconds before the blond lies on the ground, rendered motionless, struggling to free himself. Soap had moved too fast for anyone but Ghost to see what he did. He looks around at the o-mouthed faces around him, keeping the recruit still pinned to the ground. “Ashton’s attack was pretty easy to anticipate. It was nothing original, just a straight forward left hook, followed by an upper cut. I blocked his punches and used the maneuver we trained on yesterday to get him on the ground. Now I’m using the pinning technique I showed you this morning to immobilize him. See my easy hold on his arm here?” He points with his chin to his right hand, getting eager nods from the onlookers. “If I apply more pressure, the arm breaks easily.” Leaning down to Ashton, he adds. “Feel free to tap out any time.” Ashton tries to shake his head but is hindered by Soap’s hold on him. Soap shrugs and turns his hand just a little, making Ashton yelp and tapping with his other hand frantically. Soap releases him instantly and gets up, moving back to his starting position.

Ashton glares at him and shakes out his hands, mumbling under his breath. Soap just gives him one of his annoying smiles, and Ashton falls for it. Again, he attacks and within a few seconds finds himself in a chokehold. “This time,” Soap raises his voice over the panted struggle for air from his recruit, “Recruit Ashton wasn’t creative either. He varied his punches, even tried for a kick, but was unsuccessful. I moved out of his way, using his momentum and the levering technique I showed you on Tuesday to turn him around and into this chokehold. Can anyone tell me when we did that?”

A young woman raises her hand and after a nod from Soap she tells the class that this was the first thing he taught them on his first day with them. “Very good, Recruit Lyle. Do you also remember how to finish this?”

She nods. “If you apply more pressure, he will pass out.” At her words, the young man in Soap’s arm starts struggling again, throwing his elbows back in an attempt to free himself. His left elbow connects painfully with Soaps left side, and for a second Soap’s hold loosens. Ashton tries to scramble away, but Soap has him firmly in his right arm and pulls him back, choking off more air. “Absolutely right.” And to Ashton he adds. “Tap out now, or you will pass out, which counts as tapping out, too.”

The stubborn recruit glares at Soap, but when Soap starts to flex his muscles, the man taps out quickly.

“Last chance, Ashton.”

There it is, the offered noose and enough rope to hang himself with it.

The young man has stopped smirking. He’s panting hard, but also sizing up Soap for weak points. He’s noticed how Soap his holding his left side now, knows that this is the spot where he needs to hit him to even have the slightest chance of winning. Ashton stoops down and grabs a handful of dirt, throwing it at Soap’s face who backs up a little surprised, but Ashton pushes forward, a large stick suddenly in his hand swinging and connecting full force with Soap’s left side. Soap falls hard on his back and the man is on him instantly, having abandoned the stick and pulling his hands back to start dishing out punches. But it doesn’t come to that. In the next instant, the young man flies through the air, slamming hard into the ground face first, lying motionless. Everyone around is frozen.

Soap gets up from where he’s kneeling, pointing a finger at Ashton, then at the rest of the group. “Cheap shots like the ones Recruit Ashton used just now can save your life outside the wire, but here in training, in a sparring match, they are highly frowned upon. And it only helped me - not him - to  show you how to get away from someone who is trying to pin you down and punch you unconscious. This was a technique I haven’t been able to teach you yet. Maybe this will be tomorrow’s lesson.” He nudges the recruit still lying in the dirt with his foot. “Get up, recruit, so you can concentrate on what I have to say.”

Ghost can hear that the ice is back in Soap’s voice. The man gets slowly to his feet. Blood is pouring out of his clearly broken nose, and his right shoulder looks dislocated. He is the perfect picture of defeat.

“I take it you want your brief encounter with gravity count as your third tap-out?”

The blond head bobs once.

“I need to hear it from you, to confirm that you tapped out three times and lost our deal, recruit.”

“Yes, sir.” It’s quiet, but still there. “I lost three times fair and square to you, and I will uphold my part of the deal.” He looks up at Soap, his face solemn and sincere despite the blood still seeping out of his nose. “I deeply apologize for listening to rumors and spreading them, for not recognizing your abilities and for undermining your training. I have learned from my mistake and will work hard to earn your trust again. I can count myself lucky to have the opportunity to learn from you. Now I can only hope that you can accept my apology.”

Soap scrutinizes the young man, looking for any sign of insincerity. Finally, he nods. “I accept your apology, recruit. There is another lesson to learn from this, so stay with me.” He turns to the rest, while Ghost finally starts to move to get to his sergeant, still listening to everything he has to say. “All of you, listen closely.” He gestures to their surroundings. “If that had been a real attack, and Ashton here had been the hostile, he never would have had the chance to overpower me. Just like here. Even if I had been at less then 50% of my usual like I am today. Does anyone know why?”

“Because you’re just that good?” The female recruit from earlier pipes up.

Soap smiles at her but shakes his head. “I wish I was, but no. Anyone else?”

All of the recruits stay silent, and even Ghost doesn’t know where Soap is going with this, but he has reached the bottom of the ladder that leads down from the observation platform, and moves through the trees surrounding the field, still staying in the shadows.

“Because out there, with only a few exceptions, we work as a team. We look out for each other. There is always someone watching your six. And if someone had attacked me like Ashton did in the field, they would have been dropped by a bullet sent by my overwatch. Right, lieutenant?” He doesn’t turn towards Ghost, but Ghost can hear his smile.

“You bet!” He should have known that Johnny would see him the moment he stepped onto that platform. Ghost smiles under his mask, stepping out of the shadows and into the training field. A gasp runs through the recruits as they look at him in awe. By now he’s used to the stares he gets from people when they first get to see him up close and personal.

Soap finally turns, giving Ghost a curt nod before he turns back to the defeated recruit. “Now go to medical and get that nose and shoulder looked at. Find me when you’re done and we’ll talk some more. You can work on that poster when you’re done with training for the day.”

The recruits start to move, one stepping closer to Ashton to help him to medical, but a sharp voice stops them. “Wait!” Ghost doesn’t move away from his post, but his voice carries nonetheless. “When you’re done in medical, you will go and find your brother and the two of you will report to Captain Price’s office. We’ll do the talking there.”

Soap shoots him a quizzical look, but the blond recruit doesn’t question his new orders and starts moving towards medical, the others moving in the other direction towards the mess hall, talking animatedly about what they just witnessed.

Soap moves to the tree where he had dropped his hoody, carefully maneuvering his torso back into it. He sways slightly, leaning against the tree when he’s done, and Ghost thinks Soap has turned significantly paler in the last few minutes. He moves towards him, his hands already hovering to catch him if he drops.

But Soap suddenly turns around, a little startled at Ghost’s closeness, taking a step back and studying him. “It’s good to see you up and about, LT. What can I help you with?”

Ghost is taken aback by that rather formal address and just stares at his sergeant. Soap still looks at him expectantly, his blue eyes sparkling only a tiny bit but they seemingly see right through his mask. “I… I came to tell you that Price wants to see you.”

Soap lets out a sigh, his face losing that little spark again. “Okay. I’m done here anyways.” He starts to move, and Ghost can see that he’s in pain, but he doesn’t know how to approach him, so he just falls in step next to him, ready to support instantly if needed.

“Do you know what the captain wants to see me about?” Soap’s voice stays neutral, careful. Distant.

Ghost hates how Soap seems to be so far away from him, no teasing in his voice, no sparkle in his eyes. Soap looks resigned. And he hates even more that they did that to him. Ghost really sucks at this talking-feelings-stuff. He’s more of a practical man, doesn’t do feelings very well, if at all. That’s more Garrick’s and Price’s domain. But he needs to reach out to the man next to him. To let him know that they are here. “We just found out about your mission.”

Soap halts suddenly, a shudder running through him and his shoulders drop. His arms are crossing his chest again, holding him together, as he turns slowly towards Ghost. “What do you mean you ‘just found out’?”

Ghost also stops and faces him. “We didn’t know what happened on your part of the mission. Laswell only told us you did well getting the hostages out. So, we assumed everything went as planned. I assumed you were okay.”

Soap stares at him for a moment, then lowers his head. “I was. I am.”

“No, you’re not. And you don’t need to be.” Ghost shakes his head at him. “We only found out today, that you were injured, and we only learned about the boy this morning.” Soap’s gaze snaps up and burns into Ghost’s eyes, words failing the younger man. It’s the first time Ghost sees his sergeant without words, and it hammers down how deeply affected Soap is by that last mission, how he’s only held together by thin threads that can come undone any second. Ghost puts his left hand on Soap’s shoulder, squeezing slightly. “I’m really sorry that he didn’t make it.”

Soap nods, bowing his head to not look at Ghost. “Yeah, well,… I… “ He looks back up, and Ghost can see the sadness and guilt deeply rooted in the depths of Soap’s soul. A humorless huff escapes Soap. “We can’t save them all, yeah? At least I got the rest out.”

“No.” Ghost shakes his head, pulling Soap closer and into his chest, holding the smaller man easily enveloped in his arms. “No, we can’t save them all. But that doesn’t mean it’s an acceptable loss. Losing any hostage, especially a young kid, isn’t something to just brush off. It chips away parts of your soul.”

Soap nods against his shoulder, his body starting to shake from silent sobs, his voice coming out in choked huffs. “I tried. I really tried but I failed.” He looks up at Ghost, and he can see the despair leaking out like the tears that stream down Soap’s face. “I’m sorry.”

And with those words, Soap’s eyes roll back into his head and his body goes limp in Ghost’s arms. Ghost tightens his grip and slowly and carefully lowers Soap to the ground. He looks around, but the training field is abandoned, no one around to help. Ghost pulls out his phone and speed-dials Price. The captain answers after the first ring.

“What the fuck is taking so long?”

“We were on our way to you. He collapsed just outside the training field. Send medics.”

There is cursing on the other end of the line. “Will do. And we’ll be over as fast as we can.”

Ghost meanwhile checks on Soap. The Scot is pale, his skin cool to the touch. Ghost taps his cheeks, hoping to wake Soap up. “Come on, Johnny, I need you awake!”

Blue eyes open slowly, at first blinking a little confused, but as soon as Soap’s eyes find Ghost, they focus and stay with him. “Simon?”

“I’m here, Johnny. I won’t leave.” Ghost can’t believe how gentle his voice sounds, and he wipes a few strands of black hair out of Soap’s eyes. “Can you tell me where you hurt?”

Soap closes his eyes for a moment, letting out a ragged breath. Blinking back up at Ghost, he sighs. “Left side… ribs… already broken… breathing hurts…”

Ghost can hear that breathing must be fucking agonizing judging by the wheezing sound Soap makes with every intake of breath. He pulls up the hoody and the shirt to reveal an angry looking dark red area, a new bruise in the making. That’s where the stick impacted. Maybe it drove one of the already broken ribs deeper, displacing it. Ghost pulls his gloves off his fingers, lightly running them over the forming bruise. It’s an odd feeling. Like pressing down on bubble wrap, making the little air-pockets burst. This is not good.

Soap gasps at the light pressure. “Fucking… hurts.”

“Sorry, Johnny.” Ghost looks at the exposed torso, and just hopes that it isn’t more than broken ribs. But his gut tells him there is a lot more going on. Soap’s pulse is faint and quick, he’s slowly going into shock. “Stay with me, Johnny. Help is on the way, yeah?”

Soap’s eyes find Ghost’s again, and he can see the struggle, the fear and the panic as Soap gasps for air, his hands starting to claw at his throat. “Can’t… breathe…! Si?”

There is nothing Ghost can do but watch his sergeant slowly suffocate. He’s about to call Price again, asking where the fucking medics are, when there are suddenly a lot more people around him. He looks up to see two medics and one of the docs from the ER, dropping to their knees next to him, already pulling out their gear. One is cutting Soap’s hoody and shirt away, the second one covering his face with a large mask, administering oxygen. While they work, Ghost tells them what he thinks happened, tells them about the fight and Soap’s rapidly decreasing health.

He watches them work while he still keeps hold of one of Soap’s hands, sees them poke needles into Soap’s chest, sees them prick him with a couple of needles for iv’s, sees them oozing urgency. It’s really bad. Ghost doesn’t know if he’s glad that Soap is not awake for this, or not.

At some point, Gaz and Price arrive, and he knows they are by his side talking to him, but he doesn’t register their words. Not when Johnny’s life is in limbo. He can’t lose him, not the man that has gotten closer to him than anyone in the past years. The one who made it past his carefully erected barricades, all his defenses without him even noticing and making himself right at home in Ghost’s heart. In Simon’s soul. Johnny had managed to make him feel human again.

He can’t lose him now.

The medics carefully transfer Soap onto a backboard, strap him down tightly and race away. Not much they can do here. Gaz starts hopping after them as fast as he can on his crutches, his face scrunched up in silent worry for his friend.

Slowly, Ghost rises, too, looking after them and feeling a bit lost. Price is still at his side, a knowing look on his face, and Ghost realizes losing Soap wouldn’t only affect him.

“Come on, lad. John is in good hands. Let’s get down there to be with him when he wakes up. God knows, we let him down enough.”

Ghost nods, and together they slowly make their way to medical.

Chapter Text

The early morning sun is weak, the air is cold, every breath coming out in big puffs of white, but Soap loves it. He has always liked the colder weather, never being bothered by frigid temperatures, always loved the cool air touching his bare skin. But this last week he’s run rather cold, retreating into the warmth and comfort of hoodies to fight of the coldness that has creeped into his bones though he knows that it has nothing to do with the weather.

He feels run down, exhausted, as he makes his way over to the training field at the buttcrack of dawn. Sleep isn’t something that comes easily these days, and when his body finally demands rest, his sleep is short-lived and fitful, nightmares making him wake up screaming after only a few hours. He has filled his days with work, taking over most of the workload of his injured teammates, to not let his mind wander. But as soon as he closes the door behind him in the evening, the quiet of his room taking over, his thoughts are drawn to the lifeless body of Wesley, replaying that moment over and over in his head. Usually, it only takes him a day or two to work through tough missions like that. The debriefing always helps, analyzing the situations, talking them through with people he respects and trusts to put them to rest. But there hasn’t been an official debrief this time with his team all in the hospital and on sick leave. He did his AAR and a quick talk with Laswell, but it’s not the same. And his team has been distant in the last week, none of them really available to listen to his problem. He has tried everything, desperate to get some closure. He even reached out to the base shrink, but of course she’s on leave this week.

Soap doesn’t look forward to this mornings training session. Gaz’ recruits are mostly okay, two or three even promising, but there is one among them, Ashton, who has been constantly undermining his training. Soap has had a few talks with the man but they were never effective for long. He knows he shouldn’t tolerate this behavior anymore, but he’s just so tired. And though his body is healing, the cuts and bruises slowly fading away, his ribs still ache when he takes deeper breaths and his shoulder feels sore and isn’t back to its full range of motion yet. His body still recovering and his mind exhausted, Ashton sprouting rumors about him and badmouthing him every opportunity he gets only adds insult to injury. They are not even original insults, nothing he hasn’t heard before. That he’s too loud, that there is no substance behind his big words, that he’s the weakest link in the 141 and doesn’t belong there. The worst of them saying he didn’t really earn his position at the 141 and that he only got chosen because someone higher up liked him.

His rational mind knows this is bullshit. He knows what he’s capable of, that there is no one who can compete with him when it comes to explosives, that he might not be the best sniper there is in the SAS but he’s still up there in the top 10 and that he can wipe the floor with any of those recruits at hand-to-hand in his sleep. But there is still this nagging feeling that maybe… just maybe those rumors started with Gaz.

Because Gaz has come over in the last days, hopping all the way down to the training field with him, reminding him to do a good job with the recruits or someone might get hurt. He mostly knows that Gaz is just… Gaz. His best friend, who loves nothing more than to tease the hell out of him. But after everything Gaz and Ghost and Price said before the last mission, he’s just not sure anymore if it’s really just teasing. And he’s pretty sure Ashton overheard Gaz the other day when he told Soap not to break his recruits because he didn’t want to have to put them back together. Gaz had been teasing, of course, but it also sounded a bit like he was doubting Soap’s abilities to teach those muppets, that Gaz really thinks Soap is the weakest link in the 141. The one that’s all talk but doesn’t pull his weight.

Arriving at the training field, he pulls his mind away from his spiraling thoughts, ready for another grueling session. He has been itching to be more hands-on, but his shoulder and ribs tell him he has to take it easy for a little longer. He waits for all the recruits to arrive and sends them on a warm-up run around the field, using the time to assess all of them, easily finding the ones he will recommend for their support team. A young woman, Rachel Lyle, is one of the most promising among them. Bright and fit, a good shot and a great team player. And she’s excellent with explosives. He might even consider her for advanced demolition training.

The recruits are back from their run, and he starts the training session. He grills them on lessons he taught them in the last days while they have to do push-ups, sit-ups and squats. Weapons, explosives, field tactics, first aid. Lyle excels of course, while Ashton, the recruit spewing rumors about him, fails miserably. He sends them on another run, this time around the obstacle course before they start their hand-to-hand training for the day.

While they’re struggling through it, his mind wanders again. After everything that has happened, he isn’t sure the 141 is the right place for him anymore. He’s felt at home here more than he has ever felt with any team, but judging by the last week he might have overstayed his welcome here, too. Gaz had been released from the hospital first. Every time Soap had met Gaz, his friend had either been grumpy that he has to use crutches for the next few weeks limiting him to base, or he’d followed Soap around, teasing him about his work, about his training, laughing that he had to do all the work. He knows Gaz, and it was probably only meant as a joke, as a way to lift Gaz’ spirit, but it had hurt. He had started to tell Gaz that he didn’t have time to hang out with him because there was so much work to do. Just to get rid of him.

Price had been even worse. Being handicapped with both arms out of commission doesn’t sit well with his captain. Soap has done his best to make it through the paperwork. As much as he hates doing paperwork, he knows he’s actually pretty good at it. Detailed in the reports, eloquent with the wording but also short and crisp. He had worked through Price’s chaotic desk, bothering his captain only when things needed his immediate attention. And he knows he’s done a good job with it, everything in order for Price to sign as soon as he’s able. But there was no praise from Price even though Soap knows the captain has been to his office a couple of times in the last few days. There has only been grumbling and bad temper.

And then there is Ghost. The main reason why Soap had signed up when Price had asked him to join the 141. After Las Almas, Soap thought there was a connection between him and his lieutenant. He’s being drawn to the big man. His praise, his opinion, it all means more to Soap than it should. And though his mind tells him that Ghost’s “annoy someone else” from before the mission was probably just a “let me finish my tea in peace before I can trade stupid jokes with you”, the tone it was said in felt so much more like a “shut up and fuck off”. To hear this from the man in the skull mask had hurt the most. And it all was driven home by Ghost’s statement in the hospital that he needed “peace and quiet”. In other words, NOT Soap. Because Soap talks too much. Because he’s loud. Because he’s too much. So, he had stayed away. Well, he did check on Ghost when he brought food and water to his room, but he never stayed, not long enough to bother him, to disrupt his peace and quiet. And having to stay away had slowly rubbed his soul raw.

Maybe it really is time to move on. Find a new team. And keep his walls up this time. Stay quiet and professional and not let anyone come close to him.

One by one the recruits finish the obstacle course, coming to a halt around him, some looking still fresh, others looking like they might collapse any second now. Though Ashton is still panting for breath, he’s also already whispering to one of his friends again. Soap steels himself. This needs to stop. And it needs to stop now.

A flicker of movement from up at the observation platform distracts him momentarily. They have company, and even the minimal movement he was able to see lets him know that it is Ghost. The man in the skull mask is up there watching. As far as Soap knows, it’s Ghost’s first time out of his room since he was released from medical. Why did he choose to come here? Was he sent by Price? Does Price think he needs to be supervised? But there hasn’t been anyone watching in the last few days, so this is rather unlikely. Or is Ghost here to check on the quality of his instructions because he has heard the rumors? Does that mean he believes them, and only needs proof to act? Soap has no idea. But it really doesn’t matter. Soap is here now and has to whip some discipline into one insolent recruit.

He calls the recruits together, and his eyes fall on Ashton. The stupid kid is still talking to his neighbor who looks a little uncomfortable. “I’ve been teaching you now for nearly a week. And I was being pretty patient, hoping this unacceptable behavior would stop. But it didn’t. It will stop now!” He pierces Ashton with his glare, but the blond man is utterly unimpressed. Soap orders him into the circle, tells him to take this chance to tell everyone what he’s been saying behind Soap’s back. The young man takes a moment to find his courage, but then he repeats everything he’s been saying. To his credit he tries to phrase it a little better, but he can’t pour sugar on his shit and call it candy.

Soap knew exactly what Ashton had been saying behind his back, but it still stings. That this recruit doesn’t think him capable of doing his job. Maybe Gaz really is better a better teacher, who knows? But bringing these recruits, especially Ashton, up to the lowest standard of this taskforce, is a job he’s more than capable of.

When the recruit reveals the – highly sensitive and classified – information about their latest mission, a wave of steely calm settles over him. How on earth did he know about any of that? “And where did you get this information?” Ashton doesn’t even know he’s walking on thin ice here. Because whoever shared this sensible information with him is in big trouble.

“My older brother is on the 141’s support team.”

“I see.” Soap scrutinizes Ashton from top to bottom. His older brother? Soap racks his brain who that might be, finally landing on another Ashton, another blond man. Freddy. He actually liked the man. Funny, though sometimes a little on the cruel side. Quite capable in his job, a good shot. Apparently not so good in keeping his mouth shut about classified information.

“So, to sum it up, you don’t want to be taught by me because you think I shouldn’t be on the 141 in the first place. That right?” The blond idiot nods. Soap knows he can wipe the floor with any of those recruits on any given day, even half asleep. But he has to take into account that he’s still injured. His left shoulder lacks a little range of motion, and he can’t predict what his ribs will do when he gets into a fight. He doesn’t doubt that he will win against this particular recruit. He’s watched him all week, and in Soap’s opinion he’s always been bottom of the class in every subject and that was before Soap realized the man was badmouthing him. He decides it’s time to be a little more hands-on. To see what Ashton is made of and how he’ll take an ass-whupping. “Okay. I’ll make you a deal, Ashton. As you miss the sparring competition at the end of the lessons so much, I’ll give you the chance to fight against me right here and now. If I make you tap out three times, you will apologize to me, you will never say another word about what you think is my incompetency, and you will walk around base for one week with a poster on your back that states and corrects all the bullshit that you just said.”

Predictably, Ashton shakes his head. No way will he voluntarily humiliate himself. Soap keeps his evil grin on the inside, or the kid won’t take his bait, so he just holds his hand up to silence the idiot before he even starts to protest. “If you can make me tap out only once, I’ll resign from my post at the 141.”

It’s getting harder to keep the laughter inside. Ashton just stares at him, mouth agape, unsure if Soap really made that offer. Because, of course, he thinks he’s so much better and will win at least once. Especially since Gaz told him that he let the recruits win once in a while to keep up morale. Soap doesn’t agree there, doesn’t think letting the recruits win will boost morale, but it all plays out in his favor now.

They shake hands on the deal, and Soap makes his way to one of the trees to get out of his hoody. It’ll impede his movements a little, and he won’t take a chance there. Predictably, the recruits around him gasp when his shirt rides up and they see his cut up back, but he ignores them. They should have seen that a week ago, when all of it was still fresh, stinging with every movement, reminding him of his failure with every painful breath.

He returns into the circle to make this lesson worthwhile. And of course, Ashton attacks as soon as Soap faces him.

The fight is as easy as Soap knew it would be. Ashton is uninspired in his attacks, too slow, too clumsy, and Soap really wonders how that idiot made it into this selection program. And because Soap thinks it’s not fair to the other recruits to waste precious training time, he makes this fight a lesson in applied fighting techniques, pointing out which technique he used. Maybe it’s a bit petty, but Ashton deserves every dig at his incompetency.

As easy as it is to overpower Ashton, as much it hurts. His shoulder throbs, and he thinks that elbow punch did something to his ribs. And the stick drove the point home. Holy shit. But this is not the time to show how much Ashton was able to hurt him. This is the time to make his point. To show them all that he won’t tolerate being badmouthed or undermined. And looking at the devastated look on Ashton’s bloody face, he got the message. His apology sounds sincere, and he might really have learned his lesson.

Soap is about to set the recruits free for the day, but Ghost is on the move, which reminds him that there is one more thing he needs to teach them today. To be part of a team. To always have someone at your six. To look out for the rest of your team. “Right, lieutenant?” He knows Ghost is close, knows he has heard everything he told those recruits. He still doesn’t know why Ghost is here, why his recruit training is Ghost’s first stop after leaving his sanctuary after a week of solitude.

“You bet!”

Seeing the recruits gasp and step back in awe, Soap knows Ghost finally stepped out of the shadows. He turns to greet Ghost with a curt nod before he sends Ashton off to be seen at medical. Though he knows Ashton will remember this lesson, they really need to talk more. About those classified information. About his performance in training. And that if he doesn’t get better quickly, he won’t have the slightest chance to even apply to the 141 support.

But Ghost overrules him. “When you’re done in medical, you will go and find your brother and the two of you will report to Captain Price’s office. We’ll do the talking there.” His voice is dark and promises nothing good. Soap wonders why Ghost interrupted. Didn’t he approve of the way Soap put Ashton into his place? Does he want to talk to Price about how he handled Ashton? How he broke a recruit’s nose?

Soap is too tired to figure it out. He’ll probably find out soon enough. Moving to the tree to pick up his hoody is exhausting. This fight has taken more of a toll than he thought. His ribs ache and breathing hurts. Getting into the damn hoody is bloody excruciating, and he needs a moment to breathe when he’s finally found all the right exits for his head and arms. When he turns around, Ghost stands not two feet in front of him. Soap takes a surprised step backwards, studying the man he’s missed so much this last week. He’s missed his company, the closeness, the bad jokes, missed the mere presence of the big man in the skull mask. But Ghost has made it clear that he doesn’t want Soap close. That he needs peace and quiet. So, Soap braces himself and pulls up his walls, trying to distance himself as much as he can. “It’s good to see you up and about, LT. What can I help you with?”

Ghost stops in his movements and stares at him. What now? Did he say something wrong? Isn’t he allowed to be happy to see his lieutenant anymore? Ghost’s answer confirms his suspicion that Ghost was just here to check on his instructions. “I came to tell you that Price wants to see you.”

Right. This will be it. “Okay. I’m done here anyways.” He looks around the training field, his heart sad that it might be the last time he did training here, but maybe it’s all for the best.

They start moving towards the exit and the barracks, Ghost falling into step next to him, staying quiet. It feels like he’s being escorted to his execution. “Do you know what the captain wants to see me about?” He tries to keep his voice neutral, not to let Ghost see how much he dreads that conversation, how much this distance, this rejection from his team hurts him.

It’s quiet for a moment. Ghost seems to struggle for words, probably trying to figure out if and how to tell him that he will be transferred out. But the next words come as a surprise. “We just found out about your mission.”

What? Soap stops suddenly, his arms snaking around his torso, keeping a firm hold to not let any emotion slip. “What do you mean you ‘just found out’?”

Ghost also stops and faces him, only the eyes visible behind that black balaclava. “We didn’t know what happened on your part of the mission.” How can they not have known? Soap has been meticulous with the paperwork. Price has his AAR. And he knows Laswell talked to the man more than once in the last week.

“Laswell only told us you did well getting the hostages out. So, we assumed everything went as planned. I assumed you were okay.”

Soap lowers his head, not wanting to show how much it hurts that his team never even saw him struggling, didn’t see in the last week that he was not okay. That he still isn’t okay. But if they didn’t see it, he won’t admit to it. “I was. I am.”

“No, you’re not. And you don’t need to be. We only found out today, that you were injured.” Soap keeps pressure on his aching left side, to remind himself not to show his pain. His injuries are almost healed now, so they can’t hold that against him. He’s done his job, he’s even done most of their jobs this past week. Injured or not, he pulled his weight.

“And we only learned about the boy this morning.”

Soap’s gaze snaps up and burns into Ghost’s eyes. They know about Wesley, about his failure to protect that innocent boy. His insides burn with the guilt, with the loss, and he’s not sure how long he can hold himself together.

“I’m really sorry that he didn’t make it.” Ghost’s hand squeezes his shoulder lightly, and he has to look down again because he knows Ghost can read him as well as he can read Ghost.

“Yeah, well,… I… “ He looks back up at Ghost, temporarily lost for words. What can he say? Laswell’s words come to mind and a humorless laugh escapes him. “We can’t save them all, yeah? At least I got the rest out.”

“No.” Ghost shakes his head and pulls Soap closer and into his chest, holding him tightly in his big arms. “No, we can’t save them all. But that doesn’t mean it’s an acceptable loss. Losing any hostage, especially a young kid, isn’t something to just brush off. It chips away parts of your soul.”

This is too much. Soap can’t hold it in any longer. The grief over the boy, over losing his team in the process, it all is just too much. Sobs bubble out of him and shake his body against Ghosts. The agony envelopes him completely, making him struggle to draw in another breath. Everything feels too tight, too much. His vision starts to grey out as he looks back up to Ghost. “I tried. I really tried but I failed. I’m sorry.”

He really is. For disappointing them all. His vision greys out for a while, his pain taking over and the darkness pulling at him. There is a voice he knows, dark and low, but urgent, asking him to stay awake, so he pulls himself back to the light. Slowly his eyes blink open again, even though he doesn’t even remember closing them. And how did he end up lying on the cool muddy ground? A blurred image of a white skull swims above him. “Simon?”

Ghost talks to him but the words are jumbled. He thinks Ghost wants to know what hurts. Where should he start? His heart? His soul? He doesn’t think Ghost can mend those, so he tries to focus on his body. “Left side… ribs… already broken… breathing hurts…” He’s not sure Ghost can understand his slurred words, but there are hands on his chest now, pulling his hoody and shirt up and pressing down on his already throbbing side. “Fucking… hurts!” The pain explodes through his whole body. Ghost is mumbling reassurances but he doesn’t think he will ever be able to draw in a full breath again. His hand claws at his throat that feels too tight. “Can’t… breathe…! Si?”

The vision of the skull mask slowly fades into darkness, and this time he doesn’t have the strength to hold onto the light.

Chapter Text

He comes back to awareness slowly. Breathing feels a lot easier than he remembers, but his body feels heavy and everything hurts. His left arm is strapped tightly to his chest, and all his muscles feel like he had been in a wrestling match without proper training. In a way he was. Getting into that sparring match with Ashton wasn’t his brightest idea, he can acknowledge that. The quickest and easiest way to deal with the rumors and put that idiot in his place for sure, but it landed him in the base hospital of all places. Because he’s pretty sure that’s where he is at the moment. He’s been here often enough in the past to recognize the place simply by sound and smell. ‘Been here after every mission because you can’t finish an op without ending up hurt’ a tiny voice in his head whispers to him. A voice sounding suspiciously like Gaz.

He sighs deeply, opening his eyes to confirm his suspicion. Sure enough, he is in a familiar room. A screen above his head shows his vitals, lots of tubes and cables are attached to him or running out of him, and there is the soft blow of air up his nose. A bright beam of light shines through the window, and the clock above the door reads 12.30 pm. If he didn’t sleep through a whole day – and the ache in his body suggests that he didn’t –, he’s only been here for an hour or two. He remembers Ghost being with him when he collapsed, holding him, worried eyes in the skull-masked face the last thing he saw before everything went dark.

But Ghost isn’t here now. No one is here. His room is empty of people, and his heart aches.

The emptiness of the room only highlights his loneliness. He doesn’t remember everything from before he collapsed – the struggle for oxygen having monopolized his thoughts at the time – but there is a faint memory of Ghost talking to him, telling him that he was there for him, that he wouldn’t leave. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking. His brain doesn’t fire on all cylinders yet, and the pain makes all rational thought nearly impossible.

He tries to breathe through the worst of the pain, the throbbing in his side and the tightness of his chest, but it doesn’t ease up much.

The door opens and a nurse comes in, looking at him a little surprised. “I didn’t think you would be awake already.” She gives him a tender smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shite. Everything hurts.” His voice is rough and croaky, and the nurse steps up to him and offers something to drink.

“I can imagine.” She points to a little button lying on his bedside table, handing it to him. “This is for your pain medication. If it gets too much, you just press the button and it will administer a dose through your iv-line. And don’t worry, you can’t overdose with this. I can give you a boost of the pain medication right now. That’ll help you rest a bit more, alright? Might give you some funny dreams, though.”

Soap just nods. Funny dreams or not, pain relief sounds fantastic right about now. He’s not sure it’ll help with the heartache, but he’ll give it a try.

It doesn’t take long for the good stuff to pull him into a lull of comfort, taking him back into the land of sleep.

And Soap dreams. Just like the nurse promised he would. He knows it’s just a result of the top-notch painkillers she gave him, but the dream feels so real and unreal at the same time.

He’s still in his room, lying in his bed with his left arm strapped tightly to his chest. The room is filled with ethereal light, soft and sparkling. Pleasant. A comforting hum fills the air, and he can see musical notes dancing beautifully on the ceiling. The whole room oozes a soothing and peaceful vibe. There are so many people in that small hospital room that it should feel crammed but it doesn’t. They drift in and out of focus, giving each other room to be seen and heard as needed. The air is full of soft music and all the smells he loves. His mother’s cooking, the scent of paper from a new notebook, the burned air so unique to a beautifully orchestrated explosion, the acrid smell of gun oil… But there is another smell, one that feels like home, like safety, one he can’t really pinpoint. Like wood and gunpowder and…

He smiles as he realizes who this smell belongs to, and his mind is quick to produce the corresponding vision for him.

Simon.

The large man is slumped over on one of those squeaky plastic chairs, his arm resting on Soap’s mattress and his head nestled on his forearms. There is only the faintest sound of a light snore. Soap wants to touch the blond waves that rest on the strong arms, but the vision looks so peaceful he doesn’t want to disturb it, doesn’t want it to disappear again.

He closes his eyes and inhales another deep breath of all the aromas in the room. His stomach grumbles smelling his ma’s cooking, and his gaze searches the room for her. She’s standing in one of the corners of the room, a big steaming pot with his favorite dish in her hand. He hasn’t seen his mother in over a decade. Not since he enlisted and there was this big family row about it. Only recently have they started talking on the phone again. After Las Almas he felt time was too precious to waste it on being angry with his family. And it had looked like at least his mother really wanted to make amends. She had told him to come home every time they talked, but he just isn’t there yet.

She gives him a sad smile as she puts the pot of stew down on a counter, reaching a hand out to him, but she’s too far away to touch. “Mo bhalach beag.” Her Scottish accent is heavy as she beckons to him. “Come home tae me, child. We miss ye. And I’ll take good care of ye!”

“I miss you, too, Ma.” He really does sometimes. Her voice triggers a dull ache deep inside him, but it doesn’t feel like home anymore. Hasn’t in a long time. He has thought about visiting every time he had talked to his ma in the last months, to see if they really have changed, if they really would accept him just as he is. Thinking back to that evening all those years ago that had changed his life forever, when his dad had made it clear that he wasn’t welcome in his childhood home anymore, and his mother and brothers had just stood there, too afraid to say anything against the patriarch of the family. It makes his heart ache, and his eyes wander on their own accord to the sleeping form of Simon on his bed. The man who has claimed his heart since the first time they met without even making an effort. Soap knows Simon doesn’t know about it and certainly doesn’t reciprocate, but still he can’t help the fond smile forming on his face as he watches the appearance of the big man half-collapsed on his bed.

“Ah see, nothin’s changed.” His ma glares at him, her smile not as soft and caring as it had been seconds ago. “Ye’re still a disappointment tae the family. Not only a military man but still one of those. Can ye imagine what the neighbors would say if ye brought home a man? And that one? A Brit? Yer Da would die of shame!”

She looks at him with a mix of sadness, disappointment and disgust, and he knows nothing has changed. A wave of sadness rolls over him as he returns her gaze with tears in his eyes. “Why can’t you accept me for who I am, no matter what I do or who I love? Why won’t you love me?”

A tear spills over and makes his way slowly down his cheek as he realizes that he will never be able to go back there, knowing he’s not wanted and will never be accepted. That he needs to stop begging for his family’s approval. His mother’s image fades into the background as he swipes roughly at his face.

When he looks up again, his best friend from childhood, Chucky, grins at him with a toothy smile – two of his front teeth missing – from another corner of the room where he’s building one huge castle out of jenga tiles. Soap hasn’t seen Chucky for over 20 years. He’d been his best friend, living just a few doors down, and the two of them had practically been inseparable until Chucky had been killed by a drunk driver days after his sixth birthday. Soap hadn’t been allowed to the funeral because he had been sick with the chickenpox at the time, and his six-year-old self hadn’t understood that Chucky just wasn’t there anymore. His parents’ explanations had been so abstract that he just thought Chucky had gone on vacation for a while. So, even though he wasn’t allowed, he snuck out at least once every few days as soon as he was allowed to leave the house to knock on Chucky’s door to ask his mother if he was back yet and if he could come out to play. It had taken several breakdowns from Mrs. MacInnes and a few harsh beatings from his da until he stopped sneaking over and accepted that Chucky was gone. Had just left him for good.

Now, Chucky looks at him, his smile faltering a little, sadness creeping in. “Ah waited for ye at me birthday party. Me brother Russ said, ye dinnae wanna come! But ye promised!”

Soap gulps down on the lump in his throat. Chucky looks so sad. It was years later at a football game that Russ confessed to him in an emotional moment of drunkenness, that he had told Chucky Soap didn’t want to come and had never had the opportunity to set it straight. And neither had Soap. He opens his mouth now to tell Chucky that it was all he had wanted at that time, that Russ had lied, that he had been too sick to even leave his bed. But all that comes out is a quiet “I’m sorry, Chucky.” Chucky nods with a sad smile. “Aye. Too late for tha’ now, ain’t it?” And he goes back to building his tower, his image fading like the one of his ma.

Soap’s heart bleeds for the friend he lost. He still misses him after all this time, and he has to blink a few times to clear his vision of the tears that have pooled in his eyes.

His gaze roams through the room, until it stops to his left, where his girlfriend from high school, Isla Mackenzie sits on the floor. She’s in deep conversation with her older brother Arlo, the first boy ever to kiss Soap. They both look up at him as his eyes wander over to them. Arlo’s cheeks turn pink, but Isla sneers at him as she repeats the words she said to him all those years ago. “Ye disgust me, John MacTavish. Never thought ye would hurt me like that! Never thought ye were a cheater! And with me own brother!!!”

His cheek burns in remembrance to her slap, and like back then he tries to apologize. “I’m sorry, Isla. I never meant to hurt you.”

“The two of ye made out in me bedroom! What did ye think that would do tae me?”

“I’m really sorry.”

To be fair, he hadn’t been able to think anything at that moment. It hadn’t even been him making a move towards Arlo, never even considered it, the wrongness of something like that deeply ingrained by his parents. He had only been waiting for Isla to come back from the kitchen, when her brother stepped into the room, pulled him close and kissed him senseless. Unfortunately, that had been the exact moment Isla had come back to her room. She has all the right in the world to still be mad at him because he had used her to try and be what his parents deemed normal. And he had really tried. To like girls, to not be wrong, to please his parents. But after Arlo had kissed him like that, there was no going back, no denying his true self anymore.

Of course, it hadn’t ended well. Isla had made a big scene, and he had run out of the house as if he was chased by the four riders of the apocalypse. Isla hadn’t kept quiet about it, and it took only a day until his whole school had known that Isla Mackenzie had dumped John MacTavish because he had made out with her brother Arlo, and it swept from there to his family. His mother gave him a lecture about the sinfulness and wrongness of it all, threatening to call the local priest for an exorcism. When his father came home that evening and was told about it, he lost it completely, earning Soap the most severe beating in his young life.

After that, school was hell. Arlo, being older, had already graduated so the sole focus was put on him. He tried to keep to himself as much as he could but there were only so many places to hide. And it got even worse at home. Not even his two younger brothers who he had protected from the worst of his father’s drunken beatings for so many years stood by him. Only his baby sister, Maisie who was 11 at the time, snuck into his room at night to comfort him. They never managed to break him, though. He snuck out to meet Arlo in secret, learned to mostly control his loud mouth and grew a thick skin. A year later, on the day of his 18^th birthday, he walked into a recruitment center and enlisted. He had always felt the need to protect, and the military seemed like the right place for that. And a means to get away from home. The small birthday party his family had prepared for him ended with him being thrown out of the house. Though they hadn’t been together anymore, Arlo had offered him a place to stay until basic training started. And he had never regretted joining, because he had found a purpose in his life, had found friendship and brotherhood. So, in a way – as hard as it had been for him at the time – he had Isla to thank for his life and where it had led him. To the acceptance and the family he found in the 141. At least for a while.

His eyes wander to the end of his bed and his heart freezes. Wesley stands at the foot of his bed, his clothes shredded to pieces and burnt, his skin dirty and raw, covered in ash and blood and burns. His eyes pierce Soap, an angry scowl on his face. “It’s your fault I’m dead. You said you would keep us safe!”

“I tried, Wesley, I really did.” A tear is running down his cheek now, but he doesn’t bother to swipe it away. Because Wesley is right. It’s his fault the boy is dead. His fault he didn’t even realize the kid’s heart had stopped beating on their way to exfil. His fault he didn’t cover Wesley as he did with Eva. And his fault he didn’t see the hostile before the asshole got the chance to throw the grenade. “I’m really sorry.”

“You failed me. And you failed Eva.”

“But Eva is alive! She’s fine!”

Wesley scoffs at him. “In what universe would she be fine? She was kept in a prison cell with minimal food and water for a week and now lost her older brother whom she worshipped!”

Soap doesn’t know what to say to that. Can’t say anything even if he tried. There’s a big lump sitting heavy in his throat that only gets bigger the more he tries to dislodge it.

“I trusted you. Eva trusted you! And you let us down. You must be the disgrace of your unit.”

“See? I told you so, Sergeant.”

Soap’s head whips to the left side, away from Wesley’s fading form, to the young recruit from earlier. Ashton. “What?”

“It’s what my brother said, too. That you’re a liability. That you lack the skills necessary to be on that team. Freddy said someone from the higher ups must really like you to place you with the 141. But that it’s only a matter of time before you really fuck up and someone dies because of you.”

“No. NO!” Soap shakes his head. “You’re wrong, Ashton! I earned my place on the 141!”

Ashton looks at him pityingly. “Your own teammates don’t trust you! They are worried when you are out on a mission unsupervised, worried you get yourself or someone else hurt. They don’t even trust you to do recruit training by yourself. Didn’t Sergeant Garrick have to hop on his bum leg down to the training ground to keep an eye you? Even the lieutenant had to come check on you! And Sergeant Garrick even specifically told you not to break us!”

“That… that was just a joke. He… Gaz was teasing me!”

Ashton points to the other side of the bed. “Doesn’t look like teasing to me. He’s still laughing at you. Because you can’t even do a recruit training without ending up in the hospital!”

Soap turns his head, his eyes finding Gaz sitting in one of the chairs, his posture relaxed, but he’s clearly trying to suppress laughter. “What are you laughing at!” Soap snaps at him, and Gaz’s grin falters a little, his friend pulling himself up straighter.

“I’m not laughing at you, Tav!” He gestures around him but still isn’t able to completely wipe that fucking smile off his face. “We’re just worried about you.”

“Worried? Why?” Soap shakes his head but doesn’t give Gaz time to answer. “Because you think I can’t do my job? Because you think I get people killed? Because you think I break the recruits?”

Gaz mouth stands open in confused O, the smile gone from his face.

“You don’t need to worry about me! I’m more than capable of doing my job, and I didn’t fuck my way into the 141! I’ve done plenty of ops, lots of solo missions, even coming back not needing medical attention after most of them. I don’t need a babysitter on missions, and I don’t need anyone overseeing when I do trainings. I’ve never broken a recruit.”

“We know that, Sergeant MacTavish.” Laswell steps closer to the left side of his bed, tapping Ashton on the shoulder as if she’s thanking him for speaking up. “But you must understand after the recent mission, that we need to put you out of rotation for a while. At least until we have gone through all the data and your conduct in the mission. Might need to do a reevaluation of the positions in the 141 while we’re at it.”

“A… a reevaluation of positions in the 141?” Soap stares at the stern frown on Laswell’s face.

“Yes, with that recent mission gone bad, you know… can’t risk having you in the field for now. You understand that, right?"

This hurts badly. After all Laswell told him directly after the mission. How she thought he did a good job, how there had been nothing he could have done to save Wesley, and that he was the reason the other hostages were able to go home. Did she say all those consoling words just to make him push through his own minor injuries, so he could stand in for his team while they were out of commission? Did she hear the rumors from Ashton and his brother and now thinks they are true?

Anxiety creeps up his spine as he looks from the pity on Gaz’ face to the disappointment in Laswell’s. His eyes land on Price, who’s leaning against the far wall. “You also think I need to be repositioned? To be reevaluated? You were the one who picked me for the 141! You know my skills, my record.”

Price steps closer, away from the wall, coming to a stop behind Gaz. There’s a frown on his face, his face as worried as Gaz’ was earlier. “What are you talking about, son?”

“Didn’t I show you this last week that I’m capable of doing my job? Even though I was a little hurt? Did all of your jobs, too! And now you want me out of the 141?”

“That’s not…”

But Soap shakes his head, not letting his captain speak and hurt him even more. He tries to sit up, his breath getting more labored as he stresses about all the hurt his team is putting him through. How can they think he’s unfit for his job? He didn’t pass SAS selection as the youngest recruit in British Army history just by looking good. He didn’t become a demo expert or sniper by talking nicely to some higher ups. He…

“Stop throwing a tantrum, Sergeant.” Laswell’s gaze bores into him. “Just let me do my job, and you’ll most likely be back with your team quickly.”

“I’m not throwing a tantrum, Kate! I…” He trails off as the words register in his slow mind. Most likely? That doesn’t sound very convincing! That sounds more like he’s already out! But that shouldn’t be her decision, should it? It’s Price’s decision. And Ghost’s. They’ve always talked about new people on the 141 together, decided together. So, does that mean they all want him out?

“All of you want me out?” He looks around at his team, his eyes begging them to contradict him. His breath’s coming in short gasps now, and he’s starting to feel a little light headed. All of this feels just a little too real! And he doesn’t like it one bit! If this isn’t real, he needs to wake up right now!

“Calm down, Johnny.”

His head whips to the man at his bedside, the first person he noticed in this dream, this bizarre version of reality. He tries to blink the tears away, tries to see beyond the black surgical mask of the man stepping closer to him now. Ghost.

“Calm down? How can I calm down? I… I let all of you down. Every single person in this room sent me away or left me because I disappointed them!” He waves his arm around the room. “Chucky and my parents, Isla and Wesley and… now all of you.” His voice breaks until he focuses on Ghost again. “And I wasn’t good enough for you either, was I?” A sad smile pulls at his lips, full of despair, and the words tumble out of his mouth. “I’ve missed you so much this last week, you know? I can’t tell you how much it hurt to be pushed away by you. To be told to shut up and fuck off, and I didn’t realize just how much you mean to me until you did. It hurt that you never wanted my company, and it was the hardest thing to do for me, to stay away. Because you of all people know that I can be quiet, too. Those quiet moments with you, the ones we spent in your office with you doing paperwork and me drawing or just doodling? For the first time in my life, I’ve felt at peace, at home, just sitting by your side, being close to you, just being myself and be accepted as such. I never thought I was too much for you, until you told me how much you hated all those texts from me. I never thought you didn’t like me spending time with you. I…”

He can see the hurt in Simon’s eyes and stops talking. Simon reaches his arm out to him, his hand hovering over Soap’s arm, but he pulls back. How he longs for Simon and the others to be real, how he would love to feel the light and warm touch of Simon’s fingers on his skin.

But all this isn’t real. It’s just a dream. He knows it is, as he can see Chucky floating near the ceiling now, his Jenga tiles turned into bricks of C4 that could go off any second now, and his ma is helping Isla into a wedding dress, smiling fondly at her as if she was her future daughter-in-law.

He slams his eyes closed, hoping to make all of them go away, making this whole bizarre dream end and letting him wake up to an empty room. “Please, please, please!” His arms hug his chest, and he starts a rocking motion, hoping desperately to make this nightmare stop. His hand brushes against the button the nurse gave him, and he grabs it, pushing it down repeatedly. Maybe this will help him get away from the heartache, away from his team that looks just too real in his dream, away from their disappointment and rejection.

He can feel the light touch of those calloused fingers he so longed for on his arm, the warmth and weight of a scarred hand, and the faint whisper of his name. “Shhh, shhh, Johnny. Be still. It’s…”

Be still. Be quiet.

So, he does as he’s told once again, stopping his rocking motion and letting his exhausted and heavy body fall back onto the sheets. A deep sadness settles into the depth of his soul as he lets himself be pulled into nothingness.