Chapter Text
The cold Chicago wind bit at the slivers of skin left exposed. He didn’t bother adjusting his balaclava. He sat still — rigid, statue-like — eyes locked through the sniper lens from the building across the street. He watched as his team — but more than that, his lover– moved through the building to find the terrorist they had tracked all over the world.. Not that he could afford to think like that right now. He watched as the three men came up to a barricade door. While the oldest man attempted to snake a camera under the door, he watched in horror when all three of them were blown backwards and made feeble attempts to start moving post-blast.
“What the hell happened?” Ghost growled over the comms, “Sit-rep? Price? Soap? Gaz?”
He was supposed to stay calm. Provide cover. Stay sharp. But all he could think was: Please get up. Johnny, get the fuck up.
The tension grew in his muscles before he saw any movement. The youngest of the group was the first one to start to move, as he was the one with the fewest injuries. He was up and pulled the Irishman into the room where Hassan had been moments before. The overwatcher gasped when the captain took a round in his vest and on the floor again. Kyle moved quickly to Price and pulled him into safety as well.
“Ghost,” Soap coughed, wanting to ease the overwatcher’s worries, “they blew the door up.”
Soap’s voice was gravel and blood, barely holding together, but it was there. It was him. Ghost swallowed hard, pulse drumming loudly in his ears as he forced himself to breathe through the mounting panic.
“I see you,” he muttered under his breath, voice too low for the comms. “Keep moving.”
He shifted behind the scope again, scanning every corner of the floor ahead of them. His heart was thudding against his ribs like it wanted out — not from fear, but from fury. This was supposed to be clean. Quick. But now, they were bleeding, and he was stuck in a fucking perch watching it unfold through glass.
Every instinct screamed at him to break position. To be there — to pull Johnny out with his own hands if he had to. But orders were orders. And Ghost didn’t break.
Even when it hurt like hell.
He adjusted his grip on the rifle, fingertips cold and stiff despite the gloves. Below, Gaz and Soap were moving — slow, unsteady, but upright. Price wasn’t. He was still on the floor, one arm draped over his ribs like he was trying to hold himself together.
Ghost grit his teeth.
“Bravo, I need a headcount,” he said, voice clipped, controlled.
“We’re here,” Gaz replied, strained but focused. “Price’s down but breathing. Soap’s—well, he’s bitching, so he’s fine.”
A weak chuckle crackled over the comms. “Still got all my limbs, LT. Might be down a few brain cells, though.”
Ghost closed his eyes for half a second. Just a beat. Long enough to let the relief flood in, then shove it down before it softened him too much.
“You didn’t have many to begin with.”
“Harsh,” Soap rasped, but the sound of him talking was better than any reassurance.
Through the scope, Ghost tracked their movement as they regrouped — limping, bruised, but still hunting. Still moving forward.
And still, he sat. Rifle steady. Back pressed flat to the cold concrete. Every second they were in there, he was one breath away from cracking the mission plan in half and going in guns blazing.
But he stayed.
Because that’s what Ghost does.
He watches. He waits. And he prays that the people he cares about can survive the storm without him.
The radio chatter died down, replaced by the occasional shuffle of boots or the hiss of static. Ghost stayed trained on them, on the mission — but his focus was fraying at the edges.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. Not calm. Just controlled. A practiced habit that used to work better.
Then, with no real warning, it hit him.
Not the adrenaline. Not the fear. Not the itch of combat.
It was the image — Johnny, blown back by the blast. Body limp. Face slack. The split second where Ghost didn’t know if he was alive.
His chest clenched like something inside him had just… snapped.
He leaned back from the scope, rifle resting in his lap, and let his head fall back against the wall behind him with a quiet thunk. His balaclava was damp where it clung to the skin around his jaw — he hadn’t realized he was sweating.
He hadn’t realized he was shaking.
Just a tremor. Just enough to notice. But enough to feel like weakness.
He clenched his fists, gloved fingers pressing hard into his palms. Tried to will it away. Tried to be the mask again.
But the mask didn’t help when it was Soap lying there. When it was Johnny.
He tilted his head back farther, stared up at the cracked ceiling, and let his eyes close for a second too long.
I can’t do this again.
The thought came unbidden. Ugly. Weak. Human.
He swallowed hard, jaw tightening under the fabric. He wasn’t sure who he was talking to — himself, the ghosts in his head, or the one still breathing down there through blood and broken glass.
But the silence answered back anyway.
The quiet didn’t last.
A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye had his instincts snapping back like a rubber band. Ghost jolted upright, rifle back to his shoulder before he even registered what he’d seen.
Scope engaged. Breath held. Focus narrowed.
There — lower level, east stairwell. A shadow where there hadn’t been one before. Wrong posture, wrong movement — not Gaz, not Soap. Armed. Moving fast.
“Got contact,” he growled into the comms. “Stairwell, southeast. One, maybe two. Moving your way.”
Static crackled. Then Soap’s voice — tighter this time.
“Copy. We’ll shift.”
Ghost adjusted his aim, tracking the figure weaving between broken beams and half-lit corridors. He could see the glint of a weapon, the rise and fall of a breath — they weren’t running. They were hunting.
Something cold slid down his spine, but this time it wasn’t fear.
It was precision. Purpose.
The world shrank to the rhythm of his breathing. The scope’s crosshairs. The quiet promise in his chest that if anyone touched Johnny again, they’d die before they even knew they’d been spotted.
He settled into position. He’d mourn later. Break later.
Right now, he had a job to do.
Ghost lost visual.
One blink, one corner turned, and Soap vanished from his scope. The stairwell was clear now — the hostile downed by Gaz, a flash of muzzle light Ghost had caught just in time to confirm the kill.
But Soap was gone.
“Soap, talk to me,” Ghost snapped, his voice cutting through the comms like a knife. “Where are you?”
No answer.
He checked the perimeter again. Nothing. Just broken windows and fractured concrete. His finger twitched on the trigger, but he had no target. Just space where Johnny should be.
Then, finally—static, and then a strained breath.
“I’ve got the controls,” Soap grunted. “Missile’s armed.”
Ghost’s heart dropped. Armed.
“Status?” he barked.
“No time,” Soap muttered. “I’m going in blind, Ghost. No weapon. Just wires and hope.”
Ghost stared down his empty scope, the useless fucking glass staring back at him like an open wound.
“Johnny—”
“Don’t.” His voice was rough but steady. “Just keep the air clear. Buy me time.”
Ghost’s jaw locked, molars grinding behind the mask. He wanted to scream. Wanted to be down there tearing the controls apart himself. But all he had was his vantage point and a rifle that couldn't protect the one thing he gave a damn about.
“Copy,” he said, quieter this time. “You’ve got it.”
Another silence. Then Soap, barely above a whisper.
“If I don’t…”
“You will.”
“I’m serious, Ghost—”
“So am I.”
Another beat. Then the quiet hum of concentration came over the line. He could hear Soap muttering under his breath, naming wires, walking himself through the disarm.
Ghost adjusted position, even though it didn’t matter. He couldn’t see him. Couldn’t help.
All he could do was listen. Count every second.
And pray he didn’t have to hear what it sounded like when Johnny MacTavish died.
“Blue wire,” Soap muttered. “No… no, wait—yellow first, then blue. Fuck, I can’t see shit down here.”
Ghost’s chest was a vice. He could hear the clicks, the movement, Soap’s breathing speeding up like he was seconds from detonating along with the damn thing.
Then—
click.
A long pause.
No explosion.
Ghost held his breath. The silence stretched too long.
Then Soap exhaled, sharp and disbelieving. “Missile disarmed. We’re good. I repeat—Ghost, it’s down. We’re good.”
Ghost didn’t even realize he was gripping the radio so tight his knuckles had gone white.
“Copy,” he breathed, something loosening in his gut. “Bloody beautiful work, Johnny.”
But before relief could settle, there was movement. Blurred and sudden — heat signatures flooding in on the floor below, too many for comfort.
Then Soap again, breathless and rough:
“Contact. They’re here—Hassan’s in the room, I repeat, Hassan’s in the fucking room.”
“Johnny—?”
Gunfire cracked through the comms.
“No weapon,” Soap hissed. “It’s just me.”
Ghost’s vision tunneled. No. He adjusted his scope, desperate for a glimpse — anything — but the angle was shot. All he could see were the outer rooms, shadowed corridors. Too many walls. Too many blind spots.
But the audio was crystal clear.
A grunt. The thud of a body hitting the ground. The scramble of boots, the growl of a man — not Soap — barking in Arabic. Hassan.
Ghost’s hands moved on instinct, checking ammo, recalibrating sightlines. He wanted to run. Tear down the stairwell. But the order had been clear. Hold overwatch. Hold the line.
Fuck the order.
He yanked his comms mic closer. “Johnny, respond.”
A crackle. A snarl. Then—Soap again.
“Working on it,” he hissed, voice tight with effort. “Bastard’s got a knife—”
More scuffling. The wet sound of a hit landing hard.
Ghost was up on one knee now, scanning the windows, rage pounding through his skull. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t help. Just heard the fight like it was happening inside his head.
And then, something new.
The scope was locked on Hassan. Ghost’s finger hovered over the trigger, adrenaline screaming in his veins, but his pulse — his heart — was fighting it. The crosshairs were steady. Clear.
This is it.
Ghost’s breath hitched, his body coiled tight, muscles ready to snap.
But then—no shot. No clear angle.
His world narrowed to the tension of the moment, the man he needed to kill, the team below — Soap so close, so dangerously close.
And then, just as Ghost took a breath to squeeze the trigger—
The comms crackled to life with a guttural shout from Soap. “Ghost! I need—!”
A heavy thud. A scream that shattered Ghost’s focus.
A flash of movement. Soap. Grabbing at Hassan, both men fighting for control, for dominance, for the upper hand. But it was too late.
Hassan’s knife flashed once, catching Soap across the ribs.
“Soap!” Ghost’s voice was ragged. Panic streaked his words, but there was no chance to move. No chance to stop it.
Hassan shoved Soap hard, a twist of his arm that sent Johnny stumbling back toward the open window.
Time stretched. Ghost's eyes locked on the falling body. The sheer, helpless despair gnawed at him as Johnny’s legs gave way, as he was driven back—arms reaching, trying to grab something, anything.
No.
It was too late. Soap was gone.
“No!”
The scream tore from Ghost’s throat, raw and choking, as his finger jerked hard on the trigger — but it was too late.
Soap’s form disappeared from sight, falling into the abyss below.
The cold wind of the Chicago night rushed up, carrying with it the sound of a body hitting the concrete far below.
Ghost couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. All he could do was stare — stare at the empty space where Soap had been, where he should have been, where Ghost should have protected him.
Ghost's eyes snapped open. The world felt wrong. Unfamiliar. Cold, despite the warmth of the sheets around him. His chest tightened, heart racing in his throat as he gasped for breath, like he’d just been pulled from the edge of a cliff.
He couldn’t shake the nightmare. Soap. Falling. Blood. His voice screaming into the abyss.
No. No, it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
He shot up in bed, his hands slamming down on the sheets as if expecting to find… something. Anything. Something real . But the room was dim, the pale light of dawn creeping through the blinds. His pulse pounded in his ears, the remnants of adrenaline flooding his system.
His gaze snapped to the empty space beside him. Empty.
His stomach dropped. He couldn't breathe.
But then—
A quiet shift. A soft rustle.
Ghost’s eyes flew back to the figure lying next to him. Soap.
Johnny’s body was half-covered by the blanket, his breathing slow and steady, soft even in the silence of the room. Ghost blinked, taking in the steady rise and fall of his chest. Alive .
Alive.
For a second, it didn’t feel real. Not after the nightmare, not after everything he'd just seen — the fall, the blood, the screams. He felt the familiar weight of the loss on his shoulders. But there was Soap. There was Johnny, here, in this room, warm and safe.
He closed his eyes tightly, forcing the sting back. The real world felt too fragile, too quiet after the chaos of the dream. He didn’t trust his own body. Didn’t trust the ground under him. He’d almost lost him.
He exhaled shakily, barely above a whisper, like he was afraid the words might break him entirely.
“Johnny…”
Soap stirred, shifting slightly in his sleep. He mumbled something unintelligible, but it was enough to pull Ghost back into the moment. Enough to remind him that this was the reality, not the nightmare.
Ghost reached out, slowly, his fingers brushing the soft fabric of Soap’s shirt. He touched the warmth of him — felt the steady pulse of life under his hand, and the deep breath Soap took in his sleep.
A soft, tired chuckle escaped Soap’s lips, his voice thick with sleep. “What is it now, Simon? Can’t sleep again?”
Ghost’s throat tightened. He didn’t trust his voice. Didn’t trust himself. He just let his hand rest there, fingers lightly pressing into Soap’s shoulder, grounding himself in this, in Johnny’s warmth.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Soap murmured, as if he could feel the tension radiating off Ghost. “Not gonna let you get rid of me that easily.”
And just like that, Ghost let himself breathe. He let the nightmare dissolve, just a little, replaced by the quiet, fragile truth of this — Soap here. Alive.
He was still here.
The knock on the door was sharp. Sudden. Loud.
The sound shattered the fragile bubble that had settled around them, and Ghost’s hand instantly pulled away from Soap’s shoulder like he’d been burned. His breath caught in his chest, and for a split second, he thought he might not be able to move — to just stay here in this stillness. But then, the world started to come crashing back.
Soap stirred beside him, groggy and disoriented, blinking slowly as his hand rubbed at his face. “Who the hell—” He paused, eyes flicking to Ghost, confusion lingering in the air like smoke. "Ghost? What's—"
Another knock, more insistent this time.
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you!" Soap groaned, dragging himself up. His eyes still heavy with sleep, he glanced back at Ghost, giving him a look that lingered just a little too long — something unspoken passing between them. But the moment broke too soon. Soap swung his legs off the bed, his bare feet hitting the floor with a thud. “Hold on a sec…”
Ghost didn’t move. His mind was still racing, still stuck in the haze of the nightmare and the warmth of Soap beside him. He wanted to stay here. To stay in the quiet, in the safety, in the peace that felt like it had been ripped away the moment his eyes had opened.
But there was no time for peace. There never was.
Soap pulled on his boots, grumbling under his breath, and Ghost finally stood too, his muscles stiff and aching from the tension of the nightmare still clinging to him.
Another knock. This time, the doorframe creaked, as if whoever was on the other side was getting impatient.
“Alright, alright,” Soap muttered. “Give me a second.”
He moved toward the door, his shoulders slumped like he was already dreading whatever the hell the world had to throw at them today. Ghost stood frozen for a second longer, his hand still resting on the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the fabric like he could pull the whole damn moment back if he tried hard enough.
But the world had a way of ripping things away. And the mission wasn’t over. It never was.
Soap swung open the door with a snap, and Ghost was immediately hit with the harsh light from the hallway — the contrast between the soft warmth of the room and the cold, sterile reality outside. Price stood there, his face grim as ever, arms crossed.
“Got a job for you two,” Price said, his tone clipped. “And before you start, yeah, I know. But we don’t have the luxury of time today.”
Ghost’s stomach twisted, but he didn’t move. Didn’t look away. Soap gave him a quick, apologetic glance before turning back to Price.
“Right, Price. We’ll be there in five.”
Price nodded, eyes flicking over Soap briefly before turning to leave. “Don’t make me come back. You’ve got two minutes.”
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Ghost and Soap standing in the sudden silence. But the quiet had changed now — heavier.
Soap let out a breath and turned back toward the bed, his shoulders sagging slightly, as if the weight of it all had just landed back on him. “Well, guess that’s it for our damn break, huh?”
Ghost couldn’t even force a smile. “Seems that way.”
Soap paused, his back still to Ghost, his hand resting on the edge of the doorframe like he was reluctant to move. After a long moment, he turned, his eyes softer than before — but the heaviness in them was back. The world had come crashing in again, and they both knew it wasn’t going to stop.
“Hey,” Soap said quietly, voice thick with something unspoken. “We’ll deal with it, yeah? Together. Like always.”
Ghost gave a small nod, his eyes locked on Soap’s for just a moment longer than usual. “Yeah. Together.”
And then, with one last long breath, Soap turned away and moved toward the door. He was already slipping into his gear, pulling on his vest, prepping himself for whatever came next. And Ghost, still half-lost in the memory of a nightmare and the warmth of Soap beside him, did the same.
But as they both slipped into the routine, the peace between them, the fragile, desperate moment of calm, was gone.
For now, anyway.
The room was tense, as always. Ghost and Soap were seated across from Price, Laswell, and Gaz, the flicker of monitors casting long shadows across the room. The weight of the previous mission hung in the air, but there was no time to linger on it. They were here for one thing: intel.
Price had been quiet for a while, but finally, his eyes locked on Ghost and Soap. "We’ve got a new priority. Hassan’s out of the picture—" he paused, his gaze briefly flicking to Ghost, acknowledging the kill. "But the threat doesn’t end with him."
Laswell stepped forward, a flash of cold determination in her eyes as she pulled up a new set of images on the screen. This time, it wasn’t Hassan. It was someone far worse.
The face of Vladimir Makarov appeared on the monitor. Cold. Deadly. And somehow, even more dangerous now than before. The screen flashed images of Konni Soldiers, heavily armed and working in tandem with Russian ultranationalists. The connection was undeniable.
“We’ve been tracking Makarov’s movements. He’s got Konni Soldiers in his pocket now, pulling resources from across the globe. And we’re starting to see the fallout from his operations,” Laswell said, her voice sharp, unwavering. “This isn’t just a terror cell anymore. Makarov’s building something bigger.”
Soap’s brow furrowed as he scanned the screen. “What the hell is he planning?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” Price interjected. “We’ve also got new intel that connects Makarov to a new player—Farah. Farah Karim, the leader of the Urzikstan Liberation Force.”
Soap blinked, his confusion clear. “Farah? As in the Farah we worked with before?”
“The same,” Laswell confirmed. “But things have shifted. Farah’s made contact with Makarov. They’ve been negotiating. The details are murky, but what we do know is that Makarov has offered her something. Resources . Weapons. Protection. He’s making deals with her.”
A heavy silence fell over the room. Farah had been their ally. A trusted partner in the field. But aligning herself with Makarov? That felt like a betrayal.
Ghost’s mind raced, processing the implications of this new alliance. He had fought with Farah, stood beside her in the heat of battle. Her contacting Makarov? It didn’t sit right.
“Why would she make contact with him?” Ghost’s voice was low, dark. “She knows who he is. What he’s capable of.”
Laswell’s expression softened, but only for a moment. “Farah’s in a tough spot. The region’s destabilizing, and she’s losing control of the forces around her. Makarov offers her an army. And, to be honest, he’s the only one capable of challenging the forces that threaten her.”
“That doesn’t make it any easier to swallow,” Price said. “But this is the reality. Farah’s in a delicate position, and Makarov knows how to exploit that.”
Gaz leaned forward, brows drawn. “So, what’s the plan? We hit Makarov’s operation, find out what he’s really up to, and bring Farah back from the edge?”
Price gave him a hard look. “Exactly. We need to find out what Makarov’s got in the works. If he’s making deals with Farah, he’s got leverage. We can’t let this spiral.”
Soap stood up, his hands resting on the table, the weight of everything pressing down on him. “Where do we start?”
Laswell pulled up more intel on the screen. “Makarov’s currently holed up in a heavily guarded facility outside of Urzikstan. We’ve been getting reports of his men moving weapons, setting up supply lines. We know where he is, and we’ve got an entry point. We need you two to move in, gather intel, and neutralize any Konni or Russian ultranationalists you encounter.”
Soap nodded, his determination set. “Right. We’ll get in, get the intel, and get out.”
Price met their eyes with a hard look. “One last thing. We’re not going in blind. Farah’s people will be in the area, but I want you two to be cautious. If you can, try to establish contact with her—see where she stands. But if she’s allied with Makarov now, you’ll need to be prepared for that. You might have to make a hard choice.”
Ghost’s jaw tightened. The idea of facing Farah in a compromised position, forced into an alliance with Makarov, twisted something deep inside him. She’d been a comrade, a friend .
“Understood,” Ghost replied, his voice steely.
Price gave them a nod. “Get ready. You’ll be moving out soon.”
As the briefing ended and everyone began to move, Ghost’s mind remained stuck on the new intel. Farah, working with Makarov? It didn’t make sense. And yet, it was happening.
Soap caught his gaze, eyes dark. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yeah,” Ghost muttered. “This just got a hell of a lot more complicated.”
The walk to the room was silent between the two soldiers. The door slammed behind them as Soap and Ghost entered their room, the heavy silence settling between them like a thick fog. Both were still processing the intel, the weight of the mission ahead pressing down on them. The stakes had never been higher — Makarov was a threat unlike any other, and Farah’s unexpected connection to him was enough to make anyone question their next move.
Soap tossed his gear onto the bed, the clatter of metal and fabric filling the room. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. "This is bullshit , Ghost."
Ghost stood by the door, his jaw tight, his posture rigid. "What are you on about now?"
Soap turned to face him, his eyes wild with disbelief. "Farah making deals with Makarov? She knows who he is, what he's capable of! She was one of the people we fought beside!" He took a step forward, his voice rising. "And you’re just gonna brush it off like it’s nothing?"
Ghost’s gaze hardened. “I’m not brushing anything off, Johnny. But we don’t know the whole story. We don’t know why she’s doing this.”
Soap’s hands clenched into fists, frustration mounting. "That doesn’t matter! She made her choice. She’s working with him, for Christ’s sake. How the hell are we supposed to trust her now?"
Ghost’s voice was low, cutting. "We don’t have a choice. We need her intel, we need to know what Makarov’s up to. And if she’s the one who can give us that, then we work with her. Whether we like it or not."
“ That’s the problem, Ghost,” Soap snapped, stepping closer, his anger spilling out. “You’re too damn calm about all this. Farah... Farah is a friend to us, and now we have to treat her like some enemy? Just because she’s caught in the middle of something bigger than her? You’ve seen what Makarov’s capable of! She’s not just a casualty in this, she’s choosing the other side!”
Ghost took a deep breath, trying to keep his composure. He didn’t want to raise his voice, didn’t want to let the tension of the mission spill over into the one thing he cared about more than anything. Soap. But the anger flared inside him, the frustration of not having the answers, of being thrust into a situation where even the people you trusted were making choices you didn’t understand.
“I’m not choosing sides, Johnny,” Ghost’s words were clipped, his fists clenched at his sides. “But I’m not going to pretend I have all the answers, either. Farah’s in a tough position. We’re not the only ones caught up in this shitstorm. You don’t get it, do you? She’s got no other options. Makarov’s a predator. If she doesn’t play his game, she’ll be dead.”
Soap took another step forward, his chest heaving, the anger barely contained. “And you’re okay with that? With her working with him? After everything? After we fought beside her?”
Ghost’s expression darkened. “I’m not okay with it. But I’m not gonna let my emotions get in the way of what needs to be done. You think I like this? You think I want to face her like she’s a damn enemy?”
There was a beat of silence between them, the air thick with unspoken words. Soap’s expression faltered, a flash of something softer crossing his features. But it was quickly masked by the frustration still boiling inside him.
“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Soap muttered, his voice quieter now. “I don’t know how to look at this anymore.”
Ghost’s tone softened, but his voice still carried the weight of everything he was trying to keep buried. “None of us do. But we can’t afford to think with our hearts, Johnny. We have to think with our heads. We need this mission to work.”
Soap didn’t respond at first. He just stood there, his gaze fixed on Ghost, the silence stretching on until it became almost unbearable.
Finally, Soap exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t like it. But I’ll do what needs to be done.” He turned toward the window, his back to Ghost. “Just don’t ask me to forget who Farah is.”
Ghost’s eyes followed him, and for a moment, the hardened soldier inside him faltered, his resolve cracking just slightly. “I’m not asking you to forget. Just don’t let it get in the way of what’s ahead.”
Soap didn’t respond, the quiet between them now more fragile than ever.
As Ghost turned to his own bed, pulling his gear out to prepare, he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was slipping through his fingers — and the deeper he got, the more he’d lose.
The door to their room opened again, cutting the silence. Neither of them moved to greet whoever was on the other side.
“Price is calling for a final debrief,” Laswell’s voice came through, calm and measured. “You’re both needed.”
And with that, the moment between Ghost and Soap was shattered. No more time to argue. No more time for doubt.
Just the mission.