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Chapter Text

The three men sat at the round table, waiting for their captain to show up for their meeting. Each one had a drink in front of them, each with a slightly different substance in it, each of it containing caffeine. The one with the mask had a mug of earl grey tea with one cube of sugar; the Scotsman had straight black coffee; the caramel-colored brit had a sixteen-ounce sugar free red bull sitting on top of a napkin, so it did not sweat onto the table. They had a slight idea about what this meeting was about—new recruits. They absolutely hated when the still wet behind the ears recruits were allowed to move into the barracks.

Ghost secretly enjoyed it. He often scared them with his skull plate and balaclava. He believed that fear was healthy. Kept them in line. Reminded they were here to do a job, not at sleep away camp.

Soap openly hated it because they stole all the good snacks from the rec room and were always playing on the video game console whenever he wanted to play.

Gaz was more indifferent about it. If the new recruits proved themselves good enough, maybe they would not have to work as hard all the time.

The older masked man had recently done some shopping; his two newest addition to his collection was a tan cape and black gaiter. There had been some solo missions he was sent on where his balaclava was ripped to shit, and he had to improvise with tying half a t-shirt around his nose until returning safely to base. He secretly felt like the updated look gave him an even scarier appearance. He had also been waiting to hear back from Price about an approval for a request he made. He believed it would help everyone, but he was starting to get impatient. Soon, he was going to ask for forgiveness and fuck the permission.

The door opened, and Price walked in. He had marks on his neck that married his slight limp in his step. He was also extremely disheveled and smelled heavily of a Russian cigar. The masked man raised an eyebrow; the Scotsman spat his drink out; the man in the baseball cap had to cough to cover up a laugh.

Price glared at the three of them, “What?”

Ghost ran a gloved finger down his own neck to motion to the captain that he had been caught red handed. Price tried to fight the blush that creeped up his neck.

“Bloody hell Capt,” Gaz muttered, handing Soap a napkin from his pocket. Mister-Always-Prepared.

“Wha is th' jammy body?” Soap asked, cleaning up his mess.

“You know MacTavish, English is a beautiful language,” Ghost teased, “You should speak it more often.”

“Oh, piss off Ghost,” Soap replied, “It’s too early for your smartass remarks.”

“Soap, I promise you were not saying that this morning,” Kyle retorted taking a sip of his redbull.

Soap turned bright red, “'n' howfur th' hell dae ye ken that?”

“English,” Ghost muttered, taking a sip of his tea.

“Remember, I share a fucking wall with you,” Kyle mutter, rolling his eyes, “a paper-thin wall.”

“How did this become shitting on Soap? Price is the one with hickeys on his neck!” Soap cried out, attempting to act fake hurt.

Price sighed, putting his hands on his hips, “You guys have sex. Is it against the law for me to have sex?”

Soap gagged, “That’s like when yer maw 'n' da would kiss in front of you as a child.”

Ghost rolled his eyes, “Price, as long as you’re happy and safe, that’s all I care about.”

“Thank you, Ghost,” Price replied, slightly caught off guard, “Looks like someone updated his wardrobe.”

The masked man shrugged, “Figured it was time since we are due for new recruits.”

“Ah yes, the real reason I call the meeting,” Price said, sitting down at the empty chair at the table, “And not to talk about my sex life.” He sent a glare in Soap’s direction. Gaz had to refrain himself from laughing.

Price started the meeting that the new recruits would start moving into the barracks tonight and would be ready for training for the next morning. He explained that these new recruits were the top of their class and handpicked by their instructors; he reminded the three men sitting in front of him that they had also been in their shoes.

“Ghost, you will lead tomorrow’s training session,” Price said as a wrap-up for the meeting, “Try not to kill them.”

Ghost chuckled, “But that takes all the fun out of it.”

“You are so twisted,” Gaz commented as he stood from the table.

Soap followed suit, knowing that his friend was going to get breakfast. The younger man turned to the masked man, who waved him to go on without him. He was hopeful that Price would have an answer for him. Once the two younger members left the room and the door had swung shut, Price cleared his throat to get Ghost’s attention.

“Also,” Price said, a smile on his face, “Your request was approved.”

Ghost could not help but smile, “Shit? Seriously?”

“Yup,” Price replied, “I agree. I think it will… help.”

“Thank you, Capt., I’ll handle it today,” Ghost replied.

“Good man,” Price nodded, “You are free to go.”

Ghost nodded, standing from his seat, and leaving the room. He was almost giddy at the thought that his request was approved. He normally would have never asked for something like this. Fuck, Ghost never asked for anything.

He wanted to handle this before Price changed his mind. He hurried over to his barracks room to pick up his truck keys and his wallet. He decided to change out of his usual clothes, and tone it down to something more casual since he would be stepping into the civilian world. Last thing he needed was to show up on social media for the way he dressed. He settled on a half face mask and a simple black hoodie.  

He sent Soap a text:

He pocketed his phone before Soap could come find him and ask to come along with. This was going to be a surprise for everyone.

He made sure to take a different route to the parking lot that the one that would overlap on the route that Soap and Gaz would take to walk from the mess hall to the barracks. Under different circumstances, he would have invited them with, but for once in his life he wanted to play the hero.

They had all been through so much in the past six months. From loosing Alex (That Gaz secretly took much harder than anyone knew about until a night out at a pub), and then the bullshit that was the last mission. From being betrayed by Graves in Las Almas and Soap almost falling to his death to Soap actually laying in his deathbed—It was enough. Even Laswell was still struggling with what she entailed; she was constantly on high alert and never allowed anyone besides Price to stand behind her. Soap was still working with physical therapy to rehab his shoulder; he had made great improvements, but his shoulder still hurt from time to time. The therapist said that would go away, but when you are as impatient as Soap, even minute felt like a year.

Ghost loaded into his truck and pulled out of his spot. He flipped through the channels until he found some 2000s rock he settled on. The drive to his surprise was about half an hour away. He relaxed into the driver’s seat, pressing on the gas a little bit more. He made it to the shop without any problems and pulled into a parking spot. As he turned off the truck, he felt a slight anxiety start to build in his chest. He felt like he mislabeled the feeling—it was anticipation. What if the crew didn’t like the surprise? He would be absolutely crushed.

He pushed the thought from his head. If anyone did not like it, they would not say it to his face. They were all to scared of him anyways.

He made his way out of the truck and into the store. A cute young girl appeared behind the counter. She had her thick red hair pulled back into a lose braid. Her glasses looked a size too big for her face, but she smiled at the tall man standing in front of her.

“Hi, welcome to the rescue,” She said, “How can I help you?”

“I am interested in adopting a dog,” He replied.

“Oh! Yes! Follow me,” She replied.

She moved from her spot behind the counter and showed him to the dog section. There were several dogs that were put up for adoption, but one caught Ghost’s eye almost immediately. You could see that the dog had recently just been given up as they looked absolutely terrified. They hugged the back of the cage and did not make eye contact when Ghost stopped in front of their encloser. Ghost empathized with the animal, remembering how it felt to be like that.

Then, he found Soap and he let love into his life. That’s when everything changed.

“Are you interested in Riley?” The younger girl asked softly, “She was just brought in. She’s a pure bread German Shepard, she is gorgeous. Quite the lover girl.”

“Why was she given up?” Ghost asked, squatting down to be more on the animal’s level. He wanted to show her that she did not need to be afraid of him.

“Something about the family having a new baby and did not want to risk it,” The girl said softly, “It absolutely broke my heart when her family dropped her off.”

“I’ll take her,” Ghost said without a second thought.

“Alright, let’s get her collar and leash on. Then we can fill out some paperwork,” The younger girl said, moving to a separate area.

“Don’t worry girl, you won’t ever feel that again,” Ghost whispered to her, “I’ll keep you safe.”

The young girl came back around and opened the cage. She handed the collar and leash to Ghost.

“You have to put it on. It shows them that they are going with you,” She informed him.

Ghost nodded. He kneeled in front of the scared German Shepard. This animal could rip his throat out right here if she truly wanted too. He stuck his hand out for her to sniff it. She slowly moved towards him, trying to decide if he was friend or foe. When she decided he was a friend, she licked his hand and allowed him to pet her. He put her collar on her and then her leash. As he stood, she took her spot on his left, immediately falling into her heel command without Ghost having to give it. He turned to see the young girl wiping away tears with a big smile on her face.

“Thank you,” She murmured, “I was so concerned no one would ever take her. Or they would take her and use her in a dog fight.”

Ghost frowned, “No. She is going to a much better place. She is going to get so much love and attention. I promise.”

“C’mon, we just have some paperwork to fill out then you guys can go,” The young girl said.

Ghost followed her to the counter, Riley stayed in her heel command. The masked man was already head over heels for this dog and he had barely made it out the door with her. He signed the required paperwork that was needed for the rescue and paid in cash for her. The young girl also gave Ghost her water and food bowl, as well as the food she had been eating at the rescue. She also gave him a brush and informed him that she would need to be brushed two times a day to keep her coat from matting.

Before he left, the young girl stopped him.

“Uh, usually we take a polaroid photo of the new family,” She said, “Would you like one?”

Ghost hesitated. He normally did not like photos of himself, but this seemed like a situation where it would be okay to take one.

Plus, he knew Soap would want to hang this one up.

“Sure,” He replied.

He kneeled next to Riley and put his arm around her. He smiled behind his mask as she took the opportunity to lick Ghost’s face in the moment that the young girl snapped the photo. The young girl handed Ghost the undeveloped photo before wishing them well.

Ghost led Riley out of the rescue and to the truck. He opened the passenger side and before he could give her the command to load up, she was gracefully jumping into the truck. He put her stuff on the bottom of the truck. He smiled at the dog before he carefully shut the door. He walked around to the driver side of the door and loaded up. He started the truck and began the drive home.

He carefully pulled into his parking spot, not wanting to scare Riley. She seemed nervous at this new location, which was expected. He pets her head gently.

“Welcome home, Riley,” He said to her, “You will love it here.”

He got out of the driver’s seat and went around to the passenger seat. He allowed Riley to unload before grabbing her stuff from the floor. She went potty before they started the walk back into the base. As they walked she immediately took her spot on Ghost’s left.

He sent Soap another message:

He also sent Price a message:

As they moved through the base, he allowed her to stop and smell whatever she wanted. This was going to be her new home. She needed to be comfortable. He could hear Soap, Gaz, and Price talking in the courtyard.

“C’mon girl, come meet the rest of your family,” he said, gently tugging on her collar to direct her.

Gaz was the first to notice them, “Is that Ghost with a dog?”

Price laughed, “Yes, it is. Everyone, meet Riley.”

She looked to Ghost for permission to greet the three men standing in front of them. He nodded and she approached each of them slowly. Ghost noticed that Soap was slightly uncomfortable at the sight of the dog. He was cautious when he stuck his hand out for her to smell. She immediately took to the Scottish man, wanting to play with him. He laughed at her, starting to relax.

“After everything we have been through,” Ghost said, “I thought she would help. And I think we can help her. She just needs some extra love.”

Soap smiled at his lover, “Yeah, she seems cool. How about we get her moved in?”

Gaz also smiled, “We are going to need to get her toys! And a tactical vest!”

“Already taken care of. We just need to get a patch that says Riley,” Price said, “Gaz, how about you help me collect it from my office?”

The Scotsman stepped over to the taller masked man and took the bag of food from his arms. They linked hands and Ghost whistled for Riley to follow them. She took her official position on Ghost’s left side.

Ghost smiled behind his mask.

Maybe good things could happen to him.

Chapter Text

The snow was falling gently around base. The two lovers and their pup were cuddled in their bed while it fell outside: savoring their last moments alone together. The bustling base would soon fall quiet as everyone boarded planes and greeted their loved ones.

Well, almost everyone.

Simon and Riley would be traveling to an empty flat in Manchester. Every Christmas, he would visit the graves of the Riley family and Roach. He would purchase flowers and light candles. He would sit by their graves for hours, telling his past loved ones how sorry he was that he wasn’t there to protect them. He promised them every year that he would get stronger this year. Faster. Smarter. Better.

It’s why he was so protective of his teammates on the field. Even more protective of Johnny. The Scotsman couldn’t fart without the English man knowing. Or smelling.

Johnny would be received by his mum in the Glasgow airport. He knew his siblings would also fight to come along. It was always a big deal when Johnny came home.

The younger man had been begging Simon to come with him. He hated the thought that his lover would be alone on Christmas day. The older man kept stepping around the request, he was not keen on the whole family thing. He wasn’t sure how the MacTavish family would receive him. Plus, he had Riley now. That was a lot to ask a family to take in.

A broken man and a broken dog. It was easier to stay away for now.

“C’mon on Si,” Johnny whined as the alarm that Simon set for them to start to get ready for them to part ways, “Please.”

The older man was in the bathroom washing his face, he could already see Johnny’s pouting face even though he was not looking at him. He had enough emotions with the anniversary coming up. He did not want to snap on the younger man, but he was pushing his buttons and Simon was standing very close to the edge. Everyone had holiday traditions; some families went and cut down trees, some went to church; he did this. He needed to do this.

Alone.

Simon sighed, “Johnny, there is something I need to do in Manchester. Please, love, stop pushing.”

He moved past the younger man, into the bedroom. Their bags lined the corridor to the door. They needed to be leaving soon.

The younger man’s face fell, “Okay, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not you Johnny,” Simon replied, handing the younger man one of his sweatshirts he had been wearing so it smelt like him, “The holidays are hard for me.”

“I just don’t want you alone on Christmas,” Johnny murmured, slipping into Simon’s sweatshirt, “It is supposed to spent with people you love.”

Simon could not force himself to meet Johnny’s eyes. He knows how sentimental the younger man is. It always caught the older man off guard—Johnny was not innocent by no means. His hands were stained with blood. He was a trained killer. Yet, he still maintained a softness.

It takes a lot of courage to stay delicate in a world this cruel.

“I know Johnny,” Simon whispered.

“Si,” Johnny said, his voice soft. He grabbed the older man’s face, “I am not upset. Please do not go home thinking I am upset with you.”

“I know,” Simon sighed, “How about I touch in with you after I handle what I need to, okay?”

“You were going to go radio silence before then?” Johnny asked, tilting his head to the side in confusion.

“Uhm,” Simon replied.

“Simon! I’m hurt,” Johnny said, putting a hand on his chest and throwing his head backwards, “Howfur cuid ye?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Simon commented, gently shoving the younger man, “Come on, we are going to be late for our rides.”

The English man grabbed Riley’s gear, leashing her up and clipping it to his belt loop so his hands were free. She was excited, but not entirely sure what for, just to be involved. Simon patted her head gently. Over the course of the past couple of months, she had grown into such a good dog. Of course, she had her moments when Simon would be deployed on solo missions, and she had to stay at the base. Johnny once snapped a photo of her sitting by the gate, waiting for him to return; she would whine and pace, concerned for his safety. She really was his dog.

The older man grabbed his stuff from the floor, the younger man doing the same. They took one last look around their barrack’s room, making sure they had everything they needed for their time away. The couple joined hands, walking towards the landing strip. They could see Price, Nik, and Gaz standing off to the side talking while everyone else loaded into the plane. The couple made their way over to the three who were trying not to shiver in the cold.

“Hey guys!” Kyle greeted them, smiling at them.

“Hi,” Johnny replied, “What plans do you have?”

“Oh, me and my mum are doing something small. Just the two of us,” Kyle replied.

Johnny nodded, turning to Price, “What about you Capt.?”

Price shrugged, “I’m sure I’ll find something.”

“C’mon Soap, the plane is leaving in five. We gotta get you loaded up. Have a nice holiday guys!” Kyle said, before Johnny could push Price for more information.

The younger man turned to the older one, “I’ll miss you.”

The older man chuckled softly, leaning over to place a kiss on his cheek, “I’ll miss you more.”

The Scotsman jogged behind Kyle to make it to the plane before they took off. Ghost and Riley followed Nikolai and Price to the vehicle that was running, making sure it was warm inside. The masked man put his belongings in the trunk and then loaded Riley in the seat next to him. She curled up, resting her head on his leg. As Price pulled away from the base, the masked man watched as the plane took off, knowing his lover was caught up in conversation with his friend, expressing his worry about him being alone for the holidays. Kyle knew more about his holiday traditions, and Ghost was sure he would shed some insight for Johnny.

He always did.

• - - - - -

The ride was quiet to Ghost’s flat. It was in a quaint and quiet part, just the way he liked it. He thanked Nikolai and Price for the ride, as well as wishing them happy holidays before exiting the vehicle with Riley in toe. He retrieved his stuff from the trunk before walking to his flat. He could tell Riley was on high alert, being in a new environment. It was one of the many ways they were so similar. He shoved the key into the lock, unlocking it. He pushed the door open, met with a familiar loneliness. He kicked the door shut behind him, dropping his bags and unclipping Riley from his belt. She immediately starting sniffing around his flat, trying to learn her new surroundings.

He heard a ping from his phone. He fished it out of his pocket to see it was a message from Soap:

The older man chuckled, typing back his own message:

He pocketed his phone, moving to the kitchen. He would unpack later. Or maybe he would leave his stuff packed. He was not sure. He was half debating about taking Johnny up on his offer to spend the holidays with his family. The masked man loved his personal space, but he gotten used to Johnny constantly being in his personal space.

Right now, standing in his empty flat, he felt like a piece of him was missing. He fought the urge to pick up his phone and call Johnny, asking him the coordinates to his place in Glasgow. This was Ghost we are talking about—he didn’t need anyone. Simon Riley needed people. He felt like his balaclava was suffocating him.

He forced the thoughts from his head, trying to figure out something for dinner. He settled on take out.

• - - --- ----

The next day was Christmas Eve. Him and Riley cuddled next to each other, the bed feeling bigger than it normally did without Johnny cuddled into his side. He was dreading today. He could hear his phone vibrating on the bedside table, most likely the 141-discord server blowing up with messages between Kyle and Johnny. He made a mental note to check it later. He forced himself from his bed, knowing Riley needed to be let out and fed.

He pushed himself from the bed, Riley stirring beside him.

“Good morning girl,” he said gently, patting her head.

He made his way into the kitchen, grabbing the dog food for Riley and filling her bowl. He started brewing himself some tea, not wanting to take Riley outside just yet because he knew it was going to be cold. He started to collect the items he would need for later this afternoon—candles and a lighter. He sighed softly, looking at his pile.

Each year, it never got any easier.

Chapter Text

Christmas had come and gone. The graves were decorated and sat there for a couple of hours, talking to the head stones of everything that had transpired. The older man did not decorate the house, nor did he do much to celebrate. He saw little point in it. He did, however, make sure Riley got her pup cup to celebrate. His phone had been left for dead on the bedside table. He did not understand the consciences that would have.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, cleaning his firearm, when Riley alerted that there was a new presences outside of the door.

“Motherfucker,” Simon whispered, reaching for the knife, and slowly moving towards the door.

He could hear whispering on the other side of the door. Voices that sounded, familiar. He could hear Spanish being whispered and a concerned Scottish accident. He gently unlocked the door and pulled it open to reveal four men standing on the other side of the door, who were mid argument. The short Scottish man was the first one to process what was happening.

“Simon!” Johnny called out, relief flooding his facial features, “You’re okay!”

Riley was whining behind Ghost after hearing her dad’s voice. The older man was still trying to process why everyone was standing outside his flat door. He heard two more voices coming down the hallway. He peaked around the corner to see Price and Nic walking towards the group.

“Ghost,” Price said, “Are you going to let us in? Or did you forget how to socialize.”

The older man took a step back, allowing the gaggle of military men standing outside his door. Riley was excited to have company, especially her other dad. Soap bent over and gave her a bone that he had brought. Alejandro and Rodolfo patted Ghost on the shoulder as they moved into the flat and Kyle gave him a soft smile. The three of them went into the living room while Soap explored Ghost’s flat with Riley in toe.

“Soap here was worried about you,” Price said, “He mentioned that his calls were going to voicemail.”

“Oh,” Ghost replied. It was all he could reply.

He was still struggling with how much Johnny cared about him. Anyone who had cared for him, ended up wounded or dead. Johnny popped back into view with Ghost’s dead phone in his hand.

“I found why my calls were going to voicemail,” Soap commented, “It was dead!”

Ghost could feel everyone’s eyes on him. He shifted his weight uncomfortably in front of everyone.

“Your phone died,” Rodolfo said, “You asshole. Soap was acting like you died or something.”

“Hey,” Price interjected, “Not now.”

A weird silence fell over the flat. Ghost felt like he was in trouble; he carded a hand through his hair, not sure how to navigate this situation. Alejandro and Rodolfo must have gotten on the first flight to Manchester when Soap started freaking out that he could not get in contact with him. He did not put a second thought that his phone had died, and that Johnny would have gotten nervous. He did not think that Johnny would have called his friends from their holiday plans and shown up at his flat.

He didn’t know how much Johnny loved him until this moment.

The older man engulfed the younger man in a tight embrace.

“Si?” Johnny murmured against his shoulder, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Simon whispered against Johnny’s hair, “I am completely okay.”

The younger man relaxed into the older man’s embrace, “I was so worried about you.”

“I know dove,” Simon replied, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Johnny let out a chuckle and pulled away to look at Simon’s face, “You are called Ghost for a reason. You scare everyone.”

“Great,” Kyle murmured, “You all made up. Can we get pizza now?” 

Chapter Text

Back on base, the masked individual was sitting in his office, reading reports of the new recruits advancing in their training. He had switched from his normal earl grey tea order to black coffee; he needed the bitterness to keep him awake more than the caffeine at this point. He had also switched from his normal balaclava to a face mask that was only covering from the nose down and secured with straps around his ears. He was learning how to adapt to change, rather than fight it.

He never understood how Price was constantly in and out of meetings, doing paperwork all the time, and attempting to keep everyone in line. He was going stir-crazy sitting in this office. He shifted his eyes from the black print on the paper in front of him, to watch the smoke swirl from the burning end of his cigarette. His lover was constantly on his ass about him stopping; but he couldn’t help that every time he put his lips to the end and inhaled, how it burnt his throat a tad bit; how it kept him grounded. He could never admit that. He just shrugged off his lover’s mother-henning and murmured a promise that he would quit one day.

But today was certainly not that day.

He loosened a sigh from his lips and pushed back in his chair, shifting his weight, and standing. He decided instead of reading these reports, he was going to go lay eyes on the new recruits. And see how the two sergeants were handling training them.

Opening his office door, he squinted and almost hissed from the bright lights illuminating the hallway. He did not notice just how much his office resembled a dungeon, with the low lighting and subzero temperatures. He made sure to grab his carabiner from the hook on the wall, which jingled with all the different keys he had on there. He figured the recruiters would be running drills on the victory tower, which was where the recruits learned how to rappel down a 64-foot wall. He knew the anxiety that his lover still had laced in his soul from the last time he rappelled. He fought off the thoughts from that chilly night in Chicago, where he had watched another soldier carry his lover’s lifeless body from the building. When Laswell had to come and get him from his snipper’s nest because he was debating about throwing himself from the position if his lover did not live.

He soon found himself looking at the victory wall; his lover on the ground and his best friend on top instructing the recruits how to gear up and use it appropriately. He stopped beside Johnny, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You know,” He said, spooking the younger man, “You should be up there teaching them. You are a much better rappeler than Gaz is.”

The younger man’s eyes clouded with something that the masked man couldn’t identify, “You know why I can’t.”

After that Chicago mission, Simon knew the fear that lingered in Johnny. He had struggled with confined spaces, not allowing himself to get too close to individuals. He wished he could take it away from him. But he also remembered how his superiors had tricked him into working through his problems.

He shrugged his shoulder, “What if I race you to the bottom?”

Johnny let out a groan, “Really?”

The older man shrugged again, “Show me what you are made of MacTavish.”

He had forgotten how it felt to train; he had been cooped up in his office for way too long with Price and Laswell away on a special mission. He felt the weight of the eyes of the recruits on him as he shimmed into his harness and tightened the straps around his thighs. He barely listened as Gaz explained to the recruits that he and Johnny had cut how they were to set up their gear as well as safety checks. He could feel Johnny’s anxiety radiating from him, but if you were to look at him, you would have no idea how much he was struggling with the idea of doing this. He kept mentally reminding himself I am safe at the base; I am not dangling from a Chicago skyscraper. Simon nor Kyle are not going to let me fall.

The masked man fed his hand through the rappelling gloves that Kyle had in his back pocket. They were a tad tight, but it would save his hands from the rope burn later.

“Ready MacTavish?” Ghost grunted, looking over at the younger man.

“Give ‘em hell, Lt,” Johnny replied, forcing a smile.

Both men allowed their heels to hang over the edge of the hall, feeling the slack in their ropes tighten. One last glance was shared between the two of them before they nodded at Kyle and started their descent.

The older man's boots hit the dirt first. He let a chuckle escape his lips when he saw that Johnny was not too far behind him. His fingers went to undoing his harness and allowed it to drop to his ankles as the younger man’s boots landed with a soft thud next to him.

“Not that bad MacTavish,” Ghost grunted, “But still not better than me.”

“Nice to know that you sitting in your office all the time hasn’t made you any less than us,” Soap quipped back with a wink.

Before Ghost could fire back, there was another soldier walking up to the two of them.

“Lieutenant, Sergeant,” The soldier said in welcoming, “Captain Price and Laswell are calling a meeting now. Both of your presences are requested,” He paused for a moment before looking up, “And his.”

Ghost’s stomach twisted. It had been a moment since all three of them had been called for a meeting with Captain Price and Laswell. They must have been back from their trip and had news to share with them that could not wait until their meeting tomorrow morning at 0600. The masked man glanced over at the younger man who was out of his harness and wore a blank look on his face. He pulled at the walkie from his shirt and radioed Kyle who was still stationed on top of the victory tower to inform him of what was going on at the bottom of the wall. A few moments later, another pair of boots hit the ground with a soft thud, Kyle standing next to them. He undid his harness quickly, and the three left without saying another word to each other.

They followed the soldier who had informed them back to the office where the meeting was going to take place. The young man opened the door and allowed the three men to file into the office before closing the door.

Price and Laswell were flanking this man sitting in front of them. His arms were covered in tattoos, his hair a little bit longer than the last time any of them had seen him. The masked man's eyes slid over the man in front of him before sliding to Laswell and then finally Price.

“Alex?” Gaz gasped, confirming who was sitting in front of them.

The American smiled warmly at him, “Hi Kyle. Long time, huh?”

Chapter Text

His chest was tightening over the American sitting in front of him. Alex was assumed to be dead, but there was never a body to confirm it. The masked man could feel his anxiety starting to choke him; like a barbed wire wrapping around his throat. What did it mean for Farah and the Urzikstan Liberation Force if Alex sat before them?

Riley nudged his leg gently, a signal that she was picking up on his anxiety. He could not allow his anxiety to consume him at this moment. He allowed himself to think back to what he and his therapist have been working on.

What are five things you can see around you?

I can see Johnny, Riley, Gaz, Laswell, and Price. He thinks to himself.

What are four things you can touch around you?

I can touch Johnny’s hand, Riley’s fur, the desk, and the chair. He continues.

What are three things you can hear?

His eyes flutter shut, I can hear Johnny’s breathing, the air conditioning, and Riley sniffing.

What are two things you can smell?

The inside of my mask and Johnny’s aftershave.

What is one thing you can taste?

The lingering smoke from the cigarette.

The masked man opened his eyes and caught a concerned look from Johnny. The older man knew his eyes must show no emotion at this point, which he was comfortable in. He would not allow Alex to know that he upset him by showing up on base and acting like he never disappeared. He would allow Farah to consume him later.

“Look at what the cat dragged in,” Simon murmured, crossing his arms over his chest, and leaning against the table behind him. Soap mimicked his actions. The older man reached into his pocket and took out his cartons of cigarettes; he knew it would take one to get through this conversation.

Alex smirked, “Oh Ghost, don’t act like you haven’t missed me.”

“I haven’t,” Ghost replied tightly, adjusting his mask to place his cigarette between his lips.

Alex’s smirk faded, “I didn’t mean to disappear—”

“Save it for someone who cares,” Ghost cut him off and lit his cigarette. Johnny’s eyes were bouncing between Alex and Ghost, looking for some type of explanation for why Ghost suddenly turned as cold as the artic.

“Awh Ghost,” Alex chuckles, “You never changed, huh?”

Ghost shrugs, flicking his ashes on the floor, “What intel did you come here to deliver?”

“Ghost,” Price cuts in, but Alex waves his hand.

“He’s right,” Alex replies, leaning back in his chair.

After a few moments of tense silence, Ghost breaks it, “Well? Are you going to spit it out or do I need to torture it out of you?”

The American rolls his eyes, “Easy now killer. It’s about Phillip Graves.”

“I killed him in Mexico,” Soap murmurs.

“Turns out you didn’t,” Alex replies, “Because Farah and I just had a wonderful conversation with him.”

Ghost’s muscles tense. He doesn’t dare slip a look at Johnny; he knows his composer will crack if he does. The masked man takes a long drag of his cigarette, depending on what to say next. He never did like Alex of the way that he was always kissing Price’s ass. It got annoying fast. Gaz also kisses Price’s ass but not in the way that the American did it.

“Eat shit, Alex,” Ghost replies, pushing past Price to put his cigarette in the ashtray on the desk and storm from the room.

He did not know what he was going to do, but Alex and Graves alive opened too many what the fuck ifs. Especially if Alex and Graves were working together somehow.

He did not know what this meant.

He did not know what to do.

He just walked to his truck, ready to be done with today.

Chapter Text

The Scottish man watched as the masked man stormed from the room. His remarks lingered in the air. Johnny always knew that Simon resented Alex, but never knew why. The younger man felt like he needed to chase after the older one, but his boots did not move. He could not will himself to run after Simon; he was rooted where he stood from what the American had said. It felt like someone had tied cinder blocks to his legs and thrown him in the ocean. His mind reeled with what was said. 

Philip Graves is alive.

Johnny wanted to swear loudly and punch Alex in the face. Graves had put MacTavish through so much, he did not even know if it was all real. Johnny knew the saying, “If there is not a body to confirm the death, then they are not really dead.” 

Johnny could feel his throat start to tighten with emotions. He needed to keep his composer. He would have a lot to unpack with his mandated therapist in the next session. He was even more concerned that Alex, Farah and Graves might be working together. He felt like the walls were starting to close in on him, the longer he stood there staring at Alex’s stupid American face. He pushed himself off the table he was leaning against and went to go find Ghost. Riley was at his heels, starting to sniff for her other dad. He let her lead the way, knowing he needed to be in the grumpy English man’s personal space right now. He did not want to be alone with his thoughts. 

He was even more pissed when Kyle stayed behind. He understood but at the same time, he was angry with Kyle now. 

He got even more angry when Riley led him to Ghost’s empty parking spot. He swore under his breath, not having the slightest idea on where to find the masked man. He retrieved his phone from his pocket and sent a quick text to his lover; 

Please don’t be gone long. I don’t want to be alone. 

He then sent a text to Alejandro. He did not want to be the one to break the news to Rodolfo. 

We had a guest star on the base today… Alex is alive. What he had to say was stunning. 

Before he could put his phone away, Alejandro was calling him. 

“What. Do. You. Mean.” His voice was clipped. Johnny flinched at his tone. 

“Alex, the American that was presumed KIA is alive and on my base,” Johnny started. He started walking towards his barrack’s room, hopeful Ghost would come back soon. Riley followed him. 

“What did he say .” Alejandro’s clipped voice rang in Soap’s ear. 

He swallowed before saying, “Graves is alive.” 

Alejandro swore loudly in Spanish and Soap could hear something crash in the background. 

“I will call you back,” Alejandro replied before hanging up. 

Johnny walked in silence back to his shared barrack’s room. Ghost had moved his stuff into it while he was in medical care after the Chicago mission. The younger man often wondered why the older man took his possession, but never questioned it outloud. When he was cleared by medical to leave the hospital, that was the last time he ever slept in a bed alone; Ghost never let him out of his sight unless he was on a mission. Johnny unlocked the door and flicked on a light switch. He toes off his boots and made his way to the bed. He was exhausted; the Scottish man flung himself down on the bed, face landing in Ghost’s pillow and let out a huge sigh. He could feel the tears start to make their way free; this time he did not attempt to fight it. He allowed himself to cry. 

He would never admit it, but at this moment, he was absolutely terrified of what it meant that Philip Graves was alive. He felt like all the trauma he endured was for nothing at this point. It did not make him stronger; it made him more fearful. Johnny was not used to being afraid; he would always check his sister’s closets and under the bed whenever they said that they saw a monster or would comfort them whenever they had a bad dream. 

Johnny was not afraid of things that went bump in the night because he was the bump in the night. He was a trained war machine. His hands were stained with the blood of many men. 

Yet, he allowed himself to cry at this moment. 

Philip Graves was alive.

Riley let out a sharp bark; he could hear shouting outside the door. It sounded like Ghost. He wanted to get up and check, but he also wanted the bed to swallow him whole right now. He heard the door open.

“Fuck off Price,” Ghost snarled and slammed the door shut. 

He heard a bag hit the floor, “Johnny?” 

Ghost’s voice sounded concerned. Usually Johnny was at the door whenever Simon walked in to great him. 

He heard Ghost’s footsteps, “Johnny?” 

“In here,” Johnny replied, his voice muffled by the pillow. 

He felt the bed dip in response to Simon’s weight, “Johnny, look at me.” 

The younger man kept his face in the pillow. He knew he was fighting a battle he was going to lose. 

“Johnny,” Simon repeated. 

The younger man did not move. He did not want Simon to see that he had been crying. 

He felt Simon’s hand on his back, and a moment later, he was staring up at the masked man who was now straddling him. 

“What.” Johnny sneered. Now he was angry. 

“Cut that shit Johnny,” Ghost responded in the same tone. His face softened when he noticed that the younger man had been crying. He slipped his face mask from his ears. 

“Johnny,” Simon repeated barely above a whisper. 

It was the final thing that made the younger man crack. He started sobbing at this point. 

“Come ‘ere dove,” the older man whispered, pulling the younger one into his chest. He worked to remove his gloves before gently running his hand through the younger one’s hair, “Shh, it’s okay. I have you. You are safe with me.” 

“Graves is alive,” Johnny said in-between sobs. 

“Not for long,” Simon replied, tightening his hold on the younger man, “Not if I have anything to do with it.” 

The older man held the younger one until he had let it out of his system. He knew nothing he could say could bring the younger one peace at this moment. He just had to hold him and show him he was not leaving. 

The younger one abruptly ripped himself from the older one’s embrace. His eyes were hard when he looked at the older one, who did not know what to do at that moment. He steeled himself, nervous for what Johnny was going to say or do. 

“You mean it?” Johnny questioned. 

“Yes,” Simon replied, not knowing exactly what the younger man was referring to. He would say yes to Johnny in any timeline, alternate reality, any lifetime. He would do whatever Johnny wanted him to do.

What happened next, shocked Simon to his core. 

Johnny’s lips were soft as they clodied with his own. All he could taste was Johnny’s minty breath from all the gum he chewed. 

. 

The younger man went to pull away, but the older one pulled him in by his face. The younger one grabbed tightly onto the black sweatshirt of the older man as the older man pulled the younger one into his lap. They broke away, gasping. 

“Si.. I’m sor-” 

“Hush Johnny,” the older man said, a small smile ghosting his lips, “I have been dying to kiss you.” 

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. 

Chapter Text

The heat was suffocating.

Ghost blinked against the sun's glare, sweat trailing down the back of his neck beneath his mask. The air was thick with dust, kicked up by chopper blades that had long since faded into the distance. Gunfire crackled like a metronome, sharp and constant, echoing off the broken concrete and scorched metal.

Las Almas burned around him — half-built high-rises in ruin, smoke billowing into a sky that looked more ash than blue.

He moved through the chaos on instinct, rifle gripped tight in his hands. There were bodies in the streets, both civilian and enemy, and the sound of screaming filtered through his comms like static.

Then came the voice.

“Ghost, I need you!”

Soap .

The panic in Johnny’s voice cut through the noise like a blade, sharp and immediate. Ghost turned on a dime, sprinting toward the sound, toward the collapsed building where he knew Soap had gone in moments before.

A blast shook the ground. Dust clouded his vision. He stumbled, pushed forward. Heart racing. Lungs burning.

“Johnny?!”

The entryway was mangled, flames licking at the shattered frame. Ghost ducked under a fallen beam, boots crunching glass and debris as he moved deeper inside.

Then he saw him.

Soap was pinned beneath a collapsed slab of concrete, his side bloodied, his rifle out of reach. His eyes found Ghost’s immediately.

“Don’t—don’t come in here, it’s rigged—”

The explosion hit like a freight train. Everything turned white.

Ghost flew back, ears ringing, chest burning. He clawed at the ground, tried to stand—but all he could see was red. Red dust. Red light. Red-soaked stone.

And Soap, motionless.

Ghost crawled forward on bloody palms, yelling his name. “Johnny!”

No answer.

He reached him, hands trembling as he touched his chest—no rise, no fall. His breath caught in his throat. He pulled the mask up with shaking fingers, pressed his forehead to Soap’s.

“Don’t do this, mate. Don’t—”

Soap’s eyes stayed closed. His body, still warm, was already too heavy.

Ghost sat there, locked in place, the sound of sirens far away and fading.

Then—

The voice. But not Soap’s this time.

Makarov.

“You’re too late, Simon.”

His head snapped up—and Makarov stood in the doorway, untouched by the fire, smiling.

“You always are.”

Ghost jolted awake.

The room was dark, save for the moonlight slicing through the curtains. His breath came in hard, shallow pulls. Sweat soaked the collar of his shirt. For a second, he didn’t know where he was.

Then he turned.

Soap lay beside him, asleep on his back, one arm stretched toward Ghost’s side of the bed like he’d reached for him in his sleep.

Alive.

Whole.

Ghost let out a shaky breath, leaning forward to bury his face in his hands. His heart hadn’t stopped pounding. The scent of smoke, of blood—it was all still there, ghosting the edge of reality.

He looked at Soap again, eyes soft despite the lingering terror.

But before he could exhale fully—before he could let himself believe this moment was real—

A knock hit the door. Hard.

“Ghost, Soap. Up. Now.”

Price’s voice.

And just like that, the nightmare bled into reality.

Ghost didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the door, breathing hard, his pulse still hammering from the nightmare. He felt like his skin was too tight, like the heat of Los Almos had followed him into the room.

Another knock — harder this time.

“I said now.”

Soap stirred beside him, groggy and confused. “Wha’s goin’ on…?”

Ghost stood up, already pulling his tac vest on over the sleep shirt he hadn’t bothered to take off. “Briefing,” he muttered, voice low and clipped.

Soap rubbed his eyes, sitting up slowly. “Bloody hell, what time is it?”

“Doesn’t matter. Price sounds pissed.”

Soap swung his legs over the edge of the bed, groaning under his breath. “Aye, he always sounds pissed.”

Ghost didn’t laugh. Didn’t even flinch.

Soap noticed.

“You alright?” he asked, voice softer now.

Ghost didn’t answer. Just strapped on his sidearm and moved for the door like he was heading straight back into the battlefield. Maybe he was.

Soap’s brows furrowed, worry blooming on his face — but there was no time to press.

The lights were low, the atmosphere tense. Price stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, eyes like steel. Laswell was at the terminal, tapping rapidly. Gaz leaned forward in his chair, brows drawn.

“You’re late,” Price growled.

“Won’t happen again,” Ghost muttered, stepping to the side as Soap followed behind him.

Laswell hit a key, and the screen lit up with satellite footage — grainy thermal overlays of a convoy moving through the outskirts of an industrial zone.

“Makarov’s not in hiding anymore,” she said. “He’s moving. Fast. And not alone.”

Images flickered — armored trucks, Konni soldiers, crates being unloaded from the back of a cargo plane.

“This was captured four hours ago. He’s mobilizing with a new wave of Konni assets, outfitted with Russian and American surplus. Farah’s intel confirms it — they’re gearing up for something big.”

Soap shifted in place. “What’s the target?”

“That’s the problem,” Laswell said, jaw tight. “We don’t know. Not yet.”

Price stepped forward, gaze cutting through the room. “We’ve got a narrow window before this operation goes dark again. We move now, intercept the convoy, and extract Farah. She’s embedded, and her cover’s about to be blown.”

Ghost’s heart stuttered.

Embedded.

Farah was still inside Makarov’s operation?

Laswell nodded, picking up on his silence. “She’s been feeding us everything she can. But her comms are down. Last message said she was close to confirming the next strike location.”

Price looked at the team. “This is a one-shot job. We go in quiet, fast, and we don’t leave without her.”

“And if she’s turned?” Ghost asked, voice hard.

Price didn’t blink. “Then we deal with it.”

Soap shifted beside him, tense. “You really think she’d flip?”

Gaz cut in. “Doesn’t matter if she flipped or not — if Makarov finds out she’s talking to us, she’s dead.”

Silence.

Ghost’s mind flashed again — Las Almas. Soap dying. Makarov standing in the flames. It wasn’t just fear anymore. It was something else.

Resolve.

He leaned forward, voice low and cold. “Then we don’t let him find her first.”

The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of rotor blades beat down like a second heartbeat as Ghost climbed into the open bay of the helicopter. The sky was still dark — that cold, purple-blue just before dawn — and the wind coming off Lake Michigan bit into the gaps of his gear. Still, it was nothing compared to the heat of Las Almas. He’d take frozen skin over burning dreams any day.

Gaz was already strapped in across from him, checking the seals on his sidearm. Soap followed Ghost in, eyes scanning the interior like muscle memory was driving him.

Ghost didn’t look at him. Not yet.

Price stepped in last, barking something to the pilot before slamming the hatch shut behind him. The cabin filled with the vibrating hum of power, engines spooling up. As the helo lifted off, the city below dropped away like it was being erased from view.

Soap finally spoke, voice low enough only Ghost could hear. “You gonna talk to me before we drop in?”

Ghost kept his eyes on the floor, watching the blur of city lights disappear beneath his boots. “Not the time.”

Soap leaned in slightly, not letting it go. “It was the time last night. But you didn’t say a word.”

Ghost’s jaw tensed. His hands flexed against the straps on his vest. “Don’t push it.”

“You had a nightmare,” Soap said, even quieter now. “Didn’t need to see your face to know it.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Ghost finally turned to him, sharp eyes visible behind the black of his mask. “And what would it change if I weren’t, Johnny? Hm? You want me to break down in the middle of a mission brief, tell Price I can’t go because I saw you die in my head again?”

Soap’s expression froze, just for a moment. The blades above them thundered on.

“Didn’t say you had to break,” Soap replied, his voice rough. “Just don’t shut me out.”

Their eyes locked.

And then—

“Thirty seconds!” the crew chief called out, sliding the side door open.

Cold air ripped through the cabin like a blade.

Laswell’s voice crackled in over comms. “Farah’s last ping puts her inside a steel processing plant in Sector 7B. You’ll be dropping in two clicks west, moving under cover through the shipping yards. Light patrols, but Konni’s got drones in the area. Stealth is non-negotiable.”

Price stood, rifle in hand, nodding once at the team. “We get in, find Farah, get the intel, and get out clean. No mistakes.”

Ghost rose without another word, checking his mag, his mind already slipping into the silent rhythm of muscle memory. The rage, the fear — it’d have to wait. He could bleed later.

Right now, he needed to kill the nightmare before it became real.

He stepped up to the open door and looked out at the skeletal structures below — the jagged outline of the industrial complex ahead, bathed in cold moonlight.

“Let’s move.”

And then they jumped.

The leap never got easier.

One step and the floor disappeared beneath his boots — and then there was nothing but air.

Ghost dropped like a bullet, arms tucked, the world roaring past him in a blur of wind and light. The helo vanished above like a ghost ship swallowed by the clouds, and the city below opened up wide and dark, an endless sprawl of metal, smoke, and shadow.

The wind howled against his mask, biting cold, tearing past his ears like static in the comms. His altimeter ticked down fast — far too fast — but for those few seconds, he was weightless. Thoughtless.

It wasn’t fear that gripped him.

It was silence.

The kind that stretched between heartbeats. Between seconds. Between dreams and reality.

Las Almas flashed again, uninvited. Smoke in the lungs. Blood on his hands. Soap’s body limp beneath rubble. That same sinking feeling. That same helpless drop.

No. Not this time.

“Deploying chute,” Price’s voice came through the comms.

Ghost pulled. The chute snapped open with a violent jerk, halting his freefall and slamming the world back into place with rib-cracking force.

Below, the shipping yards sprawled like a twisted maze — rows of metal containers, broken cranes looming like rusted giants. Floodlights cast long, harsh shadows, but they were far apart. Enough blind spots to slip through. Enough dark corners to die in. One by one, the others followed — black shapes gliding down through the night like wraiths.

Ghost hit the rooftop hard, knees bent, chute already detaching as he crouched low behind a ventilation unit. He scanned the perimeter. No movement. Not yet.

Soap landed two roofs over, smooth and clean. A breath Ghost hadn’t realized he was holding escaped when he saw the man rise and give a quick two-finger signal: All good.

Gaz hit the ground next, then Price.

The team regrouped silently, ghosts in the industrial dark, footsteps whispering over gravel and steel. Ghost led them forward, weaving through the skeletons of long-forgotten scaffolding and shattered machinery.

Laswell’s voice crackled again in his ear. “Thermal shows two guards on the catwalk above the furnace stack. One on the west patrol route. They haven’t seen you — yet.”

Ghost held up a fist.

The team froze.

He dropped to one knee, brought his scope up. Two heads, close together. One smoking. One distracted.

Easy.

He sighted them both — one breath in.

Two shots. Subsonic rounds. Silenced.

The bodies dropped without a sound.

Ghost rose again, his voice low over the comms. “Clear. Move.”

As they slinked deeper into the maze of rust and fire, he caught Soap falling into step beside him — quiet, alert, steady.

Still here.

Still alive.

But Ghost’s pulse didn’t slow. His body felt electric, wired too tight — like the fall hadn’t stopped. Like he was still dropping through that sky, unable to stop what came next.

They reached the main floor entrance — the steel processing plant loomed ahead, windows glowing orange from the heat inside.

Farah was in there somewhere. So was the truth. And maybe something worse.

They crouched beneath the final row of shipping crates, the plant looming just ahead — a monolith of grinding steel and molten heat. Pipes hissed overhead, steam venting into the cold night air, masking their movements but also distorting visibility.

Ghost held up a closed fist again. Stop here.

He scanned the yard one more time. Lights overhead flickered, casting warped shadows across the gravel. There was movement inside — blurred silhouettes passing behind high, filthy windows. Armed. Alert.

“Two by the north furnace,” Laswell whispered through the comms. “Farah’s last ping came from the mezzanine level above. There’s a control office overlooking the floor. Likely locked, maybe occupied.”

“Gaz, cover left,” Price ordered. “Soap, with Ghost. Breach and sweep. Quiet.”

Ghost gave a short nod. He turned to Soap, who matched his pace as they moved toward the narrow side door tucked into the wall of the building.

Every step was deliberate. Tension coiled in Ghost’s spine like a trigger under pressure. This was the moment that always came before everything either went to plan — or to hell. Soap kept pace with him, a half-step behind. Silent. Professional. Still that familiar pull at the edge of Ghost’s focus, still too much after that dream. Ghost’s fingers clenched tighter around his weapon.

Then—

Clink.

A metal rattle skittered across the concrete.

Soap had stepped on a loose wrench left near the entry panel — it spun off, hitting a length of pipe with a loud ping!

They both froze.

Inside, shadows shifted.

Ghost spun toward Soap, grabbing him by the tac vest with one hand and slamming him back into the side of the building, hard enough to rattle the siding.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ghost hissed, his voice dangerously low. “You want to get us all killed?”

Soap stared at him, stunned, eyes wide in the dark.

“It was an accident,” he hissed back. “I didn’t see it—”

“You’re not seeing anything lately,” Ghost snapped. His grip didn’t loosen. “You’re distracted. You’re sloppy.”

Soap shoved him back. Not hard — just enough to break Ghost’s grip.

“Maybe because the man I sleep next to barely looks at me anymore,” he shot back, voice sharp as broken glass. “Maybe because he’s got one foot stuck in a nightmare and the other trying to outrun it.”

That shut Ghost up. Just for a beat.

Inside the plant, there was a shout — muffled, uncertain. They’d been heard.

Too late.

Ghost exhaled, low and rough.

“This isn’t the time.”

“No,” Soap said, stepping past him and raising his weapon, “but it’s always gonna be something , innit?”

They both moved fast now. Ghost took point, jaw locked, fury and guilt grinding against each other like broken gears.

From inside, more shouting. Boots pounding. A flashlight beam slashed across the frosted windows.

Ghost keyed his mic. “We’ve been made. Breach now.”

And then everything exploded into motion.

The breach wasn’t clean.

The door wasn’t even fully kicked in before rounds cracked off the metal walls inside. Ghost dove in first, dropping low behind a conveyor belt, muzzle flash already lighting up the narrow corridor. Soap was close behind, hugging the opposite wall, returning fire.

The heat inside was oppressive — a furnace roaring somewhere nearby, casting everything in flickering red and gold. Shadows darted across gantries above. Voices shouted in Russian. The clang of boots and steel filled the space.

“Two left, catwalk!” Gaz shouted over comms.

“On it,” Soap barked back, raising his rifle — but just as he moved to angle up, his foot clipped another tool, sending it clattering again.

Ghost gritted his teeth. “Seriously?”

“Sorry,” Soap muttered, quick-fixing his stance. Then, under his breath, “Didn’t realize I needed to walk on eggshells to meet your standards , Lt.”

Ghost pretended not to hear.

But the silence on the comms told him everyone else did.

Price’s voice cut in a second later, dry as dust. “You two want to settle that after we survive this?”

Soap flushed but didn’t back down. “Wasn’t talkin’ to you, Captain.”

Another beat of silence — just the staccato pop of suppressed rounds and the shriek of steam vents.

Then Ghost muttered low, just into his mic: “Mic’s still hot, Johnny.”

“Oh, I know.”

A flashbang burst two levels up. Ghost turned away just in time — then fired three clean rounds into the shapes moving through the white haze. They pushed forward, ducking behind a stack of steel coils. The firelight caught Soap’s face as he crouched beside Ghost, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward him.

“You’re real quick to act like nothin’s wrong,” Soap said quietly, weapon braced on his knee. “Even quicker to vanish when it is. ”

“Not the time,” Ghost muttered, eyes scanning the gantry ahead. “Eyes up.”

“You keep sayin’ that. Beginning to think there is no time when it comes to us.”

Ghost didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Not now. But it burned in his chest, sharper than the gunfire — the words, the heat behind them, the way Soap said us like it was breaking apart in real time.

Gaz’s voice cut in over comms. “Moving on your six. Farah’s beacon is still pinging — upper office, northeast quadrant.”

“Go,” Ghost snapped, pushing himself up and advancing again.

They swept through the corridor, clearing corners with brutal efficiency, but the tension didn’t let up. Not between them. Soap was quieter now — professionally sharp, but his movements were clipped, too hard. He covered angles like he was daring Ghost to find fault again. Up ahead, the stairs to the control office.

Farah’s last known position.

Ghost paused at the bottom, checking corners. His voice was low, steady. “Stack up.”

Soap didn’t reply. He just moved into position, shouldering his rifle.

But right before they breached, he muttered — just loud enough: “Maybe next time you dream about me dyin’, you’ll at least act like it mattered. ”

The words hit like a slug to the chest. Ghost pushed the door open, and hell followed right behind him. The door slammed open with a metallic clang that echoed up the stairwell, but Ghost didn’t move. He stood just inside the threshold of the control room, rifle raised, breath tight in his chest — not from exertion, not from the breach. From the words still hanging in the air like smoke.

“Maybe next time you dream about me dyin’, you’ll at least act like it mattered.”

Soap had said it low. Not shouting. Not taunting. Just… honest. And that was what made it worse. Ghost’s finger hovered over the trigger, but the hallway beyond the door was clear — nothing but flickering fluorescents and the buzz of aged machinery. No enemies. No traps.

Just silence.

Soap slipped in behind him, weapon up, sweeping left. He didn’t even glance at Ghost. Ghost’s throat felt dry behind the mask. He shifted forward slowly, boots crunching against broken glass, but it was like walking through fog. Thick. Heavy. Soap didn’t say another word. Didn’t need to. Ghost had heard every part of it. The pain. The isolation. The anger. And worst of all, the care is buried underneath it. That’s what twisted in his gut now. Not the op. Not the danger. But the thought that he might’ve made Johnny feel like dying in his dreams would’ve made no difference.

Because it would’ve wrecked him.

But how do you say that? How do you say, "You dying would destroy me" when you can’t even say "Good morning" without putting your mask on first?

Ghost swallowed hard and turned toward him, just slightly, “Soap—”

He barely got the name out before a shout rang out from the far corridor — Russian, angry, echoing off the walls. Footsteps. Three — maybe four. Moving fast.

“Contacts incoming!” Gaz called over comms.

The moment shattered.

Soap was already turning, rifle up. “Save it,” he muttered.

And Ghost did. Because he had to. Because he always did. But for the first time, he wasn’t sure saving it meant survival.

The hallway lit up with muzzle flashes as the Konni guards closed in — four, maybe five, darting between cover points like they owned the place. Soap dropped first to one knee and fired tight, controlled bursts. Two down. Ghost slid behind a column opposite him, returning fire — but his focus was fractured, like trying to shoot through a fogged lens. Not from the combat. From him.

Every time he moved, every angle he checked, he felt Soap just behind or beside him. Close. But not close enough. There was space there now — not physical, but something colder. Something heavier. Soap didn’t look at him. Didn’t call him Ghost or L.T. or even Si.

Just silence. Professional. Distant. It was fucking unbearable.

"Reloading," Soap muttered over comms.

Ghost covered him without hesitation — of course he did. He always would. Dropped another enemy center mass, even as his gut twisted with words he hadn’t said and chances already slipping through his fingers. Soap’s rifle clicked back into place, and he surged forward to clear the last bit of hallway. Another body dropped.

“All clear,” he called out. Then, to no one in particular: “Not that anyone’s listenin’.”

It wasn’t even directed at Ghost, not exactly, but it hit anyway.

Ghost stepped forward, voice low in his comms. “You're not a fucking ghost, Johnny. I see you.”

Soap paused at the corner, body tense. “No,” he said without turning around. “You watch me. Big difference.”

Ghost stepped closer, close enough to brush his shoulder against Soap’s, their rifles both aimed down the final corridor now. No more enemies. Just one steel door ahead — locked tight, Farah maybe behind it, maybe not.

“Is that what you really think?” Ghost asked, barely audible under his breath. “That I don’t—”

“Doesn’t matter what I think, does it?” Soap cut in. “You’ve got walls higher than this fuckin’ building. Thought I was getting through ‘em, but maybe I was just convenient.”

Ghost’s stomach turned. But before he could say a word, the door ahead buzzed and clicked.

They both froze.

Price’s voice rang out in their ears. “Control room access granted. You’re in.”

Soap moved first. Ghost followed, heart hammering harder than it had during the entire firefight. The emotional wreckage lay between them — unswept, unspoken — as the door creaked open and whatever waited inside looked up. The door groaned open on rusted hinges, a screech swallowed by the drone of machinery and the low hum of industrial lights overhead.

Ghost entered first, sweeping left — the room was cramped, chaotic. Control panels lined the walls, glowing dimly with old analog dials and flickering readouts. Broken monitors sparked in one corner. A map was pinned to the wall with red string leading nowhere. The place looked abandoned — except for her.

Farah sat slumped against the far wall, one knee bent, rifle across her lap. Her head snapped up at the sound of the door. She tensed, eyes narrowed — then recognition flickered across her face.

“You took your time,” she muttered, voice rough from disuse.

Soap stepped in just behind Ghost, weapon lowered. “Good to see you too, love.”

Farah’s gaze moved between them, and something subtle shifted in her expression. She didn’t say anything, but Ghost could tell — she’d heard their argument over comms. She had that look: sharp, observant, calculating. Ghost crouched near her, checked the bruising on her temple, the dried blood at her collar.

“You hurt?” he asked, keeping his voice low, clipped.

“Cracked rib,” she said. “Maybe worse. I held out as long as I could. Makarov’s people wanted information. I gave them nothing.”

“Makarov himself?” Soap asked, kneeling opposite.

She shook her head. “No. Just his dogs. Russian handlers, Konni mercs. But he’s moving — and he’s planning something big. I heard them mention Las Almas. The American lab.”

Ghost’s breath caught in his throat. Las Almas. His fingers tightened unconsciously around the grip of his rifle. The nightmare. The fire. Soap on the ground, bleeding out in the ash.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Farah met his eyes. “Positive.”

Soap looked between them, confused. “What’s in Las Almas?”

Ghost didn’t answer. The fire was already roaring in his ears. Smoke creeping under his mask. A pressure behind his eyes that didn’t belong to now.

“Simon?” Soap’s voice was lower now. “You alright?”

He forced a nod. “We need evac,” Ghost said, standing too fast. “Now.”

Price’s voice crackled through the comms: “Chopper’s inbound. Three minutes. Hold your position.”

Ghost moved toward the window, checking the skyline. They weren’t out of it yet. Behind him, Soap shifted, standing slowly — not close, but not far either.

“You knew,” Soap said quietly. “You knew about Las Almas before she said anything.”

Ghost said nothing. Farah looked away. She knew this wasn’t her moment.

“Was it in the dream?” Soap asked. His voice wasn’t angry anymore. Just... tired.

Ghost finally turned to look at him, eyes unreadable behind the mask.

“Yeah.”

And that was all he said. But it was enough. Soap’s mouth parted like he wanted to ask more, to demand an explanation — but the sound of the approaching helicopter beat the question into silence.

Farah limped to her feet, leaning slightly on the desk. “We’ll finish this later,” she said, voice grim.

Ghost nodded, eyes still locked with Soap’s.

“No,” he said quietly. “We finish this soon. ”

The sound of the helicopter grew louder, the blades whipping through the night air, a mechanical salvation on its way to pull them out of this mess. But even with that promise of escape, the air still felt too thick, too heavy with the things unsaid, the things still burning between them. Ghost kept his eyes on the window, the city sprawled out below in fractured lights. His muscles were tight, ready to move at a moment’s notice, and still, something gnawed at the back of his mind.

That feeling.

The one that told him they weren’t done yet.

“Three minutes,” Price said over comms. “Hold your ground.”

Soap stayed silent beside him, but Ghost could feel the quiet storm in the air between them. Soap hadn’t looked at him for a while now. Wasn’t even pretending to. Ghost wanted to say something — to explain, to fix it — but the words felt too small. Too weak. Especially now.

“Farah, you good?” he asked, trying to focus on the op.

“Ready,” she responded, giving him a sharp look. “And so are they.”

The hairs on the back of Ghost’s neck stood up, instinct kicking in. Something was wrong.

He snapped his head around, scanning the shadows outside the window. His pulse sped up, fingers tightening around his weapon.

There.

Figures in the darkness, moving fast. Not from the main gate. Not from the back. From the left side of the building. Flanking.

“Konni,” Soap muttered, catching sight of the same movement.

“Reinforcements,” Ghost growled, taking a knee and raising his rifle. “Get ready. Price, move it up. We’ve got company.”

He didn’t wait for a response — he was already lining up the shot, targeting the first shadow that moved into view.

Then—

A crack. A sharp snap of gunfire that didn’t come from him.

The world tilted for a fraction of a second.

Ghost felt a heavy thud hit his side. A force like being struck by a sledgehammer, jarring his ribs. The pain flared, sharp and immediate, as he staggered to the side. He gasped, trying to keep his feet under him. He gritted his teeth, but the world seemed to buzz in and out of focus for a split second.

“Ghost!” Soap’s voice rang out, frantic, sharp. “Ghost, no! ”

Another round cracked off, and Ghost's head snapped to the side. He barely saw the silhouette of the Konni sniper — a flash of movement against the skyline. But the second shot missed. He was still alive. Barely. Soap was already on him, dropping to his side. His hands gripped Ghost’s tac vest, pulling him upright.

“You’re hit,” Soap growled, his voice rough. “Shit— you’re hit !”

Ghost couldn’t focus on anything but the gnawing pain in his side, the cold rush of blood seeping beneath his gear. He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision, but everything felt too distant.

“Get the fuck up, Ghost!” Soap’s voice cracked with desperation. “We’re leaving now—”

Another round cracked off, this time slamming into the wall just inches from them. The sniper was closer now, making their move.

“ Evac! ” Ghost growled through gritted teeth, struggling to push himself upright. “We’re not waiting for reinforcements. We go, now. ”

Soap didn’t argue. He just grabbed Ghost’s arm and hauled him toward the door.

“Farah, Price — move it !” Soap shouted over comms, his voice sharp, panicked.

Price’s voice cut back through the radio. “On our way, Soap. Hold your position!”

But the moment they reached the door, another shot rang out — this one so close it felt like the wind itself had been split open. Ghost staggered back, his breath catching in his throat. He felt something cold — steel, sharp — dig into his side.

Not enough to kill me.

He shoved Soap’s hand away, pushing himself forward. “Go. Now. Get out of here.”

Soap hesitated, his eyes dark, conflicted. But then, just as quick, he turned toward the door, pulling Ghost with him.

"Farah, we're clear," Soap barked, as they both broke for the chopper. “ Now !”

The Konni sniper took another shot — missed again, but the crack of it sent shivers through the air. The chopper blades screamed louder now, echoing across the night.

But it was the message that hung in the air. Clear as day. Konni was close. They weren’t done. And Ghost wasn’t going to be able to outrun this one. Not if they kept coming.

The blood soaked through Ghost’s vest, hot and sticky against his skin. His breath came in shallow, grating gasps as he and Soap stumbled into the hallway, running for their lives. Soap’s grip on his arm was bruising, pulling him along at an almost frantic pace.

But Ghost’s legs were starting to feel like concrete, every step heavier than the last. He couldn’t ignore the pain any longer. The sharp sting of the bullet wound was a constant pulse, spreading through his torso like wildfire. Each step jarred the injury, and his vision blurred with the effort to stay upright.

“Hold on, Ghost!” Soap’s voice was frantic now, raw. “We’re almost there!”

But they weren’t. Not yet. Not with the constant threat of Konni at their backs, and Ghost couldn’t help but think of all the things left unsaid between them. Of how Soap hadn’t looked at him since that moment in the control room. How everything they were, everything they had been, felt like it was slipping away, piece by piece. And now this — another reminder that he couldn’t protect the people he cared about. Not even Soap . Not even when it counted.

Soap’s hand slipped away from his vest as they rounded the corner, and for a brief, breathless moment, Ghost felt the absence of that contact. He felt exposed. Soap kept moving, but the silence between them was suffocating. Ghost wanted to say something — anything — to break it. To explain, to fix it. But the words were tangled in his throat.

“You should’ve stayed back,” Ghost finally managed, his voice rasping from both the physical pain and the hurt still simmering beneath his mask. “I told you to stay the hell back, Johnny.”

Soap didn’t look at him.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask you to take the fucking bullet for me, did I?” Soap shot back, voice tight with frustration and something darker. Anger? Regret? Maybe both.

Ghost's chest tightened. “I’m not here to save you, Johnny. Not like that.”

“Bullshit.”

It hit harder than any shot.

“You—” Ghost started, but Soap was already ahead of him, ducking into the darkened alley outside the building, toward the waiting chopper. His jaw was clenched tight, eyes straight ahead. Soap wasn’t looking at him. The wound burned, but the sting of Soap’s words was worse.

The helicopter was roaring above them now, cutting through the cold night air as Ghost and Soap made their way toward it. The blade’s deafening rhythm drowned out most of their world. The door swung open, and Price, Gaz, and Farah were already inside.

But neither Ghost nor Soap moved quickly enough for the pilot’s liking. The rotors screamed, cutting through the night, but the moment felt too heavy. Too full of the things they hadn’t said. Soap was still gripping Ghost’s arm, pulling him along, but his hold was a little too tight — too desperate. Ghost could feel the weight of his gaze even though he wasn’t looking back at him.

Soap wasn’t breathing easy. Not with the way he was still checking behind them, watching their backs like they were still in danger. Ghost had been the one shot, but Soap was the one looking over his shoulder.

Finally, they reached the helicopter, and Soap practically shoved Ghost into the cabin. Farah was already there, checking her gear, her expression neutral.

Price nodded at them both, then glanced at Ghost. "You're hurt," he said. No sympathy, just an observation. Price wasn't the type for words.

Ghost didn’t respond, slumping down into the seat as Soap sat across from him, fingers still twitching, still tight, like he couldn’t let go of the tension. There was no more shooting. No more threat. Only the sound of the helicopter’s whirring blades and the steady, rhythmic thump of Ghost’s own heartbeat that seemed far too loud for the stillness between them.

And then, Soap broke the silence, “Didn’t need to take the shot for me, Ghost.”

Ghost didn’t look up as he spoke, “Didn’t have a choice.” His voice was rough. Every word felt like gravel against his throat. “It’s not about what you needed , Johnny. It’s about what we do. What we’re trained for. I protect you.”

Soap’s lips tightened into a thin line. “And what if you can’t?”

Ghost didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because somewhere deep down, a part of him had already started wondering if he couldn’t . Soap’s eyes were on him now, full of something — confusion, anger, worry. Ghost couldn’t tell which.

“You didn’t get that shot on Makarov,” Soap muttered under his breath, like it was something he had to say out loud to make sense of it. “And now you’re takin’ hits for me like I can’t stand on my own.”

Ghost’s chest tightened again, the wound in his side feeling worse with every passing moment. He had no idea what to say.

“I don’t need you to die for me, Ghost,” Soap continued, his voice rougher now. “I need you here. I need you alive .”

The words were too much. Too raw. But they weren’t enough. Not when they were only halfway there, still breathing the smoke of their past mistakes.

Ghost’s voice was low, almost a whisper. , “I’m not going anywhere, Johnny.”

Soap met his eyes then — deep, searching. The anger was still there, but beneath it, there was something else. Something broken. Then, the moment was gone, as quickly as it came. The chopper jerked upward, throwing them both against their seats.

The pain was all-consuming now.

Ghost barely felt the chopper touch down, barely registered Price’s voice ordering them off the bird. His vision had gone hazy, and he stumbled slightly as they moved toward the med bay. Soap was beside him, still close — his hand was light on Ghost’s back now, more a reassurance than a demand.

But Ghost knew the real damage hadn’t been done yet. Not to his body. Not to his side. It was in the space between him and Soap.

Ghost’s legs gave out just as they reached the medical bay doors. He barely had time to register the overwhelming dizziness before his vision faded to black.

The last thing he heard was Soap’s panicked voice.

“ Ghost? —” And then the world went dark.

When Ghost came to, it wasn’t the familiar hum of a chopper or the quiet rumble of a warzone. The world around him was sterile, clean — too quiet, too bright. The smell of antiseptic burned his nose, mingling with something bitter on his tongue. It took a moment for his mind to catch up with his senses, and even longer for the pain to register.

He groaned softly, lifting a hand to his head.

“Easy there.” Price’s voice was firm but steady. “You’re alive, Simon. Stay with me.”

Ghost blinked, struggling to focus. His body felt like lead, and every movement was sluggish. He looked down at his side. A thick bandage was wrapped tightly around his torso, stained dark. His chest rose and fell too quickly as the dull ache of the wound radiated through him.

"Shit," Ghost muttered under his breath, and slowly, he tried to sit up. But the effort sent his head spinning, and he swayed unsteadily. Price’s hand was quick to press him back down.

“Don’t push it.” Price’s tone was firm. “You lost a lot of blood, Ghost. You’re lucky we got you here in time.”

Ghost let out a long, slow breath, the weight of the situation sinking in. His head felt foggy, but the thought of Soap— Soap , who had been with him every step of the way—hung like a shadow in his mind.

“How’s Soap?” Ghost rasped, voice low and hoarse.

“He’s fine,” Price said, though his eyes narrowed slightly, like there was more to the answer than he was giving. “Don’t worry about him. Worry about yourself.”

But Ghost couldn’t stop himself from pushing. “How—”

Price cut him off with a short shake of his head. “He’s fine, Simon. You’re not in any condition to play hero right now, alright?”

Ghost didn’t respond immediately, trying to force the fogginess from his head. His heart was pounding too fast, and that damn pain in his side wasn’t helping.

“Where is he?” Ghost finally asked, his words quieter now.

There was a long pause.

“Soap’s not far,” Price said after a beat, his voice quieter. “But he’s... not here right now. He’s dealing with some things. You’ll talk when you’re in better shape.”

Ghost’s stomach tightened. Some things? Soap had been close. Had seen him collapse. Seen the blood, heard the shot that had taken him down.

“You can’t avoid him forever, Simon,” Price continued, his voice softer now, though still hard with his usual no-nonsense edge. “He’s going through a lot, just like you.”

Ghost swallowed thickly. The weight of it all was pressing down on him. The words were there, buried somewhere in his chest, but he couldn’t find them. Not yet. Not like this.

It felt too raw, too real.

But then Price shifted, his voice taking on a more commanding edge.

“Get some rest,” he said. “You’re going to need it. We all are.”

Ghost nodded, too exhausted to protest. The ache in his side was pulsing again, the steady pressure a reminder of what had just happened. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out everything—the sterile air, the hum of the machines, the ever-growing weight of the things left unsaid between him and Soap.

Soap was pacing. Not far from the medbay doors, his boots scuffing against the floor, running a hand through his hair in frustration. His face was tense, jaw tight, but his eyes darted nervously to the door every few seconds.

He should have been with Ghost. Soap knew that. But something held him back. Something about the way things had gone down after the shot. The argument. The tension between them. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say, how to fix this. He was used to the action, the violence, the missions. But this? This was different.

There was nothing in his training to prepare him for this kind of fallout.

A soft beep from the medical door broke his thoughts. He straightened, heart skipping a beat. And then the door opened, revealing Price.

Soap didn’t wait for him to speak.

“How is he?” Soap’s voice was tight, laced with something softer. Worry. Regret.

Price let out a slow exhale and stepped aside, allowing Soap to move past him. His eyes flicked toward the table where Ghost lay, still and unconscious. Soap’s breath hitched in his throat at the sight.

“He’s alive,” Price said, tone even. “But he’s not in the clear yet.”

Soap didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on Ghost, on the pale face beneath the medical lights, the way his chest rose and fell too quickly. That damn bandage. The way Ghost’s mask was still on, even though it should’ve been off.

“You should’ve waited,” Soap muttered, his voice a low growl, almost to himself. “I told you to stay back, Simon.”

But even as he said it, he knew the words were hollow. Empty. Ghost had done what he always did. What he always would. He’d taken the shot. For Soap. For them. But that didn’t make the weight of it any easier to carry. It didn’t take away the anger or the pain or the confusion. He wanted to walk away. He wanted to be angry, to stay angry. But the only thing that seemed to matter now was the man lying on that bed. And Soap wasn’t sure if he was ready to face what he’d said, or what Ghost had done, until it was too late.

Soap hadn’t moved since he stepped into the room. His feet were planted firmly on the ground, but his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, none of them clear. He couldn’t stop staring at Ghost’s still form, at the way his chest rose and fell, each breath shallow and uneven, as if it took every ounce of his strength just to survive. Soap clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms until they hurt.

He should’ve been there. Should’ve been the one to take the shot, to keep Ghost from getting hurt, but instead... instead, he’d let Ghost shoulder the weight of it all. He let him take the bullet. For him.

It was always like that, wasn’t it?

Soap couldn’t shake the image of Ghost standing in the open, that look on his face as he took the shot meant for Soap. He could still hear the crack of the rifle, the punch of the bullet ripping through flesh. He could feel the weight of the moment like a chain around his chest, pulling him deeper and deeper with every passing second.

“You didn’t need to take the shot for me, Ghost.”

The words hit him like a slap, even though they’d come out of his mouth days ago. He hadn’t meant them to sound so harsh. But they did. They always did, didn’t they? He’d said it to Ghost, but the truth was, it wasn’t just about the shot. It was everything else. The distance . The tension that had been building between them for weeks, maybe longer. That line that neither of them dared cross, no matter how much they both wanted to. Because one of them always held back.

Ghost held back, Soap realized.

But Soap… he wasn’t innocent in this. He had pushed. He’d ignored the signs. The cold distance. The way Ghost kept his emotions hidden behind that damn mask. Soap had kept pushing, even though he knew. He’d seen it. Felt it. How every time Ghost was near, something was different — tighter. More guarded. More distant . But Soap had wanted it anyway. He’d wanted him anyway. And now? Now it was too late for apologies. Soap couldn’t just turn back the clock. He couldn’t undo the damage.

He glanced at the small table beside Ghost’s bed, where medical supplies were scattered, blood bags, sterile equipment, and a glass of water. It was all so... clinical. So impersonal. Nothing about this felt like them . Nothing about this felt like it had been worth the cost.

It shouldn’t have been like this, Soap thought bitterly. I shouldn’t have been the one he had to protect.

Soap turned back to Ghost, who still lay there, unconscious, vulnerable. He could have died, Soap realized. He almost did. The thought hit him harder than anything. The idea that Ghost might not wake up. That he could’ve been the one to fail. The one to walk away from this without the person who mattered most. Soap’s eyes burned, but he refused to let the tears come. Ghost wouldn’t want them. Ghost would just push through. That’s what he always did.

But Soap couldn’t be like him. He couldn’t shut it down. He couldn’t bury everything like Ghost did. He needed to talk. He needed to fix things.

But how could he?

Ghost was a fortress. Soap had seen it a thousand times, especially in moments like these, when it mattered most. The man kept everything inside. Everything. He kept them inside. And now, Soap had the weight of it all pressing on his chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight. His heart was pounding harder and harder the more he stayed here, unable to let go of the mess they’d created between them.

This isn’t me, Soap thought. This isn’t us.

He had never felt this lost. Not on a mission. Not when the bullets were flying. This was different. This was personal. This was everything. And then, for the first time in days, Soap let his guard down. He let out a shaky breath, his throat tight. He closed his eyes, reaching a hand out to gently brush against Ghost’s unshaven face, the faint scrape of stubble beneath his fingertips. A silent apology. A plea for forgiveness. A promise to make it right.

The room felt even quieter, more suffocating as Soap sat there in the stillness, torn between wanting to be close and needing distance. His heart was aching for something he couldn’t touch. He wanted to reach through the wall Ghost had built up, to break down whatever it was that kept him locked in that silence. But Soap didn’t know how. And God, he didn’t know if he’d ever find the right way to say it. But he had to try. They couldn’t stay like this forever.

The door to the medical bay opened, and Price stepped in. Soap immediately straightened, pulling his hand back from Ghost’s face, though his eyes lingered on him just a moment longer.

“Alright, Johnny,” Price said, his tone softening for once. “You need a break. Come on, you’re not doing anyone any good like this.”

Soap swallowed thickly and gave a nod, though he didn’t move right away. His heart was still pounding in his chest, the weight of everything, of Ghost, still hanging in the air like a storm that wasn’t quite ready to break. But Soap knew he couldn’t stay here. Not now. Not when the tension was still thick enough to cut through.

“I’ll stay,” Soap finally said, his voice rough but steady. He wasn’t going to leave. Not yet. Not when Ghost needed him most.

Price gave him a long look before he nodded. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

With that, Price turned to leave, but Soap’s mind was a thousand miles away, still caught in the labyrinth of guilt and confusion. The door closed softly behind him, and Soap was left alone again. Alone with his thoughts, with Ghost, and with the hollow ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away.

Ghost’s eyes fluttered open, the bright lights above him stabbing through the haze in his head. He groaned softly, trying to push himself upright, but the pain in his side quickly reminded him that moving too fast wasn’t an option. He winced, sinking back against the cold medical bed, the sterile scent of the room now familiar.

He blinked a few times, his vision slowly clearing as his head throbbed. His fingers instinctively reached for the area around the bandage wrapped tightly around his torso, the dull pain a constant reminder of how close he had come to losing it all. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, though. Something wasn’t... right. He glanced around, his senses still sluggish. The dimmed light in the room. The machines humming quietly, monitoring his vitals. The familiar sound of faint footsteps outside the door.

But there, sitting beside him, was someone he hadn’t expected to see. Soap. Johnny.

His first instinct was to speak—to ask if he was dreaming, if the pain was enough to be a hallucination. But the words stuck in his throat as he processed the sight before him. Soap was slouched in a chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. His usual swagger, his bright smile, nowhere to be found. In its place, there was exhaustion. Worry. Guilt.

It hit Ghost like a sudden wave. Soap. Soap was here. The realization made Ghost's chest tighten in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Soap wasn’t just here for the mission. He wasn’t just standing by as part of the job. Soap... was here for him.

That thought confused him more than the bullet wound.

“Johnny?” Ghost croaked, his voice hoarse, the name barely a whisper.

Soap’s head jerked up at the sound of his name, his eyes instantly locking onto Ghost’s. There was a flicker of something in his gaze. Relief, maybe. But there was also something darker—a flicker of something Ghost couldn’t quite place.

“ You’re awake. ” Soap’s voice was quiet, shaky, and Ghost noticed the way his shoulders were tense, like he’d been holding his breath until this moment.

“Where else would I be?” Ghost replied, his voice rough. He tried to sit up again, but Soap was on his feet in an instant, one hand gently pressing him back against the bed.

“Take it easy,” Soap murmured, his brow furrowing. He didn’t pull away, his hand lingering on Ghost’s chest for a second longer than necessary. “You’re not ready for that.”

Ghost felt a pulse of irritation flare inside him, but he couldn’t find the energy to push back. Instead, he let out a long breath, sinking deeper into the bed, his eyes never leaving Soap’s.

“What are you doing here?” Ghost asked bluntly. The words felt colder than he’d intended, but his mind was still swimming in confusion, still grasping for clarity. He didn’t know if it was the blood loss or something else, but it felt like a distant ache—like he couldn’t quite reach Soap, even though he was right here.

Soap’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak immediately. His gaze flickered to the floor, then back up at Ghost, as if weighing whether to say something. His lips parted, closed again, and when he finally spoke, his voice was tight with something raw.

“I’m not gonna leave you, Simon,” Soap said quietly, the words simple but heavy.

Ghost blinked, his heart skipping a beat. Soap’s gaze never wavered. His words, his tone, it was all a strange mix of vulnerability and determination. The last time they’d been close like this—when had that been? Back when everything hadn’t felt so... fractured? But this wasn’t the time for Ghost to process it. Not now. Not with his mind still reeling. Soap wasn’t just sitting there out of duty. He was staying because... he cared.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Soap muttered under his breath, his eyes flicking away, like he couldn’t quite handle Ghost’s stare. “You don’t need to thank me or anything. Just... just don’t die on me again.”

Ghost’s breath caught in his chest. The honesty in Soap’s words made it harder to breathe, harder to focus. He had the distinct feeling that Soap wasn’t just talking about the mission anymore. He was talking about something else. Something deeper.

“I didn’t die,” Ghost said, his voice coming out quieter than he intended. His eyes softened as he took in Soap’s face. The weariness was there. The guilt. The worry. It was almost like Soap had been carrying the weight of everything for both of them.

Soap met his gaze again, his expression unreadable, though the tension still hung thick between them. He didn’t say anything at first. Just let the silence stretch between them, thick with all the things they hadn’t said.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore, Simon,” Soap admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I keep making things worse, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Ghost stared at him, unsure of what to say. Soap was this vulnerable—this open —and Ghost didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t know how to fix it either.

“Don’t,” Ghost murmured. “Don’t say things like that.”

But Soap only shook his head, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t give a damn, Ghost. You’ve been there for me every damn step of the way. I just...” He trailed off, the words dying in his throat.

Ghost’s chest tightened. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with this. Soap was right there, so close, and yet the distance between them felt like miles. It felt like there were too many walls between them—too much left unsaid. Ghost wanted to break through them. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come. Not yet. Not when things felt so fragile.

“I’m not leaving,” Soap finally said again, quieter now. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Ghost closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, letting the moment settle into something that felt like something. He didn’t know where this was going, but for now, he could take comfort in the fact that Soap was there. Even if they didn’t have the answers yet, Soap was still here. And maybe, for the first time in a while, that was enough.

The silence hung between them, thick and almost suffocating. Ghost could feel it in his bones, that sense of discomfort, but there was something about Soap's presence that felt grounding, even if it wasn’t entirely the comfort Ghost was used to. Soap was there. He was real. And Ghost wasn’t sure how to process that.

Soap’s eyes lingered on him, studying him with a quiet intensity, something almost tender in his gaze. He wasn’t the man who would hide behind his own walls. But this—this was different. The weight of everything they'd gone through, the strained tension, the way things had been shifting between them, was too much for even Soap to ignore. Soap shifted in his seat, his posture tightening, his fingers tapping restlessly against the side of the bed. He wasn’t looking directly at Ghost now, but Ghost could feel the weight of his gaze. Soap was struggling with something. A question he didn’t want to ask, but needed to.

“You... you know, you don’t have to pretend with me,” Soap finally muttered, his voice rough but quiet. “I can see it.”

Ghost’s pulse quickened, and he instinctively shifted, pulling himself just a bit further back into the bed, though the pain in his side quickly reminded him to stay still. “See what?” he asked, voice low, though the question felt forced, like he was trying to hide something.

Soap let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “The nightmares.” He paused for a moment, his voice almost too soft for Ghost to catch, but the words still stung when they hit. “I’ve been hearing you scream in your sleep. It’s... it’s not the first time.”

Ghost’s heart clenched in his chest. His first instinct was to shut him out, to brush it off like he always did, but something in Soap’s tone—something raw—stopped him from doing that. Soap wasn’t accusing him, wasn’t trying to push him into talking. He was just... concerned.

“Nothing to talk about,” Ghost muttered, his voice guarded. He shifted again, avoiding Soap’s eyes. “Just bad dreams. Everyone has them.”

Soap’s gaze hardened, just for a moment, before his face softened again, the concern creeping back into his eyes. “No, Simon,” he said firmly, his voice unwavering. “Not like that. I’ve seen you. You don’t get like this over ‘bad dreams.’ There’s something else.” He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the bed. “You’re not fooling me, mate.”

The words felt like a weight pressing down on Ghost's chest, a pressure he couldn’t ignore. He was caught between wanting to tell Soap everything and wanting to keep it all buried deep down where no one could reach it.

Soap was right. It wasn’t just nightmares. It was the weight of the missions. The ghosts of the past. The faces of those he’d failed. The way he had felt Johnny slipping through his fingers, the way he had almost lost him. That was the nightmare. That was the terror that haunted him when he closed his eyes. Soap’s death. The gunfire. The screams.

It was too much. Ghost couldn’t handle it.

“I’m fine, Johnny,” Ghost said, his voice gruff. But the words felt hollow. Even he didn’t believe them anymore.

Soap’s eyes were unwavering, though, watching him with the patience of someone who knew this wasn’t the full story. “Bullshit,” he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Ghost to hear. The edge in his voice was unmistakable. “I know you better than that, Simon. I’ve seen it. And I don’t want to see it again.”

There was a crack in Soap’s voice. A rawness Ghost wasn’t used to. Soap wasn’t just talking about the nightmares anymore. He was talking about them . The things they never said to each other. The things they always kept hidden.

The unspoken fear that lingered between them, always, like a second shadow.

“I can’t do this alone, Johnny,” Ghost finally said, his voice breaking the silence like a hammer to glass. The words felt out of place, a vulnerability he wasn’t used to. Ghost didn’t ask for help. He didn’t rely on anyone. But in that moment, the truth fell from his lips before he could stop it. “I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine. I can’t... keep pretending I don’t care.”

Soap’s face softened, his eyes searching Ghost’s, his hand reaching for the bedside again, though this time it wasn’t to pull him back. It was something gentler—almost protective.

“I know, Simon,” Soap whispered, his voice heavy. “I know.”

But it wasn’t just words. Soap didn’t pull away. He stayed there, by his side, like he always had, like he always would. And in that moment, the weight of the world on Ghost’s shoulders felt... a little less suffocating. Soap didn’t say anything immediately. He just stayed there, sitting close, his hand hovering near Ghost’s side but never quite touching. His gaze lingered on Ghost for a moment, as if he were trying to read him, trying to figure out what was really going on inside that head.

“Why don’t you just tell me what happened, Simon?” Soap asked quietly. “What’s in your head? What’s in the dreams?”

Ghost’s chest tightened at the question. He wanted to shut it down, to throw up those walls he’d built so high over the years. But there was something in Soap’s eyes, a quiet sincerity that Ghost couldn’t ignore. Soap wanted to know. And maybe—just maybe—Ghost wanted to let him in.

“They’re just... nightmares,” Ghost muttered, his gaze flicking toward the ceiling, avoiding Soap’s watchful eyes. “Stuff from missions. From the ones I couldn’t save. Faces I never should’ve lost.”

Soap’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t interrupt. He just let the words hang in the air, a tense silence stretching out between them. Ghost could feel Soap’s eyes on him, searching, but he didn’t look back. He couldn’t. Not yet.

“You know the worst part?” Ghost continued, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “It’s not the blood or the bodies. It’s the sound. The screaming.” His breath hitched in his chest. The memory was too vivid, too real. “It’s like it never stops. It keeps playing over and over. And I’m just... stuck in it. Watching it.”

Soap’s hand twitched. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could tell Ghost wasn’t giving him everything, but something in those words, something about the way Ghost said them, made him feel like he was this close to finally understanding.

“You don’t have to say anything more if you don’t want to,” Soap said gently, his voice softer now. “But I need you to know I’m here. No matter what.”

Ghost could feel the rawness in Soap’s words, that unwavering promise. But his mind was already racing, already drowning in the images that wouldn’t let him go. The blood. The screaming. The loss. But then, something clicked. The pieces started falling into place, and for a moment, Ghost froze. He hadn’t said enough for Soap to understand. Not really . But there was something in the way Soap’s eyes softened, something in the way he was watching him. Soap was trying to read between the lines.

Ghost’s heart skipped a beat as a memory flickered at the edge of his mind. The dream that always felt like it was pulling him under.

“Johnny...,” Ghost started, his voice rough. “There’s this one thing... it always ends the same way. It’s...” He paused, then let out a sharp exhale, trying to collect his thoughts. “I’m on the ground. And I’m reaching for you. But I can’t... I can’t get to you in time. And then... you fall.”

Soap didn’t move, didn’t breathe for a second. Ghost could see it then—the realization dawning in Soap’s eyes. The way his face shifted, the subtle narrowing of his brows. He wasn’t blind. He knew exactly what Ghost was talking about.

“ That’s what’s in the dreams. ” Soap’s voice was barely a whisper. “That’s why you keep waking up like you’re drowning. It’s... it’s me, isn’t it?”

Ghost’s throat tightened. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words to confirm it. But the silence between them was all the answer Soap needed.

Soap let out a breath, a soft, almost bitter laugh escaping him. “Shit. You’ve been carrying that around, haven’t you?”

Ghost looked away, his jaw clenched tight, his fists clenching involuntarily. Soap wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t just the deaths, the failures—it was Johnny. It was always Johnny.

“I’m not gonna fall, Simon,” Soap said suddenly, his voice tight with something Ghost couldn’t quite place. He reached out, just barely brushing Ghost’s shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

But Ghost couldn’t shake the fear that had taken root deep inside him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that one day, he wouldn’t be able to get to Soap in time. That one day, Soap would fall. And it would be his fault.

“You don’t get it,” Ghost said, his voice thick. “I wasn’t just watching. I was too late . I couldn’t—”

“You don’t know that, Ghost,” Soap interrupted, his voice hard now, a new determination in it. “You don’t know what’ll happen. And you can’t keep punishing yourself for things that haven’t even happened. And honestly, it won’t ever happen.”

Ghost shook his head, still refusing to look at him, still unable to face it. The fear. It was eating him alive.

“I can’t lose you, Johnny,” he admitted quietly, almost as if he were confessing to something he hadn’t dared say out loud before. The words felt like an anchor. “Not again.”

Soap’s gaze softened, and for a moment, he said nothing. He just watched Ghost, eyes heavy with understanding. Then, without warning, he leaned forward, gently gripping Ghost’s shoulder.

“You won’t, you haven’t even lost me once,” Soap said firmly, his voice unwavering. “I’m not going anywhere, Simon. I promise you that.”

Ghost swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a brief moment as the weight of those words settled in. He didn’t know how long he could hold on to them. But for now, they were all he had. The nightmares weren’t over. And maybe they never would be. But for once, Ghost didn’t feel so alone in them.

The quiet in the room felt heavy, like a breath held too long. Soap’s hand still rested on Ghost’s shoulder, a subtle pressure that somehow felt grounding. Ghost wasn’t sure what to do with it—didn’t know how to respond to it—but he let it stay, at least for now. The last thing he wanted was to push Johnny away when they were finally starting to talk .

“I... I don’t know how to stop it,” Ghost murmured after a long silence, his voice barely audible. He hadn’t meant to say it, but it slipped out anyway, the weight of his words hanging in the air. “The nightmares. The... fear. It feels like it's never gonna stop.”

Soap shifted, his hand moving slightly as he leaned forward. There was a softness in his eyes now, something that spoke of patience, of understanding—things that Ghost wasn’t used to. Soap wasn’t rushing him, wasn’t forcing him to explain everything. But there was an unspoken promise that he’d be there, no matter how long it took.

“You don’t have to carry it all, Simon,” Soap said, his voice soft but firm. “I’m here. We’re a team. That means all of us . You don’t have to face this alone.”

The words hit Ghost harder than he expected. The truth of them dug deep, exposing something inside him that he’d buried for so long. He’d always thought he had to carry it. The burden, the pain, the fear. He’d never let anyone in, never let anyone help. But Soap was right. For the first time in a long while, Ghost felt the sting of vulnerability—not just from the nightmares, but from everything he’d been running from. The fear of failure. The fear of loss. The fear that Johnny—Soap—would slip through his fingers before he could do anything to stop it.

“I’m not asking you to fix it,” Ghost replied, his voice strained. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in. “I just... I don’t know how to stop it, Johnny. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

Soap’s fingers tightened briefly on Ghost’s shoulder, grounding him again. “You don’t have to fix it all at once, Si. You just have to take it one step at a time.”

Ghost couldn’t meet Soap’s gaze. The words felt right , but they also felt impossible . The weight on his chest hadn’t shifted. The fear, the doubt, the nightmares—they were still there, lingering just below the surface. But maybe... maybe Soap was right. Maybe he didn’t have to fight it alone.

“You’re the first person to say that,” Ghost muttered, his voice quiet, almost in disbelief. “The first one to say I don’t have to do it all alone.”

Soap’s eyes softened, and he leaned closer, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Well, then I’ll say it again, Simon. You don’t have to do it alone.”

The silence between them grew comfortable, though it wasn’t the kind of silence that could heal everything. But it was enough. Enough for Ghost to let his guard down just a fraction, to let Soap in a little more. Soap stayed close, not rushing to fill the silence with more words. He didn’t need to. The way he sat there, his presence solid and unwavering, said everything that needed to be said. For the first time in a long while, Ghost allowed himself to breathe. Maybe it was okay to lean on someone. Maybe it was okay to have someone there .

But just as the moment stretched on, just as Ghost allowed himself to feel a hint of relief, Soap’s voice broke the stillness, a faint edge of humor returning to it.

“So, uh... if I’m gonna be here for all your nightmares, do you think I get, like, a discount on the therapy fees or what?” Soap asked, a half-grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

Ghost let out a strained chuckle, the tension in his chest loosening just a little. He could feel the corner of his own mouth twitching upward. Even in the darkest moments, Soap always knew how to lighten the mood.

“Typical,” Ghost muttered, his voice finally holding a note of amusement. “Always about the bloody money with you, Johnny-boy.”

Soap’s grin widened, and Ghost couldn’t help but feel a flicker of warmth spread through him. For the first time, it felt like maybe they were okay. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

“Always, mate,” Soap replied with a wink. “You’ll get the bill after the next mission. Just don’t expect me to be merciful.”

Ghost shook his head, the faintest smile still lingering on his lips. “I’ll send you the invoice for your therapy after I’m done with you.”

“Deal.”

The moment stretched on, more comfortable now, with a shared understanding between them. Ghost wasn’t sure how long it would last, how long he could keep this fragile peace in his chest, but for now, it was enough. The silence between them had softened, the weight of their conversation lingering in the air. Soap’s eyes hadn’t left Ghost, even as the tension from their earlier words started to settle. But there was something more, something unsaid hanging between them. It wasn’t just the fear or the nightmares anymore—it was the unspoken truth that had been there all along, a tension that neither of them had dared acknowledge before.

Soap’s hand hovered near Ghost’s shoulder again, the closeness between them growing in a way neither of them had expected. He stared at Ghost, at that dark mask that always hid everything from view, from the world, from him . Soap had always wondered what lay behind it—the face Ghost hid from the world, from him.

“You know,” Soap murmured, his voice soft, almost tender. “You never let anyone see your face. Not even me.” His thumb traced a line along the edge of Ghost’s shoulder, a gentle touch that sent a jolt through Ghost’s body.

Ghost shifted, his chest tight, his breath coming in slow, controlled exhalations. He knew where this was going, but he didn’t know how to stop it, or how to deflect it this time. He had always hidden behind the mask, behind the armor, not just to protect himself, but to protect others from seeing what lay beneath.

“Don’t need to,” Ghost muttered, though his voice didn’t sound as sure as it usually did. “It’s just a mask.”

Soap’s eyes softened, but there was something more in them now, something intense. He leaned in a fraction closer, his lips almost brushing Ghost’s ear as he spoke.

“It’s not just the mask, Simon,” Soap whispered, his voice low, steady. “It’s you. You hide behind everything— everything —but I see you, mate. I see you.” His breath was warm against Ghost’s skin, the words hanging heavy in the air, thick with meaning.

Ghost stiffened, the heat in his chest rising as Soap’s words pierced through the shield he had spent years building. It was too much. It was too real . Soap’s hand moved slowly, almost hesitantly, from Ghost’s shoulder to his jaw, lifting his chin gently. Ghost didn’t move, didn’t pull away. The tension between them was unbearable now, crackling with the unspoken desire that had been building for far too long.

“Let me see you, Simon,” Soap said, his voice just above a whisper. “Let me see you, just for once.”

The words were barely out of Soap’s mouth before he closed the gap between them, pressing his lips to Ghost’s in a kiss so intense that it almost knocked the breath from him. It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t gentle—it was filled with everything . The weight of years of unsaid things, the rawness of what they had both been carrying, and the undeniable pull that neither of them could ignore any longer. Soap’s hands were on Ghost’s face now, his touch desperate, as if he were trying to memorize every inch of him, every detail that was hidden for so long. Ghost couldn’t pull away. His heart was pounding in his chest, his breath ragged. His mind screamed at him to push Soap away, to not let this happen, but his body refused to listen. The kiss deepened, passionate, urgent. Soap’s lips were everywhere, tracing the edge of Ghost’s lips. Ghost could feel the heat radiating between them, a storm that had been building for so long finally breaking.

For a moment, it felt like nothing else existed. Not the war, not the missions, not the nightmares. Just Soap, just this. And for the first time in as long as Ghost could remember, he didn’t want to fight it. Didn’t want to pull away. Soap’s mouth moved against his, softening for a moment, just enough for Ghost to pull in a breath, but then it was back, more insistent this time, as if Soap needed this just as badly as he did.

When they finally broke apart, Ghost’s breath was heavy, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to react. He could still feel the warmth of Soap’s lips on his own, the overwhelming sensation of it. Soap, still breathing heavily, pulled back just enough to look Ghost in the eyes, his own face flushed, lips swollen from the kiss. There was a quiet uncertainty in his gaze now, but also something more.

“That—” Soap started, but his words faltered. He didn’t know how to finish, didn’t know what to say.

Ghost’s mind was spinning, his heart racing. But when he looked at Soap—really looked at him—he realized that maybe this was what he’d needed all along. To feel alive again. To feel connected . To someone. To Soap. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t easy. But for the first time in a long time, Ghost didn’t feel so alone .

“Yeah,” Ghost said softly, his voice hoarse. “That was... something.”

Soap’s lips curved into a grin, but there was a rawness to it, a vulnerability he hadn’t shown before. “Not exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted to see you, but I’ll take it.”

Ghost couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound coming out rough and almost unfamiliar. “You’re a bloody idiot.”

“Yeah,” Soap replied with a wink, “but I’m your idiot now.”

The weight of the moment didn’t fully lift, but it shifted something between them, something unspoken but undeniable. It wasn’t just the kiss. It was the understanding, the raw truth of what was between them.

For once, Ghost didn’t feel like he was falling apart. He just felt... seen .

The silence was still thick, but it wasn’t awkward anymore. It was laden with something much deeper. Soap’s hand was still resting on Ghost’s shoulder, but now there was an urgency in the way their eyes met. Something unspoken, something powerful, was shifting between them.

Without warning, Ghost’s hand shot out, grabbing the back of Soap’s neck and pulling him down. The kiss was sudden, more forceful this time, as if Ghost couldn’t hold back any longer. His mouth crashed against Soap’s, and Soap responded instantly, his body pushing into Ghost’s, his hands gripping his shoulders. There was no hesitation this time. No second-guessing. It was all raw, all need. The kind of kiss that came from somewhere deep within—somewhere too long buried. Soap’s chest pressed against Ghost’s as the intensity grew, both of them giving and taking, breaths harsh and tangled together. The air between them was thick, crackling with heat, but Ghost couldn’t stop. Couldn’t pull away.

Then, before Soap could even register what was happening, Ghost’s hands were moving—firmly on Soap’s hips, guiding him over, pulling him onto his lap. Soap gasped against his mouth, the surprise of it making his pulse race even faster. Ghost didn’t care that he was injured. He didn’t care about the mission, about the risks, about the mask. He needed this, needed Soap like he needed air. His hands moved along Soap’s sides, pulling him even closer. Their bodies pressed together—skin, heat, urgency.

Soap’s legs straddled Ghost, his hands moving to grip his chest as their kiss deepened, cautious not to hurt the older man. The friction was electric, their bodies connected in a way that felt desperate, almost reckless. Soap’s breath came in soft gasps between kisses, his lips parting just enough for Ghost to slide his tongue into his mouth again, tasting him, claiming him. There was no stopping it now.

Then, a loud knock on the door.

Thud, thud, thud.

Ghost froze for a fraction of a second, his hands still on Soap’s waist, Soap’s mouth still pressed against his. They both looked toward the door, both their breaths ragged.

“ Ghost? ” Price’s voice, gruff and unamused, came from the other side of the door. “ Everything alright in there? ”

Soap let out a strangled laugh, pushing himself off of Ghost, looking anything but casual. His cheeks flushed, his hair disheveled, and the tension in the air was palpable.

Ghost’s hands were still on his hips, and Soap’s chest heaved with the effort of trying to compose himself. He wiped a hand across his face in a half-hearted attempt to regain some semblance of control.

“We’re good, Price,” Soap called out, trying to sound nonchalant, but there was no hiding the breathlessness in his voice. “Just... handling some things .”

The door creaked slightly as Price responded, the humor in his voice impossible to ignore.

“Handling, eh?” Price’s voice took on an edge of knowing amusement. “Well, hurry up. We need to talk about the mission— unless you two need a moment. In which case, carry on.” There was a pause, followed by a quiet snicker. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Soap’s eyes widened in disbelief, and Ghost, who was still adjusting to the sudden shift in energy, was at a loss for words. He could hear Price’s boots retreating from the door, the old man clearly enjoying his moment of teasing. Soap couldn’t help but laugh, a sound that held both embarrassment and amusement. He ran a hand through his hair, looking at Ghost in an entirely different light now, the air between them charged with something deeper.

“Well, that’s one way to ruin the moment,” Soap muttered, still trying to regain his composure, his voice low but laced with affection. “Next time, we lock the damn door, yeah?”

Ghost, still processing the whirlwind of emotions that had just taken place, smirked despite himself, the tension easing just a little as he gave Soap a look.

“A bit late for that now, Johnny,” he said, his voice still rough but with a hint of humor in it. “But... yeah. I’ll make sure to lock it next time.”

Soap’s grin softened as he leaned in again, just enough to brush his lips against Ghost’s once more, light and fleeting, like a promise.

“Next time, yeah.”

Then he pulled back, his expression shifting to something a little more serious, a little more thoughtful. He looked at Ghost, meeting his eyes with that raw honesty again. “You know I mean it, right? About... being here. About us.”

Ghost didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he just nodded slowly, his hand gently squeezing Soap’s leg. There were still so many things unsaid, but for now, this... this felt like a start.

The door was still closed, but the world outside felt distant now. The noise of the base, the constant hum of operations, all faded into the background as Soap and Ghost sat in that small, dimly lit room. Soap, still flushed from the unexpected intimacy, stood at the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. It felt like a moment they hadn’t fully processed yet—everything that had just happened. The tension between them was still palpable, like an electric current buzzing in the air.

Soap opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he found himself just staring at Ghost, the man who had been his partner, his confidant, and—God, now more than that. There was a vulnerability in Ghost now, in the way he held himself, in the way his hands rested at his sides.

It was different, but it wasn’t frightening.

Finally, Ghost spoke, his voice low and almost hesitant. It was rare for him to let anything slip through the cracks of his usual walls.

"You... okay?" Ghost asked, his words almost uncertain. The mask was still on, but the way he said it, there was something softer there now. Something real.

Soap swallowed, a little surprised by the question. It wasn’t often Ghost let someone check in on him. But Soap wasn’t just someone anymore. Not after everything that had happened between them, not after what they had just shared.

“I should be asking you that,” Soap said with a quiet chuckle, trying to ease the moment. He crossed the room and sat beside Ghost on the bed. “You sure you’re good?”

Ghost looked at him then, really looked at him, his gaze almost like a question. The way he studied Soap—like he was trying to piece him together. For a second, Soap’s heart stuttered. The distance was still there, but it felt like it was slowly closing.

“Better now,” Ghost replied, his voice softer than usual, more open than Soap had ever heard it. There was a vulnerability in the way his shoulders relaxed, the way he didn’t immediately pull away when Soap moved closer. “You... don’t have to stay. If you want to get back to the mission.”

Soap shook his head, meeting Ghost’s gaze, feeling the pull again, the unspoken thing between them that neither of them could ignore.

"I’m staying." Soap’s voice was firm, but there was a warmth there too, an unspoken promise. "I’m always staying, Simon. You’ve gotta start getting used to that."

Ghost’s eyes flickered for a moment, like a flicker of something he wasn’t sure how to handle. Maybe he wasn’t used to it, maybe he didn’t even know how to be with someone like Soap. But Soap wasn’t backing off. Not now. Not after everything.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Soap repeated, this time with a little more conviction.

Ghost didn't answer right away. His eyes dropped for a moment, like he was gathering himself, like he was deciding something. Soap could see the war behind Ghost’s mask—always a battle, always a shield.

But this time, it didn’t feel like Ghost was fighting Soap. It felt more like he was giving in. Slowly, Ghost turned toward Soap. His hand reached out, almost tentatively, brushing Soap’s cheek. The touch was brief, almost like a test—something to see if Soap was still there, still real. And Soap didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He just let Ghost’s touch linger, let the soft connection speak for itself.

“I’m not used to this,” Ghost admitted quietly, his voice rough. “Letting people in.”

Soap’s smile was small, soft, but it carried everything he wanted to say. "I know, mate. But that’s okay. You don’t have to change overnight." His thumb gently traced the back of Ghost’s hand, grounding him in the moment.

Ghost exhaled slowly, his lips curling into a faint, almost imperceptible smile—a glimpse of the man behind the mask, of the man Soap had always known. It was the first real smile Soap had seen from him in so long, and it made his chest tighten with something he didn’t have a name for yet.

"Good," Ghost murmured, leaning in just slightly, his forehead resting against Soap’s. "Because I don’t think I’d know how."

Soap stayed there, the two of them close, not rushing to fill the silence. There was no need to say more, not yet. They both knew.

Soap cleared his throat, the moment turning lighter again, but there was still that soft undercurrent of something deeper.

“So, what now?” Soap asked, grinning slightly. “We just... sit here?”

“Pretty much,” Ghost replied, almost deadpan, but his eyes were warmer now. A far cry from the cold mask he’d put on for everyone else. “Unless you’re in a hurry to run off and finish that mission.”

Soap laughed, the sound breaking the tension between them, but it was a good kind of break. The kind that felt right . “Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “I think I’m good, for once.”

They sat in the quiet of the room, a new understanding settling between them. The connection they had built, even in the chaos of the world around them, was solid, like something that could withstand whatever came next. And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to face whatever darkness still lurked on the horizon.

The sterile scent of antiseptic hung in the air as Ghost sat up in his bed, his fingers tracing the edge of the crisp white sheet beneath him. The bruises were fading, and the pain in his side was more of a dull ache now. He’d been in medical for what felt like forever, and despite the care, the silence of the room, and the calm of his surroundings, the unease had never fully lifted. There was something about the absence of action that made it harder for him to keep the walls up, harder to fight the thoughts that had been creeping in since the incident. His hands clenched at his sides as memories of the mission—of the bullet that almost ended him—flashed across his mind.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts, and he instinctively reached for the mask on the table beside him. Soap's voice followed immediately.

"You decent, Ghost?" Soap's voice was light, teasing, but there was something behind it—concern, maybe. Or just a touch of tension that hadn’t quite left since everything had happened.

“Yeah,” Ghost replied, his voice still a little rough, but more himself now. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for another round of teasing or emotional depth, but he knew Soap wouldn’t let up.

The door opened, and Soap stepped inside, his usual smirk still present despite the heaviness that hung between them. He looked healthier now, his usual energy restored. But there was an unspoken understanding between them now—everything felt different.

"You good to go, Simon?" Soap asked, walking up to the bed. "Price is ready to brief you. No more medical bed for you today." There was an amused glint in Soap's eye, but it didn’t quite mask the concern that still lingered underneath.

"Yeah, I’m fine," Ghost said, nodding as he slowly stood up. His muscles were still a bit stiff, but there was no pain—at least not enough to stop him from getting back to work.

Soap offered him a hand, a simple gesture that carried more weight than either of them would admit. Ghost took it, allowing Soap to help steady him for a moment as he adjusted to standing.

"Thanks," Ghost muttered, his voice gruff but genuine. He didn’t often allow people to help him, but with Soap— with Johnny —it felt right.

"No problem," Soap said with a wink, though his eyes held a softness that hadn’t been there before. He nodded toward the door. “Let’s get you back in the game.”

The briefing room was dim, lit only by the flickering light of the projector showing the latest intel. Price stood at the front, arms crossed, eyes hard and focused. Gaz was at the table, eyes scanning the screen with intense concentration, while Laswell was hunched over a laptop, typing furiously. The mood was tense, but the air shifted when Soap and Ghost entered.

Ghost could feel the eyes of the room on him. Price’s calculating gaze met his, the hint of a nod acknowledging his return to duty. Ghost didn’t miss the sharpness in Laswell’s expression, either. The mission had gone sideways enough that everyone was on edge.

“Glad to see you back on your feet, Ghost,” Price said, his tone respectful but with a no-nonsense edge. “We’ve got new intel on Farah. And I don’t like what it means for the mission.”

Ghost nodded, moving to the table and pulling up a chair. Soap sat beside him, his usual grin now replaced with a look of concern as he eyed the screen. Farah. The same woman who had helped them in the past, but now things were... complicated. The lines between friend and foe were blurring.

“As we know, Farah’s made contact with Makarov,” Laswell said, her voice sharp as she turned to the team. “And it’s not just a passing communication. She’s actively working with him now—behind the scenes. This... this changes everything.”

Soap frowned, his hands resting on the table as he leaned in closer. “So she’s with Makarov now? After everything we’ve been through?”

“We don’t have all the details yet,” Laswell continued, “but the intel suggests that Farah’s motivations have shifted. We think she may have been manipulated, but the extent of her involvement with Konni is unclear.”

Gaz clicked through the slides, showing a series of encrypted messages between Farah and Makarov’s network. Ghost’s eyes narrowed as he studied them. Every instinct told him that Farah wasn’t just a pawn in this—it wasn’t that simple. He could almost feel the weight of her choices hanging in the air, and something about it gnawed at him.

“I thought we were done with Makarov,” Soap muttered under his breath, but Ghost heard him. The bitterness in Soap’s tone was palpable.

Ghost didn’t say anything at first. The wound from the shot earlier still felt raw, but that wasn’t the thing that kept him silent. It was Farah. It was the why behind her shift, the unanswered questions, the way everything felt tangled.

“She’s always been a wildcard,” Ghost finally said, his voice low but steady. “But she wouldn’t just switch sides without a reason. We need to figure out what she’s really after.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ghost could see a shadow shift. He slowly moved his hand down to his boot, where he kept a small throwing knife. He attempted to make it look like he was stretching until he pulled his arm back and set the knife at the shadow. The silence was so thick in the room, you could cut it with a butter knife. 

The knife lodged in the wall, and a female's laugh rang out. Farah stepped from the shadow with a smirk on her face. 

“I should have known better than to hide in the shadows with Ghost around,” She mused. She turned to grab the knife that was embedded in the drywall. She slowly stalked over to the table and let the knife clatter on the table. She sat down at the table while everyone else held their breath. 

“I was not conspiring with him,” She starts, “I was taken as a prisoner after his men broke him out of the prison cell he was in and was taking stock of the shipping ground. He recognized me… He knew that capturing me would alert you to what he is potentially setting up. He wanted you guys to infiltrate the base and locate where I was.” 

Price’s jaw tensed, his arms still crossed as he stared Farah down from across the table. No one else moved. Not yet. Not until they knew the full story.

“You expect us to believe that?” Price asked, voice gravel-deep.

Farah met his gaze without flinching. “You think I’d willingly work with Makarov after everything he’s done? After what we’ve all lost?”

Ghost leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes never leaving her. He didn’t trust her— not yet . But something in her voice… it wasn’t desperation. It was anger. Controlled. Focused.

“He knew your team would come for me,” Farah continued. “He planned for it. You showing up wasn’t an accident—it was the bait.”

Laswell exchanged a glance with Gaz, her fingers dancing across the keys of her laptop.

“What base?” she asked quietly, though her eyes were sharp.

Farah nodded slowly, rubbing her fingers together like she was warming them from the cold chill of memory. “Northern border. Near the old Smirnov shipping routes. He’s using the Konni soldiers as cover—posing as a regional contractor. But it’s a weapons depot underneath it all. Tactical-level arms, enough to destabilize half the region. If he moves them—”

“We won’t be able to track them,” Gaz finished, grim.

“He’s getting ready for something bigger,” Farah added. “And I don’t think he’s planning to stay in the shadows much longer.”

The room stayed silent, the weight of her words pressing in like pressure before a storm.

Ghost finally spoke, his voice like ice. “And why should we believe you didn’t flip while you were in his hands?”

Farah didn’t answer right away. Instead, she slowly stood, pushing the knife she had retrieved toward Ghost on the table with two fingers.

“Because I gave you the blade,” she said, meeting his gaze dead-on. “And I know what he’s planning to do next.”

Ghost stared back at her, the tension in his chest pulling tight. He didn’t trust her—but he didn’t trust coincidence either.

Price’s voice was low and deadly serious. “Start talking. From the beginning.”

Farah didn’t sit down. She stood tall, her hands planted on the table as her eyes swept over each of them—Price, Laswell, Gaz, and finally Ghost.

“He’s not just stockpiling weapons. That’s only one arm of it. He’s moving people. Scientists, engineers, even former intelligence officers. I don’t know how many of them are there willingly. Some… I don’t think had a choice.”

Laswell’s brows furrowed. “Human trafficking?”

Farah gave a sharp nod. “Not just for labor. He’s building something. I overheard fragments—references to payload delivery systems, to a modified Novichok strain. Something portable. And he’s calling it The Curtain. ”

Ghost’s spine stiffened. He didn’t like the way that sounded—ominous, final.

Farah continued, “I don’t know the full scope yet. But I heard one of his commanders—Nikto, I think—say that The Curtain would ‘fall across the West before winter.’ He’s planning something large-scale, and soon.”

Soap let out a low whistle under his breath.

“Why the theatrics with you?” Price asked. “Why stage your capture?”

Farah hesitated, and when she spoke, her voice lowered a notch. “Because he knows your team doesn’t give up on its own. He wanted to put me in the center of the board—see how far you’d go to get me back. He’s studying you. Measuring your movements. Ghost especially.”

Ghost met her eyes, cold and unreadable. “Me?”

“He said your name,” Farah said quietly. “Said if Ghost came for me, then he’d have his proof that the team would follow its own heart before the mission.”

Soap stiffened beside Ghost, subtle, but not missed.

Farah’s voice hardened again. “He’s already ahead of us. He wanted you to bring me back here. Not because I’m the threat—but because now he knows how you move . Who you’ll risk. Who you’ll die for.”

The room fell into a heavy silence. No one dared a glance at the other, especially the two who were slowly working everything out between them. 

Price cursed under his breath and raked a hand through his beard. “We walked into his damn game.”

“No,” Laswell said, eyes sharp on her laptop. “We just got the first move. Now we play it smart.”

Ghost didn’t speak. He just sat back, eyes locked on the knife still resting on the table. The one Farah had pushed back to him. The Curtain was falling. And somehow, Makarov had already found the cracks in their armor. The room buzzed with conversation, but it barely registered in Ghost’s ears.

Price was already pulling maps onto the digital table. Laswell and Gaz traded quiet remarks about known Konni compounds. Farah stood off to the side, arms crossed, eyes flicking between the team as she answered questions in clipped, confident tones.

But Ghost, he wasn’t hearing any of it. His fingers flexed unconsciously, blood still dried around the edges of his palm from the bandage. The throb in his side had dulled to a hum, but it was the sharpness in his chest that he couldn’t seem to dull.

Makarov said my name.

It echoed in his mind like a whisper down a hallway—something not meant to be heard, but impossible to forget. He wasn’t just being hunted. He was being studied . Watched. Picked apart like a target under a scope. He’d felt that sensation before—when he was younger, trapped in something darker than most could imagine. But this was different.

This time, it wasn’t just his own life at stake.

His eyes flicked to Soap, who leaned over the table beside Price, brow furrowed in concentration, lips moving as he pointed something out on a grid overlay. Ghost couldn’t hear what he was saying. But he could see him—too vividly. The curl of his lip when he was annoyed. The way his fingers tapped when he was thinking. The warmth that had lingered on Ghost’s skin from their kiss only hours before.

He knew who to use against me.

Ghost’s jaw clenched. Makarov hadn’t taken a shot at the team. He’d taken a shot at Ghost’s foundation. And the bastard had hit the target.

“You with us, Ghost?” Laswell’s voice cut through the fog.

Ghost blinked. Straightened. Nodded once. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He could feel Soap’s eyes on him, even though he didn’t look his way. Not yet.

Price gave a short grunt. “Good. We need every brain in the fight. We hit Makarov fast, and we hit him hard—before he can set that damn Curtain in motion.”

Ghost gave a stiff nod, but his mind was already spinning in other directions. He needed to get ahead of this. To think like Makarov. To feel the edges of the trap he’d already stepped into. But most of all, he needed to find a way to protect Soap from what was coming—whether that meant staying close or pulling away. And that decision was going to kill him either way.

Price circled the digital table like a general in the trenches, his finger tapping key points on the satellite map. “This here—northern corridor, about sixty clicks outside Arkhangelsk. Remote, no major outposts nearby, and cold enough to keep drones sluggish. That’s where they’re stashing Farah’s intel. The shipping depot. If it’s half what she says it is, it’s our in.”

Gaz leaned in, adjusting the zoom. “We’ll need a three-team split. One to breach the eastern hangar, one to sweep the convoy lanes, and one for high-ground overwatch.”

“I’ll take eastern hangar,” Soap said before anyone else could. His voice was steady, sure. Confident.

Ghost’s gaze shifted, not to the map—but to him. Just for a second. Just enough to feel something pull in his gut.

Price nodded. “Gaz and I will sweep convoy lanes. Ghost—”

“I’ll take overwatch,” Ghost said quickly, almost too quickly.

Price studied him a moment, like he could sense the fracture beneath the mask. But he didn’t question it. Just gave a firm nod. “Then it’s settled. We go in at zero three hundred. Quiet. Quick. Clean.”

Laswell began organizing loadouts and drone support while Farah updated them on where to expect Konni guards.

But Ghost wasn’t really hearing them again. Overwatch. He’d put himself at a distance. Again. It was safer— for everyone. It was what he was good at. That space gave him the clarity he needed. Or at least that’s what he told himself. But even as he watched the operation form on the screen, part of him was already slipping—thinking about Soap diving into the compound alone. About Makarov watching. Waiting.

What if this was the move Makarov wanted ? What if Ghost being pulled back was the real play?

“Oi,” Soap murmured low beside him, barely audible over the strategy chatter. “You good?”

Ghost didn’t look at him. Didn’t move. “Yeah.”

Soap didn’t press, just stood beside him. Close enough to feel the heat of him. And that’s what Ghost was afraid of. Because when the op kicked off in a few hours, he'd be watching Soap from a distant rooftop or a cold cliffside, gun ready—but heart unmoored.

He wasn’t sure what he would do with himself with a nightmare became reality.

Chapter Text

The armory buzzed with controlled urgency.

Metal clicked against metal. Gear was checked and double-checked. Rucksacks cinched, mags counted, radios synced. The kind of silence that existed between soldiers was heavy in the air—filled with unspoken prayers and habitual motions.

Ghost adjusted the scope on his rifle, sitting with his back to one of the crates, legs bent, mask pulled tighter against his face. He was going through the motions; counting gear, assembling intel, mentally walking through every piece of the overwatch plan.

But his mind kept slipping.

To him .

Soap’s laugh had echoed down the hall earlier when Gaz said something snide. That warmth had lingered in Ghost’s chest longer than it should have. Now, with minutes ticking down before wheels up, it wouldn’t leave him. He didn’t notice the approach until Soap's shadow fell over him.

“Got a second?” Johnny’s voice was soft. Too soft for this setting.

Ghost looked up. Soap stood there in full kit—black tactical vest, combat knife strapped to his thigh, rifle slung loose over his shoulder. His hair was still damp from the rushed shower, curls mussed from the comms headset half-hanging off his neck.

They stepped into the empty hallway behind the prep room, the others too busy checking weapons to notice or care. Soap didn’t speak at first. He just looked at Ghost. Really looked at him.

“You do this thing, y’know,” he said finally, voice quiet. “Where you pull away right before everything goes to hell.”

Ghost didn’t answer.

Soap stepped in closer, a breath away. “So let me say this before you disappear into overwatch.”

And then, he kissed him.

Hard. Warm. Unapologetically full of everything they hadn’t had time to say. The kind of kiss that burned like fire under the skin, that pulled the breath from Ghost’s lungs and made him forget where they were. It was a promise. A confession. A fuck you to fate.

When Soap pulled back, his forehead pressed to Ghost’s. His voice was a low murmur.

“I’m coming back to you. No matter what. You hear me?”

Ghost blinked once. Nodded. Just barely. He couldn’t trust his voice. Soap stepped away, eyes locked on his, then turned and walked down the corridor. Every step sure, like he’d already decided that nothing in hell would stop him.

Minutes later, the chopper blades thundered overhead.

The team boarded quickly, each man falling into place like parts of a machine. Ghost took his usual seat near the back, rifle between his boots, eyes on the ramp. The red glow of the cabin light flickered across their gear like war paint.

Soap sat across from him, gaze steady, face unreadable, except to Ghost. And as the helicopter rose into the sky, wind screaming outside the hull, Ghost’s fingers flexed once against his thigh.

I’m coming back to you.

God, he hoped that was true.

The helicopter cut low across the frozen expanse, blades roaring above a sheet of moonlit ice. Trees passed in a blur below, black skeletons clawing at the stars. In the distance, the shipping depot loomed like a scar on the landscape: dark steel walls, skeletal towers, and cold floodlights sweeping across the snow like searchlights on a prison yard.

They touched down just past the treeline.

The moment the ramp dropped, Ghost was on his feet with a rifle in hand, body coiled tight like a tripwire. The cold slammed into them all at once. Not just the physical kind, the kind that lived in the air of hostile territory. The kind that whispered something’s waiting for you.

Boots hit snow with muffled crunches. The wind howled low and long, dragging a fresh dusting across their path.

Soap moved in just behind Gaz, eyes scanning the shadows. But every few seconds, he looked back.

At him .

Ghost didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Just moved like a phantom at the rear. Eyes sharp behind the skull, movements methodical. But something in his gait was off. A hesitation at the edge of instinct. A twitch in his gloved fingers that hadn’t been there before.

Soap saw it. He always did.

Price raised a fist, signaling them to split. Gaz and Price peeled off toward the convoy lanes. Soap lingered a half-second too long.

“You good?” he muttered low, just for Ghost.

Ghost didn’t answer right away. He looked straight ahead, breath visible in the cold, then nodded once, too sharp to be real.

Soap’s jaw clenched. He wanted to grab him again. Shake him. Hold him. But they were deep in enemy lines, with frostbitten death hanging in the air. So he didn’t. He just whispered:

“Stay with me, yeah?”

Ghost glanced over.

Their eyes locked, just for a second, but it was enough.

The look said I’m trying.
The look said Don’t make me promise something I might not keep.
The look said I don’t know how to do this if you don’t come back.

Soap nodded once and peeled off toward the eastern hangar.

Ghost remained in the treeline, adjusting his rifle scope. Trees swayed like ghosts in the wind. He took a shaky breath, teeth grit behind the mask.

The mission was only beginning.

But he was already fighting two wars, one in the snow… 

And one inside his chest.

Ghost settled into position high in a rusted watchtower, half-swallowed by creeping frost and time. The steel groaned beneath his boots, but he barely noticed. His rifle was already leveled, scope dialed in, vision narrowed to a ghost-blue tint that cut through the dark like a blade.

Below, the snow stretched like a burial shroud, broken only by the shapes of Soap and his team moving between crates and husks of old cargo trucks. They were shadows in motion—silent, surgical.

Ghost tracked Johnny’s form without thinking. Muscle memory. Instinct. Need.

His finger hovered just above the trigger. His breath fogged inside the mask.

He was focused.

But he wasn’t present.

Something inside him was strung too tight. Like he’d been living in the ten seconds before a shot for hours now. Every heartbeat too loud. Every breath measured, like the wrong one might give the world permission to fall apart again.

His comms clicked.

“Private channel,” Soap said, his voice low and laced with that teasing smile he wore too damn often. “Hope you’re watchin’, Ghost. Wouldn’t want you missin’ my good side.”

Ghost exhaled slowly through his nose. “Not exactly the time for a photoshoot, Johnny.”

“Every time’s the time when you’re lookin’ at me like that.”

Ghost didn’t respond right away. Just tracked Johnny as he slid up to a wall, back pressed to cold concrete, movements fluid and confident. Too confident.

“I’m serious,” Soap added. Softer this time. “You doin’ alright up there?”

Ghost didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to feel that warmth edging into his voice. But it was there, curling around his chest like a balm against the cold.

“Fine,” he said. Then, after a second: “Bit quiet without you mouthing off in my ear every five seconds.”

A pause. Then a grin Ghost could hear. “Didn’t know you missed my sweet talk.”

“Didn’t say I missed it.”

“Didn’t say you didn’t.”

Ghost felt something flicker in his chest. Not quite a laugh. Not quite comfort. But close enough to lean into for now.

His scope swept again; east tower, perimeter guards, no movement. Just wind and shadow.

“East side’s clear,” he said, the professional tone slipping back into place. “You’ve got about sixty seconds to the breach.”

“Copy that.”

Soap hesitated.

“Ghost?”

“…Yeah.”

“I meant what I said back in the hangar. I’m coming back.”

Ghost’s hand tightened on the grip.

“I know,” he said, voice low.

But the truth was, he didn’t. Not really. He just wanted to believe it badly enough that maybe, this time, it would be true.

Ghost adjusted the zoom on his scope, pulling tight on the entrance to the southern warehouse. Soap was at the front of the stack, pressed in behind Gaz and two local allies, crouched low as they lined up at the breach point. The team was silent, but the kind of silence that screamed with motion. Hands checked weapons. Eyes scanned the shadows. Breath plumed like smoke in the cold.

From his perch, Ghost tracked every breath Johnny took. His pulse synced with the pace of the other man’s movement. Every flick of a glance, every step, every pause—Ghost absorbed it like gospel.

He was the eyes. He had to be the eyes.

Because he couldn’t be there—not beside him, not between him and the barrel of a gun, not the shield he wanted to be.

And it was eating him alive.

The radio crackled again, quiet and intimate.

“Still breathin’ up there, Ghost?” Soap’s voice had dropped to a whisper. The kind meant only for him.

Ghost swallowed. The mask itched.

“Still watching your six, Johnny.”

A soft chuckle bled through the channel. “You say that like it’s just my six you’re watchin’.”

“Focus, Sergeant.”

“Can’t help it,” Soap murmured. “Got a bad habit of watchin’ the man watchin’ me.”

Ghost exhaled slowly, trying to keep his hands steady. It was getting harder.

Below, the team moved into position. The breacher signaled a five-count.

Ghost’s pulse kicked up.

Five.

He swept the scope right—two guards just outside the north door. He pinged them over comms to Price.

Four.

The wind shifted. Cold air scraped over the tower. Ghost grit his teeth.

Three.

Soap’s hand flexed on the grip of his rifle. A twitch. Ghost’s eyes latched onto it like it meant something more.

Two.

“Johnny,” Ghost said—quiet. Almost didn’t say it at all. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Soap’s reply was a heartbeat late. “You got it backwards, mate. You’re the reckless one.”

One.

The world cracked open.

A flashbang burst white behind the windows. Gunfire roared. Shadows moved fast and loud below—Ghost tracked them all, picking off targets outside as they scrambled for cover. Every time someone moved into Johnny’s blind spot, Ghost was there.

Bang. One down behind a crate.

Bang. Another on the catwalk.

But inside… he couldn’t see.

His scope couldn’t follow through the walls. Couldn’t cut through the smoke.

The comms went chaotic. Screaming in Arabic. Barked orders from Gaz. Static.

And then, Soap’s voice, strained but calm.

“Ghost, I’m good. We’ve got pushback, but we’re movin’. Keep your pretty eyes peeled.”

Ghost’s chest twisted at the sound of him. Relief like a punch to the ribs.

He wanted to say something, anything, but he didn’t.

He just watched.

He stayed in place, high above the chaos, a ghost on the wire, guarding the man who carried his heart into hell. And praying that, this time, it wouldn’t come back shattered.

Ghost’s breath fogged inside his mask, but his hands were steady again. His scope swept over the south fence line—no movement. He tracked along the rooftops. Clear. Down to the snow-packed alley between hangars. Clear.

Inside was a different story. Muffled gunfire thudded through his earpiece. Soap’s voice crackled back in every so often, short updates, quick reassurances. They weren’t for the team.

They were for him .

Ghost adjusted his angle slightly, leaned harder into the scope. He couldn’t see much past the shattered upper windows, but he kept his eyes trained, pulse ticking with every second that Johnny wasn’t in view.

His world was narrowed to that line of sight.

And he didn’t hear the creak of boots behind him.

Didn’t notice the shadow that peeled from the stairwell.

Didn’t sense the Konni soldier creeping up, slow and quiet, rifle raised.

Not until the click of a safety broke through the howl of wind.

He turned—

Too late.

The Konni soldier lunged, slamming into Ghost’s back. The force drove them both into the steel railing. Ghost grunted, rifle slipping from his grip and clattering to the grating below. The two of them crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and steel.

Pain flared in his ribs. He felt the burn of a blade dragging along his vest, trying to dig underneath. Ghost twisted, slamming his elbow into the soldier’s helmet once, twice— crack. The sound of bone. A scream.

They rolled.

Ghost came up first—barely.

His hands grabbed for anything—fingers brushed metal. The small backup knife on his thigh.

He didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp grunt, he drove the blade up under the soldier’s chin, deep into the soft gap beneath the helmet. The man twitched. Then went still. Ghost pushed him off and staggered to his knees, panting into his mask. His ribs ached. Blood—his or not—seeped into his gloves.

Comms buzzed in his ear.

“Ghost?” Soap’s voice, distant but tightening. “Simon—what the hell was that?”

Ghost blinked. Static crept at the edge of his vision. He coughed once, tried to shake it off. “Took a visitor.”

“You what ?”

“I handled it.”

There was a pause on the line. “You alright?”

Ghost looked down at the bloodied knife, the crumpled body.

Then back through the scope. Back at the warehouse where Soap had disappeared.

“I’m fine,” he said tightly.

But he wasn’t. Because in that moment, he’d let his guard down.

He’d chosen Soap over the mission. And it nearly got him killed. And worse… it meant he might not be there to protect him when it really counted.

Soap moved like he was born for war—tight, sharp corners, weapon sweeping in smooth arcs as they cleared room after room. The air was thick with smoke and old heat. Gunfire had stopped for now, but the ringing in his ears made it feel like it was still going. His boots echoed in the concrete halls, his breath heavy under his mask.

They’d already dropped three Konni squads in the outer halls. Whatever this site was, it was important enough to be crawling with Makarov’s men. Price was taking point up ahead, checking a junction. Gaz followed, silent and deadly.

Soap brought up the rear. And he hated it. He hated being away from Ghost.

He kept flicking his gaze toward corners that didn’t need checking, like his eyes were searching for something they knew they wouldn’t find.

“You with us, Soap?” Gaz asked quietly, noticing his lapse.

“Aye,” Johnny muttered. “Just thinkin’.”

Price gave him a side glance. “Don’t think. Focus. You can have a full existential crisis after we clear this place.”

Soap huffed, but said nothing. He adjusted his grip on his rifle and pressed forward, his pulse drumming a little faster than he wanted to admit.

He toggled his comms. Switched to their private channel.

“Ghost,” he whispered.

No answer.

His brows furrowed.

“Simon?”

Still nothing.

A cold bead of sweat slid down the back of his neck. Maybe Ghost was watching, maybe he was just focused. But there was something wrong in that silence. A hollowness.

“Ghost, answer me.”

The reply came, finally, but it was clipped. Too clipped.

“Still here.”

Soap frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“I said I’m fine.”

That was a lie.

Soap knew that tone. He could feel it through the comms like static in his bones. Something had happened. And Simon wasn’t telling him.

Before he could press further, the door at the end of the corridor burst open. A Konni soldier lunged through with a roar, weapon up, but not fast enough. Price put him down with two center-mass shots before he even cleared the threshold.

“Breach room’s just ahead,” Gaz called.

“Let’s finish this,” Price barked, signaling them forward.

Soap hesitated for half a heartbeat, his heart still caught in Ghost’s last words. Then he moved.

He had to finish this fast.

Because whatever Ghost wasn’t saying over the comms?

It was eating him alive.

The wind was biting—cold enough to freeze the blood in his veins, but it wasn’t the cold that made Ghost’s vision blur. It was the blood seeping through his vest. He could feel it now, the heavy pulse in his side, the way his ribs felt wrong.

The soldier’s body lay in a heap behind him, but Ghost couldn’t take his eyes off the now-crimson-stained knife in his hand. He’d only wanted a quick fight. He’d only wanted to stay sharp. But now the sharpness was dull, the edges of his mind beginning to blur. He leaned against the tower’s corner, trying to stay upright. His hand shook as he reached for his radio.

“Ghost?” Soap’s voice again—like a lifeline, but it only added to the ache in his chest. It was so close. He just needed a second.

“I’m fine,” he rasped, barely more than a whisper.

He gripped the rail with both hands, grounding himself. His focus snapped back. He couldn’t afford this. He couldn’t let his guard slip. Soap was in there. Price was in there. And if Ghost didn’t keep his head straight, they wouldn’t be getting out of here in one piece. He pulled himself back to the rifle. His vision swam for a moment, and he had to blink the dizziness away.

His breathing wasn’t even, his pulse was still erratic. Every little jolt of the comms as Soap spoke, as they moved deeper into the compound, made his chest tighten.

Soap was too far away.

“Ghost?” Soap’s voice again—concern now threading through the static. “Simon, you need to talk to me. ”

Ghost clenched his teeth, still watching through the scope.

"I’m fine, Johnny," he repeated, almost harsher this time. "Focus on the mission. I’ve got your six.”

There was a pause.

“Right,” Soap said finally, his voice sharp. “I’m countin’ on you, mate.”

Ghost didn’t answer. He just breathed.

Suddenly, the weight of it all crashed back in.

The door exploded inward, and his focus snapped to the feed from Soap’s helmet cam.

The team flooded the breach, weapons raised, moving like wolves. The sight of Soap diving in first, eager to take the point, made Ghost’s heart lurch in his chest. He gripped his rifle tighter, knuckles aching, and his breath came in short, ragged bursts.

Soap— Johnny —was moving fast, ahead of everyone else. Every step more confident, more like he was born for this, like this was where he belonged.

But all Ghost could see was the gap between them. And how every step took Soap farther from him.

The door burst open with a bang. Soap’s heartbeat spiked, adrenaline flooding his veins as the sound of gunfire erupted on all sides. He was the first to move, boots thudding against the concrete, his rifle up and ready.

Clear right. His mind processed the split-second choice, and he ducked low, sweeping his weapon in a wide arc to cover the hallway. A flicker of motion. Konni soldier. A burst of fire—dead center.

A loud thud echoed as a body hit the ground, crumpling in the corner.

Price and Gaz moved in behind him, covering the left side of the hallway. Soap was hyper-aware of every shift in the air, every creak of the floorboards. His eyes darted to the door at the end, where shadows shifted, and there was a faint thumping sound of boots running in the distance.

He knew they were outnumbered. They had to move quickly.

They cleared rooms with practiced efficiency, but Soap couldn’t stop the gnawing sensation in the back of his head. A pull in his gut, like something was off. Like he was moving in someone else’s shadow.

Focus, Johnny, he thought.

He cleared another room, taking down two soldiers with clean shots. He didn’t wait to check their vitals, just moved on. His blood was pumping, ears ringing, a blur of movement and noise.

Up ahead, the staircase loomed. The next part of the mission was already set in his mind. They had to breach the upper levels, sweep the offices, and secure Makarov’s files. But the feeling of missing something hung over him like a stormcloud.

"Moving up," Soap called out, voice low and firm, as he moved toward the staircase.

Price nodded from behind him, his hand signaling the team to follow. But Soap’s mind was elsewhere—his gaze flickering back to the shadows behind him. He could feel it. The tension in his neck. That prickling sensation. Something was wrong.

He glanced briefly at the doorway to his left—just as a silhouette passed by.

Shit.

The soldier ducked around the corner, barely visible, but Soap didn’t hesitate. He broke into a sprint, clearing the doorway and aiming his rifle as he rounded the corner. But there was no one there. Just the soft hiss of air, and a clink of metal.

His breath caught in his throat.

Then, gunfire erupted from above.

Soap whipped around, but it was too late. The firefight broke out all around them. They were surrounded. Konni soldiers pouring from the upper levels, aiming straight at them.

Move!

Soap dived to the ground, spinning to bring his rifle up in a fluid motion. His pulse was wild, but his aim was steady. He squeezed off a shot, then another. He hit a target in the chest, but the next one ducked behind cover.

Price was already returning fire, his gruff voice ordering the team to push forward.

Soap’s mind was clear, sharp, but the weight of the world pressed on him, suffocating in the chaos. The sound of his own heartbeat in his ears almost drowned out the noise of the battle.

The next second, a bullet tore through the air, grazing his shoulder, sending him back against the concrete wall. The pain was sharp, but he didn’t flinch. He grit his teeth and continued firing, pushing forward with the team.

But in the back of his mind—through every pull of the trigger, every dive behind cover—there was one thought that kept gnawing at him.

Where the hell was Ghost?

The air was thick with gunpowder, smoke swirling in the flickering lights overhead. Soap’s body moved on instinct, rifle in hand, feet never hesitating as he cleared room after room. Every corner was a potential threat, every door a gamble. His team was with him, but Soap’s mind was a thousand miles away, locked in that space between fear and focus.

Gunfire erupted from above. He instinctively ducked behind cover, moving fast, but the panic clawing at his chest couldn’t be ignored. Focus. Don’t think about it.

The taste of blood—was it his? Was it someone else’s?—lingered in his mouth as he rose up from behind the concrete pillar, scanning the room ahead. More Konni soldiers, rushing forward like a tide. His rifle came up, and without hesitation, he fired, each pull of the trigger an extension of the anxiety coiling tighter inside him.

A soldier dropped with a satisfying thud, but Soap barely registered the victory. His mind was still on Ghost—was Simon okay? Had he recovered from the hit, or was he still fighting for air?

Focus, Johnny. Stop thinking about it.

He had to push forward. Had to.

More gunfire. Price’s voice cut through the chaos, snapping him back into the mission.

"Soap, move! We’ve got more coming up the rear!"

Soap’s feet slid across the floor as he pivoted to the back, sending three more shots downrange without looking. A Konni soldier dropped to the ground, but Soap didn’t flinch. His mind was on the next fight, the next step.

But his heart was still in that goddamn perch, with Ghost bleeding, with Simon—

Focus, Johnny.

Price’s voice again, like a rope pulling him back into reality. "Soap, clear the hallway. We need to move up!"

"Right!" Soap shouted, pushing himself forward, fingers tight around his rifle, his shoulder aching from the bullet graze but ignored for now. He wouldn’t let it slow him down. Not now.

He kept moving.

The team reached the stairwell, and Soap led the way. Each step heavier than the last, a thousand thoughts clouding his mind. The tension was too thick, too suffocating, like he couldn’t breathe with the weight of it all on his chest.

They reached the top of the stairs. Another barrage of gunfire.

Soap’s instincts screamed, and he dove to the side just as a bullet whizzed past his ear. He hit the ground hard, rifle at the ready. His heartbeat was wild in his chest as he fired back, hitting a soldier square in the chest.

The tension in his body never let up. Each room they cleared, each soldier they dropped, Soap could feel his body moving on autopilot. His mind was miles away, stretched thin across the battlefield and a thousand other questions about the man he couldn’t see.

The door ahead opened, and a flash of movement made Soap’s heart skip.

"On me!" Price shouted. "Breach it now!"

Soap’s muscles locked as he darted forward, his team flooding the room. His gaze flicked toward the shadows in the corners. The feeling of missing something—the thought of not being able to protect him —was unbearable.

Where the hell was Ghost?

He kept his focus on the task at hand. The breach was underway. More Konni soldiers. He fired, two, three shots—dropping them one by one.

But the weight in his chest wouldn’t ease.

From his vantage point, Ghost’s scope cut through the chaos like a hot knife through butter. His breathing had steadied, though his body still protested every movement. He’d lost too much blood, but that was the job. Focus. Stay sharp.

He steadied the rifle against the edge of the building, eyes narrowing as he scanned the rooftop across the way. Movement. He saw the flash of a helmet before a Konni soldier darted into view, unaware of his presence.

Ghost’s finger found the trigger, his breath steady, controlled. The shot rang out, sharp and precise. The soldier dropped, falling silently out of sight. Ghost didn’t even blink.

But that wasn’t enough. He needed more.

Another figure appeared in his scope, this one more alert. The moment the soldier turned his back, Ghost adjusted his aim. The shot was quick and clean, another one down. The team was still moving below, unaware of the quiet precision up top.

He shifted his aim, tracking movement from the corner of his eye. A third target, an experienced soldier, moving with purpose. Ghost’s pulse quickened. His mind flashed back to Soap, to that unshakable feeling that something was off.

No. Focus. He squeezed the trigger again.

The soldier crumpled into the snow below.

Ghost let out a sharp breath, steadying his hands. That’s it. His job was done. Now he just needed to wait.

His fingers ached with the grip on his rifle, but he refused to relax. Soap was still in there, still pushing forward. Price was barking orders, moving the team, but Ghost couldn’t bring himself to pull away from the scope just yet. His eyes darted back to the street below, watching for any signs of reinforcements.

A new figure appeared, this time not a soldier, but Soap. He appeared at the corner of the building, crouched low as he moved forward, leading the team toward the final extraction point.

Soap’s silhouette was clear in the setting sun, his movements sharp and sure. Ghost felt something in his chest loosen, just for a second, before his pulse shot back up. Soap was still standing.

He was still alive.

The team was clearing the final hallway. The mission was almost over, and Ghost’s job was almost done. He couldn’t stop watching Soap, couldn’t stop the slight tug in his chest as he tracked his every move. Soap’s eyes never glanced up at the roof. The young Scotsman didn’t even know Ghost was there, covering him.

Ghost's heartbeat slowed, just enough to feel the weight of everything. The shot. The sweat. The blood. And Soap’s voice—the sound of him cutting through the chaos on comms.

And just as quickly as it started, the situation was over. The team regrouped at the extraction point, ready for evac.

Ghost stood up slowly, his hand still steady on his rifle, though his body screamed in protest. The mission wasn’t over yet, but it was time to get out of here. His muscles felt like they were made of stone—stiff, aching, but he could still walk. Still move.

Soap’s figure was still at the edge of his vision, his focus on the extraction. Ghost moved to the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the team below. They hadn’t seen him yet, but that didn’t matter. His job was done. The team was in one piece, and he’d kept them alive—just like always.

But now… now he was going to need help getting back to the chopper. He wouldn’t admit it, but the blood loss was starting to make his vision swim again. His fingers ached, his head was spinning, and his ribs felt like they were grinding together with every breath.

He looked back at Soap once more—watched him move, that slight twitch in his stride that spoke volumes of the tension still between them.

It was time to go home.

The sound of the helicopter's rotors drowned out the rest of the world. The rhythmic thrum of the blades above was the only thing grounding Ghost as he sat in the far corner, his back pressed against the cold, metallic wall. The interior of the chopper felt like a tomb, each jolt of the ride making the pain in his side flare up again, but he wasn’t going to show it. Not yet.

Soap was sitting across from him, his brow furrowed in concentration as he checked his rifle one last time. Ghost caught a glimpse of him through his peripheral vision, the familiar figure that had never quite managed to shake the weight of the mission. Soap always carried it, always acted like he was the one who had to hold the team together.

But it was Ghost who kept everyone alive, even when it didn’t feel like it. Even when he had to bleed for it.

The helicopter jolted again, the turbulence forcing Ghost to brace himself, his knuckles white against his leg. He hated this part. Hated the feeling of being trapped, stuck in a metal box with nowhere to go. But it wasn’t the confined space that bothered him. It was the moment between the mission and the next.

It was the silence that hung between him and Soap.

Soap was staring ahead, his jaw clenched, eyes distant but not quite gone. The tension was palpable, thick like the cold metal around them. Ghost could feel it, the space between them that wasn’t there before. Before, they had been on the same page. Before, Ghost could see the way Soap’s eyes would lighten up when he made a joke, the quiet bond that had started to grow between them.

But now…

Now it was different.

Soap’s lips parted like he was going to speak, but he hesitated, eyes flicking to Ghost for just a moment before looking away again. Ghost’s breath caught, and his chest tightened. Say something, Johnny.

The words never came. Soap only looked down at his hands, his rifle resting against his knee, fingers lightly tapping against the barrel.

Come on, Soap. You can’t just sit there like nothing happened.

The air in the chopper seemed to grow heavier, the weight of their shared moments crashing down on Ghost. His side burned with every movement, but it was the quiet between them that hurt more than anything.

"Johnny," Ghost finally rasped, voice rough from exhaustion and blood loss. His throat felt like sandpaper, but he pushed on. "You okay?"

Soap’s gaze snapped up to meet his. There was something raw in his eyes. Something unspoken.

"Yeah," Soap muttered, his voice steady, but there was a tremor beneath the surface. "I'm fine."

A lie. Ghost could see it in the way Soap’s fingers twitched, the subtle shift in his posture. He wasn’t fine. None of them were.

The silence stretched between them like a chasm, but this time, it wasn’t the comforting kind. It was the kind that made Ghost feel like they were on the edge of something… something he wasn’t ready to face.

Before Ghost could press further, Price’s voice crackled over the comms. "Everyone’s accounted for. Good work. We're headed back to base."

Soap let out a breath, as if he’d been holding it in the entire ride. His hands tightened around the rifle in his lap, but his eyes never left Ghost. Not for a second.

What is it, Johnny? Ghost thought, his mind racing as the tension between them lingered.

A sudden thought hit him like a punch to the gut.

What if this—what if all of this—isn’t just about the mission anymore?

Before he could process it, Soap leaned forward slightly, as though something in the silence had cracked. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something—but then Price's voice came back over the comms, louder now.

"Everyone brace for impact. We're almost there."

The words cut through the tension, but not the feeling that had settled between them. Ghost didn't dare to move, didn’t dare to acknowledge the shift in the air. He just stayed there, waiting for the moment when they would land, when the silence would finally be broken, and when the mission would be over.

The helicopter descended lower, the thrum of the blades louder now as they neared the extraction point. Ghost’s gaze flicked back to Soap for just a fraction of a second, catching the fleeting expression on his face.

I don’t know what’s happening between us, Johnny... but we’ll figure it out later.

The chopper touched down, the jolt of the landing knocking Ghost out of his thoughts. Soap was already on his feet, moving toward the exit, but before he stepped off, he turned to look back at Ghost. His eyes locked with Ghost’s—heavy, full of something Ghost couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

But in that moment, Ghost knew exactly what he was feeling.

Soap was still in this. And maybe, just maybe, so was Ghost.

The barracks were quiet as Ghost and the team walked back, the sounds of boots on concrete echoing through the hallways. The adrenaline from the mission had long since worn off, leaving only the dull ache in his side and the weight of exhaustion pressing against his bones.

Soap walked just a few steps behind him, moving with the same steady gait, but Ghost could feel the distance between them. It wasn’t physical—no, it was something heavier, something that had settled between them back in the helicopter. A tension that hadn’t been there before.

As they entered their quarters, Ghost didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look at Soap. He just moved toward the bathroom, his footsteps quick, almost desperate, like the silence between them was choking him.

The shower was a welcome relief. The sound of the water pouring over him, washing away the dried blood and dirt from the mission, was soothing—but the relief was only temporary. As the water hit his skin, Ghost’s mind started to wander.

Soap’s face flashed in his mind, his eyes full of that unspoken question. What was that about, back on the chopper? The kiss. The way Soap had looked at him with something more than just camaraderie.

What the hell are you doing to me, Johnny?

He clenched his fists against the tiles, the heat of the water mixing with the burning sensation in his chest. He’d been so damn careful for so long, keeping everything locked away. His emotions, his past, all buried under layers of armor and silence. But Soap… Soap had been chipping away at that armor for months now, and he was getting dangerously close to breaking through.

The kiss, the moments they’d shared, all of it was like a crack in the dam. The flood was coming, and Ghost didn’t know if he was ready for it.

God, what if I’m not?

His head tipped back under the spray, the water streaming down his face, but he could still see Soap in his mind—Soap, with that damn grin that always seemed to get under his skin, the warmth of his voice, the way he seemed to always know when Ghost was slipping, when he needed someone, even if Ghost would never admit it.

I can’t—

He clenched his jaw, forcing the thoughts away. He didn’t have time for this. He couldn’t afford distractions. Not when Makarov was out there, not when every mission was a reminder of how fragile life really was. He didn’t need attachments. He didn’t need anyone to care.

But Soap… Johnny …

Ghost let out a sharp breath, the tension in his muscles easing slightly with each drop of water. Soap had been there when Ghost needed him most—on the mission, sure—but also in the moments when no one else understood the weight of the things Ghost carried. He’d never asked for that, never wanted anyone to get that close, but Soap had wormed his way in, and now Ghost was just... lost.

As the last of the blood washed away, he realized how damn tired he was. Not just from the mission—physically, he was spent—but emotionally too. The constant push and pull of his own mind, the tension between what he wanted and what he could allow himself to have, was exhausting.

The water began to cool, and with it, his resolve. He could feel the reality of the situation setting in. They couldn’t keep doing this, couldn’t keep dancing around the truth of what was happening. But how could he tell Soap that? How could he tell anyone when he didn’t even know what he wanted?

He stepped out of the shower, the cool air of the barracks hitting his skin. He didn’t look in the mirror, didn’t want to see the bloodshot eyes staring back at him. The person he saw there—broken, tired, conflicted—wasn’t someone he recognized.

Ghost grabbed a towel, drying himself off quickly before wrapping it around his waist. He could hear Soap moving around in the other room, but he didn’t want to face him just yet.

Later. We’ll talk later.

But the words felt hollow even in his own mind. He didn’t know if there would ever be a later where he could make sense of any of this.

As he stepped into the main area of the barracks, he found Soap leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze intense but unreadable. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—something that Ghost couldn’t quite place, but he could feel it in the way the tension between them seemed to crackle in the air.

“Oi,” Soap said, breaking the silence, “You gonna stand there all night, or you wanna come talk?”

Ghost’s heart gave a painful twist, but he forced himself to keep his gaze steady. He didn’t have a choice, not really. Soap wasn’t going to let this go. Not now. Not after everything that had happened.

“Yeah,” Ghost muttered, his voice rough. “Let’s talk.”

Soap was still leaning against the doorframe when Ghost stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, looking like he was trying to hold himself together. But Soap could see through it, the weariness in his eyes, the tension in his posture. It was only a matter of time before the dam broke.

“Talk to me, Ghost,” Soap said, his voice sharp, but not unkind. “What the hell is going on with you?”

Ghost didn’t immediately respond. He stood there for a moment, hands clenched at his sides, trying to figure out how to even begin. His mind was a mess. All those years of silence, of keeping everything buried, felt like they were unraveling with every passing second. He had never let anyone get this close—hell, he hadn’t wanted anyone to get close—but Soap had pushed through every wall he’d put up. And now… now, Ghost didn’t know what the hell to do with it.

“I’m fine,” Ghost muttered, not even meeting Soap’s gaze. “Just tired.”

Soap’s jaw clenched. “Bullshit. You’re not fine, and we both know it.”

“Then what do you want me to say, Johnny?” Ghost’s voice was low, but the edge was sharp, like a warning. “What the hell do you want me to say when you—”

His words faltered as Soap stepped forward, closing the gap between them. The anger in Soap’s eyes was mixed with something else—hurt, maybe, or frustration. Ghost couldn’t tell. But he could feel the heat radiating off Soap as he got closer, the space between them closing in on something that felt dangerous.

“I don’t want you to say anything,” Soap snapped, his voice rising. “I want you to stop pretending like you don’t care. Like this isn’t tearing you up inside!”

Ghost froze. His heart hammered in his chest, blood pumping with the adrenaline that surged up from deep within him. Soap’s words hit harder than any bullet ever had. He could feel the weight of them pressing against his ribs, suffocating him.

“ I’m not pretending, ” Ghost growled, a sudden surge of anger flashing in his eyes. He took a step forward, looming over Soap. “I’m not the one playing games here, Johnny. You are.”

Soap’s eyes narrowed, his expression darkening. “Playing games? Is that what you think I’m doing? I’m just trying to talk to you. Trying to figure out what the hell’s going on with us!”

“We’re fine,” Ghost spat, his tone cold, but there was a flicker of something else buried deep in his chest—something raw, something that scared the hell out of him. He didn’t want to admit it. He didn’t want to face it. But Soap was forcing him to.

“No,” Soap shot back, voice rising again, “we’re not! We’re broken, Ghost! You’re always running away from this shit. From me. From everything. You can’t keep hiding from this!”

The words stung, each one a sharp blow. Ghost’s fists tightened at his sides, the urge to lash out—physically or verbally—growing stronger with every second. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

“I don’t have time for this,” Ghost muttered, stepping back, trying to distance himself from the situation. But Soap didn’t back down. He was relentless.

“Bullshit! Stop running! ” Soap shouted, and before Ghost could react, Soap shoved him lightly on the chest. Not enough to knock him back, but enough to make his head snap up, eyes wide.

“Don’t you dare push me away,” Soap continued, his voice shaking with frustration. “You’ve been pushing everyone away for years —but not this time, Ghost. Not me.”

Ghost stumbled back, not from the shove, but from the force of Soap’s words. He wanted to scream, wanted to shout, to tell Soap everything he was thinking—the rage, the fear, the anxiety that had been eating him up from the inside. But the words didn’t come. Instead, there was a moment of silence between them, thick and suffocating.

Soap’s eyes softened, but the anger was still there, bubbling beneath the surface. “What the hell are you so scared of, Ghost? Huh?”

For a second, the world around Ghost went still, and the noise in his mind dimmed to a dull roar. The answer was right there on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t say it. Couldn’t bring himself to face it.

"I’m not scared," he said quietly, but there was no conviction in it. It was a lie. A lie that even he could hear cracking in his own voice.

“Then stop pretending that you don’t give a damn,” Soap shot back, his voice trembling slightly now, no longer angry but hurt, like every word was a plea that Ghost couldn’t hear.

Ghost’s eyes flicked down to Soap’s face, the raw emotion in his eyes taking Ghost by surprise. The walls around his heart—the ones he’d built for so damn long—felt like they were crumbling in an instant.

And in that moment, Ghost felt something snap inside of him.

“ I care, ” Ghost finally admitted, his voice low but intense, barely more than a whisper. “But you… you don’t get it, Johnny. You don’t understand what it does to me.”

Soap’s breath hitched, the tension thickening in the room like a living thing. He stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. His hand reached up, and for a second, Ghost thought he might push him away again, but instead, Soap cupped his face—gently, almost tenderly.

And for the first time, Ghost didn’t pull away.

Soap’s thumb brushed over his cheek, and the warmth of his hand felt like it was burning through all the layers of Ghost’s carefully constructed armor.

“I get it, ” Soap whispered, his voice low, almost pained. “I get it more than you think.”

The air between them was thick with unspoken words, and for a long moment, neither of them moved. Soap’s hand was still on Ghost’s face, his thumb gently caressing his skin, but Ghost didn’t pull away. Instead, something inside him broke wide open—something that had been locked away for far too long.

“Johnny…” Ghost’s voice was hoarse, quieter than it had been in their entire argument. His eyes flicked down, as though he was looking at something far away, something from the past that still haunted him.

Soap didn’t pull his hand away. He kept his gaze steady, waiting, knowing that something in Ghost had shifted. He could feel it.

“I can’t,” Ghost muttered, his voice breaking slightly. His words were like shards of glass—sharp and jagged. “I can’t let anyone in again. Not like that.”

Soap's brow furrowed. "What do you mean? You already let me in, Ghost."

“Not like this.” Ghost’s chest tightened, and he finally pulled his eyes away, turning his head slightly, like he couldn’t bear the weight of Soap’s gaze anymore. The words were clawing their way to the surface, but they came out in a rush, as if Ghost had been holding them back for years. “The last time I let someone get that close... they ended up dead.”

Soap's expression softened, but there was a flicker of confusion in his eyes. “Who?”

“Roach,” Ghost whispered, the name coming out like a ghost of its own. His eyes flashed with a pained memory. “My last lover... He was one of us. He was good, Johnny. Hell, he was the best. But the mission... it went sideways.”

Soap swallowed hard, not sure what to say, but he stayed silent, letting Ghost speak.

“I couldn’t save him,” Ghost continued, his voice cracking slightly. “He died because of me. Because I wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t smart enough to get us both out. And I’ve been running from that guilt ever since.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of regret. Soap could see the agony in Ghost’s eyes, the same torment that had followed him through every mission, every quiet moment in the barracks. Ghost wasn’t just carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders—he was carrying the death of someone he loved.

Soap’s heart twisted, his hand moving up from Ghost’s face to rest on his shoulder, grounding him. “Ghost…”

“You don’t get it, Johnny,” Ghost choked out, turning away, unable to meet his eyes. “I... I loved him. And I couldn’t keep him safe. I can’t do that again. I won’t let it happen to you.”

Soap’s chest tightened with understanding and empathy, but also something deeper—a protective instinct, something fierce and raw. He grabbed Ghost by the shoulders, pulling him back gently but firmly. “You’re not gonna lose me,” he said, his voice low, steady. “I’m not gonna let you lose me.”

Ghost's breath caught, and he finally looked up at Soap, his eyes raw with emotion. There was a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze that Soap had never seen before, not even in their quiet moments. It was a window into Ghost's soul, a place he kept locked away from everyone.

“You don’t get to make that promise,” Ghost muttered, shaking his head slightly. “You can’t. I can’t bear to see it happen again, Johnny. I won’t survive it.”

Soap stepped closer, his hands gripping Ghost’s arms, pulling him in. “Then let me help you, Simon. Let me show you that I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

Ghost flinched at the use of his real name, but it wasn’t in the same way it had been before. There was something about the way Soap said it—soft, almost reverent—that made his heart ache.

“I’m trying to protect you,” Ghost whispered, his voice hoarse, his eyes searching Soap’s for any sign that he understood. “But I’m not sure I can do it. I can’t keep you safe if I can’t even protect myself.”

Soap’s fingers tightened on Ghost’s arms, pulling him closer until their foreheads were almost touching. “You don’t have to do this alone, Ghost. You never have to do this alone.”

There was a long pause, the two of them locked in a moment that felt like it could stretch on forever. The tension, the fear, the weight of everything they had both been carrying, was finally starting to break down.

“I’m scared,” Ghost finally admitted, the words coming out in a whisper, a confession he never thought he’d say aloud. “I’m scared of losing you. I’m scared of what happens when I let myself care too much.”

Soap’s voice was soft, filled with a quiet promise. “Then let me be scared with you.”

Ghost’s throat tightened, the lump in it bigger than ever. The walls he had spent so long building were cracking, crumbling under the weight of Soap’s words, his touch.

And for the first time in so long, Ghost didn’t feel alone.

Soap's hand slid down Ghost's arm, his touch slow, deliberate. The tension between them was electric, like the space around them had suddenly turned to static. Ghost’s breath hitched, his heart racing, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.

The words that had been left unsaid—the weight of their pasts, their fears—hung heavy between them, and Soap didn’t want to give him a chance to escape, not this time.

Without a word, Soap gently pressed Ghost’s back against the cold, unyielding wall. Ghost’s breath faltered, eyes wide as Soap's body came to rest against his, their proximity suddenly undeniable. Ghost’s heartbeat quickened in his chest, and his breath grew shallow.

“You’re not alone, Ghost,” Soap whispered, his voice a low promise against the tension that clung to the air. He paused, searching Ghost’s eyes for any sign of doubt. But he didn’t see any. What he saw instead was something more fragile—vulnerability that made his chest ache.

Slowly, Soap leaned in, his lips brushing against Ghost’s, tentative at first, a soft caress, as if asking permission. Ghost’s body responded, a shudder running through him. It felt like the walls he’d spent years building were starting to crumble.

Without thinking, Soap closed the distance between them, his lips capturing Ghost’s in a kiss that was both gentle and desperate. Ghost froze at first, the shock of it lingering, but then he exhaled, his hands coming up to clutch Soap’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepened, urgency bubbling to the surface. Soap’s hands roamed, one sliding around Ghost’s waist, the other tangling in his hair. The air between them was thick with everything they’d been holding back—fear, desire, need. Ghost’s head spun, the world outside of this moment disappearing. The wall behind him felt like the only thing keeping him grounded as Soap’s kiss became more insistent, more demanding.

When Soap pulled back, his forehead resting against Ghost’s, both of them breathing hard, Ghost’s chest heaved with emotion. His hands, still trembling, came to rest against Soap’s chest, grounding himself in the feel of him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Ghost whispered, his voice shaky. “I can’t let you in like this.”

Soap’s lips curled into a soft, reassuring smile. “You don’t have to know, Simon. Just let me show you.”

Ghost closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. This was the last thing he had wanted to let happen, but in this moment, it felt inevitable.

“I’m scared,” he confessed again, softer this time. “Scared of getting you killed. Of losing you.”

Soap’s hand cupped his cheek, his thumb brushing across the scar there with tenderness. “Then let me be the one to be scared with you.”

With that, he kissed him again, softer this time, more reassuring. And in that kiss, Ghost felt something stir inside him—something that felt like hope.

Soap’s footsteps faded down the hall, leaving Ghost standing there, still leaning against the wall, his fingers gently brushing the spot where Soap’s lips had just been. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts—confusion, desire, guilt, and something unfamiliar. Something that felt dangerous. His chest tightened at the thought of it, but it wasn’t something he could shake.

For the first time in years, Ghost found himself questioning everything—his walls, his guard, the shield he had kept up so carefully. Soap had cracked through it all with just a few words, a few touches. But that didn’t mean it was over. He wasn’t ready for it to be over.

Not yet.

He moved slowly, mechanically, as he dressed. The soft hum of the room, the quiet buzz of the fluorescent lights above him, were the only things that accompanied him as he slipped into his sweats. His fingers shook slightly as he adjusted the waistband, but he ignored it, trying to focus on the task. It was easier to focus on the routine, the familiar weight of the clothes, than the emotions that still felt raw inside of him.

He stared at himself in the mirror for a moment, his reflection almost foreign—someone he hadn’t truly seen in a long time. The mask, the casual clothes, the hardened expression. It was all a façade, and for a brief moment, he wondered who was behind it. What he would look like without it all. Without the walls.

“Shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, trying to dispel the tangled thoughts.

He heard Soap’s voice faintly from down the hallway, his laughter mingling with the sound of a door closing. He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of warmth at the sound, even if it only lasted for a moment.

Soap was going to get Chinese food. It was a small thing, but Ghost found himself looking forward to it. It felt like normal, like they could go back to some semblance of routine—something familiar. He didn’t know why, but the thought of sharing a meal with Soap after everything that had happened made him feel a little less tense, a little less like he was drowning in his own emotions.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his gaze drifting toward the door. His heart still raced from the kiss, from the weight of Soap’s words. What had it meant? Was it something more? Or was it just a moment of release, something born from the chaos of the mission?

Ghost pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to push away the intrusive thoughts.

His fingers lingered on the scar beneath his mask, the one Soap had kissed, and he couldn’t help but feel that same flicker of warmth. Soap had seen him. Really seen him. No one had ever done that. It was both terrifying and... oddly comforting.

The sound of Soap’s voice calling from the hallway snapped him out of his thoughts. He looked up, catching a glimpse of the man before Soap disappeared out the door.

“Hey, I’m back,” Soap’s voice echoed, a teasing tone in his voice. “Got our usual—don’t go eating all the spring rolls this time.”

Ghost’s lips tugged into a small smile, the edges of his anxiety dulling just slightly at the sound of Soap’s lightheartedness.

He pulled himself to his feet, taking one last glance in the mirror. He wasn’t sure how to feel about what had just happened, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe it was okay to not have all the answers right away.

He took a deep breath, his hand brushing over the door handle, and stepped out into the hallway, the faint smell of Chinese food already drifting towards him. The weight in his chest hadn’t fully lifted, but the tension between him and Soap had softened just a bit. And maybe that was enough for now.

The paper bag crinkled between Soap’s hands as he set it down on the small table in front of the couch. The smell of sweet and sour chicken, lo mein, and spring rolls filled the room, and Ghost’s stomach let out an unexpected growl at the scent.

Soap raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Didn’t peg you for someone who gets hungry after emotional trauma.”

Ghost snorted, a low huff escaping as he dropped onto the couch beside him. “It’s not the trauma. It’s the spring rolls.”

Soap laughed, nudging the takeout box toward him. “Help yourself then, before I change my mind.”

The television flickered quietly in front of them, some random crime drama playing low in the background. Neither of them had really picked it—Soap had just grabbed the remote and clicked through channels until something familiar appeared. Something with flashing lights and dramatic music that didn’t require too much focus.

They ate in silence for a while, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that came from being worn out—physically, emotionally—and needing to just… exist for a bit. Ghost sat with one leg tucked under him, the sweats soft and worn-in, the takeout container balanced on his knee. His fingers were still trembling faintly, but the warmth of the food grounded him, each bite anchoring him just a little more in the present.

Soap glanced over at him between bites, trying not to make it obvious he was watching.

“You always wear gear like that when you're off duty?” Soap finally asked, his voice quiet but curious.

Ghost looked down at the sweatshirt hanging off his frame, the cuffs worn, the fabric faded from countless washes. He shrugged. “Helps me feel like a person. Instead of a weapon.”

Soap nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “You ever feel like you get to stop being a weapon?”

There was a pause—long, heavy. Then Ghost said, “Only around you.”

Soap stilled for a second, the words sinking in like they’d caught him off guard. He didn’t push. Didn’t ask for more. He just scooted a little closer on the couch, letting his shoulder brush against Ghost’s for a moment longer than necessary.

On-screen, someone was getting arrested. Lights flashed red and blue.

Soap leaned back, stretching his arm over the back of the couch, just behind Ghost’s head but not quite touching. “You alright?” he asked, not pressing, just offering.

Ghost nodded slowly. “Getting there.”

They watched the rest of the episode like that—quiet, half-eaten boxes of food in front of them, and a thick thread of something unspoken braided between them. Safe, for now. Close, for now.

Ghost found himself glancing at Soap’s hand resting beside him, and—for the first time—he didn’t flinch away from the closeness. He leaned just slightly into the warmth, and Soap let his fingers drift, just enough to graze Ghost’s shoulder.

Nothing more. Nothing rushed.

Just two men, sitting in the quiet, letting the walls between them settle for a moment.

The credits rolled over the screen in soft white letters, the music low and forgettable, but neither of them moved to turn it off. The empty takeout boxes were pushed to the side of the table, abandoned in favor of the silence that had settled around them again. Only this time, it was heavier. Not with tension, but with something deeper. Something that hadn’t yet found the right words.

Ghost shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing Soap’s again. He didn’t move away.

“Johnny,” he said quietly, barely more than a breath.

Soap turned his head, catching the flicker of vulnerability in Ghost’s eyes. “Yeah?”

Ghost didn’t speak right away. He looked forward, gaze distant, jaw clenched like he was holding back a confession that had been sitting in his throat for far too long. Then, slowly, he turned his head to meet Soap’s eyes.

“I’ve been running from this,” Ghost murmured. “From you. Because every time I let someone in… they don’t make it.”

Soap didn’t answer—not with words. He just let his hand drift from the back of the couch, letting it curl around Ghost’s shoulder with quiet reassurance.

Ghost turned into it, forehead pressing lightly against Soap’s temple.

“I’m still here,” Soap said softly, like it was a promise.

And that was all Ghost needed.

He shifted closer, hand lifting to Soap’s jaw with a touch so careful it almost trembled. He hesitated for a beat—but just one—before leaning in.

The kiss was softer than their last. No desperation this time. No heat of the moment or sharp edges of grief and guilt. This was quieter. Slower. A kiss that asked for something more than escape. It was all lips and breath and a hand resting gently on Ghost’s chest.

Soap pulled back first, just enough to look at him. “You don’t have to run anymore.”

Ghost closed his eyes, letting those words settle in his bones. He leaned forward again, kissing him harder this time—deeper, with the weight of everything he hadn’t said. Soap didn’t hesitate. He let himself be pulled in, shifting until he was straddling Ghost’s lap, the heat between them rising as hands moved and clothes began to bunch and shift.

Sweatpants, soft cotton, skin meeting skin where shirts rode up and lips never stopped moving. There was no rush in it, no frantic pace—just a slow burn that had been smoldering for far too long.

Ghost let his hands rest on Soap’s hips, grounding himself there. It was the first time he’d touched someone like this in years, and it felt terrifying—and so goddamn good.

Soap pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, breath heavy. “You sure?”

Ghost nodded, voice rough when he answered. “Yeah. Just... stay.”

Soap smiled, warm and real, then leaned in again to kiss him like he meant it.

And for the first time in years, Ghost didn’t feel haunted.

He felt home.

Ghost’s hands gripped Soap’s hips a little tighter, anchoring himself to the moment. The kiss deepened again, all breath and soft groans, until Soap pulled back just enough to speak against his lips.

“Simon…” he whispered, voice rough with want.

That name—his real name—sent a chill down Ghost’s spine. Not from fear, but from the way it was spoken like a prayer. Gentle. Certain. Like Soap was trying to reach the man beneath all the scars.

Something in Ghost shifted. Slowly, he pushed up from the couch, hands sliding under Soap’s thighs as he stood, lifting him with practiced ease. Soap let out a surprised breath that turned into a low laugh, arms wrapping around Ghost’s shoulders for balance.

“You’re full of surprises,” Soap murmured into his ear.

“Shut up,” Ghost muttered, but there was no bite to it. Just heat, and a barely concealed grin he buried in Soap’s neck.

He carried him down the hallway, the apartment quiet except for the soft hum of the TV still playing in the background and the rustle of fabric. Each step was steady, deliberate, until they reached the bedroom.

Ghost nudged the door open with his shoulder and crossed the threshold like it was sacred. The room was dim, lit only by the warm glow of a small lamp on the dresser. Shadows danced across the walls as he set Soap down gently on the edge of the bed, his hands never leaving him.

Soap reached up and cupped Ghost’s face, thumbs brushing under his eyes where the paint had long since faded. “Let me see you,” he said again, softer this time.

Ghost hesitated—but only for a second—then slowly peeled his sweatshirt off over his head. He stood there for a moment, bare-chested, mask gone, sweats slung low on his hips, letting himself be seen. No armor. No mask. Just Simon.

Soap reached forward, fingertips grazing over old scars and new bruises. “You’re still beautiful, you know that?”

Ghost swallowed hard, his chest tight. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” Soap said, tugging him down onto the bed with a grin, “but I’m yours.”

The mattress dipped beneath them as Ghost leaned in, capturing his mouth again, slower this time—unhurried, but deep. His hand slid under Soap’s shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

Clothes came off in increments—shirts tossed aside, sweats eased down, skin met skin in soft gasps and quiet moans. It wasn’t about power or dominance. It was about closeness. About finally closing the space between them.

They moved together like it was familiar. Like their bodies already knew what their hearts were still trying to understand.

When Ghost finally pushed into him, there was a sharp inhale, followed by a breathless laugh against his neck. “You okay?” he asked, voice rasped and low.

Soap nodded, forehead resting against his. “Better than okay.”

The rhythm was slow, steady, every movement reverent. Ghost kissed him through every sound, every shiver. He’d never let anyone see him like this—open, trembling, wanting—but with Johnny, it didn’t feel like weakness.

It felt like finally breathing again.

They held each other through it, fingers tangled, lips brushing, heat curling low and constant. And when the tension broke—when they both gave in to the rising tide—it felt less like falling and more like flying.

Afterward, Ghost stayed close, pressing lazy kisses along Soap’s shoulder as their bodies cooled and the room settled into quiet again. They were tangled up in each other, legs a mess of warmth beneath the sheets, hearts still racing.

Soap ran his fingers through Ghost’s damp hair and whispered, “Still with me?”

“Yeah,” Ghost murmured. “Still here.”

And for the first time in a long time, he meant it.

The room was still, save for the steady rise and fall of their breathing. Somewhere in the sheets, tangled in limbs and warmth, Ghost lay on his side, one arm draped protectively across Soap’s stomach. His fingers idly traced circles along the skin there, not really thinking, just feeling.

Soap’s hand slid into his hair again, gentler now, coaxing a breath from Ghost that was close to a sigh.

“You’re still here,” Johnny whispered, almost to himself.

Ghost shifted closer, nudging their foreheads together. “Didn’t think you’d want me gone so soon,” he muttered.

“I didn’t think you’d stay.”

There was no bitterness in the words. Just honesty. The kind that comes in the late hours of the night, when guards are down and everything feels fragile and real.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Ghost said, voice low. “Not this time.”

Soap looked up at him, eyes searching his face like he was trying to commit every detail to memory. His thumb brushed across Ghost’s cheek, over the scar just beneath his eye. “You always hide,” he said. “Not just your face. Everything. Even from me.”

“I know.” Ghost’s voice cracked just slightly. “I’m tryin’, Johnny.”

“You’re doing better than you think.”

There was a beat of silence before Ghost leaned down and kissed him—nothing urgent, just a long, lingering kiss that made Soap hum softly into it. When they broke apart, Ghost didn’t move far. He just stayed close, breathing him in.

“You ever think about… after?” Soap asked.

“After?”

“After this war. After Makarov. After all of it.”

Ghost was quiet for a long moment. “Sometimes,” he finally admitted. “But I never picture it without you.”

Soap’s breath hitched, and he gave a small smile, tugging Ghost closer by the neck. “Then that’s good enough for me.”

They stayed like that for a while, bodies tangled in the safety of each other, sharing quiet words and softer touches. The weight of the world felt a little further away, if only for the night.

Eventually, Soap shifted under the blankets, pulling Ghost against him so they were chest-to-chest. Ghost didn’t resist—he settled in, burying his face in the crook of Soap’s neck, letting himself be held.

“You can sleep,” Johnny murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Ghost’s reply was almost too quiet to hear.

“I know.”

The room was quiet again, bathed in the soft gray light filtering in from the window. The world outside kept moving, but in this small space, time felt suspended.

Ghost shifted slightly under the blanket, just enough to rest his forehead against Johnny’s. “You remember the first time we met?”

Soap chuckled low in his throat. “Course I do. You looked at me like I was a liability.”

“You’d just gotten back from Russia. No one gave me much intel on you—just your name and your service file.”

“And you thought I was green?”

“I thought I’d lose you,” Ghost admitted quietly. “Didn’t want to know your name if I was gonna watch you bleed out in some bunker under Hassan’s compound.”

Soap exhaled slowly, the memory sharp in both their minds—the rush of that op, their first as a duo. They hadn’t known each other, hadn’t had time to build trust, and yet somehow, they’d moved like they’d been trained together for years.

“You saved my ass in that stairwell,” Johnny said. “Didn’t even hesitate.”

“You called out your position,” Ghost murmured. “Clear, sharp. You knew what you were doing. That’s when I started to trust you.”

“That was the moment?”

“Yeah,” Ghost said, eyes half-lidded now. “I saw you shoot two tangos and drag a civilian out of the line of fire in under ten seconds. Couldn’t ignore that.”

Soap let the silence settle for a beat, eyes studying Ghost’s face in the low light. “You never said any of that before.”

“I don’t say a lot of things,” Ghost replied. “But I think 'bout them.”

“Thinkin’s a good start.” Soap smirked faintly, then leaned in to press a soft kiss to the corner of Ghost’s mouth. “We got through that op. We’ll get through this one.”

“I believe you.”

They lay in the stillness again, bodies warm and tangled, the weight of shared memories holding them close. There was more to say—always more—but for now, it was enough.

Soap blinked up at the ceiling, his fingers tracing idle shapes along Ghost’s ribs beneath the blanket. Ghost was still, breathing steady, but Johnny could tell he wasn’t asleep. Not yet.

“Hey,” Soap murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “You remember the day you brought Riley to base?”

Ghost let out a soft huff that was almost a laugh. “How could I forget? You nearly tackled me.”

“You brought a dog , mate. After two straight weeks of shit ops and MREs. You were basically walkin’ in with a goddamn miracle.”

“She wasn’t supposed to stay,” Ghost said, amusement edging into his voice. “Laswell found her at that safehouse on the border, remember? Scared out of her mind. Figured I'd just get her settled and send her off to the K9 unit.”

“But she picked you.” Soap grinned into the darkness. “Wouldn’t leave your side. Even when Gaz tried bribin’ her with beef jerky.”

“Traitor,” Ghost muttered.

“You loved it,” Soap teased. “You acted like you didn’t care, but I caught you talking to her when you thought no one was listening.”

Ghost went quiet for a beat, and then: “She grounded me. I didn’t realize how badly I needed that until she curled up next to my bunk.”

“She made us all feel human again for a bit.”

Ghost nodded slowly. “You were the one who gave her the name.”

“Riley. After that girl in the evac convoy. The one who held her little brother's hand the whole time.”

“Yeah.” Ghost’s voice dipped, soft. “That kid had guts.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—it was full of shared understanding. The kind of memory that stuck because it had reminded them, even for just a moment, that not everything was war and death and pain. That some things could still be soft. Still be saved.

“She still sleeps curled at your door when you’re not here,” Soap said quietly. “Won’t eat till she hears your voice.”

Ghost swallowed. “She’s good like that.”

“You’re both stubborn and loyal. Makes sense.”

Ghost leaned in then, brushing his nose against Soap’s. “You’re not so different.”

“I know.” Soap smiled. “That’s why you keep me.”

“You’re impossible to lose.”

And with that, Ghost finally let his body relax fully, the warmth of that memory cocooning around him, layered with the feel of Soap’s hand still steady on his chest.

They slept like that—wrapped in warmth, in memories, in something real.

Sunlight filtered in through the blinds, casting thin gold lines across the bed and the two bodies tangled beneath the sheets. The silence was warm, peaceful—fragile in its stillness. Ghost stirred first, not with urgency but with the ease of someone who didn’t have to move just yet.

But then came the soft click of claws on tile.

A familiar sound.

Ghost blinked and turned his head toward the door just in time to see the shape that trotted in with all the grace of a trained shadow. Riley.

She padded over to his side of the bed, tail swaying gently. Her eyes were alert but soft, ears perked just slightly as she stopped and sat, as if waiting for permission.

Ghost reached down, hand trailing over the scarred fur of her head, and scratched behind her ear. She leaned into the touch with a low, contented grunt.

Soap stirred beside him, eyelids fluttering open. “Mornin’, girl,” he mumbled, voice still gravelly with sleep.

Riley gave a low whuff and moved to nudge Soap’s arm with her nose before circling once and curling herself right at the foot of the bed like she belonged there—which, of course, she did.

“You always let her in when I’m not around?” Ghost asked, glancing sideways.

“Course I do. She gets all fussy if I don’t. Starts whining at the door ‘til I cave.”

Ghost smirked faintly. “You spoil her.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Riley lifted her head slightly at the playful tone, looking between the two men with quiet curiosity before letting out a satisfied sigh and resting her chin on her paws.

Ghost leaned back into the pillows again, one arm tucked beneath his head. “She found us before we even knew we needed her.”

“Yeah,” Soap murmured. “And she’s still keepin’ us stitched together.”

They lay in that soft silence, the kind that didn’t ask for anything. Just warmth, just breathing, just the soft pressure of a loyal dog at their feet.

Soap eventually reached down to ruffle Riley’s fur, then rested his hand over Ghost’s chest again.

“I like this,” he said. “You. Me. Her. This peace. Even if it’s temporary.”

Ghost looked down at him. “It’s real. That’s what matters.”

And for a moment—just one perfect, ordinary moment—it was enough.

The base was barely waking up.

The sky outside the windows was pale blue, tinged with the soft amber of early morning, and the world hadn’t yet remembered to be loud.

Soap sat cross-legged on the worn couch, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, a mug of coffee cupped in both hands. He stared into it like it held something profound—some deeper truth he couldn’t quite name. The steam curled upward, disappearing into the quiet.

Across the room, Ghost stood at the stove in nothing but sweats and a black t-shirt, stirring something lazily in a small pan—probably the sad attempt at rehydrated eggs or instant oats from the ration kits they’d nicked from the mess. His movements were slow, relaxed in a way that didn’t come easy to him.

Riley lay stretched out across the floor between them, basking in a shaft of sunlight.

Ghost poured himself a mug, then grabbed Soap’s half-empty one on the way back, topping it off before sitting beside him. He didn’t say anything as he handed it over—just gave him a look, something warm beneath the maskless calm of his expression.

Soap accepted it with a small smile, fingers brushing Ghost’s knuckles.

“You always make it better,” he murmured. “Even the shite coffee.”

“It’s the sugar,” Ghost said dryly, but his voice held that quiet fondness he rarely let out.

They sat in silence, legs barely touching, Riley’s breathing the only sound besides the occasional sip and the hum of the base outside beginning to stir.

Soap leaned his head onto Ghost’s shoulder. “We don’t get mornings like this.”

“No,” Ghost agreed. “Not often.”

“Then we savor it.”

Ghost turned his head slightly and let his lips brush against Soap’s hair. A barely-there kiss, like a promise sealed in steam and silence.

“I’d give you a thousand of these if I could,” he said quietly.

Soap smiled against his shoulder. “I only need one. And maybe another cup.”

Ghost gave a soft huff of laughter and reached for the pot again.

Outside, the world continued. Missions waited. Intel piled up. But for now, it could all hold.

Because inside, the coffee was warm. The silence was safe. And for a moment, they were just Johnny and Simon, sitting in the morning light, with Riley asleep between them.

The sun had crested the horizon fully now, casting a golden hue over the gravel and tarmac of the base. It was early enough that the usual chaos of drills and radio chatter hadn’t started, just the distant sound of a few soldiers jogging laps and the low whir of a chopper being prepped somewhere in the hangars.

Soap tossed a tennis ball ahead, and Riley bounded after it with practiced ease, her paws kicking up dust as she darted across the open space. She returned, head high and tail wagging, and gently dropped it at Ghost’s feet.

“You’ve spoiled her rotten,” Soap teased, watching with a grin as Ghost bent down to grab the ball and give Riley a slow head scratch.

Ghost gave him a sidelong glance. “You’re the one who sneaks her bacon from the mess.”

“And you let her sleep on the bed.”

“She earned it.”

They kept walking—no rush, no destination. Just laps around the perimeter road, Riley weaving ahead and then looping back to check in with them. Soap’s arm occasionally brushed Ghost’s, subtle and warm, like a tether that kept him grounded here in the moment.

Ghost watched the way the morning light played on Johnny’s face—soft and golden, catching the edge of his lashes, the slope of his cheek. He looked peaceful. Tired, but peaceful.

He wasn’t sure when Johnny became the thing that steadied him. Maybe it was Las Almas. Maybe it was the nightmares. Maybe it was just time, and something in Soap that saw right through all the sharp edges he’d built.

“You know,” Soap said, breaking the silence with a crooked grin, “I used to think you hated dogs.”

Ghost gave a faint snort. “Hated people , more like.”

Soap laughed, a little breathless. “Still do, I reckon.”

“Most of ‘em, yeah.” He paused, then added under his breath, “Not you.”

Soap looked at him then, something soft and open in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Not you either.”

Riley barked ahead of them, having found something deeply important in the dirt—probably a stick or a leaf or a long-forgotten grenade pin.

They walked a few more paces in silence before Soap nudged Ghost lightly with his shoulder. “Let’s do this again sometime. Just us. No missions. No mess. Just… this.”

Ghost nodded. “Yeah,” he murmured. “We’ll make time.”

The walk back to the barracks felt too short, like the world had pulled them from their moment too quickly. As they rounded the corner near the entrance, Riley trotting happily ahead, the familiar sounds of the base started to filter back into the air—boots on concrete, radios crackling, the hum of engines as choppers took off in the distance.

Soap glanced sideways at Ghost, his steps slowing just a bit, the weight of the shift from peace to duty sinking in. “You think we’ve got a few more hours before the call comes?”

Ghost didn’t reply immediately, his gaze drifting toward the hangars where a handful of soldiers were gearing up, hauling crates of ammo and supplies. The hum of activity was only just starting to ramp up, but he could already feel the tension in the air, the anticipation. His muscles were starting to coil again, that familiar knot forming in his gut as he prepared for the mission.

“Maybe,” Ghost muttered. “But it’s not gonna be much longer. I can feel it.”

Soap shot him a look, one that had been layered with quiet understanding for a while now. “You’re already thinking about it, huh?”

“Always am,” Ghost replied, voice quieter now. He didn’t need to say more. The way Soap read him, knew him—it was almost eerie, but in a way that felt safe.

The next few minutes were filled with the normal, mundane routine: handing Riley off to the base’s kennel, taking off their light jackets, grabbing the gear they needed. But in the back of his mind, Ghost knew it was all a lead-up to something bigger. Farah’s intel. Makarov’s plans. The soldiers they would have to face down.

And the one thing that gnawed at him through all of it? Soap. Soap was with him. Always. And that felt like a curse and a blessing, all at once. It could break him if he let it. It could make him stronger.

As they walked into the team room, Ghost’s eyes flicked to Price, Gaz, and Laswell already gathered around the intel table. They hadn’t gotten word yet, but that would change soon. It always did.

Soap broke the silence that had settled between them. “What’s the plan, then?” His voice was steady, but there was an edge of something beneath it—something Ghost recognized as the tension of knowing it was time to move, but also dreading the push that would come.

Price stood as soon as they entered, his gruff voice cutting through the quiet. “Makarov’s making his move. We’ve got enough intel now to know where he’s hiding out. But we’ve also got a problem: Konni’s soldiers are still a major presence there. And we need to move fast.”

Ghost could feel his pulse pick up again as he stepped forward, grabbing his gear and glancing over the tactical map. His fingers brushed Soap’s briefly before he looked away, focusing on the details of the mission.

He could hear Soap’s voice again, low and steady. “Same as before. In and out. We’re not going in blind.”

“Exactly,” Price replied. “We get in, hit them fast, and get the intel we need. No heroics. Just clean.”

Laswell’s voice cut in. “But we’re going to have to be careful. This operation needs to be precise. One slip-up, and Makarov will be on the move again.”

The weight of it all hung in the air. Ghost wasn’t listening to the strategy fully now. His mind was already racing ahead, thinking of the risks, the possible outcomes, and of course— Soap . What would happen if—

Soap’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Let’s just get it done.”

And there it was—the final push, the signal. This was happening. No more waiting. No more wondering.

The mission would begin soon.

The meeting wrapped quickly after that—concise, efficient. No one was wasting time. They all knew what was coming. The moment the others dispersed, Ghost lingered near the table, staring down at the mission schematics like they held some hidden truth he hadn’t cracked yet.

Soap didn’t leave either. He hovered nearby, eyes flicking from the map to Ghost and back again. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, but the room had grown quiet again, just the two of them remaining in the space.

“You okay?” Soap asked softly, his voice stripped of bravado now. Just Johnny.

Ghost didn’t answer at first. He finally looked up, met Soap’s eyes. There was a flicker of something vulnerable beneath the surface. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, then exhaled through his nose.

“No,” he admitted. “But I’m used to that.”

Soap didn’t smile. Didn’t try to joke it off like he usually did. He took a few steps forward until they were shoulder to shoulder, the edge of his arm just brushing Ghost’s.

“You don’t have to be used to it anymore,” Soap said. “Not with me here.”

That hit deeper than it should have. Ghost swallowed hard and turned his head, not quite able to meet his gaze again.

“I don’t know what happens if I let myself believe that,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Soap took the leap for both of them, reaching out and gently resting a hand on Ghost’s forearm—grounding, not pressing. Just there. Solid.

“We get through this op,” Soap murmured. “Then we figure it out. One thing at a time.”

Ghost nodded slowly. He didn’t move, didn’t pull away from the touch. He just let himself feel it. That rare comfort. That weight.

As they stood there, the muffled thud of boots echoed down the hallway—Gaz’s voice calling out that the chopper was ready.

Ghost turned his head toward the door, the spell broken. But Soap leaned in just a little closer, voice low in his ear.

“You’re not going into this alone. Not anymore.”

Ghost felt his jaw tighten—not from frustration this time, but from the ache of something he wasn’t sure how to name.

He looked at Soap one last time before nodding toward the door. “Let’s go finish this.”

And with that, they moved together—shoulders squared, hearts a little heavier, but finally aligned.

The armory was alive with movement—metal clinks, clipped orders, the sharp zip of packs being loaded and cinched. Ghost stood in front of his locker, methodically securing the plates in his vest, gloves tugged on tight, face set like stone. But his eyes kept flicking toward the reflection in the glass panel across from him—watching Soap a few feet away.

Soap was in a black compression shirt, vest half-done, hair still wet from a quick rinse. He moved with that mix of confidence and tension, like he was trying not to think about what came next. Like he was thinking about someone instead.

Ghost turned back to his own gear, reaching into the bottom compartment of his locker. From it, he drew a blade—shorter than the ones he usually carried, the hilt wrapped in worn black paracord. Its edge shimmered faintly under the fluorescents.

He stared at it for a beat. Then turned.

“Johnny.”

Soap looked over, brow raised.

Ghost held the knife out, handle first. “Take this.”

Soap blinked. “Is that your—?”

“It’s the blade I carry when I’m going into a fight I can’t lose,” Ghost said, voice low. Serious. “It’s never failed me.”

Soap took it slowly, fingers brushing Ghost’s gloved palm as he did. He stared down at the weapon like it was something sacred. “That a lucky charm or somethin’?”

Ghost hesitated, then shook his head. “No. It’s not luck. It’s a reminder.”

Soap looked up at him, eyes softer now. “Of what?”

Ghost held his gaze. “What I’m fighting for.”

For a second, the noise in the armory dulled. The background faded. It was just the two of them, the quiet breath between loaded weapons and unspoken promises.

Soap stepped in close, chest nearly brushing Ghost’s. He slipped the knife into a sheath on his vest, then lifted a hand to the back of Ghost’s neck, under the edge of the balaclava. The touch was firm—certain. Then, without hesitation, Soap leaned in and kissed him.

It was slow, deep, and filled with everything neither of them had words for.

When they broke apart, Soap didn’t move far. He pressed their foreheads together, eyes closed.

“You come back to me,” Ghost said, the words barely audible.

“You come back to me ,” Soap replied, just as quiet, just as fierce.

Ghost gave a short nod. His hand lingered at Soap’s side for a second longer before they both turned, grabbed their rifles, and fell into the rhythm of warriors again.

But this time, they carried more than gear.

They carried each other.

They lingered just outside the armory, tucked beneath the shadow of a concrete overhang. The noise inside still buzzed—boots scuffing against the floor, orders barked, final checks called out. But here, in this pocket of quiet, it was just them again. The eye of the storm.

Ghost leaned back against the wall, helmet tucked under his arm, mask still pulled halfway up. His eyes scanned the horizon—empty sky, chopper blades spinning up somewhere in the distance. But his attention wasn’t on any of it. Not really.

Soap stood beside him, adjusting the strap of his vest for the hundredth time. Ghost could feel the energy coming off him—tight, coiled, like a fuse that hadn’t been lit yet. But his hand drifted now and then to the hilt of the knife Ghost had given him. Like it grounded him.

Neither spoke for a long beat.

Then Ghost murmured, “You don’t have to say anything.”

Soap glanced over. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

He took a step closer. Close enough for his shoulder to bump Ghost’s, the warmth bleeding through all the layers between them.

“I’ve been in a lot of bad fights,” Soap said quietly. “But none of them ever felt like this. Not because of the stakes. Because of you.”

Ghost turned his head, slow and deliberate. Their eyes met.

“I know you’re scared,” Soap added. “Hell, so am I. But if anything goes sideways out there, I need you to know I’d go to the wall for you.”

Ghost's voice was raw when he answered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

The silence returned, but this time it pulsed—alive with everything they couldn’t afford to say out loud right now.

Soap reached out, fingers brushing against Ghost’s glove. It was barely a touch, just the edge of contact. But Ghost didn’t pull away.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Soap said. “Not unless you drag me back yourself.”

That drew a breath from Ghost—not a laugh, but close. A flicker of something softer in his eyes.

Then, over the comms: “Team One, wheels up in five.”

They both turned toward the sound. The spell broke. The mission pulled at them again.

Soap gave Ghost’s hand one last squeeze before letting go. “Let’s go raise some hell.”

Ghost nodded, slipping the mask back into place. “Together.”

And just like that, they moved—shoulder to shoulder, blades in place, rifles locked in, hearts pounding loud enough to fill the silence between steps.

hey were just rounding the corner toward the hangar when Laswell’s voice came sharp and clipped over their comms:

“Task Force 141, hold position. Incoming call from General Shepherd.”

Ghost and Soap froze in tandem. Across the tarmac, Price was already turning on his heel, Gaz close behind. A shared glance passed between them all—something just below alarm, but steeped in tension.

“Laswell, patch him through,” Price said, voice steady.

There was a brief crackle of static, then the line settled into clarity. General Shepherd’s voice came through, calm but cold, the kind of voice that always sounded like it already knew more than it was saying.

“You’re en route to intercept Makarov’s transport hub. New intel just came across my desk from our counterparts in Berlin—confirmed movement from Konni’s side. Reinforcements are likely en route from the north.”

A heavy pause. Ghost could feel the air change, pressure dropping like a storm front was rolling in.

“This op is now more than a recovery,” Shepherd continued. “Makarov’s not just building supply lines—he’s coordinating something bigger. We need eyes on the ground, now. No margin for error.”

Laswell jumped in, her voice terse. “We’ll update the entry route. Gaz, you’ll take point with Johnny’s team. Ghost, overwatch remains priority—nothing gets past you.”

Ghost gave a silent nod. His eyes flicked to Soap, who was already frowning, jaw working under the strain of it all.

Price cleared his throat, his tone hardening. “If this is turning into a multi-front fight, we’ll need extraction contingencies in place. You’re asking for a lot, General.”

Shepherd didn’t hesitate. “Then make it count. This isn’t just about Farah anymore. If Makarov’s planning a show of force, I want to be ten steps ahead.”

The line cut before anyone could respond.

Just the empty, electric silence of a team processing a pivot they hadn’t seen coming.

Soap exhaled slowly. “That… didn’t feel right.”

Ghost agreed, but said nothing. The silence was safer.

Price looked toward the chopper, then at the team. “We go in sharp. No heroics. Just get what we need and get out clean.”

Gaz clapped his gloves together. “Guess we’re on the clock now.”

They all turned back toward the bird, the roar of the rotors now sounding more ominous than before. The world narrowed down to combat prep and worst-case scenarios. Ghost’s thoughts skimmed over Shepherd’s tone, the implications of Makarov, the bloody history repeating.

And somewhere behind it all—Soap’s promise from earlier. Not unless you drag me back yourself.

He tightened his gloves, heart hammering.

“Let’s get this done.”

Chapter Text

The rumble of the helicopter blades was deafening, vibrating through the soles of their boots and into their bones. Dust kicked up across the tarmac as the side doors opened, the interior bathed in sterile, flickering red light. Ghost climbed in first, his boots thudding against the metal floor, rifle already settled across his lap.

Soap followed, his hand brushing along Ghost’s arm as he passed—not enough for the others to notice, but enough to ground them both.

Gaz and Laswell climbed in next, Price taking the seat across from them with the easy authority of someone used to chaos knocking at the door. No one spoke for a long moment as the doors slid closed, sealing them in with the thunder of the blades and the weight of what lay ahead.

The bird lifted from the ground with a jolt, the skyline tilting as they rose. Through the open side window, the base fell away in a blur of floodlights and fencing, leaving only sky and war ahead.

Soap leaned slightly toward Ghost, keeping his voice low as the comms buzzed in his ear.
“Still owe me a drink after this, mate.”

Ghost didn’t turn his head, but the corners of his eyes shifted just enough to catch the curve of Johnny’s mouth in the red light.
“Still owe me a bloody miracle if we make it back in one piece.”

Soap huffed a quiet laugh. “Then I’ll make it a double.”

Across from them, Laswell was already reviewing sat data with Gaz, marking points on her tablet with swift, practiced fingers. Price’s gaze flicked between them all, sharp, calculating.

“ETA fifteen minutes. Once we land, we split. Ghost—high perch on the west ridge. Soap, you and Gaz take the front entrance. Laswell and I’ll hit the side building.”

They all gave short nods, the kind that carried weight—understanding, acceptance, a readiness to bleed if needed.

Ghost adjusted the strap on his vest. His eyes drifted again, not toward the horizon this time, but to Soap’s gloved hands resting on his thighs, bouncing slightly from adrenaline.
He didn’t say anything. Just let himself feel it—that tether. That pull. That reason to survive.

The red light turned amber. The mission had begun.

The amber light above them continued to pulse, casting shifting shadows across their faces. The helicopter swayed subtly as it cut through wind currents, the rhythmic thrum of the blades like a war drum pounding in Ghost’s chest. Every breath he took felt measured. Tightly wound. His fingers flexed against the stock of his rifle, muscle memory grounding him when his mind threatened to stray.

Across from him, Soap sat still for once, no jokes, no half-cocked grins. Just eyes locked on the floor, brows drawn. Focused. But there was a flicker behind that focus—something Ghost had only started to recognize since the nightmares and near-misses. The tightness in his jaw wasn’t just from the mission. It was from everything riding on it.

Ghost’s gaze drifted to the knife he’d given Johnny, now strapped neatly along his chest rig. It wasn’t just a knife—it was a promise. One Ghost had made it silently, the only way he knew how. Protect yourself. Come back to me.

“Five minutes out.” Price’s voice crackled through the comms, dragging everyone from their thoughts.

Gaz shifted in his seat, checking his mags again for the third time. Laswell murmured something to herself as she scanned the satellite feed, her expression sharp, calculating.

And Soap? Soap finally looked up—straight at Ghost. For a second, the mission faded behind them, and the air between them was thick with everything they weren’t saying. Soap gave him a small nod, subtle and sure. Not “I’m ready.”

I’ve got your back.

Ghost dipped his head, jaw tight, fingers tightening on his rifle. Not “I trust you.”

Come back alive.

Price clapped his hand against the side of the chopper as it started its descent. “Eyes sharp. Move fast. In and out, clean.”

The moment shattered. The helicopter banked hard to the right, wind screaming past the open door as the ground rushed up beneath them.

Ghost closed his eyes for just a breath, letting the sound of war wrap around him.

Then the red light turned green.

“Go, go, go!”

And they dropped.

The team hit the ground hard—knees bending, boots crunching into loose gravel and sand as the helicopter peeled off into the night sky behind them. The wind still howled in their ears, kicking dust up into their faces and clinging to the moisture on their skin. The air was sharp, thick with heat and something heavier—gunpowder, sweat, tension.

Ghost adjusted his rifle, scanning the ridgeline ahead. No immediate threats. Just the oppressive silence of a place about to become a warzone.

Soap landed next to him a half second later, the impact rippling through him like shockwaves. He gave Ghost a silent glance before falling into step, Gaz and Price flanking out to cover their approach.

The team was barely thirty feet from the tree line when the comms crackled to life.

“Task Force 141, this is General Shepherd. Sitrep.”

Price answered first, clipped and professional. “On the ground. No contact yet. Moving toward the infiltration point.”

A pause. Then another voice filtered in—slick, drawling, smug enough to make Ghost’s shoulders go rigid.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the dream team. Miss me?”

Ghost stopped walking, jaw tightening beneath his mask. Soap immediately slowed beside him, shoulders tensing. There was no mistaking that voice.

Graves.

Ghost’s voice came low, venom-tipped,  “Didn’t realize rats could chew their way back from the grave.”

Graves chuckled, the sound irritatingly casual. “What can I say? Takes more than an explosion and a pissed off Scotsman to keep me down.”

Soap’s mouth opened, but Ghost threw out a hand to stop him. Not because he didn’t want Johnny to speak—but because he wanted the honor.

“If I’d known you were still breathing, I’d’ve aimed lower last time.”

“Boys,” Shepherd cut in, his voice clipped and cold. “Focus. Graves is here under my orders. He’s been assigned to monitor the perimeter from a southern outpost. You’ll avoid contact unless absolutely necessary.”

“Right,” Ghost muttered. “Because he’s so trustworthy.”

“It’s temporary,” Shepherd snapped. “This isn’t a reunion tour. We have actionable intel on Makarov’s network moving through this region. Your objective remains the same: sweep, recover Farah’s data cache, exfil clean.”

Graves whistled low over the channel. “You wound me, Ghost. Thought we were brothers.”

Ghost clicked his mic off and murmured, “You were never family. Just another bastard in a uniform.”

Soap walked silently beside him, glancing over, unreadable. But Ghost knew—if it came down to it, they’d both pull the trigger without hesitation.

Price’s voice returned on the channel. “We move now. Ghost, Soap—you're on point.”

Ghost took the lead again, moving toward the treeline. The sound of Graves’ voice still echoed in his head like a bad memory.

And just below all the fury was something quieter, sharper: a promise.
Next time, I won’t miss it.

The shadows swallowed them as they pushed into the trees, boots crunching low underbrush and wet leaves. Night had settled thick and heavy, casting long shadows across the uneven terrain. Ghost kept his rifle low but ready, his eyes constantly scanning, heart still hammering—not from fear, but from rage.

Beside him, Soap kept pace in silence. A rare thing.

They walked like that for a full minute before Johnny broke it—soft, just for them on the private channel.

“ You alright?” he asked, breathing steady but tight. Controlled.

Ghost didn’t answer right away. He kept his gaze forward, sweeping the treeline, but his hand twitched once against his trigger guard.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Didn’t think we’d ever have to hear that voice again.”

Soap scoffed under his breath, the sound bitter. “Was like hearin’ a ghost crawl outta the grave.” A pause. Then quieter: “You were ready to rip him through the comms.”

Ghost’s lip twitched behind the mask. “Didn’t realize how deep that knife still sat ‘til he opened his mouth.”

“You and me both,” Soap muttered. He adjusted his grip on his rifle, eyes darting sideways. “But it’s not just Graves, is it?”

Ghost gave him a look. Not a glare—closer to a warning, maybe. But Johnny didn’t flinch from it.

“You get quiet like this when you’re spiralin’,” he said. “I know the signs now.”

That settled in Ghost’s chest like a stone. He wanted to deflect—throw up a wall like usual. But something about the way Soap was walking next to him, the memory of his hand on Ghost’s chest the night before, steadying him like an anchor… made it harder to lie.

“It’s not just him,” Ghost admitted. Voice low, sandpaper-rough. “It’s this whole op. Everything feels like it’s building toward something I can’t see.”

Soap reached out as they walked, brushing the back of his gloved fingers against Ghost’s elbow. Just a touch, then it was gone.

“You don’t have to see it,” he said. “You’ve just gotta trust we’ll be there when it hits.”

Ghost gave him a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“You really believe that?”

“I believe in you,” Soap answered without missing a beat.

Ghost’s chest tightened. He looked away fast, trying to smother the heat blooming there with something else—focus, readiness, anything.

But he didn’t pull away.

The signal came in low and clipped through the comms: “Green light. Move in.”

Ghost raised his fist, signaling the team forward. From the treeline, they moved like wraiths, silent and deadly, breaking into staggered formation as they neared the compound’s outer wall.

Soap took point, his steps smooth, deliberate, his breath steady in Ghost’s ear.

“No pressure,” Johnny murmured across the private channel. “But you still owe me dinner if we survive this.”

Ghost huffed through his nose, barely audible,  “Didn’t realize near-death experiences came with a reservation.”

“Only for the charming.” A pause. “And those who give away fancy knives before a mission.”

Ghost didn’t respond, but his eyes tracked Soap through his scope as the Scot swept up to the breach point, checked the hinges, and knelt beside the door. The tension in Ghost’s shoulders refused to let up.

“Stacking,” Price said over comms.

Gaz and Soap lined up behind him, weapons raised, Ghost shifting slightly in his overwatch perch to keep all angles covered.

Through the lens, Ghost caught the twitch in Soap’s fingers—brief, practiced, not panic but readiness. He’d seen it a thousand times now, but tonight it hit differently.

He’s yours to protect. Don’t fuck it up.

“Flash ready,” Gaz called.

“Breach in three—two—”

The detonation was sharp but tight, controlled. Light spilled into the compound and boots thundered in like a crashing tide. Ghost watched from above, crosshair sweeping left, right, clearing rooftop edges and windows—finger brushing the trigger like a whisper.

“Clear right!”

“Contact, left side! One down!”

Ghost tracked a runner through a broken corridor and took the shot without hesitation—clean, precise. Blood painted the wall in a crimson arc.

Down below, Soap ducked under gunfire and rolled through a collapsed threshold. His voice returned over comms, tense but sharp:
“Target moving toward the north hall—he’s trying to bolt!”

Ghost pivoted, checking the angle. “Can’t see him from here. You’ll have to chase.”

“Aye. Always gotta be me, huh?”

Another burst of gunfire. Then radio silence.

Ghost’s pulse skipped. “Johnny?”

“Still breathin’. Just movin’ fast.”

Ghost’s shoulders relaxed by half a centimeter.

“Keep talkin’. Don’t go quiet on me.”

“You love my voice, admit it.”

“Only when it’s not followed by screaming.”

A brief laugh crackled in his ear before Soap’s voice dropped back into focus, razor-sharp.

“Moving in now. North corridor. Two tangos ahead.”

Ghost exhaled through clenched teeth and re-centered his aim, eyes flicking back to the compound’s rooftop where more movement stirred in the shadows.

“Johnny—heads up. Got reinforcements mobilizing on the roof behind you. Get this done fast.”

“Fast is my middle name.”

Ghost smirked. “You told me it was ‘Danger.’”

“Well, I can’t give away all my secrets.”

Then the corridor lit up in gunfire again.

And Ghost stopped smiling.

A glint of movement snapped Ghost’s attention to the rooftop edge—three Konni soldiers emerging from the shadows, rifles raised and scanning. They hadn’t spotted him yet, but they were flanking fast, and his perch was no longer secure.

He adjusted his sightline, breath held, finger steady.

Pop.

First one down—clean headshot.

The second ducked, reacting fast, already firing in Ghost’s direction. Concrete chipped violently around his position as Ghost dropped low, crawling to the left, repositioning behind a rusted vent.

“Fuckin’ hell…” he muttered under his breath, slinging the sniper rifle across his back and pulling his sidearm.

He peeked and returned fire, striking the second man in the shoulder, sending him staggering backward. A third Konni soldier vaulted onto the rooftop, much closer than Ghost liked. Too close. No time to think.

The man lunged.

Ghost pivoted, met him mid-charge. The clash of bone and Kevlar echoed against the rooftop’s still air. A grunt. A sharp twist. Ghost slammed his forearm into the attacker’s throat, then drove his boot into the man’s knee, sending him crashing back.

Before the Konni soldier could recover, Ghost drew his knife.

Sink. Twist. Pull.

The body dropped limp, pooling red into the gravel roof. Ghost staggered back, breathing sharp in his throat.

His comms buzzed—Price’s voice.

“Ghost? Sitrep?”

Ghost panted against the receiver, checking the roof again. “All quiet. Three down. Still watching the corridor. Tell Soap to move his arse.”

“Copy. Keep holding.”

Ghost shifted back to his sniper, hands slick with blood, jaw tight. He scanned the compound below, eyes landing on the north corridor where Soap had disappeared moments ago.

Still no visuals.

“Johnny…” he muttered to no one, settling his scope again. “Don’t make me come down there.”

And then, gunfire. Closer. Inside.

Ghost stilled, tracking the sound.

“Soap, talk to me.”

Nothing.

The silence roared louder than the shots.

Ghost’s pulse thudded in his ears, drowning out the distant gunfire for a heartbeat. The comms crackled again, Price’s voice rough with urgency.

“Ghost, Soap’s been hit. He’s down—haven’t located him yet. We’re moving in.”

The words didn’t register at first, like they were coming through a fog. Soap’s been hit.

The blood drained from Ghost’s face as he gripped the edge of the roof, breath caught in his chest. His mind clicked into overdrive, calculating angles, pathways, options—all while his gut twisted into something sharp and cold.

“Price, wait—don’t go in yet,” Ghost snapped, eyes darting over the compound below. His brain was already running, analyzing the best possible course of action. Soap was hurt—probably bad—but Ghost couldn’t get to him unless he cleared the area first.

“We don’t have time, Ghost,” Price’s voice was lower now, more strained. “We need him back, and we need him now. Don’t start—”

“I’m going in,” Ghost cut him off, already pulling out his pistol, eyes locked on the building where Soap had been. The urgency in his voice matched the dread clawing at his insides.

He couldn’t wait. Not with Soap down.

He clicked his comms off, moving fast. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, pulling the sidearm from its holster and crouching low. Ghost didn’t bother looking for the elevator shaft or taking the stairs. He was going in through the most direct route.

His boots hit the rooftop’s edge and he dropped, letting his body fall into the darkened space below, silent and swift.

Thud.

He rolled as he hit the ground, muscles reacting before his mind could fully process what was happening. He barely made a sound as he hit the dirt, finding cover against the nearest wall, sliding into the shadows. His eyes flicked over his surroundings—nothing. No movement. Yet.

He checked his watch for the time, quickly, then muted the comms on his collar. He wasn’t sure why but he didn’t want Price or Gaz breathing down his neck. They were on their way, but this—this was personal.

He wasn’t letting Soap bleed out alone.

Ghost adjusted his gear, taking a steadying breath. The grip of his pistol felt familiar, cold. The tension was suffocating. He couldn’t let himself think about what happened if he didn’t make it in time. He couldn’t afford it.

The crack of gunfire echoed in the distance. He didn’t wait.

“Soap,” he muttered to himself, voice barely audible, a prayer whispered into the oppressive air.

With deliberate steps, he moved further into the compound, staying low, checking corners. His heartbeat was loud in his ears, but he forced himself to focus. One step at a time.

Another shot rang out. No—this wasn’t Soap’s voice on the comms anymore. His chest tightened as he rounded the corner, eyes scanning every shadow, every movement. No more distractions. Soap was still out there.

Ghost’s heart kicked harder as he reached the next door, fingers curled tight around the edge. He peeked inside—a narrow hallway lined with doors.

“Johnny?” he breathed out softly, his voice rough.

Nothing. Silence.

He moved again, inching closer to the last room on the hall, the door just a sliver open. His stomach twisted with dread. This was it. He knew it. His hand trembled as he took a breath and swung the door open.

Ghost moved quickly but cautiously, boots silent against the cracked concrete floor. He checked each room methodically, gun raised, his every step calculated. But the silence in the compound was suffocating, so thick that it pressed against his chest, making it harder to breathe.

Soap was in here somewhere.

The thought twisted something inside him—something darker, something he couldn’t allow to surface. But it clawed at him anyway. Ghost forced himself to push it down.

Focus. He couldn’t afford to be reckless now.

Each door he checked was empty. Nothing.

His fingers tightened around the grip of his pistol. Where the hell are you, Johnny?

He stepped into another hallway, more narrow, the walls close enough to make the space feel like a trap. His breath was ragged now—each exhale coming a little faster, a little more desperate. Ghost’s mind was reeling, each thought fractured by the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears.

“Soap…” he whispered, voice low, like he didn’t want to hear it bounce off the walls. Like calling out would give away his position. But it was a whisper of a prayer, a whisper that he couldn’t keep inside anymore.

The shadows seemed to stretch in front of him as he passed the next corner, eyes flicking over the faint outlines of furniture and debris, nothing but silence surrounding him. His heart beat faster, but he didn’t dare stop, didn’t dare let the panic take hold. He wouldn’t survive it if he did.

Ghost pressed on, reaching the last door at the end of the hall. This one was heavy—locked. His eyes flicked around the area, searching for anything that might give him an advantage. He didn’t have much time. Soap could be bleeding out. Hell, he could already be dead.

No. He wouldn’t let that happen.

With a swift motion, Ghost kicked the door hard, splintering the wood, the sound echoing in the dead space. He pushed inside, the barrel of his pistol sweeping the room.

There.

At the far corner, a figure was slumped against the wall. Bloodstains marred the floor beneath him, and Ghost’s stomach churned as he recognized the familiar cut of Soap’s combat gear. His hands shook as he moved toward him, every step feeling like it took a century.

“Johnny.”

Ghost’s voice was rough, strained. His mind was telling him to stay calm, to assess the situation. Soap was alive, but barely. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, blood smeared across his face, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

For a split second, Ghost’s world stopped. His breath caught in his throat as he knelt beside Soap, one hand reaching for his pulse, the other brushing a few stray strands of hair away from his face.

The blood was bad. Too much of it. Soap was going into shock, and there was no time to waste.

“Come on, Johnny…” Ghost muttered, his voice barely a whisper, almost a plea.

Soap’s eyes fluttered open, hazy but focused enough to meet his gaze. He tried to speak but only managed a faint rasp.

“G-Ghost…” Soap's voice was rough, barely a whisper, as if it hurt to even breathe.

Ghost’s chest tightened at the sound of his name, his heart rate spiking. His hand hovered over Soap's wound, unsure where to start. Focus, Simon.

He pressed his fingers against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Soap winced, but the faintest smile tugged at his lips, even through the pain.

“I knew you'd come for me,” Soap whispered hoarsely, the words thick with fatigue.

Ghost’s chest tightened. He didn't reply—he couldn’t. There was too much to do, too much urgency to focus on the words. He needed to stop the bleeding. He needed to—

“Soap, stay with me,” Ghost said, louder this time, his voice rough with the edge of panic he couldn’t hide. He glanced over his shoulder, searching for any sign of Price or Gaz, but they still hadn’t arrived.

Time was running out.

Ghost’s hands trembled as he pressed down harder on the wound, trying in vain to stop the bleeding. His head was spinning, and he could hear the faint sounds of Soap’s shallow breaths, each one more desperate than the last.

“Soap, stay with me,” Ghost muttered again, more frantic this time, his voice cracking. But it wasn’t enough. Soap’s eyelids fluttered, and the blood continued to soak through his hands, staining his gloves. The realization slammed into him like a freight train. He was losing him.

Ghost’s heart rate skyrocketed, panic flooding his system. He had to fix this—he had to save him.

“Price!” Ghost shouted into the comms, his voice cutting through the static. It was hoarse, strained with emotion. He couldn’t hold it back any longer. “Price, get down here now!”

The silence on the other end of the line was suffocating, but it was followed by Price’s gravelly voice.

“Ghost, what’s the situation? We’re on our way.”

“What’s the situation?” Ghost repeated bitterly, practically spitting the words. His breathing was ragged, his pulse deafening in his ears. He was barely aware of the sound of his own voice anymore, so consumed by the raw terror clawing at him.

“Soap’s bleeding out. He's not stable. He’s barely conscious!” Ghost’s voice cracked, the desperation finally making itself known. “I can’t stop it. I can’t—I’m not gonna lose him, Price.”

He slammed his fist into the concrete floor in frustration, the sound of it echoing off the walls, mingling with the harshness of his breathing. Soap’s condition wasn’t getting any better. It was bad—too bad. Ghost’s hands were covered in blood, and it felt like every second he spent waiting for backup was another second closer to losing Soap.

Price’s voice came through again, calm but urgent. “We’re moving as fast as we can, Ghost. Hold on, we’re nearly there.”

But it didn’t feel fast enough. It wasn’t fast enough. “Hurry the hell up,” Ghost growled through gritted teeth. “I’m not letting him die.”

He could hear Soap’s shallow breaths, could feel the warmth of his blood soaking through his gloves. The sight of it made his stomach turn.

“Soap,” he whispered, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. His hand moved over Soap’s chest again, fingers brushing against his jacket, trying to find a pressure point, anything to stop the bleeding.

Soap’s eyes fluttered again, his lips moving soundlessly. Ghost leaned closer, listening hard.

“Don’t talk,” Ghost whispered, but Soap’s lips parted just enough for the faintest rasp to escape.

“Not… leaving you…”

A lump formed in Ghost’s throat, but he didn’t have time to process it. He had to focus. He couldn’t lose him. Not like this. Not after everything.

“Price!” Ghost’s voice was louder now, cracking, raw. “Don’t make me do this alone.”

The static buzzed for a moment on the comms, and then Price’s voice came through, calm and commanding, though it was edged with tension.

“We’re close, Ghost. Stay with him.”

But even as Price spoke, Ghost could feel the walls closing in. The seconds felt like hours. Soap’s life was slipping away in his hands, and Ghost had never felt more helpless in his entire life.

He was used to controlling the battlefield. He was used to having the upper hand. But this—this was a war he couldn’t win with tactics. He needed backup. He needed Price. He needed Soap to pull through.

Soap’s breath hitched, and Ghost’s stomach twisted. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against Soap’s, trying to offer some comfort, though it felt like a hollow gesture.

“Don’t you dare,” Ghost whispered, the words barely audible. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

Soap’s hand twitched against Ghost’s chest, and for a second, Ghost thought he had lost him. But then, faintly, Soap’s eyes fluttered open again, struggling to focus.

“I’m here, Johnny,” Ghost breathed, his voice low and ragged. “I’m here.”

The seconds stretched on as he waited for Price and the others. The tension in his chest was unbearable. But it was all he could do now. Hold on, and pray.

“Price, hurry the hell up,” Ghost growled again, his voice barely coherent through the static. His knuckles were white from the force with which he gripped Soap’s shirt, trying to steady him, trying to keep him anchored to this world.

The blood seeped through his fingers like a steady stream, soaking his gloves, pooling beneath them on the floor. Every breath Soap took was a struggle, ragged and shallow, barely hanging on to life.Ghost’s own chest was tight with panic, his pulse thudding in his ears as he watched Soap’s eyes flicker in and out of focus. 

“Stay with me, Johnny,” he murmured, his voice cracking, and for a moment, he hated how fragile he sounded. “Just stay with me. Don’t you dare leave me now.”

He could barely focus on the fact that he was covered in Soap’s blood, too overwhelmed by the pounding fear in his chest. Every second that passed without reinforcements was another gut punch. He couldn’t keep doing this alone. He couldn’t—

“Ghost.” Price’s voice broke through the static, low and urgent. But Ghost barely registered the words. His mind was a warzone, consumed by the image of Soap slipping further and further away from him.

His hands were shaking now, a tremor he couldn’t control. He pressed harder against Soap’s wound, praying for something, anything, to stop the bleeding. But the blood kept coming, soaking the floor beneath them. Ghost’s vision blurred at the edges as the pressure in his chest increased. “Come on… come on, damn it.”

“Ghost, I’m here. We’re here.” Price’s voice was softer now, but it only served to push Ghost closer to the edge.

“No!” Ghost spat, his anger flaring. “Not fast enough, Price. Not fast enough.” His voice broke on the last word, the weight of everything crashing down on him. “I can’t do this by myself!”

Soap’s breath hitched again, and Ghost’s heart skipped a beat. The terror was so raw now it felt like it was crushing him. The thought of losing Soap—his partner, his friend, his… everything—was more than he could bear. He couldn’t face the world without him. He couldn’t—

Soap’s hand twitched again, a weak movement, and Ghost’s pulse skipped a beat. He leaned closer, his voice desperate, pleading, though it felt like he was talking to the void. “Johnny, you’re not allowed to die on me. You hear me?”

Soap’s eyes flickered open again, and this time, there was something in them—weak, fading—but there. Ghost’s breath caught in his throat.

“Stay with me, Johnny. Stay with me… please.”

Soap’s lips parted, barely a whisper escaping. “Don’t… don’t let go...”

And then, like the fragile thread holding him together snapped, Soap’s hand fell limp at his side. 

Ghost’s heart stopped. “Johnny…?”

For a split second, time seemed to freeze. The silence was deafening. Ghost couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t feel the ground beneath him. He just… couldn’t.

Then, like a shock to his system, the voice of Price came through the comms again, rough with urgency.

“Ghost, we’re coming. Hold on, mate. We’re coming.”

But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

“No... no, not like this.” Ghost’s voice was raw, shaking now, the anger boiling over. He didn’t care if he was heard. He didn’t care about anything except the man lying in his arms.

“Stay with me, Johnny. Damn it!” Ghost’s words were ragged, each one a raw plea as he shifted Soap’s body, trying to stop the bleeding with all the force he had left. “Don’t you dare die on me now!”

It felt like the world was closing in on him, suffocating him, and all he could do was hold on. “Don’t you dare, Johnny.”

Ghost was still kneeling beside Soap, cradling him like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. His fingers were slick with blood, his hands trembling with the weight of his desperation. He couldn't stop the shaking, couldn't stop the rising panic clawing at his throat. His throat was dry, his pulse erratic.

He was so close. He could almost feel Soap slipping away from him.

It was too much. The fear. The helplessness. The memories of the last time he failed to protect someone flooded him like a tidal wave. Ghost had done this before. He couldn’t lose another person. Not again. Not Soap. Especially not Soap. 

He used his free hand to push his balaclava up off his face, discarding the cloth on the ground next to him. He gently pressed his lips gently to his potentially dead lover’s lips, confused why his own face felt wet. 

And then, finally, he heard the faint hum of boots on the ground, the distant voices through the haze of panic.

Price.

He didn’t look up. Couldn't. Not yet. His eyes were locked on Soap’s face, the way his skin looked too pale, the blood that stained everything around them, the rising tide of loss threatening to drown him.

"Ghost!"

Price's voice was a sharp crack through the tension, and the sound of it snapped him back into reality. The immediate presence of his team was like a lifeline—he didn’t have to do this alone anymore. He grabbed his discarded balaclava on the floor next to him.

Gaz’s voice, urgent and commanding, echoed behind Price. “Soap’s condition?”

Ghost didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. Instead, he looked down at Soap one more time, his lips pressing together, his jaw clenched tight as he desperately tried to steady himself.

“He’s still breathing,” Ghost muttered, the words feeling foreign, forced, even though the weight of them held his entire world. He let out a shuddering breath, blinking away the wetness he refused to acknowledge. “But he’s bleeding out.”

Price was already by his side, his hands moving to work with Ghost’s, steadying him, offering a silent support that somehow made the entire world seem less suffocating. He didn’t need to say anything. He was there, pulling Soap up, helping Ghost manage.

“We’ll get him back to the chopper, Ghost. We’ll get him stabilized,” Price murmured, his voice a grounding presence in the storm of emotions that was slowly eating Ghost alive.

But then Ghost’s gaze flickered to Soap, who was still fighting for breath. A weak murmur escaped his lips, something Ghost couldn’t quite catch, but it was enough to push him forward. His instincts kicked in, adrenaline flooding his veins even though his body was worn thin. His thoughts were a blur, but his movements were quick, decisive.

“Price, take his legs. We don’t have much time.”

Price nodded, immediately shifting to Soap’s other side, working with Ghost to lift him. Gaz was already securing their exit path, covering their backs while they moved Soap toward the extraction zone.

The moment felt like an eternity. Ghost’s mind was working on autopilot now, his body moving like a machine, but every part of him was still raw with the terror of nearly losing Soap.

They reached the chopper, and Price helped Ghost lift Soap into the vehicle. The moment they were inside, Ghost sat back against the side, his fingers still holding tight to Soap’s hand. His breathing was ragged, his pulse still high from the adrenaline—but there was no time to rest. Not yet.

Soap was barely conscious now, his breaths shallow, his face too pale. Ghost’s hand was still clamped to his, and for the briefest moment, he let himself breathe in the faint scent of soap and blood.

The helicopter’s blades roared to life, the noise deafening as they ascended, but it did little to drown out the tension in Ghost’s chest. His grip on Soap’s hand never wavered.

“Come on, Johnny,” Ghost muttered under his breath, almost to himself. “You better fight, damn it. I need you to fight.”

Price’s voice came again, quieter now, but it was still filled with authority. “We’re almost there, Ghost. We’ll get him patched up. He’ll make it.”

Ghost didn’t respond. His focus was entirely on Soap, watching him as he slipped in and out of consciousness. The seconds stretched out, each one feeling like a lifetime.

But this time, this time Ghost wouldn’t lose him.

The roar of the helicopter blades was deafening, but it did little to drown out the pulse in Ghost’s ears. The inside of the chopper felt too small, too close, and the weight of Soap’s limp form in his arms was crushing. Ghost kept his hand firmly wrapped around Soap’s, feeling the warmth of his skin even as his heart raced with the fear that still gripped him. Soap’s pulse was weak, but it was still there, a steady thrum under his fingertips that Ghost clung to like a lifeline.

Price was seated across from them, his eyes scanning the situation, but his posture was tense. The worry on his face wasn’t hidden, he didn’t try to pretend like everything was fine. But his focus was sharp. He was giving Ghost space. Letting him do what he needed to do.

“We’re almost there,” Price said, his voice steady but quiet. “We’ll get him to medical. He’ll pull through.”

Ghost didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The words didn’t seem to matter. Soap’s breaths were shallow, his chest rising and falling at a disturbingly slow rate. The bloodstains that had once seemed so much smaller were now soaking through his fatigues, an overwhelming reminder of just how close they were to losing him.

But they weren’t there yet. Ghost couldn’t let himself think about what would happen if they didn’t make it.

“Keep breathing, Johnny,” Ghost whispered, barely audible over the noise of the chopper. His thumb rubbed gently over Soap’s hand. “You stay with me, yeah?”

Soap didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His eyes were barely open, and his face was a pale mask of exhaustion and pain. But there was still the faintest glimmer of recognition in his eyes when they met Ghost’s.

For a brief second, it felt like time stopped. There was nothing else in the world but the two of them. All the chaos, the gunfire, the danger—it was all gone, fading into the background. It was just Ghost and Soap, locked in this silent exchange. No words, no promises, just the unspoken understanding that they were in this together. Always.

And then Soap’s lips parted, barely a whisper escaping.

“I’m not—”

Ghost cut him off before he could finish. “ You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine. Just hold on.”

His voice was thick with emotion, the words laced with a desperation he couldn’t hide. He squeezed Soap’s hand again, but his focus never wavered. He was watching Soap’s face intently, tracking the slightest movements, making sure he was still breathing.

Price watched them for a moment before speaking again. “We’re coming in hot. Get ready, Ghost.”

The chopper banked hard to the left, and Ghost’s stomach dropped. They were approaching base, and the adrenaline was spiking again, but this time it wasn’t for the fight. It was for Soap—getting him back to medical care in time to save him.

Ghost didn’t look up. His gaze never left Soap, not for a single moment. He wasn’t sure if he was holding on to Soap for support or the other way around, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t, let go. He couldn’t afford to.

The chopper’s descent was sudden, jolting the team out of the temporary stillness. The ground came up fast, the wheels scraping against the dirt as they touched down with a heavy thud. The rotor blades whined above them as they finally landed, and Ghost felt a sense of relief rush through him—only for it to be immediately replaced by the cold rush of dread that never seemed to leave his chest.

“We’re here,” Price said, more to himself than anyone else.

The moment the doors of the chopper opened, the medical team was already there, moving fast. Ghost was the first to stand, cradling Soap’s body against his chest as the team rushed forward to help. The sounds of the base came flooding back—footsteps, voices, the low hum of machinery—but all Ghost could focus on was Soap.

They were moving him quickly now, voices surrounding him, but it all sounded muffled. Ghost’s pulse was thundering in his ears, and his fingers never stopped gripping Soap’s hand, even as the medic’s hands took over, working to stabilize him.

“We’ve got him,” one of the medics said, their voice distant, but confident. “He’s gonna make it.”

Ghost didn’t feel the relief wash over him . Not yet. Not until he saw Soap alive, breathing, awake, until the man he loved wasn’t just a warm body in his arms but the man with the bright smile and the sharp humor that had pulled him out of the darkness. Until then, all Ghost could do was hold on.

As they pushed Soap toward the medical tent, Ghost stayed close, his eyes never leaving him. Price and Gaz were a few steps behind, but Ghost barely noticed them. The only thing in his world was Soap. Ghost’s heart was hammering in his chest, but for the first time since the chopper had lifted off, he felt something in him start to crack—something that had been locked down for far too long. The weight of responsibility had always been on his shoulders, but for once, he let someone else carry it. For once, he wasn’t the one calling the shots, wasn’t the one in control. He could only walk behind them, staying close to Soap, keeping his hand on his shoulder, his eyes trained on his face.

It felt wrong. It felt terrifying.

But it was also freeing.

“He’s not going anywhere, Ghost,” Price’s voice cut through his thoughts, steady and firm. “We’ve got him.”

Ghost swallowed, still clinging to that fragile thread of hope. His fingers were shaking, but he kept his composure. He couldn’t afford to lose it—not here, not now.

The team moved swiftly through the base. Gaz flanked Ghost, keeping a lookout, while Price took the lead with the medics, guiding them through the chaos that followed. Everything around him blurred, the shouting, the frantic orders, the rush to get Soap into the medical tent, but Ghost stayed fixed on Soap, his chest tightening every time the rhythm of Soap’s breathing seemed to falter.

“Come on, Johnny,” Ghost muttered under his breath. “Come on…”

The words were nothing more than a prayer—a desperate plea to the universe, to whatever force was out there, keeping Soap alive. But the terror in his gut didn’t lessen. Every step forward felt like an eternity, each second more agonizing than the last.

Finally, they reached the medical tent. The lights were harsh, the atmosphere sterile, and Ghost felt a sharp pang in his chest as the team moved Soap onto the operating table. He was told to step aside, but Ghost didn’t want to. He wanted to stay with him. He wanted to make sure Soap was going to be okay, to make sure nothing went wrong.

But as the doctors worked quickly, Ghost felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness—a stark contrast to the control he usually maintained. For once, he wasn’t the one in charge, and that was more terrifying than anything he’d faced in combat.

“He’s in good hands,” Price reassured, his voice calm and steady as he approached Ghost. “You need a moment, Ghost. You’ve done everything you could.”

Ghost didn’t respond. He just stood there, staring at Soap, watching the medics work on him. He needed to stay grounded, needed to stay with him. But the silence was unbearable, and the words that had been trapped in his chest for so long were starting to suffocate him.

He turned away for a moment, walking toward the corner of the tent. His hand was still shaking, and he clenched it into a fist, breathing through the nausea building in his gut. The quiet of the moment was deafening, and all he could hear was his heartbeat—loud, fast, panicked.

“He’s going to make it,” Price said again, this time more softly. “You’re gonna make it through this, Ghost.”

“I don’t know if I can…” Ghost’s voice cracked, barely audible. He didn’t realize how much he’d been holding back until the words came rushing out.

Price was quiet for a beat, and when he spoke again, his voice was understanding, patient. “You’re not in this alone, mate. You’ve got us.”

Ghost didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. He was still staring at Soap, watching the medics move over him, trying to ignore the gnawing fear that had settled deep in his chest. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Soap was slipping away, that every second that passed was a second too long.

“You’ve got him,” Price continued, a hand on his shoulder. “Now let’s get some rest. You’re no good to him like this.”

The words hung in the air, but Ghost didn’t respond. He couldn’t let go of Soap—not yet. But as the tension in his chest began to ease, he realized that maybe, just maybe, he could trust the others to do their part. That he could step back, for just a moment, and allow someone else to be the one to fix it.

His breath was ragged, his chest tight with emotion, but he forced himself to look away from Soap, to take a step back and let the team do their work. It was hard. God, it was so hard. But it was all he could do.

The sterile, harshly lit room felt colder than it had before. Every sound—every beep and whir of the machines—seemed amplified, filling the air with a tension Ghost could feel in his bones.

Soap was lying still on the table, his skin pale and drained of color. The medics were working in hurried precision, but it wasn’t enough to mask the severity of the situation. Ghost's heart was hammering in his chest, too fast, too erratic, as he watched the doctors continue their work on Soap. The air felt thick, suffocating. The moment was slipping away.

"We’re losing him, sir," one of the medics muttered to the head surgeon. "His blood pressure is dangerously low. We need to intubate now."

The words hit Ghost like a sledgehammer. His whole body went rigid, and he could feel his breath catching in his throat.

"Do it," the surgeon ordered without hesitation. "Get him stable. We’re transferring him out of here."

Ghost stepped forward, wanting to do something, anything , but all he could do was stand there, helpless, as the team quickly intubated Soap. The sight of it, the way they forced a tube into his throat, the harshness of it, made Ghost’s stomach twist in knots. He hated this. He hated feeling powerless.

The seconds seemed to stretch into eternity as the surgeon and medics continued their work, the frantic buzz of machines and the soft hiss of air around Soap's body the only sounds filling the room. Ghost’s mind kept racing back to that moment on the field, when he thought he had lost him, thought the worst had already happened.

But now, it felt like that nightmare was becoming a reality. Soap wasn’t just hurt; he was barely hanging on, and Ghost couldn’t stop the cold fear that gripped him.

"We need to get him to a trauma hospital. He’s too unstable to stay here," the surgeon said, looking at the monitors before locking eyes with Ghost. "We can’t perform the necessary procedures here. We’re talking minutes, Sergeant. We need clearance to move him."

Ghost’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at Soap. The team was already moving, gathering up equipment and prepping Soap for transport, but Ghost couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was all happening too fast, and the thought of Soap being transferred out of the base, away from the familiarity and safety of their home, hit Ghost like a punch to the gut.

"You’re not taking him," Ghost growled, a protective instinct rising up, his voice tight with barely contained anger. "Not without me."

The surgeon looked at him with that familiar, unblinking gaze. "Sergeant, we don’t have time for debate. His life is on the line."

Ghost didn’t argue. He knew that, but there was no way in hell he was going to let Soap be carted off to some hospital, alone, with the possibility of never making it there. He needed to be with him. He needed to make sure Soap didn’t disappear into that white, sterile void without him by his side.

"I’ll ride with him," Ghost insisted, voice a little sharper, cutting through the tension in the room. "Wherever you’re taking him, I’m going."

Price had been standing in the corner, watching Ghost’s reaction. He moved forward now, his expression unreadable. "I’m going with you, mate. No one’s leaving this place without the team."

Ghost gave a sharp nod, his throat tight. This wasn’t just about the mission anymore. This was about Soap, about the man who had been beside him for every battle, every hardship. He wasn’t going to lose him now.

The medics started prepping Soap for transport, and as the machines beeped and buzzed, Ghost stayed by his side. He stood with his head down, his fingers curling tightly around the edge of the gurney as the team moved Soap toward the waiting transport. The helicopter ride to the trauma hospital would be fast, but it didn’t matter how quickly they got there. It felt like the longest wait of Ghost’s life.

"We’re not losing him, Ghost." Price's voice cut through his thoughts, steady, like a rock in the chaos. "Soap’s a tough bastard. He’ll make it through."

Ghost didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His gaze never left Soap, and the weight of everything pressing down on him only grew heavier with each passing second. He knew Price was right, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was Soap.

The thought of losing him—a thought Ghost hadn’t dared entertain since this whole thing started—made him feel sick to his stomach.

The helicopter ride was a blur. Ghost couldn’t focus on anything but Soap’s still form, the steady pulse of the machines, the way the team moved with mechanical efficiency to keep Soap alive. Time stretched and bent in the darkness of the helicopter, but Ghost remained there, kneeling at Soap’s side, not trusting anyone else to watch over him.

The hospital was their last shot. The only thing that could save Soap now.

The hum of the helicopter blades filled the air, but to Ghost, it was as if the world had quieted down. The roar of the engine, the occasional flicker of the lights, the slight shake of the cabin—all of it faded into a dull background noise. His eyes stayed locked on Soap, now stable, still hooked up to the machines, his chest rising and falling with the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator.

In the midst of all this chaos, Ghost couldn’t shake the memory of the morning they had shared. The way the light had streamed through the windows as they sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee together, the comfortable silence between them. Soap’s easy smile, the way his eyes softened when he caught Ghost looking at him. The feeling of Riley’s weight against his legs as they sat, talking about everything and nothing, feeling more like a team than they ever had before.

It had been peaceful. It had been normal. For just a moment, it felt like they were two men simply sharing a morning together, not soldiers on a dangerous mission, not haunted by the shadows of war. He had almost allowed himself to believe that maybe this could be the life they had—simple, uncomplicated.

But that was before all of this.

Before Soap had bled out on the floor, before Ghost had nearly lost him in the chaos of it all.

Before he had nearly lost control.

A cold weight settled in his chest, but he shook it off, taking a deep breath as the helicopter began its descent toward the trauma hospital. Ghost’s fingers tightened on the edge of his seat, but his eyes never left Soap, the one constant in his life that he couldn’t lose.

It felt like a cruel joke—those precious few moments in the morning, where everything felt okay, now tainted by the violence of the mission and the bitter reality of their world. He had wanted it to last. To hold on to it for as long as he could.

He could still see Soap’s face in his mind, that soft, unguarded look in his eyes when they shared the silence. The way Soap had kissed him goodbye before the op, the gentle pressure of his lips. Promise me you’ll come back safe.

And Ghost had promised, without really knowing if he could keep that promise.

Now, with Soap hanging on by a thread, his mind wandered to the possibility that maybe he couldn’t keep it after all.

“We’ll get him there, Ghost,” Price said from across the cabin, his voice low, but firm. Ghost barely acknowledged him, but Price’s words were meant to anchor him. “He’s tough. We’ve got him.”

Ghost nodded absently, still lost in his own thoughts. It felt strange to be this out of control, this helpless. He had prided himself on being the one who kept everything in line—the one who took care of the team, the one who stayed steady, no matter the situation. But here, now, with Soap’s life hanging in the balance, all he could feel was the gnawing uncertainty, the same fear that had clawed at him for years—what if he wasn’t enough?

His breath hitched when the image of Soap’s smile flashed across his mind again. Soap, still alive, still breathing, still here.

"I can’t lose him," Ghost muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible above the noise of the helicopter.

Price’s eyes softened. "You won’t."

But Ghost didn’t believe that. He couldn’t. Not when the odds were stacked against them like this.

The helicopter continued its flight, descending into the night as the hospital grew nearer. But for Ghost, time slowed as he continued to wrestle with the weight of the moment. The morning, Soap’s smile, the brief reprieve from the chaos—they felt so far away now.

But he wouldn’t let it go. Not yet. Not as long as there was still a chance.

He looked down at Soap, his pulse quickening as the helicopter began its descent. "Stay with me, Johnny," he whispered, his words only for himself, for Soap, for the man who meant more to him than any mission ever could. "Stay with me."

The sterile, fluorescent lights of the ICU flickered above them, casting a cold glow over everything. The beeping of machines was steady, rhythmic; a constant reminder of the life hanging by a thread in the bed before Ghost. Soap lay there, pale and still, tubes and wires snaking into him from every direction. His chest rose and fell with a mechanical precision, the ventilator doing the work his body couldn’t manage on its own.

Ghost couldn’t bring himself to look away. The heavy weight of the room seemed to press in on him, but he didn’t care. Not now. Not when Soap was still fighting. He had to believe that Soap was still fighting.

His boots were loud on the floor as he stepped closer to the bed, feeling the air change around him. The others had left hours ago, knowing that Ghost needed this time, this moment to just be with Soap. The others had taken the backseat, letting Ghost have this space.

And here he was, standing at Soap’s side like some damn fool who couldn’t even tell if he was breathing properly. His hand hovered near Soap’s, but he didn’t touch him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

His heart was still hammering in his chest, his mind replaying the moments from earlier—the shots, the blood, the fear that gripped him when Soap had crumpled to the floor. The helicopter ride had been a blur, but he couldn’t shake the images. Couldn’t shake the thought that maybe he hadn’t been fast enough. Maybe he hadn’t been good enough.

But Soap was here. Alive. Alive.

Ghost’s fingers curled into a fist at his side, and he pressed his lips together to stop himself from speaking, from saying the things he didn’t want to acknowledge. He couldn’t lose him. Not like this. Not after everything.

He stepped closer, his boots nearly silent against the linoleum floor as he leaned over Soap’s still form. His eyes scanned the monitors, the steady beep, the slow rise and fall of Soap’s chest. Soap was still there, still fighting, and Ghost couldn’t bring himself to leave.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, lost in his thoughts. Maybe hours. Maybe just minutes. But time didn’t matter anymore. Only Soap did.

His hand finally reached out, hovering above Soap’s—fingers trembling slightly before he slowly slid them into Soap’s, taking his hand in his own. The contact was electric, a spark of warmth that Ghost couldn’t ignore, even in the chill of the sterile room.

“You’re gonna make it, Johnny,” Ghost whispered, voice low and rough, as though the words were too much to say aloud. “You’re gonna make it through this... for me.”

He let his thumb gently stroke over Soap’s hand, a quiet reassurance that didn’t seem like enough.

The beeping of the machines continued its rhythm, but Ghost’s mind was elsewhere, pulling at the memory of the way Soap had kissed him before they left for the op. The promise Soap had made.

Stay with me.

Ghost swallowed hard, his heart aching with an emotion he refused to name.

He pulled up a chair next to Soap’s bed and sat down, not caring about how uncomfortable the plastic seat was. He couldn’t leave. He wouldn’t leave. Not now. Not when Soap needed him most.

Soap’s world was a blur—like flickering images in a dream that he couldn’t quite catch. He could feel something—something was wrong, but he couldn’t put a name to it. His mind swirled in a haze, and all he could grasp were moments. Moments that felt real, but also distant.

A laugh. The sound of Riley’s paws padding along the gravel outside their base.

Was that real? Or a dream?

He tried to focus on the warmth of the sun, the smell of coffee that always lingered in the air when they’d just finished a mission, the sound of Ghost’s voice low and steady over comms.

Johnny, we make it out of this alive, I’ll buy you a bloody pint.

A grin tugged at his lips in the darkness, the warmth of that memory breaking through the thick fog of his mind.

But then there was a flash—quick, too quick. He saw himself, lying in a pool of blood. Shit…

The pain was suffocating, then nothing. Just darkness.

Why did it feel so real?

Then, another memory crashed into his mind, this one clearer. He was standing at the door to their barracks, freshly back from a mission. Ghost was at his side, leaning against the wall with that damn mask on. Soap had wanted to say something, wanted to ask if he was okay. But he couldn’t bring himself to voice it.

It was then that Ghost had said the words Soap would never forget, even in this haze of unconsciousness.

"We’ve got each other’s backs, Johnny. Always."

Soap’s heart beat a little faster in his chest, despite the fog clouding his thoughts. His mind tried to reach out to Ghost, tried to call out, to feel him there. But it was like trying to grasp smoke—he couldn’t get a hold of anything. Not really.

Where is he?

A sudden image—another flash. Soap was at the edge of a rooftop, looking down at the chaos unfolding below. The sound of helicopters whirring in the distance, distant shouts, gunfire, and the unmistakable figure of Ghost, ever vigilant, ever calculating.

His heart pounded. He had to make it through this. He had to.

And then, another memory, the one that hit the hardest. Ghost, on the edge of his own vulnerability, something Soap had never seen before. They were in the safehouse, the room quiet except for the sound of their breathing.

Ghost, his mask off, eyes more exposed than Soap had ever seen them before, and Soap standing there, as if frozen, both of them understanding the tension between them.

Ghost had looked at him, really looked at him , and said, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Soap squeezed his eyes shut, and for a moment, it felt like Ghost was right there beside him, his hand gripping Soap’s tightly, refusing to let go.

But now...now, everything was a blur, a static mess. Where was Ghost? Where was the warmth that Soap so desperately needed?

Another flash. Ghost. His voice. The promise.

Stay with me. Please.

It was enough. It had to be enough. Soap’s heart surged, even in the dark void of his mind, even as he fought to find his way back. He had to make it through. For Ghost. For himself.

But was he even there?

Was he still breathing?

The pain flared again, and then, just as quickly, he was sinking deeper into the darkness.

Please... just let me wake up.

Soap’s mind was still a blur, floating between fragments of reality and dream. There were moments where he could feel a presence, something grounding him, but it was faint, like a whisper carried through thick fog.

And then, suddenly, there was a voice.

“Johnny... stay with me.”

It was Ghost’s voice—he could feel it. It was a comfort and a mystery all at once, something so familiar but distorted by the haze clouding his mind. Soap tried to focus on it, but the words felt distant, slipping away before he could grasp them.

Was Ghost here? Was he... really here?

He tried to call out, tried to move, but his body felt like it was made of stone, heavy and unresponsive. Panic clawed at his chest. Where was he? What had happened?

The voice came again, more urgent this time.

“Johnny... don't fade on me now. I can't lose you. Not again.”

Soap’s heart ached at those words, a tightness constricting in his chest, but there was something wrong. Something... off. The voice was there, but it was just out of reach. His head throbbed with confusion.

Is this real?

He tried to focus, to piece it together. Ghost’s voice should’ve been a comfort, but it felt like it was slipping through his fingers, like it wasn’t even really there. His mind was a battlefield, and he couldn’t tell what was real or just his memories torturing him.

“Stay with me, Johnny... Please.”

Soap’s eyelids fluttered, but they felt as heavy as lead. His body refused to obey. He could hear Ghost, but couldn’t see him, couldn’t reach him. It was like he was drowning in his own mind, unable to break through the surface.

What’s happening?

The darkness in his mind shifted, and the voice became quieter, more fragmented.

“Just wake up, Johnny. Please. For me. I... I need you.”

Soap’s chest tightened. Ghost sounded so desperate, so raw. But Soap still couldn’t pull himself back, couldn’t answer. The frustration gnawed at him, the ache in his chest growing deeper.

He wanted to reach out. He wanted to say something, anything, to let Ghost know that he was trying, that he wasn’t giving up, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.

“Please, Johnny. I can’t do this without you.”

It was a whisper now, barely audible. Soap’s breath hitched as he fought to understand what was happening, fighting to wake up, fighting to break free from the fog.

I’m here, Ghost... I’m trying...

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find his way back.

Soap’s world was still shrouded in darkness, but fragments of memories began to bleed through, sharp and vivid.

The first time he and Ghost worked together.

They were clearing a building in a foreign land, adrenaline pumping, movements sharp and precise. Soap had been tense, unsure of the new team dynamics—everything felt so unfamiliar after returning from Russia. But Ghost, with his silent presence, had steadied him, kept him focused. That night, after the mission, Soap had felt an odd sense of camaraderie. He couldn’t quite explain it, but there was something about the way Ghost moved, the way he took care of things without speaking.

And then, that moment after the mission. When Ghost, unexpectedly, had shared something personal with him for the first time. Soap had never forgotten how raw and unguarded Ghost had been, even in the quiet darkness of the barracks. The way his eyes had softened just for a moment.

Soap’s heart ached as he drifted further into that memory, as if he was back in that moment—alive, breathing, real.

Why couldn’t he feel that now?

The fog in his mind thickened again, and the memories slipped away.

Suddenly, he was somewhere else—somewhere warmer. The scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air, and he could hear soft laughter, gentle murmurs of conversation.

It was the morning after the first night they shared together.

Ghost’s arms were around him, strong but tender. Soap had woken up to the warmth of Ghost’s chest against his back, the steady rhythm of his breathing. They’d laid there for a while, in the peace of the early morning, not needing words, just the comfort of being near each other. Soap had turned to see Ghost’s face for the first time in the soft light of dawn—unmasked, unguarded.

Soap’s fingers brushed against Ghost’s cheek, and the contact was electric, something deep and real.

God, that memory felt so close. Why couldn’t he stay there?

But just as quickly as the memory came, it shattered, replaced by another one.

Now, Soap was back in the heat of the mission—his heart pounding in his chest, his body on edge. Ghost was in the lead, as always, moving like a shadow through the chaos. Soap was following, trying to keep up, trying not to get distracted, but the sight of Ghost in action always left him breathless. It wasn’t just the precision or the skill, it was the presence. Ghost was more than a soldier; he was a force of nature.

Soap’s chest tightened as the scene flashed forward, to when they’d been cornered, when everything had gone sideways. The chaos of the firefight, the sharp pain of bullets whizzing by, the sound of Ghost yelling for him to take cover.

And then the moment where everything had changed, the moment when he realized just how much he depended on Ghost, how much he... cared.

The fog of his coma deepened again, and Soap felt himself slipping, unable to hold onto any of the memories, any of the sensations. The darkness was all-encompassing.

But then, Ghost’s voice cut through the blackness again, clear and sharp. It was a lifeline.

“Johnny... I’m here. You’re not alone.”

And for a brief, fleeting moment, Soap thought he could feel Ghost’s presence next to him. A warmth, a safety that he couldn’t quite reach but knew was there.

He fought against the fog, tried to reach for Ghost’s voice, tried to focus on the strength in those words. But it felt like his mind was slipping through his fingers like water. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stay in the memories—couldn’t stay where it felt safe.

And then another memory surfaced.

This time, it wasn’t just a mission. It wasn’t even war.

It was a quiet night at base, Soap and Ghost sitting next to each other under the stars, Riley curled up at their feet. The world seemed so still, so peaceful. Soap had looked at Ghost and for the first time, he’d allowed himself to wonder what it would be like if they didn’t have to fight. If they could just be—together, without the chaos of war and violence surrounding them.

They’d exchanged a glance, a brief, fleeting moment of understanding, before Soap had broken the silence.

“We’ll get through this, yeah?” He’d asked, the words light, almost casual.

And Ghost, ever so guarded, had only nodded, but there was something in his eyes. A promise, unspoken but clear. A flicker of hope.

Soap’s chest tightened again, the pain of that memory hitting him like a wave. But the memory—like all the others—faded too quickly. The darkness pulled him deeper, and his body felt heavier, unable to fight the current.

But Ghost’s voice, faint and desperate, called out to him again.

“Johnny... please... don’t leave me. Not now.”

Soap tried to respond, tried to reach out, but the fog swallowed him whole. The connection, the warmth, the safety—they all faded away.

And then, just as quickly, Soap slipped into unconsciousness, the fog claiming him once more.