Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The pitter-patter of rain was always calming to Gaz, as long as he was inside. Rhythmic drops turned the atmosphere of every room into a melancholic space, to sit and listen and reminisce. Rain made the air feel heavier, water running down glass a spectacle that could hold his eyes for hours if he was in the mood for it.

Rain was also a bitch to be in for more than two seconds, if he had to go outside. Hair sticking to foreheads, wet socks, and feet slipping. Nothing good ever happened while everyone was getting colder and more miserable by the second. So it was baffling as to why anyone would be outside in this shit weather out of their own free will.

But then again, he wasn’t.

Gaz could understand the drama of a mission in the rain. It was a stunning visual, especially in a violent downpour such as this. But after thirty seconds outside, his jeans clung to his legs with how wet they were. He and his team were getting their asses wet because of shitty intel and an even shittier weather report. Just some wild goose chase on a mission suited for someone far less qualified. With a sudden rainstorm to boot.

Maybe that’s what has made Captain Price leave Ghost and him in charge of this mess with three nearly useless rookies stuck with them. And although Gaz appreciated his lieutenant as part of his team, he missed the distraction in coms on a shit mission a certain Scot provided.

But with Soap busy elsewhere and Price set on giving some starry-eyed privates a bit more field experience, Gaz was stuck here. In the rain, by himself, trudging through water rising in the streets and looking for his teammates to head for exfil. Without anything to show for it. What a bust.

Rain banged on the decrepit metal roofing as Gaz pushed on. Water beating him in the face, wind howling. The little drains off to the side could only do so much in the face of this heavy rainstorm. It was a wonder this old facility held together at all during this.

Hopefully, Gaz didn’t have to go on for much longer. His hands were starting to struggle to grip onto his weapon, he slid more over the ground than he actually walked, and the grass field further out looked like it had turned into a swamp.

“Lieutenant? I’m two hundred metres south of RV, moving north. What’s your location?” Gaz called into the rain. A gust of wind blew through him, and Gaz pulled his cap further into his face. He really wished for weather-appropriate gear right now.

“One hundred out, approaching from west. We’ve got stragglers. Rookies are 5-10 minutes behind,” Ghost answered over coms and. Gaz was not as good as Soap at reading Ghost’s moods, but even he could tell when the man wasn’t happy.

“Copy that. Did one of them slip or something?” Gaz mused and ducked under a canopy near RV. He could at least stay out of the rain while waiting for the dumbasses. He could practice his neutral face for later, too, when Ghost would eventually blow up at them.

“Don’t ask. Hold at RV, eyes on rear. We’ll cover approach. I’m coming down-”

When Gaz clicked on his mic again to reply, he saw a shadow falling from the rainclouds. Distantly, he was aware of a really loud cracking sound.

Just fast enough to turn his head, Gaz witnessed with his own two eyes Ghost’s black form flying down from the roof of the building opposite him. Along with the roof itself.

Ghost’s feet made contact with the concrete for a split second, before parts of a damn roof hit him in the back, slamming his body right into the ground. The ‘bang’ the impact made drowned out the rain for a heartbeat.

Ghost’s body was limp, lying on wet concrete.

Rain drummed on the canopy, droplets running down.

Gaz blinked water out of his eyes, and Ghost remained still.

“Fuck-” Gaz slid over to Ghost, kneeling beside him. With a rush of adrenaline, he pulled him from the debris as best as he could into a sitting position against a wall and checked for vitals.

This wasn’t happening right now. It couldn’t.

In all the ways THE Ghost could get himself hurt in their line of work, it couldn’t be on a subpar mission like this. Not by slipping on concrete. And getting hit by a roof. Gaz expected that from the rookies, but Ghost? Competent lieutenant of the 141st? No chance in hell.

Right as he wanted to check for wounds, a jolt ran through the lieutenant's body. Gaz sat back on his haunches, resting one hand on Ghost’s shoulder. He looked like he was about to topple over again any second now.

“Fuckin’ hell, are you good?” Gaz asked. The rain swallowed much of any remaining daylight, Ghost’s usually sharp brown eyes seemingly pure black as he blinked away the rain. He took a moment to answer, “Yeah, all fine.”

Despite that, he clearly needed time to orient himself again. And the way his eyes slid off of Gaz, he couldn’t help but be suspicious. At least the rookies were not here to witness all this.

“You sure?” he asked with a raised brow, pressing his hand into Ghost’s shoulder, “What happened here then?”

Ghost looked at him, then at the rain in the sky, then back at him. The unfocused squint wasn’t doing him any favors in looking fully coherent.

“Hit my head after I slipped. Probably got a bump on my forehead. It’s all good,” he answered and shrugged.

“All right then. I’ll let you go if you can answer me this: What’s your name?” Gaz furrowed his brows and kept Ghost seated against the wall.

“What?” Two black slates squinted up at him, and Ghost tried to shake his hand off. But surprisingly, he couldn’t. This only spelled trouble.

Gripping harder, Gaz repeated: “Simple question. Answer it, I’ll let you go. What is your name?”

“Bloody hell,” Ghost rolled his eyes. Then he furrowed his brow. From the motion of his mask, he was probably biting the inside of his cheek now. Finally, with one swift motion, he pulled the dog tags free from under his layers and read with all the confidence in the world: “I am John MacTavish. There. Let me go”

Faintly Gaz recognized: This would be really funny in like a week. Soap would love it for sure. But right now, Gaz could only blink. The dog tags were a new thing Soap apparently hadn’t told him about but. Gaz knew the fall hadn’t been pretty. The bang was still echoing in the back of his mind. This kind of memory loss was on a whole other level. What kind of head trauma did this?

“Sure you are, Tav. Proud Scottish lad, aye?” he commented, but his focus was on getting Ghost’s mask off his face. The man was in desperate need of medical attention. Hopefully, ‘John MacTavish’ would agree with Gaz’s assessment. Wet fabric clung to clammy skin as his cold fingers got the balaclava off, slowly but surely. Gaz didn’t know if he should be relieved or panicked that Ghost didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m Scottish?” Ghost looked at his hands and furrowed his brows. Gaz could only stare with wide eyes at the big red spot across Ghost’s forehead, rain taking blood and eyeblack with it. With one hand still on his shoulder, Gaz fumbled to get bandages from his med kit. A giant hematoma on the face, a bleeding wound in the middle, and impressive memory loss.

“We’re going to see a doctor about this,” Gaz concluded as he watched Ghost struggle to blink the rain out of his eyes. He was not sure how he was going to accomplish that, but maybe Ghost had forgotten his hatred of doctors as well. It would be a nice change of pace, at least.

“Being Scottish is not an illness, innit?”

“Save the sweet talk for Soap,” Gaz couldn’t hide the tiredness in his voice. The job he did with the bandages was sloppy at best, but in his defense, they were already soaking wet after two seconds. “Let’s look for those rookies and get out of this rain. Up you go.”

The rain pitter-pattered around them as Gaz pulled Ghost up to his feet and stuffed the wet balaclava over his head again. Ghost might have let him take it off, but if he regained his memories and found out some random privates had seen his face, Gaz would be a dead man.

After updating HQ over coms and picking up their rookies, the arrival back at base was in so far uneventful as it was the calm before an even greater storm. Ghost was out with a severe concussion that included memory loss and an identity crisis, apparently.

And the real John MacTavish was yet to find out.

—

Chapter Text

John’s head was pounding so much that even without his memories, he could tell this was one of the worst headaches of his life.

The guy who had gotten him out of the rubble had forced him straight to medical. Everything blurred into bright lights, spinning rooms, and murmurs. Medical personnel came, checked on a few things, and promptly left again. None of whom seemed familiar. John was dragged around in dripping wet clothes, until they tried to take them which resulted in a minor incident and a massive bout of nausea.

It was hard to piece together everything happening around him, but John had gathered he was working under the guy from the rain as a soldier. Going by all the scars he had discovered all over his upper body during the incident, he couldn’t be very good at his job, though.

Nasty things, cutting across beaten flesh everywhere he had the chance to look. He could surmise that he had collected them as part of his job, but even compared to the guy who pulled him out of the rubble, his bare hands seemed more scar than actual skin. Maybe he was a brutal person who got into unnecessary trouble a lot?

Maybe that was why rain guy and the medical staff avoided him. Even while they had carted him off for a while to stick him in some kind of medical machine, they avoided him as best as possible.

It wasn’t bothering him per se, but it left him to wonder.

At least he had proper provisional dressings for his head wound, although he might need some stitches later. All the while, the guy sat in a corner, arms crossed. Also drenched, and definitely not amused. He looked like he was stressed, the way his shoulders were practically up to his ears. John could appreciate the sentiment of a superior looking after his men, but this seemed too much. He was pretty sure higher-ups had a mountain of paperwork after ops, and none of their duties included waiting around with concussed soldiers.

“You don’t have to sit here,” John murmured and leaned back into the too-small medical bed. He had tried to make it go as upright as possible to come as close to sitting as he could, but after insisting on walking everywhere on his own and being as alert as he could manage to, he was spent. And still a little nauseous from earlier.

“You’re telling me to go face Price, sir? With two of our team in medical?” the guy snapped his head back up, furrowed brows, a frown on his lips.

“Who?”

“Right,” the guy sighed. Maybe John should have asked for his name, but during the trip back to base, they were preoccupied, and now it seemed kind of too late. It was fine either way; his superior did not notice yet, or simply didn’t care. All fine by John.

The next few minutes stretched into infinity, as John only wished for peace and quiet and these damn lights off, while the guy stubbornly stayed in his corner. Maybe this Price was an awful man if the guy had rather stayed with him. So John wasn’t the most unpleasant person at base, it seemed. Even if no one dared to look in his eyes.

With nothing else left to do, he tried to get some shut-eye. If the medics decided it was time for his stitches, they would do their thing. He was of no use to anyone anyway, right now. But even with his mask pulled further into his face and a headache that just begged to be slept off, John found that he couldn’t.

The presence of the guy didn’t bother him as much, but he was keenly aware of three people shuffling along the hallway. A cart outside had a squeaky wheel, and the smell of disinfectant clung heavily to the air. And in the back of his mind lurked the most distracting thought of all: The door would not hold in case of an assault.

His bed would only give him cover if he managed to dodge the first few bullets; the guy in the corner probably wouldn’t make it. He had all but given up his spatial awareness the moment they set foot back on base. Taking him out would be easy with surprise and speed on the attackers' side. They didn’t even have much that could count as weapons between them, either. Just a few throwing knives John didn’t want to part with at the armoury, and whatever the guy still had. Maybe if John could rip out the drawer of his nightstand in time, he could-

A set of heavy footsteps came down the hallway, joined by another, and stopped at approximately his door. Hard to tell with his pounding head, but John’s hand went to the knife hidden near his hip anyway. Just in case.

Seconds after, a sharp knock came from the door. John had anticipated that, but the guy in the corner nearly fell out of his chair. The door opened unceremoniously, and a man with a floppy hat and hideous facial hair stepped through.

“At ease, nobody wants another concussion. Ghost, what happened?” the man asked in a way that made it obvious he was used to commanding a room. Not unkind, but with no room for ifs or buts either. John didn’t find the man’s eyes on him as bothersome as he had expected. It was almost welcome after being avoided. Almost.

With a glance at corner guy, John confirmed that he was meticulously steering clear of either of their looks. John couldn’t blame the man; if he was responsible for a mission like this, he would hide behind his cap, too.

The silence stretched irritably long.

Was corner guy even Ghost? With his dark skin and noticeable presence, he certainly did not feel like one. But then again, few callsigns did make sense without knowing their story. After a few more beats of painful silence, corner guy caught John’s confused stare through the mask and nodded.

“Ah, Captain Price,” said corner guy (Ghost?) loud and clear, as if to announce something. And after a few thoughts, John caught on. So this military man with the hat was Price. The one corner guy didn’t want to face. Maybe-Ghost had his back.

“I’ll get your side later, Gaz. For now, it’s the lieutenant I am worried about,” Price nodded back to the guy who stood up from his chair. Another look at corner guy, and John had to admit, Ghost really wouldn’t have fit him.

So this was Gaz. He would make sure to keep that in mind. Gaz had been helpful this entire time. But who was Ghost? And with the talk about a lieutenant, John had a sinking feeling that Gaz might not be the one bearing the responsibility of this operation at all.

“I’m waiting outside, then,” Gaz waved a lazy salute at Captain Price and was quick to close the door behind him, leaving a trail of rainwater. Price grabbed another chair and sat, facing John. Lieutenant John, as it were.

That was the exact opposite of what John wanted.

“So, how are you holding up, son? I heard you had a concussion with memory loss,” Price asked, scratching at his facial hair. Some captain came looking for him, looking worried for him, but all John could recognize was a weak spot on his left that he could use to take the man out. His first escape attempt had been foiled by nausea, but maybe the second time would be the charm.

“Seems so,” John answered. The captain spoke to him with a familiarity that John couldn’t place at all. So far, he hadn’t done or asked anything outlandish, but John couldn’t help his eyes tracking every minor twitch of the captain's fingers, every subtle shift in the chair to get more comfortable, every worried glance across his face. One move or one burst of anger would be all that was needed for John to act. The knife at his hip was still an option.

“Doc said you’ll be needing stitches, but their scans came back negative for any internal bleeding,” Price said and sighed. The fluorescent light flickered, and John’s headache pounded in response.

“Lucky me.”

“You’ll be getting a week off duty, you can take a trip back to your place if you want.”

John paused and closed his eyes, if only to escape the brightness. His place? Would it be a small hut in lush green fields of Scotland? An apartment tucked away in an alley in Glasgow? If he thought about it, nothing came up. No foggy memory, no vague picture in his head, no feeling of home. Nothing.

“What would be waiting there for me, Captain?”

“Peace and quiet, I assume,” Price answered in a calm voice. So John had no family waiting at his supposed home that the Captain knew of. Noted.

“I get the feeling that getting peace and quiet here wouldn’t be a problem either,” John shrugged. He just needed a room with no lights. He wouldn’t complain if there were a bolt for the door either. At least he presumably wouldn’t have to bother with making meals for himself at this base.

Price laughed, his weird hat moving with him. “It is rare to see you so far off kilter. Peace and quiet? Here?”

John shrugged again and decided to lay off the knife. Price did not seem hostile in any way, and his movements were sloppy enough that John reckoned he would be faster.

As for some peace, everyone went out of their way to avoid him. He assumed that would result in being left alone. And if not, John was pretty sure he was proficient at scaring them off. He could work with what he caught of himself in the mirror, with or without the mask.

“Do as you want,” Price gave in pretty easily against John’s expectations, “As long as you can recover quickly.”

“Looking at these, I don’t think it has been a problem in the past,” John held up his hands. He had been running his left thumb along his pointer finger, feeling the ridges of scarred tissue after he had eased off his knife. Maybe he wasn’t a good enough soldier to not get hit, but he had been good enough to live and tell the tale. That had to count for something.

“It hasn’t,” Price nodded, his hat flopping up and down. “Do you remember them?”

“I don’t. I-” John struggled to blink against the light and stay focused on his thoughts. He couldn’t tell right now if it was smart to let Price know. He had no strong feelings about it either way; this information could not be very useful to this stranger right now. If push came to shove, John was sure he could murk him without memories, no problem. He stopped chewing the inside of his cheeks to add, “I can’t remember much of anything.”

“That’s alright, take it slow, son.”

“I…,” John gave up and closed his eyes. These damn lights were a mistake. Too many thoughts rattled in his head, far too little information to uncover the missing pieces of himself. Maybe it was best to start confirming some of his guesses. Despite the obvious answer he was left with, he asked, “Who is Ghost, Captain?”

“Oh. Oh, sure. Right,” as soon as Price was seemingly caught off guard, he settled back into his collected captain persona. John got the sense that he managed to surprise the captain in a way he seldom did. Steady as a rock once again, Price answered: “You are. Ghost, I mean, the lieutenant of the 141st.”

And that.

That did not sound right. Not entirely.

But in a state where he could not string more than three sentences together in his head, he was more inclined to believe the captain. He had almost collapsed walking down a hallway earlier, he wouldn’t trust his own words right now. Never mind his own thoughts.

There would be no use in lying about this anyway. Just because he felt something was off didn’t mean it wasn’t true. He had suspected this turn earlier. The small part of his brain that refused to connect ‘Ghost’ with ‘John MacTavish’ was probably the concussed part and could thus kindly fuck off.

The longer he thought about it, the more it started to make sense. Ghost could track, actually. With how mangled he was, he was a haunting sight for sure. And his mask was a choice (jury was still out if he liked it, but after the incident, he got the feeling it was a necessity for him). He could get behind that callsign.

“Ghost, huh?”

“What can I say, you’re one sneaky bastard, son,” Price said. He ignored the inner turmoil probably written plainly across Joh-, no, Ghost’s face, or he did not notice. “If you want, I can get you your file. It’s heavily redacted, but maybe it can be a start. After your stitches, Gaz can bring you to your room. Get some rest and we’ll see how it goes. Soap will be back, so take it easy at least until then.”

“Alright,” Ghost answered, only half registering what Price was offering and understanding even less. Who was this Soap? Another captain? Ghost honestly did not care one bit. Even the Queen of England herself couldn’t stop him from sleeping off this concussion. He was losing focus, so much so that he could accept staying in this room with the flimsy door. Even his wet clothing wasn’t that much of a problem right now. If someone could get the lights, he would be set.

But when the Captain had finished talking at him and he finally had gotten those stitches, the guy from the rain (Gaz, his bloody name was Gaz) had dragged him off to the saddest-looking room in existence. A gray door led to a gray room with almost nothing but a bed with bare sheets and a bathroom with a splintered mirror. Just as good as any room to escape the bright lamps, Ghost supposed. And it had a bolt.

All that was meaningless anyway, as any thought held for more than three seconds clawed at his skull, twisted his brain, and wrangled him to let it go again. Nothing seemed to fit either. Nothing in this room held any sign of his presence, none of the people who insisted were his team could bear his eyes on them for long, and none had called him anything other than Ghost.

He could see why.

Chapter Text

“So that’s about it on Langenscheidt,” Soap grinned and stretched in his chair. His right shoulder ached a bit, but all in all, he felt satisfied with a job well done. He was the good kind of tired, bruised just enough to feel that he had actually done something. His week-long assist mission had not been smooth at all, but a big success regardless.

“Well done, MacTavish. I will be seeing a report on my desk by Wednesday,” Price nodded. The captain slumped a bit, rubbing his eyes. The paper towered as high as it always did when Soap visited his office, and the lamp was still flickering. And yet, Price seemed exhausted in a way he wasn’t normally.

Usually, he was much more satisfied with a finished job, bringing out nice alcohol if it had been particularly tough. Well, the alcohol part only happened with Ghost as part of the mission, and the Captain needed to unwind with his second in command, but Gaz and Soap had been part of that enough times that they counted themselves in as well. Right now, the Captain was just exhausted. He hadn’t even been part of any field op as far as Soap was aware.

Soap furrowed his brows.

“Got any news while I was away?” he asked, watching Price sink further into the chair. That was a ‘yes’ then. Soap braced for impact. If Price was worried, he probably should be as well. His aching shoulder started to bother him much more than before.

“You could say that. Ghost and Gaz came back yesterday,” with a huff, Price leaned over and grabbed a cigar. Instead of lighting it, he chewed at the end, staring his desk down as if it was personally involved with the enemy.

“They were off with the rookies, weren’t they? Did they manage to find something?” Soap leaned forward in his chair. The way the captain was acting meant only bad news.

Maybe the team had uncovered more work than they bargained for. Last thing Soap had heard, the intel had been questionable at best, but you never knew with these kinds of things. Anti terrorism was a hard field to be in, and any mission was dynamic. But Soap had no doubt his teammates handled it, whatever it was. Ghost and Gaz were the best of the best; no private in the world could change that.

“No, nothing. The site was abandoned before we showed up. Bloody terrorists were thorough with cleaning out a facility for once,” Price chewed on his cigar. With practised ease, Soap got out his lighter and threw it over.

It was the nice one Ghost had gotten him, the one that would reliably light up even in a hurricane. It had seen some good use over time, and if it would get Price to quit his dramatics and spit out the goddamn problem, it would be another tally in its favour.

After a deep breath of smoke in his lungs, Price leaned back, looking up. Between another drag, he continued, “No new leads, no nothing. But the team got caught off guard by a rainstorm, two injured.”

“What, did the rookies trip over themselves?” Soap did manage not to laugh, mostly. A field trip with nothing to show but injuries, no wonder Price was in a bad mood. Ghost would be even worse. Soap had planned to get dinner with him later and catch up, but maybe he should let the lieutenant sulk in peace. What was another evening apart after the better part of a whole week? Soap wasn’t bothered by that at all. Why would he be?

“Don’t remind me,” Price pinched the bridge of his nose. “Private Evans twisted his bloody ankle. Managed to rip a tendon, the muppet.”

“I bet Ghost was annoyed as all hell,” Soap nodded. He could see the lieutenant fume quietly behind that mask of his clear as day. Then he paused. Price had gone back to puffing his cigar, weirdly avoiding eye contact. “What about the other one?”

“That’s something Gaz should give you more detail about,” Price sighed, back to rubbing his temple with one hand. The bad feeling Soap had earlier returned with full force.

Did Gaz get hurt? Doing what? Not dancing in the rain, the bloke hated missions with bad weather. Gaz got worse with complaining than him on those.

“In short, part of a structure collapsed, and Ghost got caught in it. He’s mostly fine, but…” Price waved the hand holding his cigar around, smoke tracing shapes in the air that Soap didn’t understand. So it wasn’t Gaz. Soap pressed a hand to his aching shoulder.

“But what, sir?” he asked, images of a body buried under rubble and mangled limbs flashing through his mind. Injured meant not dead at least, but everything after that was left up in the air.

“He’s got a concussion,” Price said with a heavy voice that made it sound like Ghost was on the brink of death.

“Aye, right.” Soap was baffled. His fingers were itching for a smoke now, too.

All that build up for a damn concussion. With the way Price looked, he had thought Ghost was on life support or something.

It was hard to believe Ghost had slipped up on a low-brow mission (literally, as far as Soap could tell, since there was no enemy contact), but it happened. A concussion was nothing to fuss over, especially not for Ghost. Annoying to deal with, yes. But they all had seen much worse.

Ghost was probably sleeping the damn thing off right as they spoke.

“A concussion? Is that it then?” Soap really had to wonder if he was missing something here. A little of the fancy tea stashed away behind overdue cans of beans in the officers' lounge, two to three days of avoiding any and all social contact, and a few extra desserts snuck out of mess would have the lieutenant right as rain in no time. Easy.

“It comes with memory loss, apparently,” Price added.

At that, Soap paused. Memory loss could mean a lot of things. He still had his own struggle to recall recent events now and then, and the specific head trauma that caused this was a while back now. Nothing a few post-its and notes in his journal couldn’t fix. Again, easy.

“Didn’t even remember his callsign,” Price took a long last drag of his cigar before putting it out in the ashtray. “I don’t know how bad it really is. The report is still missing, and the lad was not fully there. Also, Gaz said something about dog tags?”

“Ah.” Soap didn’t know what to say.

Not the dog tags. Not the fucking dog tags.

—

Chapter Text

After a restless night of sleep and dreams of rain, a church, and the colour blue, Ghost couldn’t say his headache had gotten any better. The thick brown file of himself did not help, although impressive in size, it had maybe a total of a hundred legible words in it. The only new information Ghost learned was that, apparently, he was dead and had been for a while.

He had no immediate reaction to that, so he surmised that he had been dead, gotten better, and that was that (Ghost was pretty sure this meant he didn’t have to pay taxes, at least). This reeked of high brass bullshittery, and with a headache scraping every other thought, Ghost had no patience to think on that further.

Maybe he should have gone back to med bay and picked up his pain medication, but he doubted he would take them. Something about the thought of being only slightly unable to access one of his senses left him unsettled.

So a hot beverage and breakfast to eat his pain away it was.

The only thing was, it meant other people. And as Ghost had learned the hard way, he could only tolerate so much of them. Gaz was lucky that Ghost felt somewhat indebted to him, or he wouldn’t have made it yesterday. And despite being up well before the morning rush, Ghost was not as lucky.

The frankly unappetizing ‘meal’ on his tray he could forgive, the piss poor coffee he had brewed himself (Ghost still could not explain what had compelled him to drop four cubes of sugar in that thing, he blamed muscle memory), but why the bloody hell did he have to be stuck with Gaz at a table again? The man had lost all his reluctance after meeting with the Captain, and Ghost desperately wished back the silence stretching between them.

“So anyway, Evans has gone off to Liverpool to be babied by his girlfriend,” Gaz said and leaned forward with his own cuppa in hand. Ghost had no idea what he was on about, not for the last five minutes at least.

“Bloody Liverpool,” he grumbled, just to say something. No one would mind if he dumped this atrocious concoction he had brewed up in the nearest sink, right? Surely the military budget could handle a little waste if it meant he wouldn’t die of a heart attack after another two sips.

“Are you into football now, sir?” Gaz grinned. It was the kind of catlike smirk to let someone know you knew something the other person didn’t. Bastard.

“Well, anyway, speaking of…” Gaz took a sip. Ghost got the impression that he tried to pause for dramatic effect. It was lost on him. “Soap got back yesterday afternoon. Should be here in a few.”

Bloody hell, spare him. No one on this base could shut up about this bloody Soap. If the lad showed up and was only half as chatty as Gaz, Ghost would shove a bar of soap down everyone's throat.

He should have trusted Price more. He could have fucked off to his place, wherever it was, and gotten time to heal from his headache. Think about rain, churches, and blue, and if they had any sort of meaning. Maybe think about nothing at all.

Instead, he had a shit meal, a shit coffee, a noisy guy stuck to him by social convention and the mess hall started filling with more people. Ghost had finished his food and given up on the coffee, so he had his balaclava back in place at least.

The one time he tried leaving his room without it, he had what felt like a panic attack. He would have expected the mask to feel suffocating, but after a few breaths, it had settled on his face like a shield. Small comforts.

Luckily, Gaz seemed satisfied with their conversation and went back to just sipping his tea. That left Ghost with the heavy task of figuring out how to best exit this situation. Getting up and leaving was the sole solution he had come up with so far, as he let his eyes roam over the few new arrivals in mess getting their breakfast. Maybe that would be rude, but Ghost found he couldn’t care less.

With his mind half set on standing up, Ghost glanced at his escape route one last time, only to find himself frozen to his seat.

Through the door came a group of soldiers, all shuffling off in the direction to get a tray for breakfast. One with ash blond hair and a rat face, one with a mean squint betraying his need for glasses, but they weren’t all that important. Behind them was a stocky man with a dark brown mohawk and a five o’clock shadow. Something about him had Ghost's insides clench so hard he almost threw up.

“That him?” he managed to choke out to Gaz and was glad how fast he looked over, as it afforded him seconds to massage his throbbing temples in peace. Ghost almost made the mistake of taking another sip of coffee, if only to wash down the intense feeling.

“You can‘t be serious,” Gaz had to crane his neck to see around the other two, but when he caught who Ghost had been pointing out, he whipped his head back around, “You don‘t remember Price, but you recognize Soap? That- Holy shit, lieutenant.“

“What can I say, that haircut is hard to forget,“ Ghost answered, but had the exact same question himself. He watched as the man got his breakfast tray at a leisurely pace, bantering with the staff handing out food, taking his sweet time at the beverage corner, before noticing Gaz waving him over.

The way he balanced his tray in one hand and a cup in the other while jogging over while dodging people, was kind of impressive. And despite Ghost’s admittedly half-hearted attempts not to, he couldn’t help but stare. Something about this man turned his stomach upside down and scrambled his thoughts. More than they were already, anyway.

“Morning!” Soap beamed, looking between him and Gaz, “Since when did you two get breakfast together?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Ghost shrugged. He couldn’t tell most things right now, just that Soap had a sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and eyes so blue they put the Caribbean sea to shame.

“Right. Straight to the point, eh, Lt.?” Soap grinned and tapped his hot coffee to Ghost’s shoulder in what felt like an imitation of a friendly punch, “Saved me a seat, sir?”

“Sure.” Ghost had not, but who was he to deny the sunniest smile he had ever seen? Not that he had many memories to compare and contrast, but Soap had beaten Price and Gaz by miles.

Soap squeezed beside him, so close that their thighs were touching with every other move. And going by this very short first impression, he seemed to move a lot. It really bothered Ghost how this proximity didn’t bother him in the slightest.

“At least something's right this morning,” Soap grinned at him, then looked at his cup and made a face, “Someone took all of the sugar.”

Whoever took Soap’s sugar could get it, Ghost thought, and was shocked at how fast and vehemently it came to him. Almost as if Soap’s callsign stood for how fast he cleaned out Ghost’s brain. He didn’t even know the man for two minutes.

“Maybe staff didn’t expect you back, yet. I heard the chef has to open extra packets of sugar just for your nightmare coffee every morning.” Gaz raised his cup in a mock toast.

“Haud yer weesht,” Soap flipped him off and stuffed his face with his sandwich. His rough Scottish accent sounded lovely, it really suited the man, but Ghost had no clue what he said. The intention did come across loud and clear, however. Gaz seemed to get it just fine, if the way he rolled his eyes was anything to go by.

While Gaz and Soap caught up on Soap’s mission in the underbelly of Berlin, it was mostly infiltrating clubs and cleaning out a facility of drug lords, as far as Ghost understood, Ghost had his chance of getting his fill of Soap. Ghost did not care for beauty in anyone, and Soap was not a dainty beauty in any sense of the word, but Ghost could not describe him any other way. The way he talked with his hands, his roguish smile, and the clear confidence with which he took up his space were nothing short of mesmerizing. And infuriating.

With little touches, Soap checked in if Ghost was listening every so often (he wasn’t, not in a way where he could tell you what they were talking about). So when the conversation shifted to him, he hadn’t caught anything Soap had said besides the nice sound of his voice. Ghost blinked in response.

With a little laugh, Soap repeated, “Your concussion, we were talking about your memory loss. What do you remember?”

“No clue. I only realize I forgot when I try to think about it,” Ghost answered honestly. The part where he admitted to realizing he hadn’t remembered anything regarding his own person if he tried to think about it was probably best left for after breakfast.

“Makes sense,” Soap nodded and finished the last of his sandwich. “How’s it been then?”

“Fi-”

“It has been so hard these past two days, Tav, you can’t imagine,” Gaz whined. Ghost couldn’t care less about Gaz’s last two days, considering he was the one with the actual concussion. But he did notice Gaz calling Soap ‘Tav’ multiple times now, and wasn’t that a curious name.

“Has Price told you how I found him?”

“He said something about a roof and dog tags?” Soap asked and leaned his head to the side. Even his neck was bloody nice, what the hell.

“Yeah right, you didn’t tell me about those, by the way,” Gaz pointed an accusatory finger at Soap. For what, Ghost did not know. Gaz turned around to him, with that knowing smirk on his face again. “Do you want to tell him, or should I?”

The sudden urge to leave came back as strong as before. The only difference was, he probably would not mind if he took Soap with him. His warm body felt good at his side.

“Nothing to tell, really,” Ghost sighed, just to get it over with. “The roof I was on collapsed, I fell, I’ve got a concussion, and Gaz dragged me to the doctors. End of story.”

Soap furrowed his brows, but nodded. He clearly had questions, but Ghost was glad he didn’t ask them. With his headache coming and going whenever he thought too much, he would prefer to get back to his room.

“No no no, you don’t get to leave out the best part,” Gaz said and leaned halfway over the table with excitement. Ghost really hoped Gaz would spare him and not tell Soap of the escape incident. Anything but that.

“So you see, I dig this man out of the rubble, and he comes back to consciousness, and I immediately see something's not right–”

Soap snapped his attention from Gaz back to Ghost in a split second, “Wait, you were unconscious?”

“I got better,” Ghost shrugged, and noticed a scar on Soap’s chin. He wondered how he had gotten that, maybe shrapnel, maybe a shaving accident. Maybe it was one of those things, but Soap told everyone it was the other.

Gaz murmured to himself about something, but quickly regained his spirit and continued, “So here I was, checking up on him, and by happy circumstance, I ask him, ‘What is your name?’. And what did Ghost do?”

Ghost sighed. Gaz looked at him as if Ghost should continue. He was invested in telling this story right, and Soap was on the edge of his seat. The sooner Ghost got this finished, the sooner he could leave.

So with furrowed brows, he said, “I got out my dog tags-”

“Nae!” Soap interrupted and grabbed onto Ghost’s arm, probably getting mayonnaise on the sleeve, “Yer bum’s oot the windae, no way!”

What?

“Oh yeah,” Gaz nodded along, clearly happy with the conclusion Soap had reached.

“Yer not tellin’ me– Ye thought ye were me?” Soap clung to Ghost's arm for support, and his clear laugh cut through the air. Ghost could only stare back in horror.

What.

“Right? He said it with such conviction, too. Believed he was Scottish and everything,” out of the corner of his eye, Ghost barely noticed Gaz shaking his head as he laughed with Soap, adding, “Price had to tell him.”

Bloody fucking hell. Ghost’s ears were ringing. A carpet of morphine patches wouldn’t be enough to combat the headache he suddenly found beating his head into mush. If he were to believe his own two ears, it sounded almost like–

“Identity theft is a serious crime, Lt.,” Soap interrupted his thoughts with a gentle nudge of his shoulder and a wink, “If ye want my name so bad, I can think of another way for you to have it.”

Soap’s name. Tav. MacTavish. What.

“But on the bright side, the bruise is so bad he doesn’t need his eyeblack right now,” Gaz added.

Soap grabbed onto Ghost’s head with both hands and yanked him to eye level. Wide brown eyes met even wider blue ones.

“That’s the bruise?”

Soap’s name. Not his. John “Soap” MacTavish. That sounded so much more right.

“Hey,” Soap gently turned Ghost’s head from one side to the other, “Are you all right?”

“Just the concussion,” Ghost choked out. And in a way, it wasn’t a lie. He was so glad Soap was holding him, the warmth of his hands seeping through the mask.

He should take a breath.

In, hold, out.

This was just a name. Who needed those? What part of him was really defined by a name? He had Ghost. That was good enough.

He could panic about the name thing now, or he could let it be. The outcome was the same, so he should just stop. ‘John MacTavish’ wasn’t his to keep. The name. It fit far better with Soap.

With another deep breath, Ghost blinked his attention back to Soap. His mind felt eerily calm. Maybe his pounding heart would get the memo, too.

“That bad, huh?” Soap patted his cheek with one hand and then let go. Without looking away from Ghost, he grabbed something off his tray and held it up between them. “I got you some chocolate, gets your sugar up.”

“Thanks,” Ghost said and took it. As soon as Soap had said it, he suddenly felt a craving for it. That, and tired. “I think I am going to lie down again.”

“Yeah, you don’t look too hot,” Gaz nodded.

“We’ll get out of yer hair then, Lt. Wouldn’t want to bother ye any further.”

“You don’t,” Ghost was already half up, but paused for Soap, “Not in the way you’re thinking of anyway.”

Soap looked taken aback for a moment, then smiled from ear to ear.

“Well, if ye need anything, you know where to find me!”

Ghost didn’t, but nodded anyway. He could appreciate the sentiment.

—

The door closed behind him, the bolt clicked shut and as Ghost sat on his bed, munching on chocolate, he got out the damn file from Price again. He was so tired, but he also had something to confirm.

It had no new information, but Ghost made the effort to estimate the width of individual letters that were legible and compared them to the two black boxes in place of his name. And although he had no way of knowing what was beneath the black ink, he knew the first box was too long for ‘John’ and the second too short for ‘MacTavish’.

This was a problem.

Maybe he could dig through his closet for fatigues with his real name. Maybe he could break into a document cabinet to find anything about the lieutenant(s?) stationed here. His brain pounded out of his skull at his new identity crisis.

But his mind lingered elsewhere, a more important question settled heavy around his neck.

Why did he have someone else's dog tags?

Ghost was not dumb. He knew some soldiers swapped for going on leave. Historically, some swapped to avoid being drafted. He could not for the life of him see how this was the case here.

Especially as swapping ID was punishable if you got caught, and Ghost did not see a version of himself that risked any kind of trouble so someone could go on vacation. It did not fit with the timeline for Soap either. They both had been on an op recently.

So with practical reasons out of the way, that only left sentimental reasons. And as soon as he thought in that direction, it hit him.

The way Soap clung to his personal space. The way Ghost didn’t mind that one bit. How he couldn’t take his eyes off the man. Little touches. The chocolate.

It could only be one thing.

He was in a romantic relationship with John MacTavish.

And considering they had been willing to risk punishment for a sappy gesture, it probably was pretty serious.

Looking back on their brief interaction, Ghost found that he didn’t mind.

Chapter Text

After a day of attempted rest bled into a sleepless night interrupted with nightmares, Ghost had tried finding his name in a closet. A bizarre situation, looking back, but you couldn’t really argue with the results.

After ten minutes of rifling through shirts in various states of disrepair (most of them seemed to have holes near the collar?), Ghost got the impression he had a very strong aesthetic. The brightest colour he found was a burgundy hoodie in a sea of black, and he was impressed with himself as he not only found skeleton print shirts, trousers, balaclavas, and socks, but also underpants.

But more importantly, Ghost had found a shirt saying ‘S. Riley’, a dead phone, and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. One had been more useful than the others, looking back.

Ghost exhaled, watching white clouds of smoke blend with the black night sky. The jitters had been bothering him for a while, he had just assumed he was restless because of his concussion. Turns out, he was just an addict.

He had tried to fix that today by going to the gym. But before he even had the chance to touch a weight, an angry Scot had dragged him off. Something about ‘not exercising with an injury’ and ‘a smart man once told me to go to the shooting range if you aren’t allowed to exercise’. After an honestly very enlightening time with a sniper rifle, he finally gave in to the craving he didn’t know he had. Light a ciggy behind the armoury and all that.

The spot he sat in was honestly not that comfortable, the crates were not made for sitting after all. But it didn’t rain, at least, and the night's breeze felt somewhat good against his exposed mouth.

It was so quiet here, so still. Nothing but him and the dark, peace and quiet.

Naturally, this didn’t last long.

With a sudden beam of light, someone came out of the back door of the armoury. The door fell shut with a loud bang, as Ghost could make out a mohawk from the top of the crates.

“Soap?” Ghost watched the man jump.

“Steamin' bloody Jesus,” Soap swore and almost dropped his own pack of cigarettes, “What are ye doin’ up there, Lt.? Broodin’ again?”

“Negative,” Ghost raised an eyebrow, not that Soap could see. The lad seemed to struggle making him out at all, if it weren’t for the embers of his cigarette. “I can come down.”

“Nah, I’ll make my way up,” Soap waved his hand up in a dismissive gesture while pocketing his cigs again. He made the way up seem like easy work, which it probably was for him. Handsome and capable. Ghost couldn’t help but smirk to himself as he scooted over a little.

“See, not so hard,” Soap grinned and settled beside him like he belonged there. And as far as Ghost was concerned, he could stay there as long as he wanted.

“Still not tired out after the gym, Soap?” Ghost asked and watched Soap bite his lip. Almost like he recognized an opportunity and decided to let it slide. Instead, he got his cigarette back out, between his lips, and pulled out his lighter.

“Nice lighter.”

“Thanks, it’s mine,” Soap answered with a raised brow.

“I don’t have sticky fingers, Soap,” Ghost turned sideways and leaned in, holding his hand out. Just to be a tease.

Soap took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke right into Ghost’s face. “Only when it comes to names, I take it?”

Ghost gave John “Soap” MacTavish a look.

“Och, fine,” with a roll of the eyes and an easy smile, John handed it over. “So, what was the big bad Ghostie not brooding about?”

The lighter was proper nice. It had a good heft to it, the metal was warm from John’s hands. Not like his own flimsy piece of plastic lighter. Ghost clicked it on and off again, watching the stable flame appear and vanish.

What was he even brooding about? Closets and nightmares, names and rain, files and a sense of self. He really should start asking questions or otherwise confirm his assumptions. It was tiring having an identity crisis every other day. And John felt steady beside him.

“John?” Ghost asked, leaning back and watching the smoke once more, “Can I ask you something?”

Ghost really had no clue how to do this, but he knew he had to ask. No more misconceptions, no assumptions held up as truths. Their relationship was a tricky thing to bring up, considering Ghost had no way of knowing just how deep in they were, but he had to confirm he wasn’t wrong on this.

He clicked the flame on and off again.

“Sure, ask away,” John answered. His smile was friendly enough, but the crease of his brow held a deep kind of worry. It didn’t fit his face.

“If this seems weird-,” Ghost stopped to chew on the inside of his cheek. If he was wrong on this, this had the potential to be so bad. But if he chickened out now, it would be so much worse.

John pressed their shoulders together, and Ghost could feel the weight of his stare from the side. “It’s alright, Ghost. I willnae be cross with ye.”

“Okay. Alright,” Ghost swallowed and turned his head to face John again. They were so close, their breaths mixed. Ghost swallowed. This was harder than he thought.

“If someone were to ask, what we– no,” Ghost took another deep breath. He had to ask as directly as possible.

“John. Are we partners?”

John stared for a second, frozen in place. Then, a spark went through him, he grabbed Ghost’s thigh and with the passion of a thousand suns behind his eyes said, “Of course we are! We have been together for almost two years. The Best Task Force 141 has to offer.”

“Bloody hell. Thank fuck,” for a short moment, Ghost allowed himself to hide his face in his hands and feel the sense of relief washing over him. Ghost didn’t know what he would have done if he were wrong on this. This was what he felt strongest about ever since he woke up in the rain. He could be S. Riley every day of the week, if it meant John was at his side.

“So you bashed your head in hard enough that you forgot me, too, huh?” John laughed and poked a finger in his side. He looked so pretty in the dark, only a flame and embers painting their soft lights on his face. His partner. Only his.

“Well, you’re not getting rid of me that easily,” John said and leaned in. So close his heat burned into Ghost.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he whispered in the air between them. His eyes traveled to John’s lips, the cigarette forgotten. Surely, as his partner, he could–

John leaned back and flicked Ghost’s skull plate in the forehead, “Ye better not! I will make sure the memory of me will haunt yer ass.”

“Planning to haunt the Ghost?” he righted himself again. The last drag of the cigarette scratched his throat. He stubbed it out beside him.

“Och, wipe tha smug grin off yer mug. Forgot all aboot me but could nae forget the puns. I see how it is,” John sighed a sigh of a man who had to suffer through hundreds of those.

With his blue eyes focused on the night sky and his body all relaxed beside him, Ghost sensed his opportunity. With speed and precision, he snatched the cigarette from John’s lips. The burn of smoke in his lungs had never tasted sweeter.

“You thieving cunt!”

Ghost held the lighter up between them. John took it back with a huff and lit himself a new one.

“Yer so lucky I don’t punch the injured.”

“You like me,” Ghost shrugged and delighted at John choking on smoke. It seemed his partner was easy to fluster.

“I like ye alive,” John bit back. Ghost felt a wave of familiarity wash over him and chuckled. They both went back to smoking in silence, next to each other. Somehow, Ghost couldn’t think of a place he would rather be than on a stack of crates behind the armoury.

“So, what happened here?” Ghost asked and vaguely gestured to his face. His stolen smoke from John would only last so long, but he didn’t want to head off just yet.

“The mask?” John asked, cocking his head to the left with a grin, “Pretty sure you don’t like people seeing your face, Lt.”

“No, I got that,” Ghost huffed and pulled on the hem of his balaclava. He did not mind John seeing, but felt the itch to cover up again. There was still cigarette left, he could hold out a little longer.

“You mean your face?”

Ghost rolled his eyes, but then nodded. Every time he looked into a mirror, he found a new scar. Big ones across his cheeks, one along the nose, on his chin, above his eyebrow. Little ones on his jaw, under his left eye, disappearing into his hairline.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” John said, crossing his arms. His body language said no nonsense, but his blue eyes spelt mischief. In bold neon letters.

“You can’t or you won’t?” Ghost pressed. He was surprised by how fun talking to John was. The man kept him on his toes.

“I promised I wouldn’t.”

“What?”

“I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone,” John couldn’t contain his grin any longer. Ghost’s eyebrow twitched.

“Are you shitting me? You can’t tell me my own secrets?”

“Aye, seems so,” smiled John, and in Ghost’s opinion, the fluttering eyelashes should be forbidden. The nuisance knew how to push his buttons.

“Is there any rational reason behind this? Or are you just being a brat for the fun of it?” Ghost drawled. He could work with a brat no problem. Maybe choke the answer from John, if he was up for it. His neck seemed very grabbable.

“The doctors said not to overwhelm ye, and yet here ye are, doin’ tha all by yerself,” John stabbed an accusatory finger into Ghost’s chest, right over his beating heart.

Ghost snatched John’s wrist and looked directly into his wide blue eyes as he said, “I think I can tell what I can handle.”

“That so? Then handle this,” John answered, raising his middle finger.

Despite his better judgment, Ghost laughed.

“So, do you know?” Ghost smiled and released John’s wrist. Another time, then.

John leaned into his side again, taking a drag from his cigarette. “What do ye think? No point in asking me this if I dinnae ken.”

“Well, I think I have memory loss, and you are being difficult, Sergeant,” Ghost answered. He was concidering poking John just like he had done before, but reconsidered. Instead, he breathed a lungful of smoke again. John’s cigarette would run out in two or three drags, Ghost assumed.

“Oi, I am nothing but kind and caring,” John whined in his ear.

With an eyeroll, he murmured, “Sure you are, Johnny.”

“I- what?” John suddenly sat up so straight, Ghost feared he would fall off the crates.

“Hm?”

“What did you call me?” John asked with an urgency that took Ghost by surprise. He had fucked up. He had fucked up so bad.

“Sorry. Won’t happen again,” Ghost amended as fast as he could. Ghost’s stomach dropped at the thought of John being cross with him. Over a nickname. And just when they had finally gotten comfortable.

“Nae–” John grabbed his arm, and now that Ghost looked closely, he didn’t seem angry at all, just surprised. “No, I mean- I don’t mind, you call me Johnny all the time.”

“I do?” Ghost leaned against him, and just to test it out again, said, “Johnny.”

This made so much sense. Ghost looked into his blue eyes and smiled a little. Johnny.

“Alright, don’t wear it out,” Johnny huffed, and it was cute how easy it was to fluster the man.

“Sure, Johnny,” Ghost said with a scratchy voice, ruined by the last drag of his cigarette. Just to be an asshole.

“Bleedin' Christ, have mercy, Ghost!” Johnny hit him in the arm. So much for not punching the injured, although there was no real force behind it.

“Tell ye what,” Johnny said and plucked Ghost’s hand from his lap. Even through the gloves, Johnny felt warm.

Ghost raised an eyebrow, “You’re going to hold my hand in revenge?”

“What? Nae,” Johnny ripped off Ghost’s glove as if that explained anything, “I promised to never tell a soul about your face, but I can tell you about these.”

“Oh,” Ghost did not know whether to lean into Johnny’s touch more or melt into his seat. In the end, it was a weird combination of both. “Go on.”

“Fair warning: I think you made half of the shite up you told me,” Johnny looked up through his lashes at Ghost. And Ghost couldn’t give a single shit about what Johnny told him, as long as he kept running his thumb over his scars. It felt so familiar it hurt.

“Couldn’t tell you now. As long as it’s entertaining,” Ghost smiled. And between more cigarettes than both were willing to admit they smoked, Johnny told stories of accidents and death and bloodshed, some Ghost recognized as true, some he felt nothing for whatsoever.

All that mattered was the warmth between them, anyway.

—

Chapter Text

Soap really was in a hurry. Because he had been up late last night, he got up too late today, just to realise it was already Wednesday. He had to pull a report out of his ass that was due in two hours, if he still wanted to be in Price’s good graces. And with Ghost pretty much out of the count right now, he very much wanted to be.

“Bleedin’ Christ,” he cursed at his too-hot coffee. Ghost was so lucky to get to sleep in.

Soap had no illusions that he would, but a little fantasy about blond curls sticking out of a heavy blanket wouldn’t hurt. He was pretty sure the lieutenant had curls, if he would take care of them. Maybe Ghost could relax enough that he snored a little. When he first did that on a ride home from an especially gruelling mission, it had been a revelation to Soap.

It hadn’t happened since. Sleeping around people was a rarity for Ghost as is, so Soap wasn’t too bothered.

“Uh, morning. Sergeant MacTavish?” Two sheepish-looking privates sidled up to his table. One was a tall beanstalk of a man, the other was a ginger. Both had that fresh look of an inexperienced newbie. If Soap wasn’t mistaken, the tall one was Taylor, the other some Irish guy named Murphy. All this to say, they couldn’t have come at a worse time.

“Soap’s fine,” Soap took a sip of his coffee and burned his tongue again, “What can I do for ye?” Or against, Soap wasn’t opposed to that either. He should have just started his report when he came right back from the assist mission.

Taylor shuffled his feet, putting his hands into his pockets. “We heard the lieutenant is your–”

“We heard you are pretty close to the lieutenant,” Murphy said instead, as if Soap couldn’t fill in the gaps himself. So they were already pretty tuned into gossip at base. But they were trying to be polite and mind their business, in a way.

“Ghost? What about him?” Soap asked to speed them along.

Murphy pulled at the top of his red hair, clearly embarrassed. “We were on an op with him the other day and–”

“It went wrong. He was mad. He was steamin’ mad,” interrupted Taylor, “Didn’t say a word during exfil, just kept staring.”

It was quite amusing to Soap how much heavy lifting Ghost’s reputation did here. At the time, the poor bastard was probably trying very hard to seem fully coherent, not glare at some privates. Then again, any prolonged eye contact by Ghost seemed like a glare to most people.

“And we were wondering if he, uh…,” Murphy just shrugged and let the sentence peter out.

“If he’s still mad?” Soap grinned into his coffee.

Oh, the lieutenant definitely would be normally, no question. An injury on a no-contact mission and delaying the timetable seemed like enough. If this had been high stakes, those three privates would have put everyone in danger, no way Ghost would let that one go.

Murphy wrung his hands, looking to the side. “Yeah. He has training next week.”

Soap groaned. He had no time for this. But he was their kind and caring NCO, he guessed. And they seemed upset enough about all this. Probably got a good dressing down by Gaz or Price already.

“Aye, I got ye. Messed up on that no stakes mission, I take it? Think he will be fine by next week, wouldn’t want to get in trouble during training, though,” Soap said. These idiots were so lucky Ghost had amnesia. He would never let them get off so easily. But Soap was no snitch.

“Oh, thank god,” Taylor looked like he was about ready to jump into Soap’s arms. Murphy looked up with a small smile.

“If that’s all, I have to go. Wish the tendon lad a swift recovery from me,” Soap nodded and got up. A look at the clock told him he had only an hour and a half left. He was not going to make it without divine intervention.

“We’ll tell Tendon,” Taylor waved and dragged Murphy behind him, “Thank you, Soap!”

—

Soap hadn’t made it in time and gotten an earful from Price about it.

As punishment, he was made to take inventory and clean the warehouse. Soap had worse, but it had been pretty boring and dusty. After hours and hours of looking into boxes and comparing their stock to a list, it dawned on him that this was a multiple-day kinda punishment. He preferred the laps that Ghost made him run instead.

With a good third of the warehouse behind him and the day turning into night, Soap decided to call it quits. Those boxes could wait another day. Maybe he could somehow drag Gaz into helping him tomorrow. He most certainly would try.

But all that would be a problem for future Soap. Right now, he enjoyed a smoke behind the armoury, an extensive shower to get the dust out of his hair, and finally a good match of footie on his phone while he sketched in his journal.

He occasionally glanced up to see the game between Manchester United against bloody Liverpool. The Scottish Premiership hadn’t got a game on he was interested in right now, and he had secretly taken up Manchester as an English team he could tolerate.

His pencil traced loose shapes of smoke in the meantime, shapes of sharp eyes with long lashes. Last night was fresh on his mind, the way the lieutenant had allowed far more touch than usual, even initiated some, and lingered as long as both could justify staying up. He couldn't capture the warm glow of Ghost's brown eyes, but he could try to get the atmosphere just right. Something between longing and comfort.

Soap had long since given up on stopping himself from filling his journal with Ghost. There was no fighting it. Ghost on a mission, Ghost with his tea, Ghost with a rare smile curling his lips upwards. The lieutenant was a marvel to behold, and no sketch could capture to Soap’s satisfaction the fluidity of his motions or the sharp confidence he carried himself with.

What they did capture, however, were his broad shoulders, long legs or his huge chest. Soap wanted to sink his teeth into those plush tits, how could anyone have pecs so nice? And with intense study, Soap had Ghost’s ass down to perfection. He probably should feel an ounce of shame for his mild fixation on his CO, but Soap couldn’t be bothered.

The crowd cheered from his phone, and Soap looked up to see that Manchester had a corner. If the lads didn’t turn that into a goal, Soap would watch an old recording of the Scottish Premiership instead. Liverpool played worse than usual.

His pencil slowed from where it had been sketching Ghost’s scar on his chin, the crowd waited with bated breath as the player walked back a few paces, and then there was a knock on his door.

“Fucking hell,” Soap groaned and considered just not getting up. This was no time to be banging down his door. He contemplated how likely it was that this was an emergency. In all likelihood, it was a prank by someone or Gaz bothering him for something.

He ripped the door open to find Ghost on his knee with just a soft balaclava, a worn-out hoodie, and underpants on the floor, a lockpick in hand. Cheers erupted from his phone behind him.

“Uh,” Ghost looked up at him.

“What’s this, then?” Soap held the door handle in a death grip.

Ghost got up and put the lockpick in the pocket of his hoodie. If he thought his bare legs could distract Soap for more than four seconds, he was sorely mistaken. He hadn’t seen the lieutenant all day, but this definitely was a surprise outside of any of Soap’s expectations.

“Can I come in? Or are you planning to stare a little longer?” Ghost huffed and crossed his arms before the aforementioned plush chest. Oh god, his journal was just out in the open, wasn’t it?

“Aye, let me just get the footie,” Soap stumbled back to his desk and threw his journal in the next best drawer. He heard the door click shut and turned off his phone. Manchester was in the lead at least. Not that the football match would be the thoughts robbing him of sleep tonight.

No, that honour would go to the barely dressed legend of the 141 himself, looking around Soap’s room with his arms crossed still, not a care in the world.

“Getting the room plans was a hassle, but your room is comfortable,” Ghost nodded his approval, as if any of this was a normal thing to say or do. But before Soap’s thoughts could get past the shape of Ghost’s thigh muscles and to room plans for whatever reason, Ghost got a black phone out of his hoodie pocket. “Do you know my phone password? Face ID wasn’t working.”

No surprises here. In what world would Ghost set up Face ID? He barely got out of his balaclava. Sometimes, Soap suspected he showered with that thing. There was just no point in having Face ID.

“I can try,” he answered and took it from Ghost. It was locked by code, six numbers. The background was the factory default. Did the man forget his own birthday?

Soap was ignoring the nagging question of why Ghost would break into his room for that. Knowing him, he probably would have lurked in a corner and waited for Soap to come back or some other spooky shite. Ghost could be lucky Soap had his whoring days behind him, mostly.

After the first try of six numbers failed, Soap typed another and another. After his fourth attempt at the passcode, he paused.

Slower this time, he typed six numbers in sets of two, and when the home screen popped up, Soap almost dropped the phone as if burned.

It wasn’t Ghost’s birthday.

Soap looked up with wide eyes, only to be shocked again. Ghost had decided to go bare-faced in the middle of his small room. Shower-damp blond hair fell across a fresh plaster across Ghost’s forehead, the bruise blooming out from underneath.

“Good job, Sergeant,” Ghost plucked his phone back from Soap’s hand and sat down cross-legged on Soap’s bed. Working theory right now was that Soap was actually the one hit by a roof and dreaming all of this up in a coma.

“You’ve sent a photo from Berlin?” Ghost asked with a raised brow and showed his screen to Soap. He saw himself smiling mischievously into the camera, a finger hooked into what was obviously a choker, with the rest of his clothing not leaving much to the imagination, either.

It had been a great idea at the time. Current day Soap wasn’t so sure of it now, standing there in his joggers.

“Well, I didn’t have a background anyway,” Ghost shrugged, and without the mask, Soap could see his full face move with the little smirk around his lips. Soap had to think thoughts about his grandma, or this situation would derail real fast.

“Ye ken whit, if ye can take ma name, ye can take ma bed an' aw. So whit’s a picture mair?” Soap felt the blood rush to his cheeks and had half a mind to hide behind his hands. But as long as the blood stayed there, he should be in the clear. The lieutenant started all this anyway. Who showed up in nothing but underwear and a hoodie in the late evening?

“Would you stop with the name thing?” Ghost furrowed his brows. But the absolute joy of Ghost without the mask was watching the lieutenant’s pale skin flush a bright shade of pink. Poor Ghostie had no way of hiding his expressions without the thing, he wasn’t used to it.

“Whit’s this, backin’ oot now, Mr. MacTavish?” drawled Soap and stepped right up to the bed. If Ghost wasn’t sitting cross-legged, he would have been between those long, muscular legs. It took all the self-control he had left not to lift Ghost’s chin with a finger. “An’ tae think there wis a world where Ah could’ve talked ye intae wearin’ a kilt. Price should’ve kept ye in the dark jist a wee bit longer.”

Ghost chewed the inside of his cheek. He always had trouble understanding Soap’s thick Scottish accent, bless him. But instead of a warning to speak English, Ghost answered, “All that to get me into a skirt?”

“It’d dae wonders for yer legs. Ye’d look pure class in it,” Soap smirked down at him. He still didn’t want to escalate to touching Ghost himself, but delighted in the way Ghost’s fingers were digging into his hips through the joggers. As if he were going anywhere.

“So you admit to staring then, Johnny?” Ghost stared up at him with half-lidded eyes. What an absolute joy to have him here so pliant and–

Soap brushed Ghost’s curls out of his forehead, only to be faced with the band-aid. A sudden cold washed over Soap.

What in Christ’s name was he doing? Ghost could not remember his way out of a wet paper bag right now, he was in no state for any of this.

Soap ruffled through soft blond hair before he pushed Ghost away and took a step back. “A’right. Haud yer wheesht.”

“Suit yourself then,” Ghost murmured and looked away, a blush still spread to his ears. It wasn’t exactly nice to leave him hanging like this, but Soap wouldn’t dream of taking any kind of advantage. No matter how much Ghost pouted about it. Soap didn’t understand half of the shifts in Ghost’s behaviour anyway.

—

With all that happened, could someone explain to Soap how he still ended up in his bed held close by his very own snoring CO, trying to get just a wink of sleep?

He couldn't shake the feeling that this situation was somehow his fault, even as Ghost's steady breath lulled him into sleep, too.

—

Chapter Text

Soap could no longer deny what happened last night. Well, what didn’t happen, and what definitely did, and what the hell was happening right this moment. Realization hit him in waves as he slowly went from warm, deep slumber to awareness.

When Soap woke up, the weight of the whole world was clutching around his chest, and he felt hot puffs of air on his neck. It took a few breaths in time with the person behind him to remember what was going on. He didn’t understand half of it, but he seemed to be currently in his own bed, sleeping with his lieutenant. To say he wasn’t enjoying Ghost’s grapple would be a bold-faced lie, but no one needed to know the truth about how Soap pressed himself back into him.

Sure, they had been close before. Soap was a touchy friend, always had been, and Ghost didn’t seem to mind it, even if he rarely reciprocated. A shoulder to lean on or an occasional friendly punch was nice, but being squished like he mattered was so much better.

If only this could last.

With a glance at his phone (not Ghost’s, he wasn’t touching that again), he realized he had woken up eight minutes before his alarm. Soap was not keen on being late to anything ever again after Price had chewed him out not even 24 hours before, so he should get up. Work waited for no one, not even a sergeant stealing cuddles from his CO.

He disabled the alarm first. Better not give the lieutenant any more reason to strangle him than he already did. Soap could only imagine how embarrassed and angry Ghost would be if he remembered. Not even the legend himself could find a platonic explanation for the way his face was pressed into his neck. Or his cock to Soap’s ass.

He really should get up.

Soap tried a half-hearted wriggle. But with Ghost clutching him tighter, it was sure to say, sleeping Ghost was having none of it. And Soap was so weak to being pressed against his lieutenant’s firm chest, with Ghost’s one hand over his beating heart, the other clung to his shirt at his stomach. If Soap wanted to indulge in his delusions further, he would say it was almost possessive. He didn’t even have to try, he fit so well between those strong arms, like he truly belonged there.

Maybe being strangled by Ghost in the future wouldn’t be so bad, maybe his hands were just as much of a perfect fit around Soap’s throat?

And that was his cue to get up. Bleedin’ Christ, he was so gone.

With a gentle touch, Soap let his fingers wander across Ghost’s hand. He had seen the Ghost snap awake at a moment's notice multiple times, and he desperately wanted to avoid that. That was the main reason, at least, permitting himself for his touch to linger was an added benefit.

Almost inaudible even to himself, Soap whispered, “I need to get up, Lt.”

“Mhn,” Ghost grumbled and buried his head deeper into Soap’s shoulder. The even breaths Ghost took beckoned him back to sleep. The rest of his body was very much not. Soap traced mindless circles across the back of Ghost’s hand. It was honestly a miracle he hadn’t woken up yet, considering his track record. Soap had no knife to his throat yet, which had to count as a win. Possibly.

“Ghost, let me go,” he tried again, a little louder this time.

“No,” Ghost slurred and bit at his shoulder through the shirt. Soap bit his tongue to muffle any sound that might have clawed its way up his throat. Oh fuck.

“Please?” he tried and pulled at Ghost’s hand on his chest. It would do nothing but get the message across, Soap knew. But he had to get up now. Because he had no time to add a cold shower to his morning schedule.

Ghost shifted a bit and, with Soap in his arms, turned them so that Soap was pressed face-first into the mattress, Ghost on top of him. The friction was not helping at all, but the full weight of Ghost was so nice. And then, with a rough voice deepened by sleep, Ghost said, “Don’t. Just stay.”

How was he supposed to say no in this situation? Ghost never wanted anything for himself. Well, no, Ghost never asked for anything for himself would be more accurate. In any case, it made Soap’s already weak resolve crumble into dust, swept away by the morning winds.

It was a known fact that Ghost could not say no to anything Johnny wanted, but Soap was painfully aware it went both ways. He would happily blow the whole world to pieces for this man, never mind enjoy his company in bed a little longer. Ghost just never asked.

Maybe he could get out of any trouble if he passed Ghost’s words off as a command. He could add that he wasn’t physically able to get up, even if he tried. Something about warmth and comfort, but also being pressed into a mattress by one of the largest men on base. Just go ‘Sorry, Price, Ghost told me to stay in bed’. Maybe flutter his eyelashes at him.

Yeah, right.

“Ghost, I need tae work,” Soap tried to appeal to Ghost’s sense of duty as much as his own. If begging didn’t get him anywhere, then surely that had to do it. Ghost was nothing but diligent.

Soap felt the groan as much as he heard it, and for a second, he thought Ghost wouldn’t move. Just as well, he could live with being pinned until his inevitable doom. When Ghost rolled off him, Soap couldn’t help but miss his weight.

With a heavy heart, he swung his legs out of bed and got up.

When Ghost made efforts to follow, Soap gently pushed him back to bed. “Stay. You need tae rest. This isn’t the time to be gettin’ up.”

Ghost sleepily blinked at him in the dim light of the room before snuggling up with the pillow. Two deep breaths later, he seemed to be dead to the world again. Stunned, Soap looked on for a second.

He didn’t think that would work.

—

Soap was on time by the skin of his teeth. And just as well, because Price was waiting for him at the warehouse. Something about making sure he was actually showing up, punctuality being a virtue, and so on and so forth.

A bunch of bullshit, Soap knew for a fact Price was avoiding a stack of paperwork he couldn’t hand off to Ghost right now. Had been pushing that around on his desk since Soap came back from his mission. He could swear the top file was still the same.

And with days being slow and no work coming in to distract himself, Price created new work all by himself. Golden boy Gaz never had to face Price’s more outlandish ways of keeping everyone busy (although they did have to paint the outhouse together once), but Soap always had a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He has been put on ‘Ironing the Union Jack to parade standard Duty’ twice and hated it, but Price’s barely disguised fetch quests for crumpets were not as bad. If anything, Soap looked forward to the occasional absurd creativity with which Price found tasks to do. He clearly remembered the infamous ‘Tea-Tasting Hostage Negotiation Roleplay Exercise’. If only for Ghost to utter the words, “If I don’t get a Hobnob in five minutes, the Darjeeling gets it.”

Gaz quoted that one at least once a week.

But as much as Soap got into trouble, he got out of it. As soon as he asked for help with taking inventory, Price miraculously remembered all of his remaining duties and cut his nothing burger of a rant short. Figures.

The only problem was that left Soap alone with much time occupied by a mundane task, with nothing but his thoughts. And the subject of them had been in his bed not too long ago. Dusty boxes full of bizarre equipment could not distract Soap from the asshole amnesiac that seemed so normal until he suddenly wasn’t.

Taking a smoke behind the armoury? Normally, they did that at least twice a week. Soap could even write off the prolonged night as Ghost needing comfort after navigating base without memories. It happened.

Showing up somewhere unannounced and trying to break in? So normal, Ghost saw a lock as a minor nuisance at best, and showing up unannounced was practically his thing. If anything, it was beyond polite for him to knock first.

Doing that in only his underwear, then taking off his mask and sleeping with Soap? Not normal. Extremely not normal. Not even in his wildest dreams did Soap think that was in the cards for him. Maybe he would have gotten Ghost to agree to some sex with no strings attached if they both were desperate enough eventually, but cuddling? Pigs would sooner fly.

At least, that is what Soap would have thought if it weren’t for fucking Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley proving him wrong just to spite him. Without even knowing. Without even meaning it. That daft wee eejit.

Soap wasn’t even clear on what Ghost did and didn’t know. There had to be a throughline in there somewhere. Because if something in all of this had to be the most expected and normal thing here, it definitely was Ghost not asking for help and coming up with solutions on his own. Which in the field worked great, but with Ghost seemingly guessing his way through interpersonal relationships and social situations? Not so much.

There was a reason why the 141 didn’t do their intel gathering all by themselves.

Soap didn’t even know half of the items he had checked and listed by late afternoon when, finally, Gaz came to the rescue.

—

Chapter Text

Soap pushed his half-empty glass from one hand to another, getting the glass caught on an especially deep scratch in the wooden countertop every so often. It was ironic how the wood in the pub got both smoother and more scratched up with use. On the next push, the glass almost toppled over, but Gaz reached out and caught it.

“He’ll be ragin’ when I tell him… pure gonna hate me,” Soap sighed and knocked back the rest of his drink. Couldn’t leave it unfinished. Not after the last of what, a dozen? Probably a dozen that have already gone down.

Gaz rolled his eyes. With two fingers, he motioned to the barkeep for another round. With a raised eyebrow over his drink, he said, “So don’t tell him then.”

“He’ll work it out on his own an’ he’ll hate me even more for it,” Soap whined and let his full body weight crash into Gaz’s side. Not telling Ghost was a time bomb waiting to go off, and then he was well and truly dead. Or worse, he would be out of Ghost’s trusted circle.

“He hasn’t figured out shit,” Gaz huffed as he pushed against Soap’s shoulder, “Mans thought he was you for God’s sake.”

Instinct kicked in, and Soap tried to make himself heavier somehow. He knew he was a big man, but Gaz could take it. He had been for almost an hour now.

“Ye don’t understand. I— when he was sittin’ there, I almost…,” Soap sighed again and decided he would rather cling on to Gaz than onto his glass.

“What, took advantage of poor helpless Ghost?” Gaz flicked Soap’s forehead. A truly impressive feat, considering how intent Soap was on hiding himself away in him.

He had told Gaz what happened, of course he did, but to hear it put like that, made his stomach drop. Soap trusted in Ghost to handle himself, that was as sure as death and taxes. But he never imagined Ghost having to defend himself from Soap.

“Well— just for a moment, like… I did think aboot it. This mornin’ as well. It just— it crept in.”

Soap felt Gaz’s shoulders sink with his sigh. Long fingers gently stroked through his hair as Gaz answered with an even voice, “That doesn’t make you a bad person, though.”

“Naw, ye don’t understand. I dinnae ken what he was thinkin’, but I sure as hell ken what I did,” Soap admitted. He knew his accent was getting borderline incomprehensible, but alcohol and memories of Ghost’s soft brown eyes looking up at him swirled into a sour cocktail in his mind.

Gaz got a handful of Soap’s hair and tugged hard.

“I’m thinking about killing you after this conversation, and if I don’t, I am an actual angel,” Gaz said and pushed Soap off when the drinks came. “There is a difference between thinking and doing. It would be far more creepy if you didn’t have those thoughts, considering you have been pining after that man for as long as you have. You both do, by the way.”

“Aye, well… Ah don’t think it works like that. No really,” Soap pouted. At least he had a new glass of Scotch to keep him company, the alcohol didn’t talk as much shite as Gaz. It was nice of him to try to cheer him up, but actively feeding Soap’s delusions was taking things a bit far.

Gaz groaned, and the twitch of his eye made him seem like he was seconds away from smashing his head into the counter. He took a deep breath and placed a warm hand on Soap’s shoulder, eyes sharp on his.

“Mate. Soap. Tav. You realize that from the start, Ghost only remembered details that had to do with you?” Gaz spoke slowly, enunciating every syllable, “I think you are out of your mind to even suggest he isn’t as deep in this as you are.”

Soap’s eyes flew between the right and left one of Gaz. It was suddenly way too hot in this dingy little pub. Something pushed itself to the forefront of his mind, a tiny little detail he didn’t want to unpack. The worst part about it was that the amnesia couldn’t even possibly begin to explain it.

Soap took a large gulp of Scotch.

With something coming undone inside him, Soap blurted, “His phone password is ma birthday.”

“Yeah, his phone password is your– WHAT?”

If it weren’t for Gaz’s death grip on his shoulder, he would have fallen off his stool with his full body reaction. With a crazed look in his eyes, he asked, “Do you even hear yourself right now? Why are you here and not fucking each other?”

“Gaz!” Soap yelled and swatted at his hand. Leave it to Gaz to ruin the moping mood.

Gaz dodged, drilling an accusatory finger into his chest. “Don’t Gaz me, he makes himself coffee with four sugars for days now.”

Soap sat up straight. “He what?”

“He just happened to go behind the armoury to smoke. That is like, your spot. You two always meet there when you think no one's looking,” Gaz continued, poking Soap with every word just to get his point across.

“How did ye know that?”

Gaz rolled his eyes and shrugged with one shoulder. “I have eyes, Soap. I am not as unaware as you both think I am.”

Soap didn’t know what to do with himself. The whole room was spinning. “Wait–”

“He wears your dog tags,” Gaz hissed. And oh god. Oh dear bloody Jesus, the dog tags. Soap hoped by Father and Son that those damn things weren’t the reason Ghost decided they were an item.

Soap gritted his teeth and said, “That’s actually not–”

Gaz held up a hand, stopping Soap mid-sentence. He seemed suddenly tired as he continued, “And you know what the worst part is? I do not have a single clue when he assumed that you two are together. Because you two don't act different. Like, at all.”

Gaz took a sip, eyes wandering over the crowd, before coming back to him. With a finality Soap certainly felt deep in his bones, Gaz said, “Face it, Soap. Ghost literally came to the right conclusion before you did.”

“Christ… Ah need anither drink.” He stared at the alcohol like it had just insulted him. Lips parted, breath caught, eyes wide and blinking too fast. His thumb tapped once against the glass. Then again. Rhythmic. Deliberate.

But he didn’t drink.

“Yeah, me too, mate,” Gaz sighed and downed his shot.

—

Ghost was amazed at what he had accomplished in the last two days. Granted, there was the slight hiccup where Price had caught him going through restricted files, just to tell him he was allowed access anyway. He got a good workout in, scared some loud soldiers. Waking up without nightmares today and getting cleared for duty by next week again had been nice as well. They had even removed the stitches already. Wouldn’t leave a scar if he was lucky — he did not need more of those.

With another cup of disgusting coffee, he settled back into the pillows in Johnny’s bed and continued to skim through the newest file he had grabbed. It was something about terrorists and missiles and a drug cartel? He hadn’t gotten to that part yet, but it was a weird read, taking in words he had written but did not remember. Ghost preferred Johnny’s sections anyway, he managed to write in a style that didn’t sound so dry.

He was just about to turn another page when the phone on the nightstand vibrated. A quick glance and–

“Johnny?” he answered faster than anticipated, judging by the splutter on the other end of the line. Someone decidedly not Johnny cleared his throat.

“Ghost, come and get your man,” a grouchy voice rang out, barely audible over a cacophony of various off-key voices in the background.

“Who is this?” Ghost chewed the inside of his cheek. The voice sounded familiar, but with the background noise, he couldn’t quite place it. The person seemed trusted enough to have Johnny’s phone, though, so that was a relief.

“It’s Gaz. Get John, I can not deal with him anymore,” Gaz repeated, yelling over some especially heinous noise.

“Is that singing in the background?” he asked and held the phone a tad farther away from his ear. Ghost closed the file, got up, and laid it on Johnny’s desk. Looking around, he couldn’t find any clothes that might fit him to go out. Had to make a detour to his room then.

“He started a pub choir of ‘Leave her, Johnny’. Look, it doesn’t matter, just come and get him,” Gaz yelled and by the sounds of it, tried to get farther away from the crowd.

“He started a choir?” Ghost stopped in the hallway and looked at his phone. A clearly off-key shanty blared back at him.

“Just– Soap, oi, Tav! Stop!” Gaz’s yells truly sounded desperate, “You are piss drunk, get off–”

“Gaz? Sitrep,” Ghost demanded with his phone back to his ear. Johnny was yelling something as well, but he couldn’t make it out even if he had a gun to his head. He quickened his pace back to his own room.

“Negative, kinda have my hands full, Lieutenant,” Gaz screamed, until his voice suddenly got farther away, “Stop Soap, that’s–”

There was a splashing sound. And then, the connection cut off.

Ghost took a deep breath.

Time to get Johnny, wherever he was.

—

Ghost was in some deep shit.

After he had gotten himself decent, he kind of realized he had no clue where ‘the pub’ was, or how to get there. That had left him with only one choice, and after a quick break-in into his Captain’s room, there was a new hole in the wall. Captain Price sat from the waist up naked in his bed, a smoking gun in his hand, staring wide-eyed at Ghost.

Price groaned and chucked his gun at the end of his bed. “God damn it, Ghost. This better be important, or you are a dead man.”

“Apparently, I already am,” Ghost shrugged and brushed a bit of wall off his shoulder. He should have anticipated that the Captain might not appreciate being woken up like this. “Gaz called, he and Soap are in trouble. I need a vehicle.”

At that, Price got himself ready in under two minutes, like a true military man. Weapons and everything, even his floppy hat. “Alright, I am coming. Location?”

“Gaz said something about ‘the pub’?” Ghost furrowed his brows. He wished Gaz could have given him more information before the phone landed in some poor lad's drink.

Price groaned again. His hand twitched in a way that indicated either the need for a smoke or a gun. Or both. “A bunch of overgrown goddamn children, all of you.”

Dumping his visible weapons back on the bed, Price huffed, “I am driving. Take the umbrella in the bin beside the desk, it’s pouring.”

“Sure, sir,” Ghost said, but deep down, he was glad he didn’t have to find out if he actually could drive right now.

—

Price and Ghost muscled into the pub like men on a mission.

Price made a beeline for the bartender, no doubt to smooth over whatever chaos Gaz and Johnny had caused, sing-along included. And Ghost headed to Gaz, who was clutching the wooden countertop of the bar for dear life.

Johnny’s phone was swimming in a half-full pint of beer, but its owner was currently missing. Ghost chewed the inside of his cheek.

“Gaz,” he said, low. “Where’s Johnny?”

Gaz startled so violently that he nearly toppled over. “Fuck–,” Gaz cursed, looking around him, “He was just right… here.”

Gaz blinked blearily, patted the empty stool beside him like Johnny might reappear, then latched onto it for balance.

Ghost exhaled through his nose. He was glad now that Gaz had made the call, even if it had gotten cut off.

“It’s alright. Get yourself home,” Ghost muttered, already scanning the crowd. Johnny wasn’t exactly hard to find, usually loud, bright, and noticeable. But tonight, the pub had swallowed him.

“I am not lettin’ an amnesiac go off t’find a drunk person,” Gaz slurred, trying to point an accusatory finger at Ghost and missing by a solid foot.

“So I should take another drunk with me?”

“M’not that bad,” Gaz stumbled sideways into Captain Price, who had returned, jaw set.

Ghost used the moment to pluck Johnny’s phone out of the pint with two fingers. It dripped miserably. Disgusting.

“Right,” he said over his shoulder, flicking beer off his gloves as he turned to go.

Gaz looked up at Price, saw probably the same moody man Ghost did, and gave Ghost a wobbly thumbs up. “You know what?” Gaz croaked. “Good luck.”

“Take the umbrella,” Price growled, “We’ll be in the car.”

—

It was raining again.

Ghost was stumbling through a half-lit park far too late at night, reeking of beer from Soap’s phone, soaked to his skin, clutching a useless umbrella, and wondering which level of hell he was currently in. Probably the one where a drunk Scotsman goes missing after one too many at the pub.

The trees creaked. His boots squelched in the mud. He scanned every bench, every shadow, starting to feel the cold in his bones and the rage in his spine.
And then, under the dull flicker of a lamppost, he spotted a crouched shape near the base of a tree. A man. Holding something.

Ghost froze.

“…Johnny?”

No answer. Just movement, a little sway, a sniff. Rain on leather. Something squirmed in the man’s arms.

Ghost felt a headache rising, and this one wasn’t from the concussion.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Ghost muttered, dragging himself closer. “Johnny, is that—? Let go of that dog.”

“Nae,” Johnny slurred, cradling the scruffy creature like it was sacred. “Ah dinnae wanty. Jus’ a wee dug. Dinnae be cruel.”

Ghost blinked slowly. Both Johnny and the dog were shaking with the cold. “Of course. Of course I find you like this.”

He stepped closer, water dripping from the edge of the umbrella. “You’re sloshed.”

“Ye’re… smart, aye, but yer a dumb wee bastard too,” Johnny slurred, face half-buried in the dog’s wet fur, as if that clarified anything. “Wi’ yer stupid mask an’ yer fuck-all comprehension”

He looked down at the big beast, then stage-whispered, “He is, is he no’?”

Ghost stared for a moment, water dripping from his brow. He was hit with the full force of bleary blue eyes and a comically tragic pout.

“Oh good,” Ghost sighed. “I can’t understand you.”

“Ye never did,” Johnny pouted, eyes glassy and stubborn.

“Stop talking to the dog. We’re going home.”

“Ah cannae.” Johnny swayed. “We’ll be both alone then. An’ I lost ma lighter.”

Ghost crouched in front of him, sighed, and felt around Johnny’s sodden trousers until he found the silvery lighter in the back left pocket.

He held it up like a prize. “Miracle. Here it is. Now up you go.”

He hoisted Johnny to his feet, holding him upright with an arm tight around his ribs. “Take the bloody brolly. We’ll bring the dog. Where’d you even find it?”

“Nae.” Johnny leaned harder into Ghost, fists bunching into the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline. “It’s not at fault.”

Ghost blinked. “What’s not?”

“The dog tags… an’ the holes,” Johnny's voice cracked like static. He looked up, fingers tracing the frayed collar of Ghost’s shirt. “Your fuckin’ holes. That’s what started it.”

“What the fuck are you on about? Speak English, Johnny.”

“Oh, of course ye remember that,” Johnny scoffed. “English bastard.”

Then, quieter, he added, “All Ah did was care. And now ye hate me.”

Ghost exhaled sharply. Closed his eyes. Counted to two. Then slung him over one shoulder like dead weight.

“For fuck’s sake.”

The umbrella dangled uselessly from Johnny’s hand, flapping and spinning in the wind. Ghost was getting soaked. The dog followed them, paws splashing through puddles, tail wagging, oblivious.

Ghost didn’t know where the owner was.
Didn’t know what Johnny was really talking about.
Didn’t know why that last part hurt more than it should’ve.

But he carried them both anyway.

—

Handing off the dog with a sobbing, half-conscious Scotsman slung over his shoulder was, hands down, the most awkward situation Ghost had ever found himself in, and he was pretty sure that was a high bar to clear. Probably.

The wide-eyed woman was waiting just off the path, raincoat buttoned up to her chin, one hand clutching the leash, the other covering her mouth.

Her dog, scruffy with tufts sticking out at odd angles courtesy of Soap's deathgrip, sat obediently at her feet, as if it hadn't just been cradled like it was the last dog on earth.

“Is he—?” she started, voice tentative as she gestured toward the limp form draped across Ghost’s back. Johnny made a low, undignified noise that could only be described as a soggy whimper.

“I don’t know,” Ghost said flatly. “He gets worse when I put him down.”

Johnny stirred, mumbling something that sounded vaguely like “bless the wee dug”, and then let out a hiccuping sob directly into Ghost’s ear.

The woman blinked. Ghost gave her a curt nod, adjusted his grip, and walked on like none of it had happened. The woman stared after them, dog now safely leashed at her side, visibly unsure whether to laugh or report a kidnapping.

Ghost didn’t care.

Price and Gaz had taken the car and left him to this mess, probably as punishment.

“Ye’ll hate me,” Soap sobbed over Ghost’s shoulder, voice thick and raw.

“I won’t.”

“Ye’ll remember ye liked me and then ye’ll really hate me.”

“Right.”

“Ye hate me right now, don’t ye?”

“Oh yeah, with a burning passion.”

“I knew it,” he sniffled, flopping the umbrella around some more, “I am so sorry, Si, I dinnae mean to…”

Ghost couldn’t even relish the fact that Johnny let another part of his first name slip, he just readjusted the man and walked on. “We’ll talk it over tomorrow, yeah?”

“M’sorry…”

“Don’t worry, love.”

The rain showed no signs of mercy. Neither did Johnny’s drunken guilt spiral. Because of what, Ghost had honestly no clue, but he got the feeling that their relationship might not be as peachy as he originally assumed.

As they trudged back toward base, Ghost’s shoulders ached under the deadweight, and his mind wandered, not for escape, but memory.

Ironically, it came back in droplets.

A church rooftop. Ghost remembered sitting on top of a church, terrified Johnny wouldn’t make it back to him. Ghost, crouched alone, waiting for Soap’s voice to come back online. Waiting to know he’d made it.

Rain had weighed him down that night, too, and all he could think of were smiling blue eyes as he listened for every word over their comms. The feeling wasn’t love, not then, but a deep-seated care for the man.

Ghost hurried his pace and gripped Johnny tighter, arm firm around his waist as the man sobbed into his rain-soaked collar.

Johnny better had the decency not to catch a cold.

Because Ghost was not making soup.

Chapter Text

Ghost flipped the pancakes, and his patience was stretched thin, as this one, too, ripped in half. He had begged Price for a day off for all four of them, so he had time. Price had only scoffed and granted his request with a dismissive wave. The old man probably felt bad for shooting at him. It wasn’t like Soap was in a state to work anyway, still passed out in the sheets where Ghost had left him, and if Gaz was only half as bad as him, a day off seemed like the right choice.

The small smile at the thought of Johnny’s wild hair poking out from under his arm was gone as soon as another pancake disintegrated on Ghost’s spatula. And maybe because of the piss poor coffee he was drinking again. Did he make the batter wrong? Was he trying to flip them too early? Ghost checked the recipe on his phone again. He’d read it a dozen times, but the steps still slipped through his fingers like smoke. Like everything else lately.

Damn his flash of inspiration that told him Johnny would want hangover pancakes. Like his hands had remembered something his head had lost. Ghost was pretty sure you were supposed to have something greasy after a night out, but the nagging feeling about pancakes persisted.

Well, it wasn’t looking good for Johnny’s pancakes. Ghost could probably still switch to a greasy breakfast and never tell a soul about this. He could have held Johnny some more instead of stabbing clumps of pancake with a spatula.

“So here ye are, runaway,” Johnny’s sleep-wrecked voice rang out, destroying any and all daydreams about getting into bed again, “You found the officers’ lounge, I take it?”

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” Ghost said, whipping around, spatula in one hand, coffee in the other.

“And yer supposed to be drinkin’ tea.” Johnny rubbed sleep from his eyes, hair wild, eyes puffy. How could a large, muscular man be adorable, Ghost would never know. Johnny padded barefoot across the tile like he owned the place and reached for Ghost’s cup. “Gimme tha’.”

“Don’t drink that, it’s horrible,” Ghost warned, but it was too late.

Johnny took a generous gulp and sighed.

“It’s just right, thank you very much.”

He began rummaging through the cupboards, so Ghost got back to flipping pancakes. Or trying to. The next one was barely holding together. Ghost muttered something indecipherable and pressed on.

“So… I did some research,” he said, low. The pancake flipped, mostly intact. Johnny leaned in slightly, trying to make out the mumbling.

Ghost cleared his throat and continued, just a tad louder, “Apparently, couples get healthier by communicating. And… touch? So–”

He peeled off his gloves, awkward and hesitant. One hand came up between them like he was trying to signal a truce, the other still held the spatula in a white-knuckled grip.

“What?” Johnny recoiled, suddenly looking more awake. He flicked the kettle on and reached out himself, just to say, “Pass the milk.”

“I, uh…,” Ghost flushed. And not the good kind. There was no aborting this mission, he guessed. Johnny was looking over his shoulder like Ghost had grown a second head while waiting for water to boil.

Ghost looked into the pan like it might offer answers. “You seemed upset yesterday…” he began, unsure if the words were even the right ones. It was like navigating a map where all the landmarks had been erased. He pushed the milk across the counter and continued, “I liked it when we held hands. Behind the armoury. Thought we could start there again.”

It sounded juvenile even to Ghost. Like, do you like me, check yes or no. Let’s hold hands behind gym after second period. Yeah right, piss off. Maybe he could carve his eyes out with the spatula so he wouldn’t see Johnny’s reaction.

“Aye– no wait!” Johnny fumbled his words, caught halfway between a nod and a headshake, his hands trembling as he poured water into a chipped cup. “That’s the damn problem, we aren’t a thing. Not like that.”

They weren’t?

“Right, good one,” Ghost rolled his eyes, pulled his gloves back on, and flipped another pancake. The damn thing ripped. His misery would end soon, he was almost out of batter.

“We aren’t!” Johnny hissed, furiously dipping a bag of tea into the mug, “You– I? It’s complicated, fuck.”

Ghost thought back to the first evening in Johnny’s room. The soft, almost tender way Johnny had held his face. How warm it had felt.

That couldn’t be nothing. Complicated didn’t mean nothing. It meant feelings, messy ones, and Ghost had them. He was pretty sure Johnny did too.

Crossing his arms and squaring his shoulders, Ghost turned to face Soap fully.

“We both have very obvious feelings for each other,” Ghost said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I don’t see the problem.”

“Of course,” Soap muttered, bitter. Gone was the sleepy softness, replaced with furrowed brows and sparking eyes. The way he strangled the teabag on a spoon with its own cord felt personal. “Fuckin’ hell, Ghost, you banged your head in hard enough to get some weird idea based on who knows what. Stop makin’ up shite.”

“Piss off, MacTavish. I had a concussion, I am not a fucking invalid. I am pretty sure I know what I feel,” Ghost answered and pulled his arms tighter around him. Something behind him sizzled, but it didn’t smell burnt, just done. He didn’t look.

“Do you? You’re making shit assumptions left and right, even thought you were me,” Soap laughed a bitter laugh and poured the milk.

Ghost flinched. That part still didn’t make sense, not fully. He remembered panic, familiarity, a pull like gravity. A name that seemed to be etched into his very bones. Nothing else.

“Alright, and what gives you the right to assume my feelings? All you had to do was ask,” Ghost snapped back. This was so wrong, he should just leave. Slide Johnny the pancakes over, count his losses, and save what remained.

Soap froze. The fight drained out of him, just for a second. The next, it was back in full force.

“No. Not takin’ that from you. Anything but that. You don’t ask shite,” Soap growled and set the tea down harder than he ment to. Ghost winced at the clatter.

“But I did,” Ghost didn’t like the way his voice cracked one bit, “I did, and you told me we are partners.”

There was a longer pause, one Ghost could feel in his stomach. Soap opened his mouth, then closed it again. A guilty flicker crossed his face.

“Shite,” he muttered. “I did.”

“Look, if you don’t want this, fine. But you don’t get to pin it on me,” Ghost let out a shaky breath, took the tea Johnny made, and slid over what were supposed to be pancakes. “Have ‘em, your head must be killing you.”

Walking away hurt, taking a sip of a perfect cup of tea hurt more, somehow. With a last bit of something, Ghost turned in the doorway, seeing Johnny frozen in the exact spot he had left him, and said, “The tea is good, by the way.”

The silence in the room felt heavier than any shout.

The hallway was dim and colder than the kitchen. Ghost leaned against the wall, the tile pressed into his spine. He cradled the tea with both hands like the mug might shatter. It was perfect. Of course it was.

He could name the weapons in his locker again. He relearned to field strip a rifle in his sleep. But he didn’t know what kind of tea he liked until Johnny made it.

The minutes dragged. The quiet in the kitchen stretched out like a held breath.

Ghost ran a hand down his face, slow and shaky. He remembered he’d been shot at, tortured, nearly buried under a collapsing building, there was a half-formed idea in his head about being buried alive — but this, this silence was worse. He would rather take another roof to the head than stand here like this, like a question mark in Johnny’s life.

Like he’d never belonged.

Like he’d only imagined that he did.

He was almost ready to go back in and offer some flippant comment, something to smooth things over, even if it didn’t fix anything.

From the kitchen came quiet, no more snapping words or burned pancakes, just the faint clink of a spoon. Then, Soap’s voice, softer now:

“So ‘s the coffee. And the pancakes.”

A beat. Ghost didn’t reply.

“Dunno how ye remembered tha’.”

Ghost let out a quiet breath through his nose. Not relief, just surprise.

“Thank ye…”

“Sure.”

He heard a shift. Chair legs scraping faintly. Then footsteps, careful, not loud. Ghost stayed still.

“I liked it, too,” Soap said behind him.

“What?”

“Holding hands. It was nice.”

“It was.”

Another pause, long and tense. Ghost kept his eyes firmly on the tea. Soap exhaled sharply.

“Och, don’t be like that.” Johnny stepped up beside him. “Gimme your hand.”

Ghost turned, nerves taut under his skin, still uncertain, still raw. Soap was standing there, eyes bloodshot, one hand clutched to his chest, the other outstretched. Ghost didn’t move.

This time, Johnny reached out, calloused fingers hovering halfway before they closed around Ghost’s. His grip was warm, grounding, fingers threading between his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m sorry. For blowin’ up like that. Ye didn’t deserve it.”

“S’alright.”

“No. Don’t do that. Don’t brush it off. Ye always do that—just swallow it down. It’s bloody annoyin’.” He held Ghost’s hand tighter. “I was wrong. You deserve an apology.”

“Okay.”

Soap huffed, jaw clenched.

“And… you’re not an invalid. Sorry for makin’ ye feel that way.”

“You’re fine, Johnny,” Ghost said, voice quiet. “But… thank you.”

Another beat passed.

“So…” Soap looked away for a second, then back at him. “Where does that leave us?”

Ghost stared at the tea in his hand like it might hold the answer.

“Dunno. Wherever you want, I guess.”

Johnny ran a hand through his hair. “What made you decide we were a thing anyways?”

“Just… you’re very touchy. And I guess I was surprised how fine I was with that. And being with you is just– it’s so easy. Your eyes are pretty, too, and–,” Ghost said, almost smiling. “It was kinda simple to figure out I had a thing for you.”

“My eyes are pretty? Christ, yer a sap,” Soap muttered, but he was grinning, the sparkle creeping back into his eyes. His voice softened. “So what made you think I liked you back?”

“I have your dog tags.”

Soap groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “No, not those again.”

“If it’s not that, why do I have them?” Ghost narrowed his eyes. “Out with it.”

“Fine!” Soap threw up both hands, taking Ghost’s hand with his. “It’s cause I took yours and I… you can get in trouble if you don’t wear them”

“Go on.”

“Yours’ve got the name scratched out, aye? Grooves’re all sharp. Kept tearin’ holes in your shirts, it was drivin’ me right mad.”

Ghost raised a brow. “So?”

“So I took them to fix ’em up, convinced ye to wear mine instead.” Soap shrugged and looked off to the side. “But then I had to go after Langenscheidt, and you got hit by a fuckin’ roof.”

“Not my best moment.”

“No shite.”

A pause settled between them. Not as heavy as before, but still uncomfortable.

“You want them back?”

“...No.”

“Because I’ll get in trouble if I don’t have ‘em?”

Soap looked down, then back up.

“No,” he admitted, quiet. “No, not really.”

“Was it ever because of that?”

Soap glared at him, red spreading to his ears.

“Alright, ye bastard. If you already know, why don’t ye shut up and kiss me?”

“No. Admit it first.”

“Bleedin’ Christ, cannae win wi’ you, can I?” He sighed. “Fine. I liked the idea of havin’ a claim on ye. However small it was.”

“Wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

He let go of Soap’s hand, just to cradle one side of his face instead. Ghost closed the distance with a delicate kiss, lips barely touching, a breath shared between them. Almost nothing.

“And now,” Ghost leaned back a little and enjoyed the desperation in Johnny’s eyes. He traced his thumb along his bottom lip, touch ever so light. In a low voice, bordering on a whisper, Ghost continued, “Now you tell me what you want.”

Soap grabbed him by the collar and hauled him in, mouth hot and demanding, all fire and teeth and spit. The coffee lingered on Soap’s lips, bitter and warm. It had never tasted better. When they separated, Johnny looked halfway between dazed and crazy, like he’d just stepped off a battlefield. His voice was almost reverent as he answered, “I want you, Simon.”

Ghost blinked. The name hit like a sniper’s shot. Clean, devastating, and undeniably meant for him. Unfamiliar, yet unmistakably his. It fit somewhere deep in his bones, even if his memory refused to reach for it. Ghost took a breath, shaky and full of something like hope.

Simon.

He didn’t remember being that man. But standing here, breath mingling with Johnny’s, he wanted to be.

Chapter Text

Once they started kissing in the hallway, Ghost found he could not stop. It was a bit awkward with him still holding a mug, but his other hand clutched Johnny’s waist like a lifeline. They lacked the practiced ease that came with time, their kisses all spit, heat, and instinct, but Ghost didn’t care. It filled him to the brim with something molten, warmth coiling low in his stomach.

“Ghost,” Johnny whined, when they came apart for air.

“Call me Simon.” Ghost knew he was probably blushing all over, but hearing Johnny say his real name was a deep-seated need for him right now.

“Or I can call ye Mr. MacTavish again,” Johnny smirked, hooking a finger under Ghost’s chin and dragging him closer again, lips only a breath apart.

“You could, but then we would be doing much more than kissing right now.”

“Oh, would we? What a terrible thing to happen,” he sighed against his lips and bit, just a little. His hot mouth trailed kisses with too much teeth along his jaw, down to wherever he could reach the skin of his neck.

“Kinda rude,” Ghost muttered, only half joking. “Just got broken up with before breakfast.”

Johnny paused, forehead resting against Ghost’s collarbone. They should really get out of the hallway.

“Made that breakfast myself, too,” Ghost added.

Johnny leaned back enough to see his face. His grin didn’t quite reach his eyes as he answered, “Sounds like a real arsehole, Lt. Didn’t deserve ye anyway.”

Ghost blinked down at Johnny’s wobbly smile.

The heat between them was still humming, but Ghost caught something beneath it. An undercurrent of tension, maybe. Or the way Johnny kept clinging to his waist like he needed grounding more than groping.

Maybe they both did.

“Maybe we should stick to cuddling?” Ghost suggested. He just craved Johnny’s warmth and comfort, maybe a blanket and definitely another cuppa. It looked like Johnny was up for some more wholesome comfort, too.

“Sounds good tae me,” Johnny smiled and kissed the corner of Ghost’s mouth. Then he dove straight for his chest and buried his face there.

“Having fun?”

“This is self-care,” Soap answered, voice nearly swallowed whole by the fabric enveloping him. And maybe Ghost imagined it, but he was pretty sure Johnny muttered “tease” under his breath, too.

“Glad to hear it.” Ghost slid one hand up under Johnny’s shirt and pinched his side, just enough to make him squirm. “How about we get another coffee for you and move this somewhere else?”

“Tryin’ tae get me alone? Go on, then,” Johnny said and winked from between Ghost’s pecs. Good look for him, if you asked Ghost. “Want another tea?”

“Smart man.”

And the way Johnny lit up at the praise was something to remember. He should praise him more often.

They made it to Johnny’s room in staggered steps, stopping for another kiss near the stairwell, and again outside the door when Ghost muttered something about “priorities” and Johnny answered with teeth against his jaw. Someone passed them in the hallway, and they got half a raised eyebrow in before Johnny shot them a look so scathing they just kept walking without a word.

“Subtle,” Ghost muttered.

“Should’ve growled,” Soap replied, smug.

Ghost followed him through the door, amused, letting himself be hauled off as if he wasn’t nearly twice Johnny’s size. Honestly, it felt nice. Being tugged somewhere. Being wanted, even if it was just for warmth and another cup of tea. For now.

Johnny’s room was as chaotic as Ghost remembered from this morning. Gear on the floor, the file from yesterday evening on his desk, and clothes that didn’t quite make it into the laundry bin.

“Make yourself useful,” Johnny said, already kicking a hoodie off the bed and nudging Ghost down onto it. He was getting something from his desk, but was back in a flash. “Lie down, Lieutenant. Horizontal’s a good look on you.”

Ghost raised an eyebrow. “You planning something?”

“Aye. Gonna use you.” Johnny got onto the bed beside him and flopped half across his chest. “As a desk. Stay still. Flat surface, nice arms. You’ll make a brilliant table.”

“Oh, will I?” Ghost said, deadpan, as Johnny crawled half atop him and plopped his journal onto Ghost’s chest like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Don’t complain, some of us are starving artists,” Johnny said, already fishing for a pencil from his nightstand. “And you agreed, so you’re under contract.”

Ghost huffed, but didn’t move. He didn’t agree to shit. “Do I get hazard pay for this?”

“No, but ye do get tae bask in my presence.”

“Hm. Dangerous perk, that.”

Johnny didn’t answer. Too busy sketching already, his brows furrowed in concentration as he leaned over Ghost like a craftsman over fine marble. Every now and then, he’d glance up, tracing one of Ghost’s scars with his gaze, expression focused. If Ghost couldn’t remember how he got them, he could rest easy that their memories were safe with Johnny.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence and quiet graphite scratching, Ghost’s eyes wandered. Then, very casually, he let one hand slide beneath the edge of the sketchbook and flipped it back a few pages. Ghost took the journal up to his face and flipped further.

Johnny froze.

“Oi,” he said, far too late.

Because Ghost was already looking.

Page after page. Half-finished lines of his jaw. Notes in the margins. One heavily shaded mask close-up that looked like something from a vigilante poster. Intense studies of his legs. And then a very detailed portrait. Ghost, maskless, scarred, eyes softened like he was mid-laugh. The glint of a cigarette lighting his features.

“This is how you see me?” Ghost asked, voice low.

Johnny opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Ghost glanced up at him. “I thought these were just for practice,” he added, flipping back to the current page.

“They are,” Johnny said quickly. “I just… practice better when I care about the subject.”

Ghost hummed. “You really filled this thing with me.”

“Impulse control’s a myth,” Johnny said, trying for humour. “An’ you’ve got a good face for drawin’.”

Ghost let his head rest back against the pillow, eyes closed. Johnny had shit taste. First the coffee, now this. Whenever he looked into the mirror, he saw a face only a mother could love. Or Johnny, apparently.

But he said nothing.

“‘M just a table, remember?”

“Sure,” Johnny replied, cheeks red as he picked up his pencil again. “The prettiest table.”

Johnny had the sketchbook propped back against Ghost’s chest in its spot, one leg flung lazily over Ghost’s thigh. Occasionally, he adjusted his perch, muttering to himself when the pencil didn’t quite do what he wanted, but mostly he was quiet.

Ghost stayed still, hands resting lightly on Johnny’s hips.

“This is weirdly relaxing,” Ghost murmured after a while. “You sure you’re not using me just because I'm warm?”

“Haud yer wheesht,” Johnny said, sparkling eyes looking up from the page. “You’re convenient. And hot. Dual-purpose furniture.”

Ghost chuckled, a low and quiet sound that Johnny barely caught.

“You’re not bad at this,” Ghost added, nodding to the journal without really looking. “The sketching.”

Johnny paused. “Thanks. That’s high praise coming from someone with no artistic taste.”

“I didn’t say I had any. Just said you’re not bad.”

A beat of silence.

Johnny blinked.

Ghost’s eyes flicked down to the sketchbook for just a second, then away again. “You’re… gonna keep that, yeah?”

It was offhand on the surface, but the way he said it, low, gruff, too casual, made Johnny’s pencil stutter mid-line.

“You alright with that?” he asked, softer now.

Johnny looked down at the half-finished page. Soft pencil strokes shaping Ghost’s eyes, the curve of his jaw, that rare relaxed look he only got when he didn’t know he was being watched.

He considered the truth: that most of the book was Ghost. That his notebooks had been quietly filling up with versions of him for longer than Johnny would like to admit.

But he didn’t say that.

Ghost shrugged, but it was the kind that tried too hard to look unaffected. “S’not like I can stop you. You’ve already got half a bloody gallery, don’t you?”

There was no real bite in his voice, only a kind of awed disbelief. He didn’t look at Johnny, eyes fixed instead on the ceiling as if it might tell him what the hell he was supposed to do with the fluttering heat in his chest.

Johnny smiled, warm and slow, and didn’t press. “Good. ‘Cause ye’re not gettin’ it.”

“Didn’t ask that.”

His smile stretched further into a grin. “Aye, well. You’re still my favourite muse, like it or no.”

“Do I get a certificate?”

“I’ll knit ye a scarf.”

Ghost tilted his head. “Will it say ‘objectified for art’ on it?”

“Absolutely. In bright red.”

Ghost snorted, the tension in his body loosening completely. For a minute or two, the only sound in the room was the steady scratching of pencil on paper and Ghost's quiet, even breaths.

Then Johnny added, like he couldn’t help himself, “Y’know... I draw you a lot ‘cause I don’t wanna forget the details.”

Ghost didn’t reply, but his hand came up, brushing through Johnny’s hair in a slow, absentminded way.

Johnny didn’t push for more, just returned to shading a corner of Ghost’s jaw with quiet focus, his pencil gliding across the page while Ghost lay still beneath him, warm and weirdly pliant. It was rare, this kind of stillness. Ghost wasn’t the type to fidget, but he always watched. Calculating, alert. But right now, he was relaxed enough that Johnny could almost pretend they did this all the time. That he could do this every day. Maybe they could.

When he was done, he held the sketchbook up to eye level and compared it side by side with the real thing beneath him.

“…Close enough,” he declared, flipping it around so Ghost could see.

There was a pause. A long one.

Ghost didn’t reach for the book. He only stared.

“That’s what I look like to you?”

Johnny blinked. “Aye, sometimes. Sometimes you're a bit rougher, sometimes you're this… I dunno. Quiet. Like this.”

He hesitated, then added with a grin, “Still got the resting murder face, mind you.”

Ghost huffed a breath, barely a sound.

“But I mean…you’ve got presence, Simon. You walk into a room, and the air changes. Like everyone just shut the hell up without bein’ told. You’re sharp. Steady. I know you act like you’re just some bloke in a mask, but you’re… you.”

“Huh.”

Johnny sat back a little. “What?”

Ghost’s brow furrowed, a faint line forming between his eyes. “Nothing. I’m just… surprised to hear you think I’m competent.”

“I– What?” Johnny laughed, incredulous. “Of course ye are. How—how the hell else would I…? What are you on about?”

“It’s just…” Ghost’s voice trailed off for a moment. He shifted, restless under Johnny’s weight, but not enough to make him move. “The last thing I can remember is getting hit by a roof.”

Johnny winced. “Left an impression, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ghost muttered, dry. “Wanna look under the plaster?”

“Oh no. That’s terrible.”

“You set it up, Sergeant.”

“Guess I did,” Johnny grumbled and stabbed his pencil lightly into Ghost’s chest. “How are you dealing with your memory loss anyways?”

“Well, it’s like…,” Ghost mumbled, fingers sliding through Johnny’s hair. How was he to explain his way of dealing with amnesia? Surely there had to be a way. But what do you call the feeling of going into a room and forgetting what you wanted, but bigger in scope, and all the time? Except when you get a weird idea from seemingly out of nowhere you are convinced is true, but are missing any and all context.

“It’s like with… When I tried to get familiar with my guns again, everything was fine when I worked on instinct. But the moment I concentrated on what I was actually doing…”

Johnny stopped drawing on the margins. The pencil paused mid-line, then dropped to the journal with a quiet tap.

“Simon,” Johnny interrupted, “What do you mean by ‘getting familiar with your guns again’?”

Ghost furrowed his brow and stopped his movements. What kind of stupid question was that? Johnny knew he had amnesia. He had made a big deal out of it just this morning.

“I mean I forgot, but I relearned,” he repeated, very slow.

Soap got really quiet, just for a moment.

“You forgot how to use your weapons?”

“No,” Ghost said quickly. “Not exactly. I can do things. But when I think about the how, the knowledge’s just… not there. Like muscle memory with no backup.”

“Oh bleedin’ Christ,” Johnny sighed and rested his head on Ghost’s pecs for a moment. When he came up again, he looked tired. “How bad is it, Simon? And dinnae give me that ‘only notice it when I think on it’ shite.”

“That’s true, though,” Ghost defended himself, but couldn’t look Soap in the eye.

“Aye? ‘Cause that sounds like patchy memory. But I’ve got a feelin’ ye don’t remember a thing,” he squinted his eyes and sat up, settling fully upright on Ghost’s hips.

“It’s… complicated,” Ghost said through clenched teeth. How was he supposed to even begin to explain that, while slowly but surely, blurry images of something did come back to him, he did have a weird intuition about most things. While not all of them had been right, they always did have a kernel of truth in them.

“It really isn’t,” Johnny sighed and crossed his arms. “Look, I’m not tryin’ tae be a dick, but if ye need tae start over on stuff like that... I think ye need tae tell me. And Price. And Gaz. What if you forget mid-op?”

Ghost chewed the inside of his cheek. Soap had a point. Ghost would have beaten anyone bloody if they had tried to pull this on him. A mission just hasn’t come up, and he was doing fine right now. He had caught every misstep in his workout and every hesitation with his gear so far and worked them out. Granted, these last couple of days couldn’t make up years of honing a craft, but he didn’t start at zero, did he? He started in a cold, rainy place where memory slid behind a wall of mist, just out of reach.

“Right. Just–,” Ghost put his hands on Johnny’s thighs just to hold on. Just to feel his warmth and feel grounded by something. “Just give me a minute.”

Johnny softened. “It’s alright, you’re telling now,” he sighed and kissed the bridge of Ghost’s nose, caging him in with both arms beside his head. Being pinned like this was nice in a very weird way Ghost had to unpack later.

“But they’re your team, Simon. They deserve to know who they are fighting beside. Or who they are trying to get back.”

“Maybe,” Ghost muttered, “but I’ve been fine so far.”

His voice was level, but something in it sounded thin. Like a lie told so often, it stopped sounding like one.

Johnny didn’t say anything. Just raised his eyebrows, slow and unimpressed. Then, in a move that was absolutely unfair, he tugged lightly at the dog tags resting against Ghost’s chest.

“Mostly fine,” Ghost amended.

“We’re tellin’ them,” Johnny concluded.

And that was that.

Chapter Text

There was a kettle going, a tray with mismatched mugs, and a disturbing amount of biscuits. Johnny must’ve made the tea, judging by the nervous energy in the biscuit layout. There were like twelve different kinds. This wasn’t tea, it was a bloody bake sale. All that was missing was a doily on the table and some scented candles.

Ghost didn’t remember asking for any of it.

He stood by the window, arms crossed, staring through his own reflection while the others settled in like this was just any other debrief. Johnny hovered, shifting weight from foot to foot, before easing off and sitting down. Gaz claimed a chair with dramatic flair, dropped one boot on the table, and pointed to the snack tray like it owed him rent.

“If I don’t get a Hobnob in five minutes, the Darjeeling gets it,” he declared, formed his hand to a fingergun and held a mug hostage.

Ghost had never heard a more stupid thing in his life. But it was an attempt to break the thick tension in the room, he guessed. And Gaz was looking at him like he was expecting something.
So after a beat, he answered in a flat tone, “…That’s a war crime.”

“You’d know,” Gaz shot back, arching a brow. But the tone of his voice made it seem like Ghost’s answer wasn’t quite right somehow.

Johnny, already deep into the biscuits, looked up. With his mouth half full, he waved between them in an appeasing manner and said, “Snacks are neutral ground. Geneva Convention and all.”

Ghost almost smiled. Almost.

Then Johnny froze, a new biscuit in hand. His eyes darted toward Ghost, narrowing.

“…But,” he said carefully, “ye do remember the Geneva Convention, right?”

Ghost didn’t answer. The silence stretched long enough to make the steam from the kettle seem louder. A sly grin formed under his mask this time. He stayed quiet.

Price chose that moment to enter, tea in hand, moving like someone who wanted this to feel casual but was betraying himself with every too careful step. His eyes landed on Ghost and didn’t move. He looked at him like he was seeing him for the first time.

Maybe he was, in a way.

They passed the tray around. Ghost didn’t take anything, didn’t move from the window. Maybe it would’ve been nice to have something warm in his hands, especially since Johnny had made the tea, but he didn’t think he could stomach his mask being out of place right now.

“You’re not gonna drink?” Gaz asked, surprised. “I thought you were born with a kettle in hand.”

Ghost shook his head. He could feel a headache creeping up on him already.

“Wait, Tav’s been making tea for us this whole time—”

“I like makin’ it,” Johnny interrupted and pulled a face. His leg was bouncing up and down, and he had a bit of chocolate on the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t mean he has to take it.”

Gaz gave him a look, hugging his mug closer. “Right, of course,” he sighed, taking a breath.

“So, hit us. How bad is it?”

The question wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, but it was Price who answered. “That’s what we’re here to figure out.”

Ghost stayed silent. Soap didn’t.

“He didn’t even know his equipment,” Johnny said, then winced. “I mean- he’s got instincts. It’s just—he told me about it yesterday.”

Price choked on his tea. Gaz turned. “What, not at all ?”

“Not a clue,” Johnny huffed a sound like he was trying not to laugh. He didn’t quite succeed. But it faded fast. “That’s not– sorry. That’s not funny.”

He glanced over to Ghost, but Ghost was busy watching Price furiously rubbing his temples.

“I thought you were just being dramatic about it yesterday,” Gaz muttered, glaring at Soap. “Didn’t realize it was that bad.”

“And then there was the whole name thing, of course,” Johnny nodded and grabbed another biscuit.

“Name thing? I thought you told him,” Price said leaning over to Gaz, voice low.

Gaz froze, mug halfway up. Then he blinked. Rapidly. “I thought you told him.”

Soap looked between them. “Wait, neither of ye–?”

“I didn’t know he didn’t know,” Price said, sounding dangerously close to upset. “Thought he was just keeping quiet.”

Ghost finally spoke, deadpan. “I was.”

“You– what the fuck, man?” Gaz stared at him. “You are walking around without a name and just… vibing?”

Ghost gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Didn’t seem urgent.”

Johnny choked. “You’re tellin’ me you forgot your own name and just thought, ‘Aye, that’s fine. I’ll wing it’?”

“I knew the last one,” Ghost said. “First name was trickier.”

Price pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bloody hell. Did no one tell him?”

“Again, I thought you told him,” Gaz said, affronted.

“I thought you told him,” Price echoed, clearly not enjoying the mirror match.

Ghost folded his arms. “I was curious how you’d all react to that.”

Johnny stared. “Simon.”

“Who do you even remember?” Gaz asked it like a joke, but no one laughed.

Ghost tilted his head. “Soap.”

“That’s it?” Price asked. He had his head in his hands.

“There was a feeling,” Ghost said. “Everyone else? Nothing.”

Price didn’t speak right away. Just sat back slightly, like someone had knocked the wind out of him.

“You didn’t recognize me?” Price asked. Not cold, just quiet. It stung more that way.

Ghost stayed silent a second too long.

“No.”

“Oh, he really did not,” Gaz looked into his tea, haunted eyes fixated on nothing. Then his head snapped up, eyes wide.

“Did you know me?” Gaz asked. “Anything? Name, rank, shoe size?”

“I figured out your callsign.” Ghost still didn’t know his full name. Not that Gaz needed to know, the man seemed upset enough.

“That’s it?” His voice cracked upward.

Seems like he figured it out on his own. Ghost shifted his weight from one foot to another.

“Just ‘Gaz’? You’ve seen me in a towel—”

“Don’t remember that either,” Ghost cut in. His eyes flew over to Johnny, who was deep into a bar of chocolate.

“We’ve been through three continents together, and all you got is Gaz?”

“I don’t even know if that’s a name or a sound,” Ghost said.

“You absolute bastard.” Gaz looked genuinely offended, even through a reflection. “Unbelievable. We shared rations. We shared trauma! I let you punch that one guy in the arm and call it training!”

“Still got the muscle memory,” Ghost offered. His head was hurting really bad right now. “I could re-punch him for you?”

“You are dodging.”

Ghost didn’t deny it.

Johnny’s hands were curled into fists in his lap. He couldn’t sit still, unsteady. Ghost clocked it without looking. Same way you clock a ticking bomb. Something’s gonna set him off. Question was when.

“Ye really didn’t know anything?” Johnny asked, finally. Quiet. Like it just set in.

“I remembered how to move. How to shoot. Some instincts.” Ghost’s voice was flat, repeating what Johnny should already know. His eyes never left the window, only watching reflections. “But no context.”

No one said anything for a second. Only the soft clink of a spoon in a cup.

“Do you remember your family?” Price asked, more gentle this time.

“No.”

“Your real name?”

“Figured it out.”

“How about any of us? Old ops? Training? Conversations?”

“Vague… impressions,” Ghost allowed. His words felt like they were being ripped from his throat. “No facts.”

Gaz made a soft noise like he was laughing into his tea. “We’re the bloody Men in Black, apparently. Flashy thing’d his brain.”

“Dinnae joke,” Johnny muttered. His voice was tight. Off.

Price stood up abruptly. Pacing. “How did medical clear you? This changes things.”

“It’s been manageable,” Ghost said. It wasn’t convincing, even to himself.

“Manageable,” Price repeated. “You forgot who you are, son.”

“I remember enough.”

“Nae, ye dinnae!” Soap snapped. The words seemed to echo through the room again and again, even though Johnny hadn’t been particularly loud. Just forceful.

Everyone in the room turned to him. Even Ghost.

Johnny looked like he regretted it immediately, but it was too late. His eyes flicked around the room, pleading. “I’m—I’m just sayin’. He’s acting like it’s not a big deal, but it is. Right? Tell me I’m not the only one—”

“You’re not,” Gaz said, soft.

Ghost stared at the wall. Then the table. The window. His reflection. Not their faces. Not now.

A silence stretched, awkward and heavy. Johnny’s leg was bouncing again.

“...You gonna eat that?” Soap pointed at Gaz’s untouched biscuit, desperate for a distraction.

Gaz blinked. “Take it. Thieving goblin.”

Soap shoved it in his mouth without ceremony. “You’re just mad he only remembered me,” he said, with no real energy behind it.

“Still rude,” Gaz muttered through his tea. “I’m charming as hell.”

Ghost didn’t smile. But he moved. Slowly, stiffly, he turned from the window and sat down at the table with them.

That felt like something.

—

They finished the rest in relative silence. The kind that wasn't comfortable, but wasn’t hostile either. Everyone chewed over more than just biscuits.

When the plates were mostly clean, Price cleared his throat.

“You’ve got your team behind you, son,” he said to Ghost. “Whether you remember us or not.”

Ghost gave a small nod. The kind you could miss if you blinked.

Gaz stretched, rolled his shoulders. “Still stings, though. Like, c’mon. We’ve trauma-bonded. That should count for something.”

Soap tried for a smile, but it didn’t quite stick. “He’ll remember. Just needs more exposure to my winning personality.”

“That might make it worse,” Ghost said.

That at least earned a snort.

Then Price’s voice shifted, command returning to it like a coat pulled on.

“And you two,” he said, turning to Soap and Gaz, “don’t think I forgot your little pub excursion. And calling someone on sick leave to bail you out.”

Gaz opened his mouth, but one look from Johnny shut him up fast.

“Whatever it was about,” Price continued, “get your act together. You were lucky Ghost got you a day off yesterday. Today I want inventory done, and the warehouse clean. And I better not see either of you before then.”

To be honest, Johnny didn’t look too good. He hadn’t moved. Not really. He stood, but his shoulders sagged, hands wringing like he didn’t know what to do with them. His eyes were elsewhere. Probably replaying every word Ghost had said. Or hadn’t said.

Ghost watched him for a beat. Then reached out. Not much, just enough to close a gloved hand around Soap’s wrist.

Johnny flinched like he’d been caught off guard. Then stilled.

Their eyes met. Mask to blue.

“It’s alright,” Ghost said, quiet but sure. Like it cost him something, but he meant it.

Johnny didn’t answer, not out loud. But his hand stopped shaking.

It wasn’t much. But it helped.

That was enough.

Gaz caught the moment, didn’t comment. Just clapped Soap on the back and muttered, “C’mon, Romeo. Let’s go take inventory of the dust bunnies and pretend we’ve got purpose.”

Soap gave one last glance back. Not quite at Ghost, but near enough, then he followed.

They left, door swinging shut behind them with a soft click.

—

When the door closed, Ghost turned to Price again.

“The sick leave part was a bit much,” Ghost said and crossed his arms. He clearly remembered getting shot at and being left in the rain while dragging Johnny home alone on sick leave as well.

“Well, it worked. They needed the kick. Both of them are lucky I didn’t get on their case yesterday,” Price waved him off, pushing a cup of lukewarm tea over instead. Ghost took it, but didn’t remove his mask. Let it warm his gloves instead.

“So,” he said, slow, “Now what?”

Price sighed through his nose. “Now we figure this out.”

He leaned back for a beat, gaze skimming the table, before squaring his shoulders again. Focused.

“First things first: I think your instinct to hide your condition wasn’t the worst, considering your circumstances. Paranoia is what’s kept us alive so far, after all. We’ll keep your amnesia on a strict need-to-know basis.”

“Which means it doesn’t leave this room.”

"Precisely. Any changes, you come to me. No exceptions.”

“Roger that, Captain.”

Price leaned forward.

“Don’t get me wrong here, Simon. We all should be grateful that Soap caught you,” the Captain fixed him with a stare that made Ghost feel weirdly small. “We’re your team. We’re going to handle this together, but we need you to be honest with us. This team’s only as strong as its weakest secret. Understood?”

Ghost chewed the inside of his cheek before muttering a small, “Understood.”

“Good.” Price smiled. It wasn’t bright, but it was steady. “Glad to have you back.”

He rose again and clapped a hand to Ghost’s shoulder.

“Let’s see what you still got, huh?” Price said, knocking the rest of his tea back. “Range is clear.”

A skill assessment Ghost could do. Probably.

He didn’t touch his tea. But he held it. Let it warm his gloves, with whatever warmth there was left of it.

“You ready?” Price asked, halfway out the door.

No, Ghost thought.

But he nodded anyway. And followed.

Chapter Text

The smell of metal hung in the air, clean and sharp with every shot Ghost let loose.

Price leaned against the concrete barrier, arms crossed, as he watched Ghost work through another magazine. The shots were precise, grouped tight, stance solid. But something about the rhythm was just a little off. One breath too long between transitions. A half-second stall before pivoting left.

Still lethal. Still faster than most. But not quite Ghost.

To anyone else, he would probably still look like himself. Mask fixed forward, movements crisp, recoil absorbed without wasted motion, and his hands steady on his trigger. But Price caught how Ghost’s thumb hovered just a second too long over the safety before that first shot. Took note of the footwork, a fraction hesitant.

When Ghost finished the set, he cleared his rifle and ejected the mag with a sharp, practised click. The motion was automatic, but the look in his eyes burned through the targets. Frustration, poorly disguised under that skull mask.

“Well,” Price said and pushed away from the wall, “good so far, but not your best.”

Ghost’s jaw tightened under the mask. “No,” he muttered. “I know.”

"Oh?" Price tilted his head. “How?”

Ghost shrugged, already pulling a fresh mag from his vest. “A feeling.” His hands were already checking his gear again, patting down pouches, double-checking buckles. He tugged on a sling point twice, then let it go.

“That so?” Price asked, but didn’t press. The twitch at the corner of his mouth said enough.

Ghost reset his stance. Buttstock to shoulder, feet shifting against the grit on the concrete. The rifle felt fine in his hands, balanced, but there was that nagging half-second hesitation before his cheek met the stock again. He adjusted twice. Chewed the inside of his cheek.

This time, when Price barked a sudden “Right side, two targets!” Ghost’s shoulders locked, just for a breath, before he moved. He swiveled, rifle up, and sent both targets dropping in a tight double tap. That pause had still been there, barely a second. But it mattered. And they both knew it.

By the fifth round, sweat clung under Ghost’s gear. He wasn’t winded, but the strain settled in his shoulders and forearms. His aim was fine. It was everything in between, like transitions, the connection between instinct to conscious thought, that’s where things went wrong. Ghost cleared the last set with a quiet grunt, racking the rifle open and setting it down on the barrier with a clack.

Price handed a bottle of water over and waited until Ghost twisted the cap off before saying, “Soap mentioned something about you not sleeping well last night?”

Ghost snorted, drank, and then said, “Must’ve woken him up.”

“I see,” Price's nod was slow, before breaking out in a satisfied grin. “Well, as your Captain, I didn’t hear shit. But as your friend? Good on you both. Was about time.”

Ghost froze mid-swallow, lowering the bottle. “What took us so long?” he asked, half expecting no reply. The Captain had no business with his relationships after all.

Price scratched his cheek, head tilting slightly. “If I had to guess, I’d say consequences.”

Ghost glanced over. Price took Ghost’s silence as a sign to continue, and added, “You’re legally dead. And if brass ever decided to care about fraternization, it’s Soap who’d take the hit.”

“Huh,” Ghost halted, hands tightened around the bottle, then set it down by his kit. His gloves were brushing over the edges of his vest again, tugging at straps that didn’t need it.

“Not that that’s the only reason,” Price said, voice easy. “But it’s one of the bigger ones, I’d wager.” Price shrugged and left it at that.

Ghost didn’t argue. There was no point in it. He asked for an outsider’s perspective. He got it. Without the memories to prove or disprove, he had nothing to go off.

They didn’t say much after that. The drills ran their course. Ghost pushed through the motions, reloads, clears, target transitions, until the last of his mags ran dry. Price had him cycle through every variation he could think of in the short time they had, watching him find his way through each movement like retracing half-familiar steps.

By the time drills wrapped, Ghost had sweated through his undershirt, while Price looked pretty happy with himself. Ghost re-packed his gear with efficiency, each motion muscle-deep but distant. He could see himself finding comfort in the motions some time ago.

“I’m gonna check on Soap and Gaz,” Ghost said finally, tugging off his gloves and shaking tension out of his hands.

Price raised a brow and grinned. “Volunteering for inventory, are we?”

Ghost just gave him a look.

“Alright then,” Price chuckled. “Go keep ‘em from burning down the warehouse.”

—

The metal door almost creaked on its hinges as Ghost stepped inside, light from the range giving way to the flat fluorescents of the supply building. The air was warmer here, filled with the scent of dust, oil, and the cheap cleaning agent used all around base.

Soap’s voice echoed from somewhere deeper between the rows of shelves and crates. “Gaz, I swear, if you label another box ‘fragile’ just because you can’t be arsed to lift it–”

“Shut up,” Gaz called back, quieter than Soap but no less sharp. “That one literally says ‘medical’.”

“Aye, and I am not getting the bloody forklift again for another thirty minutes.”

Ghost tracked the sound, footsteps quiet on the concrete. Rounding one of the shelves, he spotted Gaz crouched over a clipboard next to several crates and Johnny halfway up a ladder, head and shoulders buried in the top row of supply bins. From this angle, the only visible part of him was from the sole of his boots to the rise of his ass.

Ghost walked up and gave Soap’s leg a light squeeze.

The reaction was as instant as it was catastrophic.

“Shite!” Soap jerked, one boot kicking free of the rung as he flailed sideways. A rain of zip ties and duct tape clattered down. Ghost caught him by the waist before he hit the deck.

“Bleedin’ Jesus!” Johnny shouted, halfway between panic and laughter. “You absolute–”

“Friendly,” Ghost said, voice even, adjusting his grip. After the drills, his forearms burned pleasantly from the catch. “Just saying hi.”

“Nearly killed me!”

“You’ve survived worse.” Ghost let go of Johnny as he found his footing and stepped back, completely unapologetic.

Gaz sighed, audibly putting the clipboard down. “The hell was that? Flirting or attempted murder?”

Soap was still muttering under his breath when he picked up the dropped zip ties. “Menace,” he grumbled, brushing dust off his sleeves. “Sneakin’ up like that–”

“Inventory going well?” Ghost swiped some off Johnny’s shoulder as well.

“Fine,” Soap said, looking a little red in the face. “We’ve got two-thirds sorted, and after that is cleaning. You here to supervise?”

“Help,” Ghost corrected and pushed up his sleeves. He didn’t miss the way Soap looked over for a second too long. Poor lad, always distracted whenever Ghost showed just a sliver of skin. Amusing, but he didn’t comment.

Gaz raised a brow. “Help? Voluntarily?”

Ghost glanced around, taking in the number of crates out of their shelves. "Didn't look like you had it handled.”

“Rude,” Gaz muttered. But he handed over a clipboard anyway.

Ghost took it and crouched beside one of the crates, flipping through the list. His gloves cracked slightly on the plastic as he checked the labels. It was easy work, rote and manual. Maybe too easy, as Johnny beside him adjusted crate positions, glancing over every now and then. Ghost just hovered close.

Eventually, after everything was done and dusted, Gaz checked his watch and stretched like a cat. “Alright. That’s enough logistics for a lifetime. Food?”

“Starving,” Soap said immediately.

Gaz grinned. “That’s just your default.”

“Still counts,” Johnny said, brushing his hands off on his trousers. “Coming, Ghost?”

Ghost hesitated. He hadn’t eaten today. But the thought of lifting his mask around anyone but Soap made something tight coil behind his ribs.

Still, he was hungry. So Ghost said, “Sure.”

—

They took a corner table, out of preference as much as habit, as Ghost had come to suspect. Ghost slid into the seat facing the door. Johnny dropped down next to him, filling that space as easy as breathing.

The tray in front of Ghost was mostly untouched, save for the protein bars Johnny had shoved at him. The first one Ghost had unwrapped slowly. Bit by bit. He didn't think he needed to eat much. But Soap just knocked their knees together and kept his chatter up with Gaz, and the normalcy of it all helped enough to lift the mask and start chewing, hidden in the corner of the room. After the first bar, the rest went down easier as well.

Gaz kept the conversation moving, grumbling about outdated filing systems and how the base’s spreadsheet software was held together by ‘hope and Excel sins.’ Johnny added his own colourful insults, and Ghost mostly just listened. Present, but quiet. Letting the rhythm of their conversation settle him.

After everyone had finished their meal, Johnny nudged his arm. “Walk?”

Ghost nodded. They picked up their trays, and no one asked where they were going.

—

The sun was just low enough to throw long shadows across the gravel yard. The air carried that blend of gun oil, ozone, and distant green from the fields beyond the fences. The security lights wouldn’t quite reach here, but the sun would do for now. At least it wasn’t raining. Soap leaned against the armoury wall and stretched, working a kink out of his neck with a groan.

“Christ, I reek of dust,” he muttered. “Shower’s callin’.”

“Try not falling out of shelves next time,” Ghost said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Cuts down on the dust.”

“Tha’ was yer fault,” Johnny said with a grin, swiping one. “Nearly went ass-first into the ammo tins.”

“Occupational hazard.” Ghost waited for him to light up, then leaned in to catch the flame from Soap’s cigarette.

“Reckon I’ll sleep like the dead,” Johnny said around a drag.

“You will,” Ghost said, matter-of-fact.

Johnny tilted his head, smoke curling past his grin. “An’ you?”

Ghost didn’t answer right away, just flicked ash into the gravel and exhaled slow. “Not sure.”

Soap’s stance shifted, his boot scruffing the gravel, eyes darting to Ghost’s mask, before he looked at the setting sun again. “Aye. Figured.”

They stood in quiet for a few breaths, the sound of distant target fire carrying faintly from the range. Johnny looked tired, most of his weight rested on the wall behind him. The crease in his brow was the same as this morning.

“Something on your mind?” Ghost asked, leaning beside him.

“Well…” Soap ran a hand through his hair. His voice was quieter now, softer. “Please dinnae take this the wrong way. But… do ye reckon you can– I mean, without your memory and all…”

Oh, this was definitely something that had bothered Johnny since this morning. With the way he shifted from side to side, refusing to look at him, Ghost wasn’t sure he would like what came next.

“There is just no way to say this without it comin’ out wrong,” Soap laughed a little without any humor. “It’s just… It feels like you’ve let me in quick. Quicker than you would’ve before.”

“So that’s it.” Ghost’s voice stayed level, but the way his fingers rolled the cigarette was tight and sharp. “Thought we’d been through this.”

“We have,” Johnny said quickly, snapping his head back around. “An’ I’m not sayin’ you’re wrong to. It’s just– with your head the way it is, it’s hard not to wonder if it’s… different. If you had all your memories–”

“I don’t,” Ghost cut in. “And I am not sitting around, waiting on them either.”

Soap met his eyes, stubborn through the smoke. “Aye, but what if they change how you feel?”

Ghost narrowed his eyes at him. “What part?”

“Not the good bits,” Johnny amended, cheeks colouring. “You’ve made those clear.” He nudged Ghost, a little smile breaking through.

“No, I mean the bad ones. The stuff that makes it hard for you to… let anyone close?”

Ghost stared at the ember at his cigarette tip, voice low. “If I don’t remember it, I can’t use it to decide. Simple as that.”

“That’s exactly it!” Soap shot up from beside him, pacing. “I’m the one sittin’ here with both versions in my head. You before, and you now.”

“And?”

Soap came to a stop and pivoted to Ghost on the gravel, the sun silhouetting him from behind. It would be beautiful if he didn’t flail his arms around in an attempt to grasp for words that weren’t coming to him. After a beat, he settled on, “And it feels like I am carrying this for both of us.”

“If you do, this won’t last," Ghost crossed his arms. "Let me decide what I can handle.”

Johnny’s shoulders dropped. His cigarette had burned down almost to the filter. That didn’t hinder him from taking a long last drag before crushing it under his boot. “Feels like watchin’ a missile comin’ in slow. And I don’t know…”

Ghost pushed off the wall as well and came to a stop before Johnny, boots almost touching. “Someone smart told me once, ‘You said something just now',” Ghost said, softer. “You told me. That’s doing something.”

Soap’s huff of laugh was muffled as he dropped his head to Ghost’s shoulder. “Guess we’ve both got work to do.”

Ghost settled his hands on Johnny’s hips, resting there. They let the quiet hang, just enjoying the last rays of the sun, until Ghost said, “Promised Price I’d see someone about all this.”

That got Soap’s head up fast. “Seriously?”

“Something about experts being better at their jobs than muppets.” Ghost’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Didn’t bother to catch the rest.”

Johnny grinned, bright in the low light. “Couldn’t agree more.”

Chapter Text

The morning air was thick with mist, but the sun already started to burn through it. The training field beyond the barracks had been churned up by boots, mud trailing like there had been a skirmish.

Eight rookies stood at attention, breath fogging in the cold. They looked half awake, half terrified. Probably because Ghost stood opposite them. Soap had seen that stance before. His weight was set evenly, boots rooted in the mud, whole frame as still as a statue. Arms crossed. Mask unreadable.

He’d left his clipboard with Soap, as well as the megaphone. Soap assured him he wouldn’t need it, and with a little grin behind his journal, Soap realized just how right he was. The weight of Ghost’s stare had them quaking in their boots. It did more than any shouting ever could.

Price had ‘asked’ Soap to help out this morning, which, judging by the way he’d said it, meant don’t even think about being late. He hadn’t planned on it, especially since it involved Ghost. Sure, it was unusual to supervise his commanding officer, but Soap could think of it as a form of assistance. That sounded more right. Even Ghost could appreciate that much, hopefully.

So here he was, leaning against a stack of crates with his sketchbook balanced on his knee, at the crack of dawn. If he had to be here, he might as well enjoy the view. Second-best thing to Ghost bossing him around was watching Ghost boss others around.

The rookies stood as still as possible. A tense kind of stillness, anticipation heavy in the air. If the ground weren’t so muddy, Soap would have been sure to hear a pin drop.

Finally, Ghoste spoke. His low voice cut clean through the air.

“Course is simple.”

He pointed to the flags staked into the field, the bright plastic flapping in the wind. His volume didn’t rise above conversational, but somehow his words carried perfectly.

“Start with the low crawl under the netting. Wall vault’s next. You’ll carry sandbags downrange, drop them at the mark. Then bounding movement past the red line. Sprint, drop, crawl. Repeat to the end. You finish with a sprint and touch that crate over there. Easy.”

Ghost paused, and Soap glanced over the rookies. They all stood ramrod straight, although two of them couldn’t help but exchange worried glances. The taller one gave the ginger one a tense smile and nodded in Soap’s direction.

Ghost’s head swiveled toward them with slow precision. Not jerky, not rushed, just enough to make the air feel heavier in the space between. He continued, “If you’re slower than thirty seconds on your carry, you run the perimeter. Questions?”

A long silence followed, punctuated by two downright dirty looks thrown Soap’s way. Soap just grinned and shrugged. Honestly, he had forgotten about the two privates who begged him to make Ghost go easy on them. And, although he could understand how this might look to them, Ghost wasn’t particularly demanding right now. For Ghost’s standards.

The ginger one (Murphy, was it?) shifted, another one of them scratched at the velcro on their vest. Ghost clocked both movements. Didn’t speak.

He took a step forward. It echoed in the quiet like a countdown.

Soap swapped his journal for the clipboard, thumb ready over the stopwatch.

“Go,” Ghost said.

They ran.

—

The netting claimed the first victim within seconds. A boot heel snagged in the mesh, sending its owner face-first into the mud. The poor sod flailed like a hooked fish. Soap bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, and Ghost’s only comment was, “Untangle faster.”

The wall vault took out another, and by the time the sandbag carry came up, most of the survivors were a patchwork of mud, sweat, and bad decisions. One dropped his bag halfway, staggered back for it, and nearly took out the rookie behind him. They both crossed over the line, barely.

Soap glanced down at his stopwatch. “Steamin’ Jesus,” he muttered. None of them made the time.

Murphy trudged over the line last, looking like he’d just aged ten years. Somewhere in the middle of the pack, a rookie tried to discreetly spit mud out of his mouth.

Ghost’s hands flexed once at his sides. “Perimeter,” he ordered. Didn’t even need to hear their times.

They groaned but obeyed, boots squelching in unison.

Soap just hummed, watching them jog off, before his gaze wandered over to Ghost. His Lieutenant’s shoulders were tighter than before. With a grin, Soap pushed himself off his sitting place and stood next to him. Beneath his mask, Soap could practically see Ghost’s brow furrow.

“Thirty seconds isn’t hard,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “This is easily doable in twenty.”

Soap laughed a little and looked at the clipboard. Barred the two who took themselves out of the round, most of them had made the sandbag carry in under two minutes. Not bad for soldiers fresh out of basic. Not good either, but workable. “Well,” Soap said with a smirk, “Maybe ye don’t compare them to SAS Elite just yet. Bit unfair, aye?”

Ghost didn’t answer. Just saw to it that every single one was running the perimeter at an even pace. That they could do, stacked together as a tight group.

—

The next heat was no better. And when one of them tried to shave off time by only pretending to touch the crate, Ghost barked a single “Again.” and sent them back to the start. Soap wasn’t sure why they even tried that. But he had to thank them for the vision Ghost was, he guessed.

Sharp, present, a bit pissed off. Ghost’s shoulders were tense in a way that made him stand up straighter. He didn’t move much when he was annoyed, but Soap caught the shift in his stance, weight rolling forward, chin angling down. If he weren’t supposed to be on stopwatch, Soap would be sketching by now for sure.

By the fourth round, Soap started to feel a little bad for them. None had succeeded in clearing the bar Ghost had set, and it was clearly eating at their morale. Ghost, on the other hand, just seemed done. His hands settled on his hips, fingers drumming once against his plate carrier. Soap could practically hear his gears turning.

Finally, when the rookies started their run around the perimeter again, he turned to Soap. “They need a benchmark.”

Their time wasn’t getting better with fatigue. Soap couldn’t see how a benchmark helped in this. He arched a brow. “Meaning?”

“You run it,” Ghost said and leaned over him, “Show them it’s doable.”

When Soap raised his other brow as well, Ghost leaned further down, hovering just above his ear. “If you do this in twenty, I’ll make it worth your while,” Ghost whispered in a flat tone, but the way his eyes crinkled gave away the smirk under his mask.

Soap’s reply was immediate.

“I’ll do it in ten.”

And just like that, the fate of the rookies had been sealed.

—

Soap rolled his shoulders, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “Right then. Stopwatch ready?”

Ghost just gave a curt nod, mask tilted like he was already calculating split times in his head. The rookies shuffled back further and gave Soap more room, some looking genuinely curious, others already dreading what this demonstration might mean for them. Murphy and his friend Taylor, in particular, didn’t look all too pleased by this.

Soap jogged up to the starting mark, checking the gear he hastily strapped on for this. Maybe a few minutes ago, he’d felt bad for what the poor sods were going through. But Ghost had a way of clearing his conscience right up.

“On your call, big man,” Soap grinned.

Soap was pretty sure he could hear Ghost grin under the mask as well as he said, “Go.”

Soap dove under the netting, dirt scraping against his vest. He cleared it clean, vaulted the wall with both boots hitting the top at the same time, and snatched up two sandbags without breaking stride. Downrange, drop, pivot. His breathing synced perfectly with each bound and sprint. By the time he slapped the final crate, his heart was pounding, his muscles buzzing, and Ghost’s voice was saying, “Eighteen point three.”

Soap turned on his heel to face the group and flash a cocky grin. “Not bad, eh, Lt.?"

Ghost stared at him with an intensity in his eyes that sent a shiver through Soap. The stare was so deeply familiar, cutting right through him, stripping him bare.

He quickly shifted his attention towards the rookies. Soap was not exactly expecting applause, but was surprised by just how horrified their faces were. They already knew what this meant.

Ghost stepped forward, slow and deliberate, and gestured toward the course. “That’s the standard now.”

Taylor, the tall and lean one, groaned audibly from the back of the group. Murphy shot a betrayed look Soap’s way. Maybe Soap could find it in his heart to feel a little bad, just not now when he returned to his place at Ghost’s side.

Ghost handed off the clipboard and stopwatch again. And when he said, “Move,” they did.

—

The next twenty minutes were a blur of shouted times, boots slamming into mud, and Ghost pacing the line like a wolf. Every time a rookie lagged or fumbled, Ghost would call out, “Soap did it faster,” or “The Sergeant had two sandbags in less time,” until even Soap started to feel a twinge of guilt.

Not enough to stop smiling every time Ghost used him as the example, though.

By the time the rookies were gasping through their rounds and losing pace on the track around the perimeter, Soap was leaning against the crate stack again, sketchbook out. No point in taking their time anymore, it stagnated and got worse with every round a while ago. So his pencil kept wandering from the course layout to Ghost’s stance instead. The way he stood square, weight balanced, every command sharp as a blade.

“Christ, you’re obvious.”

Soap jumped, nearly dropping his pencil. Gaz was standing just off his shoulder, coffee in hand, eyebrows up.

“Was wonderin’ why I could suddenly hear Ghost from two buildings away,” Gaz continued. “Didn’t realize it was your kink day.”

“Haud yer wheesht,” Soap muttered, flipping a page over his sketch.

"Just checking in." Gaz sipped his coffee, smirking. “You know you’re the reason those kids are dying out there, right?”

“Aye,” Soap admitted, watching Ghost’s eyes track a rookie through the crawl. Ghost looked over, held his gaze for just a moment too long, and then barked another order. So worth it.

“Call him off, they deserve to be let off early. I think one of them is about to vomit again,” Gaz pulled a face.

Soap sighed and put his journal in his back pocket. He wasn’t quite sure what bothered Gaz so much, this wasn’t far off from what Ghost usually subjected troops to. Minus the impromptu demonstration. Ghost was just a strict instructor, always had been. “Yer goin’ soft, Garrick, but fine. I’ll try.”

“I’ll try,” he heard Gaz mocking him as he walked up to Ghost. Since he had told Gaz most things that happened while they were stuck doing logistics, Gaz was somehow convinced Soap held some sort of supernatural sway over Ghost. Sure, the man tended not to oppose him, but Soap also didn’t tend to interfere with his work. Much.

And now, with the first tentative step into a normal work routine for Ghost, Soap was hesitant to interfere. It was obvious the man detested his circumstances, despised assistance even more. Ghost was so adamant on pushing any sign of his struggle aside, Soap was honestly not sure what to do. Here, at least, he seemed confident.

Annoyed? Yes. Misguided in his attempt to get those rookies to be better? Maybe. But confident.

And it suited him so well.

—

“Ghost,” he called and came to a stop next to him. “How long do you plan on running them ragged?”

“Until at least one gets it right,” Ghost watched with squinted eyes as two of them crashed into each other on the sandbag carry.

“I think we’ll have better chances at that if ye leave them be for today,” Soap looked up, only to find Ghost already staring at him, jaw working. “Their times are only getting worse now. Give it a rest, Simon.”

“Right,” Ghost nodded slowly, before turning to the group. “Listen up. You’re done. Make sure to give a proper performance next time.” The ‘or else’ was implied.

Eight bodies collapsed like dominoes onto the training ground, heaving breaths of relief. And although he had a hand in their torment, Soap was just glad he had gotten to see Simon be his strict, confident self again.

“Good work.” Soap punched Ghost’s shoulder lightly and smiled up at him. Together, they made their way back over to Gaz. Gaz, who just sipped his coffee and had an ‘I told you so’ practically written across his forehead. Before any of them could get a word in, Gaz gave them a long, knowing look over the rim of his mug.

“Right. I've seen enough,” he said, clearly fighting a smirk. “I’ll… leave you two to whatever this is.”

Before Soap could tell him to sod off, Gaz was already strolling back towards the main building, steam trailing from his cup.

They stood there for a moment, just the two of them on the churned-up field, watching the rookies drag themselves towards the barracks in various states of physical ruin.

Ghost glanced sideways at Soap. “You enjoyed that far too much.”

“Aye, maybe a little,” Soap admitted, grin tilting up at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t help it. You look good when you’re terrorisin’ people.”

Ghost huffed through his nose – could’ve been a laugh, could’ve been a warning – then turned towards the crate stack to grab his things. Soap followed.

“You realise,” Ghost said after taking a quick sip of water, “you’ve just condemned them to a course twice as hard next time.”

“Oh, I know,” Soap said, looking over the clipboard one more time and pocketing the stopwatch. “Just isn’t my problem.”

Ghost’s eyes crinkled faintly above the mask. He stepped close enough that Soap had to tip his head back a little to meet his gaze. “Not your problem?” he echoed, voice low.

Soap didn’t back off. “Aye. Today’s solved. You’re in a better mood, I’ve got some new sketches and…” he paused deliberately, “you still owe me for that eighteen point three.”

Ghost stared at him for a beat, unreadable. Then he started walking toward the armoury, throwing a, “We’ll see, maybe shower first,” over his shoulder.

Soap fell into step with him, grinning like he’d already won. He had no clue what Ghost was imagining, but Soap was going to make sure he finally scheduled a first therapy session.

Chapter Text

The hot stream of the shower beat down on him, sliding over broad shoulders and down the ridges of muscle, carrying away the mud and sweat of the field. Soap tipped his head forward, bracing one hand against slick tile, the other dragging lazily over his chest to chase away the suds sticking to his skin. Heat curled around him, steam clinging close, until every breath felt thick and heavy.

It should have been nothing more than routine — wash, rinse, get out — but his mind refused to stay clean. How could it, when the memory of Ghost’s hand still rested on his arm, an afterimage of pressure remaining with the promise to catch him later.

The thought landed low, electric. His heartbeat stumbled, air catching in his throat. He could almost feel the other man’s breath against his ear and- damn it. His body reacted before his brain caught up.

“Bleedin’ Christ,” Soap muttered, pressing a fist to the tile as if he could pound the thought away.

There had to be a reason why Ghost never acted on his feelings before the roof incident. Probably the man’s discipline, definitely the history he wouldn’t talk about. Soap told himself it was caution. Either way, it didn’t stop the ache building beneath his ribs, didn’t stop the heat that made him tilt his face up into the spray until water coursed down his throat and chest like fire.

He should turn the shower ice cold, get out before he talked himself into anything stupid. Or maybe he should just let himself take the edge off — press his forehead to the wall, fist around his cock, bury the hunger like he had for a while now.

At least until Simon got his memories back. Until it was safe.

—

Soap’s room still smelled faintly of citrus hairwash and steam, a damp towel draped over the chair in the corner. Ghost shut the door behind him, the quiet click carrying more weight than it should have. Soap rubbed a second towel through his hair, trying to act normal while every nerve in him buzzed. Suffice it to say, the shower hadn’t helped with getting his mind out of the gutter.

When he glanced over, Ghost was standing there like a statue. Mask on, broad shoulders taking up the whole doorway, that damn steady stare pinning him in place.

“You ready to cash in your eighteen point three, then?” Ghost asked, voice roughened by something that wasn’t just fatigue.

Soap rubbed a hand through his wet hair, flicking droplets at the floor. This whole situation was a ticking bomb Soap wasn’t sure how to defuse. A selfish part of him didn’t want to.

But he did have a goal in mind.

“Aye,“ Soap said, just to distract his mind with idle chatter. “Shower almost made me forget ye still owe me.”

Ghost tilted his head, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Should I be worried?”

Soap snorted. “Depends on how bad you hate keepin’ promises.”

The exchange might have been light if not for the way Ghost stood up straight at that, eyes locked on him. Every bleedin’ look that man gave felt like a touch.

Soap needed to sit down on the edge of the bed. His palms rubbed against his thighs, restless. He could feel the tension, thick enough to choke on. Ghost stepped forward with confidence, like the air itself bowed around him. Two fingers tugged the bottom edge of the mask, slow as sin. Only enough to bare his mouth.

“So, what’s it gonna be, Johnny?” Ghost’s lips curved into something satisfied, fond, maybe a little dangerous.

Just a bit. Soap could indulge just a little bit and stop if it got too far. He’d been trained to stay calm under fire, keep a level head. He always had Ghost’s six, no matter what. Maybe this was a whole different battlefield, but he had himself under control.

Soap leaned up as Ghost bowed down. Lips brushed, tentative at first. A second kiss, firmer, Ghost’s hand coming up to steady Soap’s jaw. He melted into it, dizzy with the heat building in his chest. Soap's brain was already halfway to stripping him with his teeth before he could rein himself back in.

Ghost’s lips were warm and steady, not as greedy, pressing firm against Soap’s like he had all the time in the world. They probably did, but with Soap’s heart beating out of his ribcage, it sure didn’t feel like it. Was it only him being this desperate, or was Ghost just more patient?

Soap’s hand slid into damp hair at the nape of his neck poking out under the mask, and the weight of Ghost’s rough palm at his jaw made his skin burn hotter. He loved his lieutenant's calloused hands, loved how careful he swiped his thumb over Soap’s cheek, a stark contrast to the scars testifying to the violence he was capable of. But part of Soap would love it even more if those hands were elsewhere. Stripping him bare, squeezing, touching, anything more than what was currently happening–

As if he read his thoughts, Ghost worked his tongue into his mouth, and Soap couldn’t stop his needy whine. The second noise he made was more shameful as he felt the vibrations of Ghost’s laugh build in his chest and reach his lips.

How much Soap wanted to bite him for that.

Playfully, of course, but he wasn’t sure if he should. Wasn’t sure if he should do any of this, but it was hard to have an internal crisis when his lieutenant sat down on his lap with his whole weight. Soap couldn’t move if he tried, and he very much didn’t want to. Lines seemed to be warping under heated kisses, and Soap had trouble keeping his goal in sight.

Right, there was a goal here. With his waning willpower, Soap let off Ghost, leaning back a bit to catch his breath. How Ghost managed to turn his brain into complete mush with a few kisses was honestly a bit embarrassing.

“Jesus wept.” Pinned by Ghost’s weight and hungry eyes, he struggled to put his thoughts back in order. “Are— Are ye good?”

Seeing the little smirk to Ghost’s amused huff was already a heady feeling, but then Ghost took Soap’s hand and guided him to his very erect cock. Soap got so dizzy he was glad to be sitting.

“Have a guess, Johnny,” he whispered into his ear.

“Fuck.”

“Sure,” Simon said, amused and full of himself and— fuck. How could he have ever deluded himself into thinking he was capable of stopping himself? This battle was lost from the start.

Ghost shifted his weight in Soap’s lap, slow, deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing to him. The mattress dipped under the press of him, thighs caging Soap’s hips. His mask hung just above his mouth, teasing, showing just enough skin to ruin him.

Soap bit back a noise, but Ghost’s eyes crinkled, sharp with mirth. The bastard knew. Of course he did.

“So red,” Ghost said, low, smug. His thumb traced Soap’s cheekbone, down to the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t think I could make you blush this hard, Johnny.”

Soap swallowed hard, heart hammering against his ribs. “Not —” he tried, but his voice cracked into a whimper when Ghost rolled his hips against him. The thick ridge of his cock ground alongside Soap’s, the friction unbearable even through layers of fabric.

Soap cursed, and Ghost’s answering laugh against his lips nearly sent him through the mattress to his maker. It was as rare as it was pretty to Soap’s ears, and he got to hear it twice already.

Ghost leaned in, lips brushing his again, and Soap was more than happy to give his mouth something else to do than talking.

“You’re easy,” Ghost said, breath hot, words cruel only because they were true. “Look at you. Can’t keep your hands still.”

And he was right. Soap’s fingers had already fisted in Ghost’s shirt, clutching him close like he’d fall apart without him. He tried to pull away, to salvage an ounce of his dignity, but Ghost caught his chin and kissed him again, deeper, tongue sliding hot and steady into his mouth.

Soap melted. Completely. Every bit of restraint went with the shudder that rolled through him. He was pinned, caged, wanted more than anything, and Ghost’s cock hard against his thigh wasn’t helping in the slightest.

Ghost shifted his weight again, grinding down until Soap groaned and held on for dear life. The bastard took his time, mouth lingering at his jaw, his throat, dragging hot breaths across his skin until Soap shivered. Then his fingers hooked into the hem of Soap’s damp shirt.

“Off,” Ghost ordered, low and sure.

Soap might’ve refused if he had any spine left. But it melted alongside his brain a long time ago, so he lifted his arms without thinking, let Ghost peel it away, toss it carelessly on the floor. The cool air hit Soap’s skin for half a second before Ghost’s calloused hands were on him again, sliding down his chest, his ribs, before hot and steady palms came to rest at his hips.

Soap didn’t bother caring about the noises he made anymore when Ghost’s mouth closed on his collarbone, teeth scraping, tongue soothing after. His hips bucked up, shameless, dick straining against thin joggers that left nothing to the imagination.

Ghost chuckled against his skin. “Bit desperate, aren’t we?”

“W-Wheesht,” Soap gasped, but it came out thin and cracked, ruined by the roll of Ghost’s hips.

The joggers went next, stripped off in rough tugs until Soap was bare beneath him, cock flushed and leaking against his belly. Ghost sat back just enough to look at him, mask hanging loose above his mouth, brown eyes burning almost red. Not in his wildest fantasies had Soap ever thought he would actually be under him and looked at in this way. What a woozy feeling.

“Mh, Johnny,” Ghost rasped, voice dripping with heat, “look at you.” His hand wrapped around Soap’s cock, slow and deliberate, making Soap’s spine arch off the bed. With a swipe of his thumb, he took the pre-cum down the length of him to ease the glide of his strokes.

“Ff–fuck!” Soap’s head thumped back into the sheets, eyes screwed shut, mouth open. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

Simon leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “You good?”

The question was soft, grounding, but Soap couldn’t answer, not properly. All he managed was a strangled noise, a jerky nod, and his hands clawing at Ghost’s shoulders like he’d die if he let go. Through a haze of lust and heat, Soap got enough of his brain back on track to ask back, “Y-you?”

That laugh again, low and smug. “I’m good, yeah,” Ghost answered, stroking him slow, steady.

“Thank God.” Soap knew his dopey smile made him look like a right idiot, but he couldn’t bring himself to care when Ghost had a similar expression on his face. If only he could see Simon fully.

But that was a matter he had to take into his own hands, it seemed, seeing as the bastard wasn’t concerned with undressing for the occasion himself.

From Ghost’s shoulders to his mask was no distance at all for his hands, and Soap was over just taking what he’d been given. If Ghost could distract him with kisses enough to melt away any plans Soap had, so could he. Maybe that would motivate Ghost to hurry up the pace of his strokes. Right now, he was hitting the spot in between ecstasy and madness with deadly accuracy.

Soap sneaked his fingers beneath the mask into Ghost’s hair, just to give a light tug. It had been more of a grounding motion for himself, but Soap reveled in the little hitch in Ghost’s breath. Small victories were victories nonetheless.

He hesitated, thumb brushing the worn fabric of the mask, tempted to push it higher. With a searching look to Ghost’s eyes, he grabbed the edge of it and–

“No,” Ghost said, quiet but firm.

Soap immediately let go as if burned. Fu–

“That didn’t mean stop,” Simon added, voice still low, steady as ever. The edge of command in it did something to Soap that turned a little thing he knew he had into a huge problem for him in the future.

Soap huffed a breath that was half laugh, half relief. Of course Simon knew exactly where his lines were. Of course he’d hold them. That certainty made it easy — easier than he’d admit — to lean back up, surer of himself this time.

“Shirt then?” he asked, testing, a grin tugging at his mouth. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around Ghost’s neck again.

“Hm.” Ghost’s eyes narrowed in amusement. “Why?”

“‘Cause I want to bite yer tits,” Soap grinned.

“I– What?”

Soap pulled Ghost down, leaving little kisses along his jaw, pecking his kiss-swollen lips just to take a little nibble. Barely anything, mostly just a graze of teeth, but Ghost’s breath stuttered anyway. “Please?”

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” Ghost muttered, but leaned back to strip his shirt in one fluid motion.

Seeing Simon’s bare muscles work was always fascinating, but up close and in his own bed? Almost close enough to taste every scar on his upper body, bury his face in the light chest hair framing his dog tags and finally bite into the layer of fat covering Simon’s firm pectorals–

“Happy?”

With how Simon was practically melting back into Soap’s arms, there was an opportunity. Sure, Ghost was still immobilizing his legs with his weight, but since he wasn’t really trying to restrain him, Soap seized the moment to flip them with his upper body strength. That they weren’t tumbling out of Soap’s small bed was a small miracle helped by both reaching out to steady each other.

Sat atop his lieutenant, Soap couldn’t help but smirk down and admire the pink blush spreading patchily across Ghost’s pale skin.

“Aye. Very happy.”

And with that, Soap dove right in, teeth finding skin, licking at any hurt he might have caused, kissing it better just to do it all over again. The texture of scars and clean skin was just so damn tasty, and the little sounds Ghost couldn’t quite contain accompanied by small twitches only spurred him on further.

Following the outlines of Ghost’s muscles down his body was as natural as breathing, even when Ghost’s own breath became more uneven. Soap’s hands slowly went up and down Ghost’s side, just to commit the feel of his skin there to memory. He was happy to explore the pale body beneath him, but never went further than the navel. Why would he need to? He had plenty of skin to explore, and he could hold Ghost down by the hips to be nice and still.

“Johnny,” Ghost hissed through clenched teeth and dragged Soap back up face-to-face by his mohawk. That scary stare of his was heavily undermined by a sinful pink blush reaching down to his shoulders, paired with all the hickeys and bitemarks he was sporting. Not even the crooked mask could offset that much.

He lifted Ghost’s chin with a finger.

“Simon,” Soap answered and pecked the fabric hiding Ghost’s nose. Just to give him a taste of his own medicine, he rolled his hips on Ghost’s still-clothed dick. Soap was a breath away from devouring him again, but it was almost better watching his usually calm mask-wearing bastard try not to squirm. He still didn’t want to escalate to touching Ghost further just yet, but delighted in the way Ghost’s fingers were digging into his hips. As if he was going anywhere.

“What did ye want, then?” Soap asked, voice dripping with benevolence, while his hands pressed into the fresh marks he had left. Soft flesh turned hard as Ghost tensed up, but the little noise made it out of him nonetheless.

“You have a plan?”

“What? Not easy enough for ye?” Soap laughed and kissed Ghost’s jaw. “Did you want something specific?”

“I’m flexible,” Ghost answered in his usual monotone, despite his nails cutting crescent marks into Soap’s hips.

“Oh, I know,” Soap whispered. Images of nights spent on the training mats with just the two of them flooded his mind. Stolen glances, enjoyment taken where it wasn’t given, bodies pressed close under the pretense of practice. Flexibility wasn’t the only thing Soap noticed then.

“So?” The way Ghost slowly blinked up at him almost made it seem like he knew what Soap was thinking about. But Simon couldn’t, Soap reminded himself. Couldn’t but would in time, and right now was the time to make sure this memory would stick.

“So–” he pecked Ghost’s lips because he couldn’t fucking help himself before sitting up straight again, reaching for the nightstand. “You’ll help me with opening myself up, and we’ll see how I feel about losing the view.”

“Comfy where you are right now?” Ghost mused and shifted Soap so he could sit up as well with him in his lap. The new angle had Soap hum at the way Ghost’s cock was pressing against his ass.

“I sure love where I am sitting,” he grinned, reached around in one of the drawers, and pulled out a bottle of lube on its last leg. It would be enough for this at least. Probably.

Sitting back up, face to face, allowed Ghost to distract him with deep kisses again, hypnotize with those lovely brown eyes. Such delicate long lashes should be a crime; was there no limit to his handsomeness?

A sigh so satisfied it made Soap proud left Ghost’s mouth when they parted for a bit, before he turned to leave little kisses everywhere on his face. Just once did he stop to ask in that deep voice of his, “You certain you don’t want me to fuck you proper?”

“Can’t lie, that’s a wee bit temptin’, that is,” Soap breathed, turning his head to the side so Ghost could reach better. With a practised twist, the cap of the lube came off and he squeezed whatever remained into his hand. Ghost nosed at his ear and trailed kisses further down his neck while Soap warmed the gel in between his fingers.

With his clean hand, he took one of Ghost’s, gave the palm a little kiss along the way before spreading lube onto his long fingers. Then Soap pressed his palm flat against Ghost’s chest, pushing him down again with easy confidence.

Ghost’s breath caught, shoulders tensing under Soap’s hand before he huffed a quiet laugh, a little too flustered for his own good.

“Fucking me proper sounds nice.” Soap’s lips ticked up into a smirk, triumphant. “But ye look too pretty like this, I’ll no’ waste it.”

“...Pretty?” Ghost asked. It sounded like he didn’t believe him.

“Aye, such a bonnie lad,” Soap repeated, guiding Ghost’s slicked-up fingers until he found the swell of his ass and the heat between. One finger circled his rim before carefully pushing in, slow. Soap sighed, “So careful and attentive. Strong, too.”

“Oh.” Ghost’s face was burning for sure. Soap didn’t need the mask gone to see that. Who knew he could be this pliant, over some little compliments no less.

Soap pushed back on Ghost’s steady-moving finger, encouraging moan falling from his lips, just to zero in on Ghost’s reactions this time. They weren’t big, not that Soap expected them to be, but with the way his other hand tightened on his hips again, eyes blinking a bit too fast, and the smallest bite to his lips, Soap knew what to look out for in the future. What to look out for now.

“Ye want some more praise, big man?” Soap asked. Even if his tone got a bit whiny at the end, it still had the intended effect: hitched breath, short tension in the muscles before Ghost had to consciously relax them again. Soap could swear that if he leaned down, he would see Ghost’s pupils swallowing his lovely brown irises.

Another moan was torn from him when Ghost added the second finger, spreading him more, pressing in close. A little smug at that, Ghost answered, “Go on, then.”

Soap couldn’t help his hushed whimpers as Ghost dragged his fingers inside him in a very particular way Soap hadn’t felt before. He was so steady with it, so careful, “So good, love the way you touch me, been thinking ‘bout this.”

It was like a dam broke, all of Soap’s thoughts just babbling out of him. Not that Ghost seemed to mind, quite the opposite in fact.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groaned. Soap was so enthusiastically moving on his two fingers that it was hard to add a third, but Ghost managed. His ass was pretty tight, but Soap adapted to the stretch quick.

“Ye think only three is enough for you?” Soap whined, lifting his hips just enough so he could get to Ghost’s pants. They were stained already, from lube or precome was hard to tell, but most importantly, they were in the way.

“Hm, yes,” Ghost answered, but didn’t sound as sure of himself as he usually did. No matter, Soap was plenty sure for both of them. With one fell swoop, he dragged Ghost’s soft pants down as far as he could pull them. And then paused.

“Och, ye want me tae feel it for days?” he asked a little incredulous at the sight beneath him. Proportionally, it made sense — big man, big dick. But this was unfair.

“Need more prep, Johnny?” Ghost traced small circles with his thumb on his hips. It wasn’t teasing per se, but Soap still felt embarrassed.

“Uh, aye. Probably,” he admitted and squirmed in Ghost’s lap. It wasn’t like he couldn’t do it if he tried, but it wouldn’t be comfortable. And he didn't want to work with a limp tomorrow.

“Right,” Ghost nodded, a small smile on his lips, “Keep sitting pretty like that, I’ll take care of you.”

As steady as before, Ghost continued to work him open, until Soap was fairly confident he could take another finger. He knew Ghost had a kind side to him deep down, but being this considerate as a partner had him gasping almost as much as the attention he was receiving.

Impatient as he was, he grabbed Ghost’s cock in the meantime, gave it an experimental stroke. While Ghost shuddered through that without much noise, he couldn’t help but feel glad he asked for more prep. His penis wasn’t just big, but thick and heavy as well.

Soap shivered in anticipation, heat churning in his stomach. He worked his hand in a similar rhythm as his hips, leftover lube easing the glide.

“Are–,” Ghost interrupted himself with an intake of breath as Soap swiped his thumb along the vein on the underside, “Are you feelin’ good?”

“Yes,” he grinned, “Might want to add the fourth.”

“Bossy,” Ghost sighed, but complied anyway. Just as expertly as the others, just as consistent. With his long fingers, he could reach where Soap’s hand wouldn’t, and rocking back down on them in the pace Ghost had set, Soap found that he could come just from that.

“Y-you want to fuck me now?” Soap gasped.

“Been wanting that for a while.” And to Soap, it sounded more like an admission than it probably was, but he was happy to delude himself a little.

When Ghost pulled out his fingers for good and Soap lined up his cock, sinking down felt like completion in a weird way. Soap needed two breaths and one short pause to take him all the way, but take him he did.

“O-oh tha’s–” Soap cut himself off with a moan. Deep breaths, in and out. He was only feeling his lieutenant's cock almost in his lungs, no big deal. “Ye are s-so deep. How are you doing?”

“Mhm,” Ghost pressed out between clenched teeth, barely managing a nod. His hands pressed down on Soap’s trembling thighs to keep him from moving just yet. Somehow, Soap could swear Ghost’s eyes were swimming with something. He was probably just as overwhelmed as he was.

Soap watched as Ghost tried to catch his breath, blush as pink as it could get, cock twitching inside him. “Fuck, look at ye. So beautiful.”

Ghost cursed. “Let me breathe, Johnny.”

“Sorry. Cannae help it,” Soap smiled a shaky smile. He really wasn’t lying, just looking at Ghost made his brain flood with compliments that begged to be spoken out loud. Something about admiring and telling seemed to come very natural to him.

After one, two, three deep breaths, Soap’s heart calmed down enough to place his hands on Ghost’s chest. Good for groping and leverage, very tactical of him. He bowed his head just low enough to make out Ghost’s eyes under the mask, his voice a low purr. “Ready now, Simon?”

Ghost blinked up at him, a small, asymmetrical smile forming on his swollen lips.

“Yes,” he whispered back.

So after a quick little kiss, Soap sat back up and started moving.

—

“Happy?” Ghost asked when he returned with the towel from the chair. Ever so carefully, he started wiping cum and sweat from Soap’s chest.

“Exstatic,” Soap nodded. “Sun’s practically beaming out my ass.”

Ghost gave him an unimpressed stare through the mask. “Pretty sure that’s cum, love.”

“That, too,” Soap snorted, then stopped to think. Wait, what did he call him?

“Can you spread your legs a little further?” Ghost asked and moved the towel down to his pelvis.

“Huh? Oh, sure,” he nodded. Probably was a slip of the tongue anyway. Some meaningless pet name, never mind that he had never heard Simon use them. Nothing to worry about, really.

He had bigger things to focus on anyway.

“So,” Soap began and rolled his shoulders, “As for the bet–”

“What are you on about? We settled that.” Ghost probably raised an eyebrow, he sounded like it at least. When he finished wiping Soap down, he just threw the towel on the floor and joined him in bed again.

“Dinnae get me wrong, I enjoyed having sex with you,” Soap said in a tone that was entirely too nonchalant. His fingers trailed up Simon’s side, slow and gentle. “But I never said that’s what I had in mind, aye?”

“Johnny.”

In a quick movement, Soap grasped the dog tags around Ghost’s neck and pulled him towards him. With every word making their lips touch, Soap demanded, “Therapy. I want ye to make an appointment.”

Ghost blinked, slow as anything.

“That’s your favour?” His voice was dry as sand.

“Aye. You promised. I’m cashin’ in.” Soap kissed the corner of Ghost’s mouth, but couldn’t keep down his smirk, smug as anything. “Could’ve asked for somethin’ filthy. Instead, I’m askin’ ye to let someone help. That’s proper care, that is.”

Ghost stared at him. Equal parts pissed, touched, and cornered. Soap bit his tongue. He might have finally overstepped with this one.

Ghost sighed. “…You’re a menace.”

Soap grinned wide. “And you’re makin’ that appointment.”

The silence stretched. Then Ghost pinched the bridge of his nose over the mask. “Fine.”

Soap whooped, pecking Ghost’s cheek after. “Knew it! Price’ll think I’ve worked miracles.”

“Price already thinks you’re a walking headache,” Ghost muttered.

“Aye, but you don’t,” Soap shot back. He tugged the dog tags one more time before letting them go, then leaned in to press their foreheads together. “An’ I win.”

Ghost let out a low noise, something halfway between a groan and a hiss.

“You okay?” Soap asked and put some distance between them.

“Mhm, just the bruise,” Ghost answered. Without fanfare, he grabbed his mask and pulled it off, one hand rubbing across his forehead.

And Soap saw it.

The bruise.

It sprawled ugly-yellow and swamp-green across Ghost’s forehead like some godawful watercolor, fading at the edges with faint purple blotches.

Soap froze. Ghost’s refusal to take the mask off. The look of the bruise. His brain stalled, then flipped, then—

He snorted.

Tried to smother it, but it broke out anyway. A laugh cracked from his chest, then another, until he was cackling so hard he had to shove his face into the blanket. Loud, sharp, unstoppable. He clutched his stomach, trying to get words out between wheezes. “Sorry—sorry, Christ, but yer face—”

Ghost stopped mid-movement, mask dangling from his fingers. “What about it?”

Soap gasped for air, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. He pointed helplessly at Ghost’s forehead. “The bruise! Jesus wept, it’s gone full rainbow. Yellow, green—yer like a traffic light gone wrong!”

“You’re laughing at head trauma.”

“Aye,” Soap wheezed, almost sliding off the edge of the bed. “An’ I’d take a photo if I thought I could survive it.”

Ghost stared. Soap laughed harder. Finally, after a long silence, Ghost sighed through his nose, the tiniest twitch of his mouth threatening to betray him. Soap noticed.

“Idiot,” Ghost muttered, setting the mask on the nightstand.

“Aye. But you knew. You knew how it looked and wouldn’t take yer mask off,” Soap shot back, wiping his eyes. Who knew Ghost could be so vain?

With a glance at Soap’s smile, Ghost admitted, “...Maybe.”

Soap hummed, settling back against the pillows, tugging Ghost with him until they were stretched out side by side. All tension that had been building finally ebbed, replaced by warmth and weight. And little laughs bubbling up now and then form Soap.

Ghost stayed put. Arm draped heavy across Soap’s chest. Eyes half-lidded, energy drained. Nose tucked into Soap’s neck.

Simon closed his eyes. “…You laugh at my face again, I’ll leave.”

John grinned into his hair. “Deal.”

Simon made a noise that could halfway qualify as a laugh and stayed where he was. John tucked into his side, still fighting down the last wheeze of laughter at that bruise.

He was already imagining the sketch later. Colours were rare for him, but the bruise his lieutenant sported was just too impressive.

Cuddle secured. Therapy booked. Reference acquired.

Perfect.

Chapter Text

The base had the strange, brittle hush of a place that expected something and wanted it over with. Training cycles staggered, half the recruits busy running drills while the other half cluttered the mess. Ghost kept to the less crowded path, boots steady on the linoleum. His hands were shoved in his pockets, hood up over his mask as if he could make himself less obvious, not that it helped. He missed the comfort of his gear.

Price was already leaning against the corner where the hallway split toward the admin wing. One look at him with his hat tipped back, arms folded, and Ghost didn’t bother pretending it was a coincidence. Knew with how everyone clung to him, they all had this day circled in their calendar. In bright red. It shouldn’t matter to them that much.

“Headed somewhere?” Price asked, casual as anything.

Ghost slowed just enough to give him a look. “You stationed yourself here.”

Just like how when he went to his office, Price was there to check in. When he was early in a meeting room preparing for a presentation, Gaz dropped by. And Johnny— Ghost huffed, not going there right now. No point in debating whether sunshine could be too bright.

Price’s mouth twitched under his moustache. “Funny how that worked out.”

“Not funny at all.”

“You’ll live.” Price pushed off the wall, walking alongside him now. Not blocking him, but not leaving either. Like he was on a bloody escort mission. “You said you wanted to try this.”

Ghost grunted. He knew he did. Also knew that he had made a promise to Johnny, although he didn’t imagine all this when he did. Little minx had used his eighteen point three seconds of leverage not in a way Ghost had guessed he would, instead dragging him down by dog tags that weren’t his but belonged to him anyway, and made Ghost promise whatever this was.

In the end, Ghost had agreed to set up an appointment himself.

He wasn’t about to go back on his word, even if it meant showing up as tense as a tripwire, heading into a shrink’s office like he was about to be debriefed on a particularly bad mission. A mission he wasn’t sure would succeed anyway, but telling that to his teammates felt rather cruel. Because even if all of them irritated him to no end these past few days, he couldn’t deny that they were trying. In a weird way.

Price slowed his stride as they reached the door. “Don’t give her hell on the first day, yeah?”

Him giving her hell? Ghost’s eyes narrowed above the mask. “Can’t make promises.”

“Didn’t ask you to.” Price clapped his shoulder once, then peeled away, leaving him with the door. Ghost stood a beat longer, jaw tight, before knocking once and stepping inside.

No going back.

—

Dr. Christina Nastos’ office was smaller than he expected, smelling faintly of tea and disinfectant. Bright without being harsh, books stacked neatly on a side shelf, a cluttered desk with two chairs facing each other. One of them already occupied.

Ghost was stepping on neutral ground. No immediate danger, but best to keep his wits about him.

The therapist looked up from her notepad, adjusting her glasses with a steady hand. Her neat, neutral clothes didn’t match the knick-knacks on her desk or her ridiculous flamingo pen. It looked like a deceptive attempt to seem domestic. She smiled like she’d practiced her distant warmth. “Simon Riley?”

“Ghost.” He sat, sprawling more than he needed to, one elbow hooked over the chair arm. His mask hid most of it, but his posture left no doubt. Defensive, coiled. A bit stand-offish. Felt cleaner that way, like second nature.

“Alright. Ghost.” She offered the faintest of smiles again, jotting something down before setting the pen aside, next to a statue of a blue elephant. “Thank you for coming in. I know these first meetings can feel awkward.”

“Not awkward,” Ghost said. “Forced.”

Her brow ticked, but her tone stayed even. Didn’t take it as a personal slight then, or hid it well. “Then let’s talk about why you’re here. What would you like to get out of this?”

To get to leave was the first thought that shot through his head. Didn’t say it out loud, as much as he wanted to. Sitting around and doing nothing hasn’t done him any good, and he had to admit his detective work had been a bit shoddy. Ghost wasn’t holding his breath for his amnesia to suddenly lift anytime soon (if ever), but the least he could do was to let the woman speak on her approach. Get some information out of her.

“Memories.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “How do I get them back?”

The flamingo pen was back in her hand, but she didn’t look away, steely blue eyes trained on him like a target. “There isn’t a guaranteed method. Sometimes memories return with time. Sometimes not at all. We’ll have to do a few tests first, see how your amnesia affects you and what could work.”

A pause. Ghost narrowed his eyes at her.

“That’s a load of nothing.” His voice had an edge to it now, more interrogation room than therapy office. “What accelerates it? What works exactly?”

“Grounding exercises, structured recall attempts, external cues like photographs or familiar routines.” She listed them calmly, like she’d been waiting for this push. The pen twirled once in her hand. A slow circle, almost calculated. “But forcing it too hard can backfire. That’s where we’ll need to be careful. Therapy can help with either outcome, help your memories return or help with coping without them.”

Ghost’s fingers tapped once on the chair arm, slow. Assessing. “So you don’t know. You’re guessing.”

“Not guessing, no. I’m trained. I’m experienced. But I can’t promise you a timeline,” she said. “What I can do is help you adapt — with or without the memories.”

An offer, then.

Ghost leaned back again, staring at the ticking wall clock. Ten minutes in and he’d learned nothing useful. Nothing concrete at least. The woman put up a stone-cold facade, lips as tightly closed as her button-up, saying nothing more, leaving the silence to hang on her offer. He could respect that. Valid interrogation tactic.

Fine.

He’d give her three sessions. That seemed like enough to test whether her methods held water. If she was full of it, he’d know. Setting mission parameters. That, he understood.

With his new resolution, he finally asked: “What do you want to know?”

Her expression softened a fraction. “Whatever you’re willing to tell me. How your days are going. What’s hardest right now. Maybe we can move on to structured tests.”

Ghost leaned back again, crossing his arms. “My days are going fine.” His voice dropped flat. “Although the others might disagree.”

She nodded. “Then that’s where we’ll start.”

The flamingo pen raced over her clipboard before she set it aside completely and offered her hand. “I am Dr. Christina Nastos. I look forward to working with you, Ghost.”

Ghost looked at it. Looked at the soft hand that had never seen manual labor, the way her blouse was steamed to perfection and buttoned up neatly, her dumb flamingo pen. Looked past that, considered her quiet confidence, her calm but precise gaze. She didn’t flinch. That counted for something.

“Alright,” he said and shook her hand.

—

The session ended quicker than Ghost expected. Or maybe it just felt quick because he’d spent most of it testing her answers instead of offering his own. Either way, she’d wrapped up with a professional smile and a note about “picking this up next time” and left his head buzzing. Most people probably found the distance in talking to a stranger about their problems comforting, but to him, it felt like someone scraped a rusty spoon through his brain.

Ghost closed the door behind him.

And stopped.

Johnny was sitting cross-legged right outside, leaning against the wall like a watchdog with no shame. Sketchbook balanced on his knee, pencil spinning between his nimble fingers. At least his didn’t have flamingos on it.

“Took ye long enough,” Johnny said, looking up with a grin that was brighter than a dingy hallway deserved. “What’d she say? Did ye get any memories back yet?”

“No,” Ghost answered, stepping around him. He was sure Johnny was aiming for humor, but it landed as too hopeful. Rationally, he should have been grateful that Johnny had been waiting at all. That he was there by choice, watching his six. But somehow the scraping feeling extended down his spine. “Move.”

Soap scrambled up, falling into step beside him. “Ye don’t get to brush me off that easy, Ghost. I’ve been sittin’ here half the morning.”

“That’s your mistake.”

“Aye, but worth it.”

Something softened in Ghost’s chest, a slow, reluctant thing that only made the rest of him tense harder. Johnny’s optimism had the kind of warmth that was usually soothing, but felt a little feverish right now.

Ghost let the moment slip by, finding it easier to stay quiet. Needed some peace, some space for himself. He kept walking, Johnny fell into step beside him, and it didn’t feel as raw as talking. Only to hear footsteps rounding the corner.

They hadn’t gone ten paces before Gaz appeared, mug in hand, eyebrows already up. “Oh, fancy seeing you two here.”

No.

Fists clenched at Ghost’s side, fabric stretching over the back of his hand.

“Coincidence?” Ghost asked, deceptively monotone. He had half the mind to quicken his pace to leave those two idiots to themselves. Hope was it wouldn’t turn into three.

Gaz smirked over his cup. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

Soap gave him a look. “Don’t act like ye weren’t lurkin’. Kettle’s still on your desk, isn’t it?”

“I can take a walk now and then,” Gaz said smoothly. Then to Ghost, “So? Was it terrible? Blink twice if Soap bullied you into it.”

Ghost stopped walking. Both of them nearly bumped into him.

His stare shifted from Soap to Gaz and back. He had some patience for Price’s measured concern. He had less for the gentle hovering that made him feel monitored. None when it came with a group.

“Back off.”

Soap bristled. “We’re lookin’ out for you!”

Ghost’s voice came low, clipped. “Enough.”

That single word froze Johnny in the middle of what he wanted to add. There was genuine hurt in those ocean blue eyes of his, although he blinked it away as quickly as it came. Even Gaz had nothing to say, half-surprised at the edge in Ghost’s voice. Something like a mix of irritation and guilt swirled into anger, scratching up Ghost’s spine, and he knew it was best to move on from this — at least for now.

He let the silence speak for him before anything worse could be said and stormed past them, boots echoing down the hall.

Neither followed. But he could still hear them after rounding a corner.

Soap blew out a slow breath. Ghost imagined him rubbing the back of his neck. “Christ, he’s grumpy. Therapy must’ve been shite.”

“Maybe,” Gaz said, “Maybe… It’s not his thing.”

Ghost didn’t stick around long enough to hear if Soap replied. Somehow, he could still see Johnny’s easy grin in his head, bright and stupid and too fond, chasing him down the corridor long after he’d turned away.

Chapter Text

The next few days blurred together, the kind of blur that came with survival masking as routine. Ghost didn’t know what to make of this, but it was better than sitting still. Stillness meant thinking. And thinking meant noticing the empty spaces Ghost couldn’t fill.

Price had him on office duty more often than not. Strategy briefs, updated threat profiles, the kind of PowerPoints that could scrape out anyone’s will to live. Ghost would power through them in his gravelly monotone, flipping slides like guillotine blades, each click a decapitation of a thought. The work kept him busy, and busy meant quiet. Quiet meant control.

When he wasn’t in a briefing room, he was on the field running the younger foot soldiers ragged. Barked orders until his throat felt raw, reset drills, and sent anyone who tried to coast straight into perimeter runs. Johnny had dubbed him “the rookies’ bogeyman” and sketched little skull doodles in the margins of Ghost’s handouts. Ghost hadn’t stopped him then. These days, the drawings didn’t show up anymore. And something else was missing, too.

Johnny, of course, was everywhere and nowhere at once.

He’d still leave tea at Ghost’s desk, the steam always gone cold by the time Ghost noticed. He’d still appear on the edge of drills, but quieter now, no grins, no jabs. Just a watchful silence Ghost couldn’t stand to meet. Vanishing after he made sure Ghost ate his meals, only reappearing at nighttime. Hovering. Always hovering. Until Ghost decided that that was what bothered him and returned to his own room.

And Ghost — stupid, stubborn bastard that he was — told himself it was what he wanted. He’d said back off, and Johnny had listened for once. So why did the empty spaces feel louder than his own breathing?

—

The sessions themselves weren’t terrible.

That was the worst of it — they weren’t terrible.

Dr. Nastos was calm. Patient. Too patient. She didn’t react when he went quiet, didn’t take the bait when he tried to turn her questions into tactical skirmishes. She just sat there, flamingo pen tapping against her notebook, waiting him out like a sniper in cover. And when he left, he always felt raw, flayed open in ways he didn’t have names for.

The things she had pulled out from him were basic, almost banal. Some flashes of a young boy spending nights at the public library. Snippets from his rookie days. Reconstructing his old daily routine. A night in enemy territory, although Dr. Nastos said they would interrogate that memory later. Somewhere in between this loomed a presence, and he didn’t know what set him off more — remembering who he was or who he had been aiming to become.

By the time he made it back to the barracks, the pressure had built into something mean. It leaked out sideways. Snapped words. Short orders. The kind of cold tone that left soldiers stammering, and Soap, the one person who should’ve called him out, just quietly nodded and did what he was told. Stood there and took it all, like it was in any way justified. The compliance stung more than any argument could.

He caught himself once, too sharp over something stupid. Johnny had stopped by with a fresh file of field photos for a report and a squeeze to the bicep, said something offhand about a “new patch in yer memory, eh?” and Ghost had looked up and snarled, “Not your patient.”

The silence that followed was an execution.

Johnny’s grin vanished, his shoulders hitching like he’d taken a physical blow. He nodded, slow, like he understood. “Right. Aye. My bad.”

And then he was gone again.

The regret came five seconds too late, like always.

Ghost sat there, staring at the empty doorway, heart hammering. He wanted to call him back, but the words didn’t exist. Not the right ones.

So he found a way to remove hurt from the equation by doing something that felt as natural as breathing, like a mask had settled right where it belonged again.

He buried it. Worked longer hours. Stared at spreadsheets until numbers blurred. Told himself that isolation was safer, cleaner. Told himself his smokes behind the armoury were more peaceful alone. Told himself that he couldn’t hurt Johnny if he wasn’t there at all.

He told himself a lot of things. None of them helped him sleep.

—

It wasn’t long before Dr. Nastos suggested external cues. “Objects. Photographs. Things that might jog associations.”

Ghost had narrowed his eyes at that, considering. He hated the idea of staring at a bloody scrapbook like some puzzle.

“You want me to play scavenger hunt with my trauma?”

She’d smiled. “If that’s how you want to frame it.”

He hated her composure. Hated how she didn’t let him off the hook.

But he hated sitting in a void even more.

“Fine,” he’d said, clipped. “We’ll try it.”

When he closed the door to the office, the hallway was empty. He’d come to expect that, like he’d come to expect the twinge of something buried under more and more waves of anger. He buried that, too, at least until he saw Johnny at dinner again.

—

That night, he dreamt of falling.

—

A memory, or its echo, brought him rain. It wasn’t a full thing, no sudden lightning of recollection, but a patch of feeling: cold air through wet clothes, the metallic taste of fear, the sting of adrenaline punched into muscle. For a breath, he saw a roofline, the way the world leaned when he’d fallen. It made him nauseous.

The rain came sideways, slamming into him like shrapnel. The kind that shattered the world into a smear of sound and glass. The mission had been rooftops, rain, and frustration. He’d moved like he always did. Methodical, precise, invincible in the ways that only arrogance or adrenaline could make you.

Something had cracked. The roofline flipped, gravity clawed the air from his lungs, he hit—

—or maybe he didn’t?

The fall didn’t end. It stretched. He kept tumbling through the same instant. Rain, concrete, breath, the muffled shout of his name. Johnny’s name, torn raw from someone else’s throat. His own? Couldn’t tell. Couldn’t think.

And then he was standing again, no longer on the mission, but back in a cluttered room of the barracks. Same rain, different war. Johnny was there too, dripping wet, something in his hands. “Ye’re pushin’ too hard, Simon,” he was saying, voice strained, too bright around the edges. “Ye dinnae have to—”

“Stop treating me like a patient,” Ghost snapped, and the sound cracked through the downpour like a shot.

Johnny flinched here the same way as he did then, small, sharp, quiet. His face blurred, washed away by rain. Until it melted everything surrounding him.

“No,” Ghost muttered. He tried to take his words back, but they poured out of his mouth like water. “No, I didn’t mean–”

The rooftop returned. Wind howling. Some figure akin to Johnny stood at the edge, staring down at something Ghost couldn’t see.

He tried to shout his name, but his mask filled with water, suffocating him in his own breath.

He took a step forward, and the world tilted the same way it had before, when the roof gave out. His boots slipped, the sound of something tearing, gravity clawing again—

And this time, Johnny turned to look at him.

But Simon had forgotten his face.

—

Ghost woke choking on air that felt too thin, hands clenched like he’d been gripping a ledge. His sheets were twisted, torn, soaked in sweat. The clock read 01:17.

For a moment, he sat there, heartbeat punching at his throat, lungs aching. The snippets of reality, dreaming, and guilt swirled all together until he couldn’t tell which part was memory and which part was him.

Falling over and over and over in his head until there was no one left to catch him.

And now, awake and shaking, Ghost wasn’t sure if he’d climbed out of the nightmare at all.

He stood, then, because he needed to move. Because there was no warmth in that bed anyway. Because somewhere in the dark, on some roof under the same ugly sky, John MacTavish had made a nightly habit of freezing his arse off as of late.

And this time, Ghost didn’t want to be the reason he stayed cold.

Even before he’d made the decision, his boots were on, and he was pulling the first thing from the closet — a flash of burgundy that felt like the closest he could come to being human again.

The hallway was quiet as he phased through. The base always felt dead at this hour, only the hum of generators and the buzz of fluorescent lights to keep him company. There was no trace of rain, but the air smelled like storms anyway.

—

The roof was quiet and raw with wind racing over it. A few panels of sky shoved in between clouds. The bitter edge of it all bit at his face. He pulled at the collar of the burgundy hoodie he had pulled out — an attempt at normal that made him feel oddly exposed. It was too soft, too civilian, and it smelled faintly of citrus. But at least it was one of the few things that didn’t have holes.

Ghost paused at the hatch, palms slick on cold metal. The thought of open sky gripped something unexpected and wrong beneath his ribs. For a moment, the world tilted on its axis again. Then he heard it. A laugh, half swallowed, and it made him force his hands steady.

Open sky waited beyond. So did every reason not to climb through, vague shadows as they may have been.

He went anyway.

Johnny sat close to the low parapet, knees hugged to his chest, coat blanketing his legs, something playing on the phone. Distantly, a ribbon of city lights cut through the dark. He was smaller than Ghost expected in the night, shoulders hunched up to his ears as though trying to hold himself together. He blinked when Ghost came up, surprised, then smirked into a grin that looked very much like a question.

“Thought I’d missed your time frame,” Ghost said, voice low, wind cutting it thin.

Johnny shrugged. “Didn’t realize we had scheduled stargazing now.”

He should leave before he said something stupid again. Had the muscle memory for walking away. But the dumb hoodie felt like a tether somehow. So he moved to sit at Johnny’s side instead; the pavement was cold but didn’t hurt as much as he’d thought it would.

Johnny’s face softened when Ghost sat. He didn’t reach for him, but didn’t vanish either. They watched the city for a while, two silhouettes that had learned to fit together without instructions. At least Ghost hoped that’s what they were.

“You okay? Ye look like you’ve been wrestlin’ spreadsheets again.” Johnny asked, finally.

Ghost wanted to report the clinic notes, the diagnostic jargon, the careful lines Dr. Nastos had drawn on his map back to normalcy. The fucking flamingo pen. Didn’t say any of it. “I’m fine.”

Johnny didn’t press. He knew when Ghost used a one-word answer, it was a barricade, not necessarily a truth.

Ghost’s mouth went stiff.

As it turned later, some lights turned off, the wind a chilling constant on his face.

“I… remember falling off the roof. Nothing but the feel. The drop. The nothing. Thought I was invincible. Then I wasn’t.” He exhaled, jaw flexing under the mask. “And I don’t like the man I am starting to remember.”

Johnny’s fingers worried at the hem of his own sleeve. “Jesus.” He exhaled before nudging Ghost with his shoulder, ever so lightly. “Well, you’re not him right now, aye? You’re the lad in civvies, freezing his arse off trying to brood poetic on a roof.”

Ghost turned to him. The mask of control blown away by harsh winds for a second. “You keep saying that like it’s simple. Like I’m not—” He stopped himself, then let it out, sharp: “You think hovering fixes it. It doesn’t. You don’t know when to leave well enough alone. I told you to back off.”

The words were blunt, a little helpless. He’d said it in the hallway. He’d also meant it, but memory was shifting angles into regret.

Johnny’s face flinched. “You did. Right. Can’t say I’m good at subtle exits, can I?” His voice was small, the grin strained.

Ghost cut him off with a breath. “You were hovering. Clingy. Annoying. And I told you back off.”

Talking about his feelings didn’t feel as coldly satisfying as he’d been promised. Saying it didn’t erase the hitch in his chest, the small, bitter something that missed being referred to. Johnny’s eyes went hard for a second, then wet in a way that Ghost couldn’t stand to look at.

“You’re not helping,” Ghost spat out despite himself, “You just— stick around and smile like that fixes anything.”

“Look,” Johnny said, voice shallow. “I was clingy. I know. I thought you needed me. I thought– well, I dinnae ken exactly. That I was being supportive, I guess? But I get it. I—” He swallowed. “I just… I didn’t mean to suffocate you. Sorry.”

Ghost let the words land. He’d rehearsed a dozen replies in his head over the past few days. Something between dismissive, cold, and tactical or warm, sweet, and understanding. None of them fit the moment.

“I’m prickly,” he said finally. “A prickly asshole when I’m… scared?”

Johnny laughed, a quick sound that broke like fragile glass. “Could’ve told ye that.”

A beat. Then Johnny reached, slow, and put a steady hand on Ghost’s thigh — not clutching, just a little reminder he was still there.

So what else should Simon do than rest his own mangled hand over Johnny’s?

“Don’t apologize for being clingy,” Simon said finally, feeling small and very tired and more on the edge of honesty than before. “You look after me... That’s not something you have to feel sorry for. Ever.”

Johnny’s mouth crooked. “Good. ‘Cause ye were bein’ a proper eejit since therapy started.”

They both snorted. The laugh eased something in Simon that had been taut for days.

“Why’d ye wear the hoodie? To get back into my good graces?” Johnny asked suddenly, voice rounded with a grin.

Ghost rubbed the cuff absently. “No. Just… grabbed it.”

“‘Course. Fuck off.” Johnny shook his head. “It was a gift, you know? Never seen you actually wear it.”

Ghost blinked.

Johnny squeezed his thigh, probably to ground himself more than Ghost, judging by the way he bit on his lip. “Thought was, maybe you’d like something that was yours and not hospital or kit, and… yeah. Also, it hides the stupid t-shirt you always wore.”

“Which one?”

“The terrible band shirt. You know the one.”

And as if Johnny had commanded it into existence, Ghost actually remembered a smudge of something like music, the feel of cotton that had been too thin. And a birthday present he never felt he deserved to wear. Fuck off, indeed.

They watched the city quiet down together. The cold bit at their ears and noses, and it should have been miserable, but the burgundy between them held a small warmth.

“Do you want me to leave you be?” Johnny asked, voice careful.

Ghost looked at him for a long time. The honest, unguarded face beside him. He had the option to push away, to be the man he started to remember, the one who didn’t need comfort. But he found himself shaking his head.

“No.”

Johnny’s relief was audible. He gave Ghost a sideways look, then nudged his shoulder. “Good. Because I’ve got an idea. Something for Dr. Natsos’ homework, besides overcoming your trauma of roofs, I mean.”

Ghost lifted a brow. “Homework?”

Johnny grinned, hesitant but hopeful. “You’ll see.”

“Hm, sure,” Ghost said, laid his head on Johnny’s shoulder, and closed his eyes. “I am sorry, too.”

“I know,” Johnny answered and rested his head on top of his. “Thank you.”

“Missed you.”

“Aye, me too.” Strong fingers gently swept through Ghost’s hair, and he realized he didn’t mind taking a nap then and there. “Let’s go an’ find you, yeah?”

Chapter Text

When he asked for it in that slow, stubborn way he had when he wanted something he believed in, Soap took that single shred of permission and ran with it. By the end of the week, he had practically ransacked their quarters and the squad archives. Photographs spilled over Johnny’s desk in his room, slipped out of envelopes, wetted fresh from the printer. Old labelling tape curled at the corners. Op photos, training snaps, candid shots Johnny had no business keeping — all of it piled into a shoebox that Soap was clearly dying to shove under Ghost’s nose.

The way he went about his little project — keeping everything in plain view so Ghost could anticipate it while still keeping the specific contents hidden from him in that box — was bizarrely sweet, and, after he thought on it for a bit, exactly what Ghost needed. No big surprises, just Johnny running around collecting memories for him. So he let him, curious enough about what Soap pulled, but safe in the knowledge of what it was that he would be confronted with. Judging by Johnny’s excited smiles and jittery hands, it would be any day now.

—

Ghost, for his part, was sitting at his desk in his office, red pen in hand, scribbling corrections over a very bland training presentation. Some tiny detail of something technical got commented on in red, the pads of his gloved fingers warm from the paper. The mask sat discarded in one corner of his desk, together with a steaming mug of tea and tissues. Damn Johnny and his penchant for the cold, the menace was perfectly fine while he had to deal with a bout of the sniffles.

He didn’t look up at the sound of the door when Gaz and Johnny came in, hushed chatter cut out the moment they stepped through.

In the beginning, Ghost had expected maybe a folder after their chat on the roof. Something clinical, a handful of “for reference” images. Maybe an odd report, maybe a video or two. In the safety of his own mind, he could admit to hoping for more motivational measures instead of therapeutic ones. What Johnny plunked onto his desk was not that.

The shoebox hit the wood with a dull thud, cardboard bulging like it could barely contain its haul.

Ghost set his pen down and finally looked up. “…What’s this?”

“Homework,” Johnny said, grinning like he’d just delivered treasure. His eyes were overflowing with mirth that should have worried Ghost.

Gaz leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, weirdly staying back instead of coming in. “More like evidence, if you ask me.”

“Of what?” Ghost asked flatly.

“Your crimes against fashion, for one,” Gaz shot back.

Soap snorted, already tearing the lid off and spilling a mess of photographs across the desk.

“So… I‘ll be off?“ Gaz said, not quite a statement.

He looked to Soap first, maybe checking if this was his cue to leave, but Johnny’s eyes went straight to Ghost.

Ghost realized, belatedly, that Gaz was doing the same thing Johnny had been doing. Watching and waiting for the man who couldn’t remember himself to decide whether he could handle the company.

“If you want me to stay,” Gaz added, “I’ve got Soap’s back. And yours.”

Ghost recognized the sincerity in the offer. It had the distinct feeling of a soldier offering cover, like Gaz was stepping into formation at his flank.

“Right,” he nodded, gesturing to some improvised seating that he didn’t know how it ended up in his office.

Johnny just rolled his eyes at them, muttering some Scottish nonsense under his breath, and spread some of his haul on the desk.

Field ops, dusty training grounds, blurry pub nights. Too many versions of Soap grinning to count. Half of them were creased, probably from being stuffed into someone’s kit over the years. The other half was almost wet with fresh printer ink, seeing the daylight after being stored away on whatever hard drive for who knows how long. Ghost blinked at the chaos of color, texture, faces he knew but didn’t know.

He picked one up carefully between gloved fingers. Soap at arm's length, grinning ear to ear with camo paint smeared across his jaw. Himself, blurred in the background. He could feel something tugging at him, faint and sharp. Not memory exactly — more like pressure behind the eyes. A small, hollow ache where something should have been.

“No’ miracles,” Soap said, quieter. “Just reminders. Dr. Nastos says it can help, aye?”

Gaz had found his place beside Soap across Ghost’s desk and nudged a photo closer with his knuckle. “Look — Kabul. You and me. Hotter than hell that day. I nearly brained myself on that busted rotor blade, remember?”

Ghost studied the image. Gaz in the foreground, obviously taken as a selfie. Himself, younger, leaning against a rusted rotor blade, shirt sleeves rolled, jaw set. He should have known the angle, the color of the corroded metal, the way the breeze carried dust through camp. His throat worked. “No.”

Soap’s grin strained a bit, but he pushed another photo in front of him like a surgeon offering a scalpel. This one was of the team at a range, Soap mid-laugh, Ghost’s hand on the stock of a rifle, Price leaned against concrete. Mundane, sure, but this scene felt almost something akin to comfort. For a moment, Ghost let himself treat it like that, held the memory like a pebble in his palm, and turned it slow. He stared long enough that Gaz looked away, giving him the space.

Finally, Ghost muttered, “…Where’s this in my head?”

Soap’s fingers hovered at the edge of Ghost's hand, close enough that Ghost could feel the heat from them, before committing and gently resting his palm over Ghost’s. “We’ll get it back. Step by step.”

Gaz gave a little nod. “Therapist says pictures help? Then we drown you in ‘em. We’ll keep digging until something sticks.”

Ghost tried a huff, but it came out more like a sniffle — not quite agreement, not quite refusal. He pushed one of the photos into a neat line with two others, as if order might coax meaning out of them. The weight in his gut said he wasn’t ready to hope yet. But he wasn’t ready to stop either.

Before Ghost could find an answer, a voice cut in from the doorway.

“Step one,” Price said, walking in with the weight of someone who definitely hadn’t just happened to be passing. Again. “Stop letting Soap scatter classified morale-compromising evidence all over HQ.”

“Come off it, Captain,” Johnny said with a grin. “He’s engaged, look at him. This is brilliant, I promise!”

Price gave Ghost a look. Ghost gave it right back.

Price shook his head — more fond than anything else Ghost could make out — but picked up a photo anyway. He turned it around so the others could see. “Look at this. Nineteen hours into a desert op, sandstorm rolling in. And you —” he jabbed the edge of the photo at Ghost “— still wouldn’t put the bloody goggles on. Said they itched.”

Soap laughed. “Ye did, I remember! Your lashes were caked with sand for days. Technically, that was my fault, but in my defense—”

“There weren’t enough for the team, one pair broke,” Gaz shrugged and dug further into the box. Ah. That made more sense then. Ghost tilted his head, eyes on another version of himself. A flicker, the faintest itch of irritation on his skin above his nose, the sting of grit on his lower lashes, and the scrape of fabric at his temple. He said nothing, but he didn’t put the photo down either.

Gaz grinned, already digging for a specific photo. He held up another, already chuckling. “Hey, Ghost. Ever wondered what Price would look like without the caterpillar glued to his face?”

He spun the photo around, tossed it at him. Ghost placed the one he was holding into his neat row and took it. Young Price. No beard. Bare jaw, sunburnt, smug. Ghost squinted. Blinked. Slowly looked up at Price. He could faintly recall his thoughts about facial hair in the medical ward. Turns out, he was a bad judge.

“Actually,” he said flatly, “the facial hair’s an improvement.”

Soap howled, holding on to Gaz, who wasn’t faring any better. Laughter filled the room, Price harrumphed and then chose not to spoil the mood.

“I take back my permission in bringing this box,” Price grumbled good-naturedly.

“It’s helping,” Gaz argued, smirking.

Ghost, for his part, carefully set the photo of bare-chinned Price aside upside down, face unmasked, the faint crinkle at his eyes plain to see.

Soap leaned closer, whispering just loud enough for the entire room to hear him. “Wait ‘til he sees the one with the shorts.”

Price’s groan was drowned out by Soap and Gaz’s laughter, and for the first time in days, Ghost let the noise settle around him without flinching. He even reached for another photo.

They went through photo after photo. Soap climbing something he wasn’t meant to. Gaz passed out on a cot, mouth wide open. Ghost — younger, leaner — standing at the edge of a helicopter skid. There was one of all of them in some nameless snow area, helmets bumping together, uniforms half-hidden under snow, laughter frozen mid-frame. Ghost lingered on it, chest tightening. He said nothing, but his thumb rubbed slow against the edge of the photo until the paper softened under his touch. Then he placed it under the other photo Price had picked out.

“Funny thing,” Price mused, “Pictures never get the smell. The blood. The noise.”

“Thank Christ for that,” Gaz muttered. “I don’t need scratch-and-sniff trauma.”

They both laughed in the nervous way soldiers laugh to keep the past from sitting down at the table with them, even as Ghost’s eyes stayed fixed on the image. The voices around him blurred, warm but distant, until Johnny gently switched it out for another.

This one was different. Less staged. It must’ve been taken late into a night out — Soap in civvies, hair flattened under a cap, Ghost in plain fatigues with his mask pulled free from his face. Both of them slouched in battered chairs, a takeaway container balanced between their knees. Johnny’s grin was soft, tired, the exhaustion in it the kind that belonged to off-duty hours only. Simon’s mouth was crooked, half-hidden, but it looked almost like—

He stared until the image sharpened into a shape he could almost hold. It landed in the place beneath wanting and above fear. There was the weight of the paper fork in his mind, tapping against a plastic container, the rattle when someone laughed too hard and jolted the rickety table. It was something accidental, something ordinary. He couldn’t name a full memory, but the expression.

It almost looked like he was smiling, too.

“Where’d this come from?” he asked, voice thinner than he meant.

Johnny’s smile was sheepish and proud at once. “Gaz took it. I had it printed. Ye looked happy there. I like seein’ that. Y’know… us, without all the camo. Just—” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dinnae think I’d actually show ye this one. Ever.”

Price arched a brow but wisely said nothing.

“See this? That’s you smilin’.” Johnny leaned closer over the desk and pointed to past-Ghost.

“Allegedly,” Ghost said and found himself leaning in as well.

Gaz snorted. “That’s footage a court would accept as evidence, mate.”

Maybe Garrick should’ve stayed out of this after all. Ghost didn’t answer, just slid the photo aside, separate from the others. Not buried, not flipped. Just kept close. Isolation instead of denial felt more honest that way.

“…Suppose not all evidence is damning,” he said finally.

Johnny looked at him, a softness in his expression Ghost wished he could keep forever. “Knew you’d see it my way.”

Price muttered something about “children” under his breath, but Ghost barely heard him. He was too busy staring at that small, tired grin on Johnny’s face, captured probably years ago, and wondering if wanting it back was the same as remembering it.

—

Later, Ghost sat alone in Johnny’s quarters. The shoebox balanced on the desk again, like the treasure it turned out to be. One photo — the candid — on top of the pile. He took it out again and turned it. He still remembered nothing of the things that made him the man in the picture. Not fully. He still couldn’t align the person who could have such an intimate moment, the brutally effective soldier, and the man who now feared memory might undo him. But he wanted to. Wanted it enough to keep going back to that office with the clock ticking too loud.

He had told himself it was simple, almost clinical. Mission parameters, he told himself again. Interrogate. Test. Find leverage. That was the voice he’d come to understand he had been trained to trust.

But beneath that was something quieter. A small want for the ordinary things, the way Johnny rambled on about things in that charming accent of his, the tiny cadence of a laugh he could feel in his chest, the way Price knew how to be a calming, steady presence, the way Gaz’s clever wit could somehow make a room wider. Deep down, he didn’t really care for intel or tools. Those were soft spots that had kept him upright, and they called to him like sirens.

He ran his thumb along the photo’s edge again and let himself imagine a memory. The smell of someone’s stale coffee, a joke half-heard, a hand reaching for a container that held two forks and left the smallest, warm indentation on his palm. No terror. No trauma. Just the embarrassing, human scrap of nightlife.

Outside, snippets of a passionate conversation leaked from the corridor, and Soap’s voice floated through with it, bright and lively. Step by step, Johnny had said.

Ghost let the idea sit between his ribs like a plan.

Step by step.