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Chapter Text

"You gotta be fucking kidding me, Price."

"I fear I'm not, son. I tried what I could but your psych eval was abysmal and there's only so much I can overlook."

"So what? You throw me out? You can directly shoot me in the fucking face, sir. Bloody hell." Ghost is angry. Which is a regular occurrence since November.

"Simon. I can't let you go and lead a team or let you go alone. You are volatile and rebellious." He makes a heavy pause. Ghost scoffs at his words. "Did Soap know?"

"Did he know what?" The masked man snarls. It's a warning, but the Captain simply ignores his tone.

"Did... Did you tell him that you loved him?" Price has looked death in the eye on many occasions. Hell, he's been the death that looked into people's eyes on several occasions. Still he wasn't prepared how fast Ghost moved. Years of training and practice prevent that he's thrown through his own office, but he still gets pinned to the wall.

"Stand down, Lieutenant!" he barks.

"You have no right to ask that. Now, this moment. No. Right." Ghost spits, his chest is heaving as if he did very strenuous work while hissing into his superior's face. Price deliberately decides that it is not crying that he hears. The huge man lets go of him but they keep standing where they are - too close to be comfortable.

Price is missing Soap too, like a limb, like his heart has been ripped out. But in his case the young Scot had known that his Captain loved him like a son and basked in that indulgent attention.

But Simon doesn't say a word on an average day and if confronted with something that threatens his Ghost-persona, he sometimes vanishes completely. So the guilt of not having voiced his feelings or admitting them at all must kill him now. Price cannot even fathom the devastation Simon goes through. Who is important to him in the same way as John has been. And he is worried sick that if he lets Simon go, the loss and the grief will kill him. That Ghost will kill Simon.

"Soap was due to leave. You know why. I... I don't know how I can tell you without upsetting you further, so I don't even try. Sorry Simon." Ghost makes two steps back and visibly recoils into himself. "I know that you have the keys to Soap's flat. I'm pretty sure he... he wanted you to have it, since you'd also been listed as next of kin in his medicals."

Yeah, that'd been a surprise. Soap couldn't trust his family to have his best interest in mind, so Price had been his next of kin for the longest time. That it had been changed without anyone knowing it was a surprise for both the Captain and the Lieutenant. But Ghost had handled it gracefully up until they scattered the ashes. Then his mental health and his personality just deteriorated into nothingness, leaving the hollow shell in front of him to deal with.

"Even if not, his sister probably inherits it and she won't throw you out." Price watches Ghost closely, how the big man takes a heavy breath and tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling. "So there's a place you can go."

The Captain knows that Ghost is crying, no matter how much plausible denial he summons. He steps closer to offer an embrace but Simon evades him, so he leaves him be. "Sit down, son. We still need to talk about a few points." and settles back into his chair.

Heavy and defeated his formerly best soldier and Second in Command lets himself fall into the chair in front of Price's desk. He doesn't say a word.

"You need papers. We have covered the flat, but you need money and a name. Money will not be a problem, I promise. I'll make sure that your pension is enough so that you don't need a job if you don't want to work." Or can't, but Price won't mention it. Many exceptional operators like Simon are not able to hold jobs - too aggressive, too volatile, too much PTSD. Too grief-stricken. "But you need a name."

"MacTavish."

Price stops dead with the pencil on the paper. "Simon. Son. Don't do that to yourself."

"Don't act as if I couldn't change it via deed poll anyway after I'm 'alive' again", Ghost grinds out while making air quotes with his fingers around the word "Alive" and Price suddenly can't stand this situation anymore. He takes a deep breath and looks out of the window. This fucking job. It cost him not only the best demo expert he ever worked with but also his most sunshine muppet. And now it costs him a second man. He tried to keep Ghost, especially because Price really believes that Simon is more stable in his known environment but the Brass was clear. Lieutenant "Ghost" Riley is a liability that costs more than it offers. It breaks his heart and he genuinely tries to give him the best support he can. But he's feeling all pure and raw pain like having lost a child. He isn't aware of the tear that runs down his own cheek until Ghost clears his throat. 

"Whatever." The Captain shortly wonders if this is the last thing he’ll ever do for either of them but writes 'MacTavish' into the form. 

The area is not the busiest one, but the street is loud nonetheless. Mary stands in front of the building for too long. Her belly is heavy and uncomfortable, the back pain constant now. She just wants it to be over. Which reminds her of why she's here, which reminds her of why she's still standing in front of the building. Hot tears fill her eyes. Again. She’s cried so much it seems her eyes are always red and puffy. Despite it being the beginning of February now and John died in November. He should have been on family leave for 6 months from December onwards, to help her with the last trimester of her pregnancy and settle in. Instead... She's crying again.

She knows the man inside the flat in this house. John's former Lieutenant and if Mary was asked for an educated guess, his unrequited crush. Slowly and clumsily she enters and uses the elevator. Mary really tries to get her shit together when she reads MacTavish on the doorbell and doesn't know if she succeeds. Price had contacted and informed her that Lieutenant Riley was Simon MacTavish now. She's pretty sure that John's unrequited crush wasn't unrequited at all and presses the button next to the bell even though the key to the flat is in her handbag. But if half of what she heard about the Ghost is true, she would never enter a room where he might be in without making her presence known and being invited. 

Mary doesn't hear the shuffle or the telltale of steps before the door is opened - the Ghost didn't get his name for nothing. Simon looks at her, wearing a black medical mask. His eyes are the same puffy and red as hers, the bags beneath them show he hadn’t slept much either. They have met briefly once before, even though she would not have recognized him. Lieutenant Riley had driven her brother to a station where she picked him up and John had introduced them shortly. His superior wore a black cotton mask with half a skull print under a black hoodie and had barely been visible - she knew he was blond by his nearly white lashes and eyebrows but his outgrown, kinda cute curls are a surprise. Her late brother's love is a handsome guy.

This thought wets her eyes again - and as if on cue, his do too. He nearly rips her from her spot into his arms. Conscious of her belly he doesn't press his upper body in too much but the pressure of his arms around her shoulders nearly suffocates her. Mary is so startled she nearly forgets her own grief for a moment, completely focused to hold the man together who cries like a child into her neck. She doesn't know the Lieutenant very well but she knows that she looks very similar to John: Sable hair, blue eyes, Scottish brogue (not that she said anything yet) and therefore she probably understands what caused the reaction she's facing right now. And Mary's proven right when he lets her go a second later as if he'd burned himself and stumbles back. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't... I'm sorry!" The big man retreats.

"No!" She's lucid enough not to stick her handbag between the moving door and frame to keep it open as she would normally do if someone closes a door into her face. The reaction it triggers is nothing she needs right now - something she learned the hard way when John tried to do that once with her. Instead she talks as fast as she can. "Please, I only want to talk. Please, you are the only one I can talk to about him! Don't..." Her voice breaks. There's only so much she can take, so much pleading she can do, given the physical, hormonal and emotional state she's in. She needs the man inside the flat to let her in, needs someone to share the grief, to hold her and the baby together and to hold the other one together too. Purpose, an anchor. Both of them stop moving and they look at each other again.

Slowly Simon opens the door again. With a nod he steps aside to make room for her to enter.

The flat looks the same, nothing has visibly changed. It also smells like John's shampoo and laundry detergent - which hurts anew. She hates how she's constantly overcome with her feelings, her sadness and her loneliness. Even though John was deployed often, the two younger siblings had a close bond. Their parents and older sister Ann didn't approve of both their "life choices" - her brother being bisexual with a preference for men and her 'Promiscuity' - two boyfriends before being married. They had reached out when it looked as if Boyfriend 2 and father of the child planned on marrying her. But they just dropped her like a hot potato when the piece of shit was disposed of by John with a kick to his arse after he raised his hand against her. Good riddance. To all - the parents, Ann and the sire of her baby. Simon behind her is as still as a rock. Doesn't make a sound, doesn't disturb the air around him. She sees a peek of the Bi-Pride-flag above John's bed through the bedroom door that's slightly ajar. Mary takes a deep breath and has to distract herself, so she turns around to face the former soldier.

He watches her like a hawk, like an unknown animal that invaded his den and isn't sure if it's dangerous. Simon stands in a room she knows well, where she went when she fled the pressure at home or later the loneliness. Came here when she needed air to breathe, she even took the pregnancy test here and subsequently called the only family member that loved her unconditionally. Her breath hitches again. And then she sees it. Next to the door is the whiteboard, John's notes still on it. Her due date, his leave dates, what was still needed for the overnight bag. An emergency number she knows is Price's. The whiteboard is left like everything else she’s seen in the flat so far, nothing changed. Only one addition written below the notes. 

Starting at me, the road can only lead to nowhere.

Gaz looks at the photograph on Price's mobile. For someone not knowing the circumstances it looks like a cute, if slightly subdued, family picture. But the cracks are visible and Gaz sighs. "JJ?" he asks warily.

"Yeah." Price confirms. And Gaz doesn't even know the half of it. While the Sergeant knows that the initials of Soap's nephew's name convey 'John Joseph' he doesn't know the origins of the second name. Price looks at the trio in the picture again. Mary smiles, but it’s not genuine. He can see she had been crying but for a young mother who just had a baby that's expected. Even though the lines around her eyes show the tears have not been entirely happy. Same goes for Simon, who looks haunted and sad beyond recognition on the selfie he took of the three. The medical mask hides a potential smile but Price knows there is none. It breaks his heart again. Also, it wasn't Simon who shared the picture he clearly made, it was Mary who sent it to him. The short message said "John Joseph MacTavish (called JJ) meets his Godfather on the 20th of March 2024." followed by a heart emoji.

The Captain contacts Laswell and a week after they are able to send a generous gift for little JJ's arrival on Earth.

Simon makes no sound as he watches Mary sleeping. He holds JJ in his arms and feeds him carefully the breastmilk his mum stored in the fridge and which he warmed up. They started to feed him solids over the day but in the night either Mary is breastfeeding him or Simon gives the bottle. The tiny smacking sounds of the baby's drinking seem louder than they are in the dark bedroom. Mary flinches in sleep and turns. The reason why he always feeds his Godson in her room is her recurring nightmares and it's better she can see and hear them both if she awakes. They take turns in feeding and nurturing, a welcome distraction to their shared grief. 

JJ is a purpose and he knows it. Without Johnny's sister and nephew he'd probably just thrown himself from the Kingston bridge. Simon is a smart man. He might be grief-stricken and not the most communicative person on a good day but he knows what Mary and her baby meant to Johnny. He also knows that his Sergeant had tried to work up the courage to ask his superior to join him on leave, even if for a shorter term. His cover story would have been that Mary and he needed help and that Simon would know how to help. He overheard Johnny when telling Gaz. Back then he would probably have said no.

But back then, he didn't know a lot of stuff and he wasn't going to therapy as he is now. He has trouble to believe that Johnny was in love with him or was as much in love with him as he loves Johnny. He thought the young Sergeant would ask him as a friend and without the emotional support of a stable relationship - however that looked - he would not have been able to care for a baby after Joseph. He bites his lip, trying to keep the sadness at bay and looks down on JJ who watches him with all the intent of a curious 6-month-old. The techniques of childcare came back like muscle memory.

Johnny would have masked his awe and admiration behind jokes and good-natured humor. Would probably have flirted like he always did when Simon thought it was just his personality and could not be based on anything else. This profound feeling of having missed out, of thinking there had been something possible, something to act on since Las Almas is the most excruciating pain of all. But he tries to be better. Mary treats him like a brother - or more like a brother-in-law. They are sometimes mistaken to be spouses given that they share the same name or on rare occasions as siblings, even though they look so different. But Mary usually clears the air with "He's my brother-in-law." He had been startled the first time she did it, felt seen in a way he didn't since Johnny d-... Since Johnny. But her look just challenged him to deny and he couldn't. The Scot would have laughed his arse off.

His therapy also encouraged him to pick up training again and so he did. His therapist suggested that through the unknown tides of civilian life like grocery shopping, talking to neighbors and caring for a newborn, he should also do something familiar. And it's working. He's still sad but sometimes he just is.

And when he looks at JJ, the blue eyes that they are now certain will stay blue and his hair - only slightly brighter than sable - he feels that unconditional love again. That he had felt for his mom and Joseph, and for Johnny. Still feels it, for them and for Johnny.

He hums a low tune while burping his baby on his shoulder. Between the burp and lying him down JJ is fast asleep. Thankfully his neph-... his Godson is a calm boy and easy to handle and love.

While returning to the surprisingly comfortable sleeping couch he's been using since Mary - probably temporary - moved in Johnny's... - he takes a breath... Simon's flat, he crosses the small table in the hallway and is reminded of the letter. The paper from the parents' lawyer is wrinkled as if someone crumpled it up in anger and later smoothed it out again. Which is exactly what happened. Simon had given it to Mary to read and he was still fast enough to prevent her from ripping it to shreds. 

Since they learned of him, Elsa and Murray MacTavish did their damnedest to make Simon give up their name. With help from Ann’s husband - a lawyer - they sent appeal after appeal, trying to prove he was a criminal, an impostor, a fraud dragging their name and reputation through the dirt. The rumor was that Simon had been Johnny’s secret husband, and now that the truth was out, the conservative Catholic circles they moved in had a field day gossiping.

Ann seethes. This imbecile degenerate that stole her brother's life and her parents' honour. He's actively torpedoing her family's attempts to gain kinship care for John Joseph. Since the boy turned one and Ann found an adorable picture of him (face averted) on Mary's Instagram page, her parents try to have contact to their only grandchild. To them it's crucial that the little boy needs a healthy family to live with, not a single mother sharing a flat with a pervert. Ann - who tried to conceive in vain now for years - also thinks that her parents are too old for that mirror image of her little brother, but Ann would be his perfect mum.

She’s already drafted the nursery layout. Pale green walls, a mobile of stars, a shelf of bilingual books - Scottish and English, of course. She’s even bookmarked toddler shoes and a car seat. John Joseph would thrive with her. He’d have structure, stability, a proper upbringing. Not this mess of deviance and dysfunction. 

Their tries to frame that man as a pedophile had led to nothing except a very upset military Captain had threatened Ann's husband Jonah to take them to court with a defamation case. Even though she pressured him, Jonah decided to not follow this trail.

And then there's Mary, useless as ever. She’s wasting her potential. Ann had always been the responsible one, the one who followed the rules, who stayed close to home. Mary was reckless, dramatic, always chasing something, messing around with boys. Now she’s playing house with a man who isn’t even family, who is a broken pretense of whatever he was before John was killed. For sure that monster, who is too close to her nephew, is responsible for her brother's death. It’s pathetic, the lot of them. She would never call the boy just by his initials. John Joseph deserves better. The child deserves her.
Ann clenches her jaw as she rereads the lawyer’s latest draft. If the court sees what she sees - the degeneration, instability and Mary’s irresponsibility - they’ll have no choice. 

She imagines the hearing now. The judge, stern and sensible, nodding as the evidence is laid out. Photos of that… person. That man, always wearing medical masks. Mary’s erratic social media posts that show the cramped flat and the lack of structure. Whatever perverse relationship they are having masquerading as parenting. Ann would speak calmly, professionally. She’d wear navy. She’d say “I only want what’s best for my nephew.” And they’d believe her. Of course they would.

She’s already rehearsed it in the mirror. Practiced the pauses, the soft smile, the way she’d say “John Joseph” with reverence. Never JJ. That nickname is a symptom of the chaos and the broken home. Thinking about that it wouldn't be too presumptive that he calls her 'Mum' by Christmas.
Ann smooths the letter again, her fingers trembling with anticipation. She’s so close. And when the court finally sees the truth - when they see her - they’ll understand. They’ll see what she’s known all along.

Simon looks at his phone as if it’s come to life and started growing hairs. “You gotta be fucking kidding me, Price.”

“Unfortunately not. Can you make it?”

He doesn’t want to go. He looks down at JJ, who’s building a tower with wooden bricks and humming a toddler-invented song. Simon’s heart bleeds. From the pictures he’s seen, he knows JJ looks exactly like little Johnny. It’s been nearly 18 months since his death and Simon is still grieving. Still can’t move on. Still fucking loves Johnny with every cell of his body - like he’s never loved anyone before, and never will again. He knows this. He cannot change it.

His therapist says he’s healing. That he’ll get better. But sometimes, all that helps is the white noise of his son’s babbling. Godson’s. Godson’s babbling. Bloody hell. He slips the degree of kinship more often than not. Mary never corrects him. Neither does Price. He should have changed his number and not given Price the new one. Cut all ties. Not doing so has been a mistake, he realises this now. But he couldn't. Just in case this happens. He hopes it's a chance for revenge. Closure. In its own fucked up way.

Ghost knows Price hears JJ’s humming through the phone. It’s the kind of sound that makes men like them believe in something again.

“I wouldn’t ask,” the Captain says after a pause. “But it’s complicated. Laswell and I looked for other options. And it’s personal. I can’t say more on the phone.”

Ghost closes his eyes. He knows what that means. It’s not just a mission - it’s something tied to Soap. And if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t want anyone else to finish it. Something in him unclenches, like this is the other shoe he’s been waiting to drop. Like this was just an interlude, and now he’s being called back. He just isn’t sure anymore if that’s what he wants. But he’ll go. He knows himself well enough to know he won’t say no. If it goes south, Johnny is waiting on the other side. There is no fear.
He crouches beside JJ, watching the boy stack a red block on top of a blue one, tongue poking out in concentration. Simon brushes a dark curl off his forehead.

“You’re not supposed to look like him,” he whispers. “But you do.” JJ giggles, knocks the tower over and starts again.

Ghost stands, phone still in hand. “I’ll need three days,” he says. “To prep. To talk to Mary. To make sure they're both taken care of in case.” He doesn't need to elaborate on what case he means.

“You’ve got it,” Price says. “And Ghost?”

“What.”

“I’m glad you’re coming.”

Chapter Text

Like changing a nappy and bottle-feeding had become muscle memory for baby care, slinging the rifle over his shoulder slips everything back into place. The balaclava, the hardshell mask, the skeleton gloves. Therapy has helped him understand what they meant - but also made him realise he needs them now.

Simon is gone, and Ghost is here. Or rather, Simon stayed behind - in that Glasgow flat. In the little donkey stuffy with the stupid face he bought on a whim because he heard Johnny in his head saying, “Look at that dumb-looking ass.” And Simon had laughed again, for the first time since... he doesn’t even remember.

Simon stayed with Mary - who cried, justifiably so, and begged him not to go. Barely able to speak through her tears, she reminded him she’d already lost one brother on the field. She wouldn’t survive that again. It nearly made him reconsider. Nearly. Then she looked at him with Johnny’s eyes, and he knew he had to go.

The briefing was enlightening. Ghost is not stupid, he didn’t make it to Lieutenant by being daft. Why him? He’s been out of the field for a year and a half. He's not military anymore. They’re lucky he kept up with the gym and the shooting range - just enough to stay in shape. He presses his mouth into a thin line, invisible to the others. He has a small team, but he won’t lead it. Gaz will.

Ghost is the invisible scout, checking ahead, getting into the compound.
It’s Makarov because of course it is. The Russian will be all his - his gun, his knives, his fists, whatever works. Laswell wants him alive, but Price took them both - Gaz and Ghost - aside and said: “Whatever it takes.” That's why it's Ghost, it's needed to be Ghost. He's off the books, and no matter how it ends, it doesn't fall back on the king. 

But there was a second meeting. Just Laswell and Ghost.
Makarov “collects” people. POWs. Several. Some of them highly dangerous. Volatile. Prone to dissociation. Sensitive to unfamiliar accents and non-military personnel. Laswell hopes Ghost’s infamous persona is recognisable enough to make the soldiers understand he’s there to help - and that he can extract as many as possible. She’s specifically interested in one: Codename Diver.
Laswell gives him a sanitised dossier:

- No real name

- Age: redacted

- Status: POW, highly dangerous, potential dissociation

- Warning: "Extreme violent response possible"

Great. Ghost can’t wait to babysit a burned MI6 agent on their way back into civilisation. Then he scolds himself. If he were a POW, Soap would have crawled across half the Earth to get to him - and he would’ve done the same. Maybe their intentions would’ve been different. But what else does he have?

The road starting from him can only lead to nowhere.

It’s been three days through the Mid-Siberian wilderness, and bloody hell, how he’s missed having mud in his boots and ants in the crack of his arse. “Just trying to make you comfortable, LT,” he hears Soap in his head. He wonders if he’s slowly losing it.

He sits away from the other soldiers, his back against a huge pine, the bark digging into him after he took off his tac vest. His head tilts back against the trunk. Through the green-grey canopy of the forest, he sees a grey slice of sky. Is Johnny watching him? Does he approve of his life? If he lived, would he have?

Ghost lets himself imagine it for a second - two soldiers in a tent built upon the carpet of pine needles. Their kisses super silent, so the others won’t hear. Maybe he would’ve morsed “I love you” on Soap’s hand. A tear slips down under his mask.
He’s not allowed to bring his personal mobile to ops - far too dangerous. So he has no picture of JJ or Soap to look at. He conjures them in his mind and falls asleep like that, back to the tree, dreaming of lying on a lawn next to a pretty stone house, two children crawling over him and Johnny - JJ and a little girl with blonde hair and brown eyes.

A soldier wakes him from a respectful distance - all of them were instructed never to shake him awake.
“Lieutenant Riley?”
“That’s MacTavish for you,” Ghost counters gruffly, startling both the private and himself.
“We just wanted to make sure you sleep in a tent. There’s a probability of snow and- ”
“I’m coming.”
Ghost feels heavy and clunky when he gets up. Old, even though he isn’t. He’s only eight years older than Soap - not the old man the younger had always teased him to be…

Ghost frowns. He doesn’t know why his thoughts circle around Soap all the time. His dead love being on his mind 24/7. He needs to get a grip on the situation. Otherwise, shit like this can kill him.
A distraction he never asked for.

Price looks worried at the desperate woman on his tablet screen. He answered the call after the second ring and immediately directed Mary to a Zoom meeting so he can see her - hoping it might prevent her from spiralling further. It’s only half successful. She can’t speak at first.

But then, through panic and staccato breathing, she gets it out:
“They’re trying to take him. Ann. She filed for kinship care. I got the letter today. I don’t know what to do. I need Simon. I - ”
“Who do they want to take?” Price asks gently, slipping into his fatherly voice - the one he used with Soap when the muppet came crying into his office.

It doesn’t help much, but eventually he gets her to read the letter aloud.
“Concerns regarding the child’s welfare… request for kinship placement… applicant: Ann Davida Gallach, née MacTavish.”
She asks for Simon again, but Price can’t summon him. He’s deep in the field. But Price has an ace up his sleeve.
“You did the right thing calling me. Listen to me, Mary. Simon can’t come. He’s on a mission. But I’ve got someone better.”
“No you don’t. No one’s better than Simon.”

Price nearly smiles at that. It’s so much like Soap, it hurts like a bitch.

Mary hadn’t cried like this in months.
Not since JJ was born. Not since she had learned how to breathe again without her brother. Not since Simon had left for the mission - and God knew when he would return. If he would return. She tries not to think that, but it invades her thoughts, her dreams. It exhausts her. Makes her anxious. She couldn’t live through that again.

And now, on top of everything, the letter lies open on the kitchen table, its contents screaming louder than any grief she had ever felt. A court summons. Kinship care. Ann had filed for custody of JJ.
She read the words again, hoping they would change.

Her hands shook. Her throat burned. JJ slept in the cot, his little chest rising and falling peacefully, unaware that someone was trying to take him away.
Mary had grabbed her phone without hesitation. Back when they navigated around her early pregnancy John had made her memorise one number. Emergency only, he had said. She hadn’t needed it until now.

It rang twice.
“Mary?” Price’s voice had been calm, but alert.
He had promised help.

And now she’s waiting for the person he said he’d send - wringing her hands in her lap, getting up and sitting down at the kitchen table for the fifth time in twenty minutes. Even though she’s expecting it, the doorbell makes her jump.

She opens the door to two serious-looking women, sharp suits under trench coats, and thinks: This is it. They’re already here. They’re taking him.
But the first woman must recognise her panicked expression and quickly darts out a hand. With an American accent, she says warmly:
“Mary MacTavish? John Price sent me. My wife and I are here for your kinship care case.”
Mary is so thankful she nearly faints.
It’s not Laswell who sits with her though. The American makes a cappuccino instead. It’s her wife, Amelia - a legal advisor for MI6.

Amelia reads the court documents with cool detachment, then looks up at Mary.
“This is weak. They’re grasping at straws." She uses her fingers to countdown the arguments. "No history of abuse. No neglect. You’re the biological mother. You’re living with the child’s legal godfather. You’ve got support, stability, and a decorated military officer vouching for you." She puts down her hands and regards Mary warmly. Calmly she tries to reassure her. "They don’t have a case.”

Mary’s voice cracks. “But she’s so sure. She’s already planned his nursery.”
Laswell’s eyes narrow. “Let her plan. We’ll dismantle it piece by piece.”

Amelia clicks open the notebook she’s brought. “I’ll draft a statement. We’ll make it clear: This is a harassment attempt, not a legitimate claim.”
She nods to Laswell, who adds:
“And if they want to drag Simon into this, they’ll have to go through me.”

The stars are hidden beneath an endless blanket of clouds. They’re too close to the mission zone to risk a fire, and the safehouse is too cramped for all of them. So Ghost sits outside, staring into the frostbitten clearing. His back rests against a tree again, boots planted, rifle resting against his left knee.
The rest of the team sleeps - or pretends to.

Gaz settles beside him, wordless, and hands over a ration bar neither of them wants. Ghost accepts it anyway and drags up his mask over his nose.
They chew in silence until Gaz speaks.
“You know… we loved him too.”
He's thankful his face is hidden behind the mask when he nods. “I know.”
The Sergeant nudges his boot. “Not like you did. But me and Price - we loved him. He was family.”
Another nod. “He was.”
Gaz hesitates. “No. I mean… you didn’t love him like we did.”
Ghost turns, puzzled. “What?”
“You loved him properly,” the younger man says. “Romantically.”
The Lieutenant blinks. “I…”
“We all saw it. You two dancing around each other like idiots. Price and I had a bet going.”
Ghost doesn’t respond, just stares ahead. The other sighs.
“Thinking about it now hurts like hell. He was so gone on you. Said he’d never cross the line - fraternisation and all that - but he’d come crying to me every time you shut him out.”
Ghost finally looks at the familiar pretty face. “He told you that?”
Gaz nods. “Told me he loved you. That it wrecked him when you gave him the cold shoulder or tore into him after a mistake.”
The masked man shakes his head slowly. “I… I didn’t know. I never... I…” He shuts his mouth and his jaw muscle jumps.
Gaz places a gloved hand on his arm. “Mate. I didn’t mean to blindside you.”
Ghost doesn’t speak. Just breathes.
Gaz leans back. “So you were in love with him too.”
Simon nods, quiet. “I am.”
The words drop like a dead weight into the silence between them.

Neither of them speaks for a while. Somewhere in the distance, an animal calls once and goes quiet.
Then Gaz chuckles. “Remember that he blew up the microwave?”
Ghost huffs. “Tried to reheat a steak bake.”
“Nearly took out the whole bloody kitchen.”
They both snort. It’s not quite laughter, but the silence feels warmer.
The Sergeant leans his head back against the tree. “He was a menace.”
Simon nods, but thinks: He was my everything.

Ann slams the car door. It hits harder than she means it to. Her hands are shaking. The court hearing was rough - her petition got torn up, her character was dragged, her intentions were picked apart like meat off a bone. The judge didn't even look at her when he dismissed the case.
She drives straight to her parents’ house.
Elsa MacTavish opens the door and gasps. “Oh, honey…”

Ann doesn't speak. She walks in, drops her bag, and sits on the very edge of the couch, like she might bolt at any second.
Her father comes in from the kitchen, wiping his hands. “What happened?”
“They said I was unstable,” she mutters. “That I had no claim. That Mary is fine and supported, and I'm just… grabbing for something that isn't mine.”
Elsa sits beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “You were trying to help. They don't see that.” She looks up at Murray, a silent plea for help.

“We’ll appeal,” her father says, already moving into strategy. “We’ll get a better lawyer. Maybe if we show them the nursery plans, your bank accounts-...”
“They don't care.” Her voice is flat. “They said I was harassing her.”
The silence is heavy.
“You’ve always wanted children,” her mother says softly. “You were born to be a mother.”
Murray clears his throat. “But maybe this is… maybe this is God trying to tell you something.”
Ann blinks. “What do you mean?”
Elsa shifts beside her, her arm suddenly too heavy and too warm.
“Maybe you and Jonah weren't as devout as you needed to be,” her father says. “Maybe you made some bad choices. Maybe this is the price.”
She stares at Murray. “I went into my marriage a virgin.”
Her voice cuts through the room, sharp and clear.
“I never dated before Jonah. I never broke my vows. I never lived in sin.”
Her mother’s hand stills on Ann’s arm.

Ann stands.
“I didn't come here to be judged,” she says, her voice low but steady now. “I came because I thought you might understand. It's your only grandchild we are talking about.”
“We do understand,” Murray begins. “We're trying to help you see-...”
“No.” She cuts him off. “You're trying to make this make sense to you. But I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't sin!”
Elsa gets up, reaching for her. “Annie, please-...”
Ann steps back, out of reach.
“I have to go,” she says. “I need to think. And I can't do that here.”
She grabs her coat and bag, and opens the door.

The fresh April air hits her face like a slap - but it feels cleaner than inside the house.
She doesn't slam the door. She closes it quietly behind her.
She doesn't know where she's going from here yet. But she knows she won't be back for a while.
Maybe never.

The room is cold. Concrete walls, no windows. A single, dirty bulb swings overhead, casting similarly dirty shadows across Makarov’s face. His hands are bound behind the chair, blood crusted along his temple. One eye is swollen shut.
He grins anyway.
“You look tired,” he says. "Haven't you slept well, Ghost?"
Standing behind his chair, Ghost doesn’t answer. The terrorist doesn’t deserve his words.
“You came all this way for me?” Makarov chuckles. “I’m flattered.”
Nothing.

“How’s it been without MacTavish?” the Russian says. “Got him good, that little bitch.”
Ghost, still silent, pulls a knife from his belt and drives it into Makarov’s shoulder - right where his bullet hit Johnny. The man tries to suppress a scream.
“You think this will fix it?” the Russian pants. “You think pain makes it even?”
Ghost presses the blade against Makarov’s throat - not cutting, just letting the cold metal speak.

“I want you to feel it,” Ghost says eventually. “I want you to know what it means to lose.”
Makarov laughs, low and broken. He tilts his head but can’t see where Ghost stands behind him. But he can hear him breathing.
“Oh. You’re grieving,” he realises. “Isn’t that an interesting development.”
The Lieutenant freezes, but then bends down to Makarov's left ear.
“You don’t get to talk about him,” he whispers.
“Oh, but I have so much to say about that little bitch. Man, I really hated him, you know?”
Ghost stalks around the chair and looks at the other man. When the Russian smiles, he drives the knife into Makarov’s thigh.
The scream is sharp, short. Makarov grits his teeth.

Ghost pulls the blade free. Blood pools quickly.
Minutes pass. Ghost works in silence - pressure points, bruises, calculated pain. Not enough to kill. Just enough to make him beg.
But Makarov doesn’t beg.
“You’re just like me,” he rasps. “You bury things. You wear the mask because you’re afraid of who you are. You’re not here for intel. You’re here because I took something from you.”
Ghost pauses. His hand trembles slightly.
A voice echoes somewhere in the back of his mind:
Johnny, silently laying a hand on his arm. “Let’s go home, LT.”
Joseph: “Unca Si, Unca Si, look what Mam has baked for us!”
JJ’s baby babbling.
Ghost steps back.

He looks at Makarov - bleeding, broken, still defiant - and realises he doesn’t want revenge anymore.
He wants to be someone JJ would be proud of.
Ghost raises the pistol.
Makarov chuckles one last time. “You’ll never be free.”
Ghost pulls the trigger.
The shot is clean. It’s followed by silence.
He leaves the body in the chair and walks out into the cold.
This mission isn’t over yet.

He wakes up gasping, like breaking the surface of water. 
He has a splitting headache. His shoulder throbs. His brain feels like it’s packed with cotton and static. He tries to sit up, but his muscles don’t respond right. Like they’ve forgotten how. It's like drifting on the surface of a lake. 
The room is white.
Not clean-white. Not sterile-white. Just… blank. Like someone forgot to paint it properly. No windows. No clock. No calendar. Just a bed, a toilet, and a... thing in the corner. Electrical. 
It takes a long time until he remembers the word for the camera.
He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know who he is.
The door doesn’t open for long times. When it does, a man in scrubs walks in, checks his vitals, says nothing. Leaves.
He tries to speak. Fails. No one answers anyways.
Time passes. He has no rhythm for it. He sleeps. He wakes. He stares at the ceiling. 
Sometimes he screams. Sometimes he doesn’t.
They feed him through a slot in the door. He eats with shaking hands, no cutlery. He doesn’t remember how he got here. Doesn’t remember his name. Just flashes - gunfire, a rolling thunder, someone shouting words at him.
He dreams of water. He dreams of being under water. He dreams of a man without a face, just eyes that follow him. He's not afraid of the eyes, when they are open he is safe.
He heals slowly. The wound in his shoulder closes. His body remembers how to move. But his mind stays foggy. He understands words, but can't speak them. He knows pain, but not why. He sees faces and some make him angry.
They test him sometimes. Flashcards. Lights. Questions he can’t answer.
“Do you remember your unit?”
“Do you know what year it is?”
“Do you know your name?”
He says nothing. They stop asking.
More time passes. He marks time by the meals but has no way of tracking it. His memory is still shot. The light overhead flickers. The eyes that follow him are dark.
He can't speak. He doesn’t fight. He just waits, but doesn't know for what.
A long time.
Then one day, the door opens - and it’s not the man in scrubs.
It’s someone else. Someone with a mask. It carries the eyes from his dreams.

Ghost doesn’t move. He’s trained for every kind of shock - but not this.
He’d taken in the skinny figure, the posture, the silence. But when the man turned his head-...
It’s Johnny.
It’s his…
It’s his Johnny.
His training and survival instinct take over before the rest of him can fall apart. He grabs the radio, voice nearly toneless.
“This is Bravo Zero-Seven. I have found Codename Diver. I repeat, I have Codename Diver. Gaz, come here. Bring a trauma kit, blankets and rations. Now.”
He waits for confirmation. Just a click of static and a clipped “Copy.”
Then he drops to his knees.
He doesn’t know if Johnny recognises him, doesn’t know if there’s anything left behind those eyes. But he’ll take his chances.
So he opens his arms.

Starting at me, the road can only lead…

He doesn’t breathe.
Just stares.
The figure in the doorway doesn’t move. Mask. Eyes. Real. Not a dream.
The man speaks into his… technical device - he doesn’t remember the word for microphone just now.
Then the man drops to his knees and opens his arms.
He doesn’t hesitate. Not for a second. He knows there is safety. So he flings himself forward into the embrace.
He’s cradled immediately, and they both let out a sob at the same time.
He doesn’t let go. And neither does the masked man, who has a name he doesn’t remember now.
It doesn’t matter.
They stay like that for a long time.

He jogs down the corridor, boots echoing off concrete. The radio still crackles in his ear.
“Gaz, come here. Bring a trauma kit, blankets and rations. Now.”
So he comes, arms full with the requested items.
The door’s ajar, so he simply pushes it open.
And stops.
There, in the middle of the white room, Ghost is on his knees. Arms wrapped around a man who shouldn’t exist. A man who’s clinging to him like he’ll evaporate if he lets go.
Gaz stares. His brain tries to make sense of it. The colour of the hair. The sharp curve of the jaw. The scar on the chin.
“Tav?” he breathes.
The man doesn’t look up.
But Ghost does - just for a second.
And that’s what breaks the spell.
Gaz drops everything he’s holding and stumbles back a step until the wall stops him. His hand covers his mouth. His eyes burn.
He slides down to the floor.
He doesn’t really cry. It’s just the shock - tears spill, and he shakes like he’s falling apart. He drags a hand over his face. 
He thought he could take everything that was thrown his way.
But he wasn’t ready for this.

°°x°° Epilogue °°x°°

John lies in the grass behind the house.
The sun is warm and the breeze is soft. He lazily watches JJ repairing the bike of his friend, so they can do a tour tomorrow. Little Katie, golden-haired and doe-eyed, climbs all over him, determined to turn his ribs into a jungle gym.
Simon comes out of the house, picks Katie up with one arm, and feeds Johnny a piece of cake with the other.
They expect Mary for Katie’s birthday in two weeks. She’s finishing her last term at university - history, her passion. The spare room is finally ready: The walls are blue, shelves for her books, a desk by the window. She hasn’t seen it yet.

They’re excited.
It’s quiet here but then it's not. There is no noise from the street, but laughter of the kids. A garden, a shed, a swing set that creaks when the wind hits it just so. It's this kind of place you only dream about when you’re bleeding out on a concrete floor in a subway tunnel.
John’s recovery was slow. Weeks of silence. Months of fog. But he came back. Piece by piece, word by word he clawed his way back to Simon. And Simon waited there for him, with open arms and later, when John understood what he wanted, also with soft lips. 

They married in autumn. No huge audience, just Gaz, Price and a sniffling Mary. Vows whispered under a tree, JJ holding the rings, Katie asleep in her pram.
Mary calls them her boys. It’s never been a question. They raise JJ together, and now Katie too - their adopted daughter, wild and brilliant like the land they live on.

Ann divorced Jonah. Got pregnant the first time she slept with someone else. She raises her child in peace now, as a single mum. The irony isn’t lost on anyone, but no one says it out loud.

Price retired. Gaz left the military. They still visit, bring their godawful whisky and the stories they shouldn’t be telling in front of the kids.

John looks at his handsome husband. Katie giggles in Simon’s arms. JJ waves from the bike rack, grease on his hands.

Simon lies down beside him, shoulder to shoulder, a giggling toddler in his arm. 
“Mary said she’s bringing cake,” he murmurs into Johnny's good ear. 
John smiles. “Good. I’m not sharing mine.”
Simon laughs. Katie squeals. JJ's hair is tousled by the wind.

Everything is exactly where it should be.

Starting at me, the road can only lead to you.