Chapter Text
“Ghost. How are we lookin’?”
Soap is pushing past the rubble of what looks like it used to be a shed, rifle firmly clutched in his hands as he takes in the destruction around them.
“MedEvac is fifteen minutes out, sir. Area’s still clear.”
He hums his confirmation, kicking a piece of debris out of the way. The village is little more than ruins after the hostile airstrike and if he’s honest, Soap didn’t have much hope for their search for survivors in the first place.
His gloved hand pushes open the remains of a splintered door, peering into the destroyed house. It’s the last one along the main road, little more than two smoking walls and a collapsed roof at this point. Soap grits his teeth, averting his eyes from the charred bodies on the floor, partly obscured by the rubble. “Roach?”
“Don’t think she’ll make it that long,” the third member of 141 replies, his raspy voice carrying an edge of raw fury. He’s tending to the sole survivor of the massacre, a young woman they dragged from what remains of her home, most of her right leg missing and the left side of her face burned beyond recognition.
More death. Soap doesn’t bother checking for a pulse on the little boy he finds curled up behind the crumbling well. The broken ribs sticking through his back make it abundantly clear that he’s already dead.
The Captain pauses, taking in the sight of the small flower bed nestled into the side of a ruined building. It looks strangely surreal, nearly entirely untouched by the fire and destruction all around.
“A brighter future.” he murmurs to himself, frozen in place momentarily.
Still, he apparently said it loud enough for the rest of his team to pick up. “Say what?”
Soap clears his throat and turns, stalking back towards the centre of the destroyed village where Roach is hovering over the injured civilian. “Eranthis. The flower. Hope for a brighter future or somethin’ along the lines.” It’s bloody ironic. In a fucked up way.
Ghost makes a contemplative noise. “Know a lot about flowers, Captain?”
“Sister had a phase. Thought she wanted to become a florist. Hard not to pick up things when she memorises shite by leavin’ post-it's all over the house.”
Soap glances up at the mountainside, trying to make out the familiar shimmer of Ghost’s scope but he’s unable to spot the other. It makes something twist in his stomach that has no business being there. Ghost is on overwatch, keeping them from getting ambushed. Just because Soap doesn’t have eyes on him doesn’t mean he’s not safe in his sniper nest.
He half expects a sarcastic reply from the lieutenant but Riley remains quiet, probably unwilling to joke while less than 200 metres away from the site of a complete massacre. It makes the whole scene harder to swallow.
Johnny stares at the flowers sitting oh-so-innocently on his coffee table tucked into a tall beer tankard he bought years back during a deployment in Germany. It’s the closest thing to a vase that he owns.
He’s certain they’re not from his parents, nor his sisters. Emily, Ma or Da would’ve stopped by personally if they wanted to give him flowers. And Angie spent four months memorising flower languages back when she considered becoming a florist, she definitely wouldn’t send him this kind of bouquet.
The knot in his stomach twists painfully and he’s not certain whether it’s his stomach reminding him that he hasn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours or if it’s anxiety.
Gritting his teeth, he finally tears his eyes away and pushes himself off the couch. Before he can talk himself out of it, he grabs his phone, cringing inwardly at the 3% battery he has left. It’ll do.
Taking a deep breath, he dials Price’s number.
The pub isn’t crowded but even the few customers here and there are enough to make Johnny’s skin itch. The place is terribly designed, too many angles to hold, big windows that offer no protection against a shooter… he doesn't remember how it feels to just enjoy himself in public without his instincts demanding he secure his surroundings first.
He slinks past the family sitting at one of the tables, carefully avoiding eye contact. When he catches a glimpse of them in the mirror above the counter, they appear to him as corpses, dead eyes staring at him accusingly out of disfigured faces.
Johnny clenches his fists and crosses the room with stiff strides. Price’s choice of table is as good as it can be, offering a decent line of sight to the door. They're cut from the same cloth, haunted by the same ghosts even if Johnny’s are much more tangible now.
The older man doesn't bother with small talk or niceties. Instead, he gives Johnny a knowing look before waving to catch the waitress’ attention.
“Whisky. For both of us, dear.” He glances at his companion before adding: “And an order of chips.”
Johnny is about to object but the other regards him sternly. “I'm not telling you shit until you've eaten something.”
It's a cheap tactic and yet it still makes Johnny feel a tiny bit at ease. He's good at following orders, maybe better than he is at giving them. At least that way it's not him who's sending his people to their death…
He swallows the bitter comment lingering on his tongue and shrugs instead. The waitress returns with their drinks and he makes a half-hearted effort not to down his in one go. Fuck knows, he's been hiding at the bottom of a bottle often enough the last weeks.
The silence between them stretches uncomfortably, so different from the relaxed evenings with Roach and Ghost. He never felt the lack of conversation to be stifling with the 141 and he's not sure if it's Price’s fault or his own that his mind is crawling with anxiety right now.
Finally, the waitress places a big bowl of chips on the table between the two and Johnny forces down the nausea bubbling in his stomach.
With a pointed glare at the older soldier, he shoves a handful of the fried potato wedges into his mouth. They're too salty, the grease making his insides rebel but it seems to satisfy Price.
The other sighs, his expression growing serious. “I told you not to look into it.”
Johnny swallows. “An’ ye knew ah would.”
He receives a humourless snort in response. “Of bloody course I did. You wouldn't be the man I know if you didn't.” Price curses under his breath and downs the rest of his whisky. “Doesn't make this any easier.”
Nervously, Johnny licks his lips, the question that has been haunting him for days finally slipping past his lips: “Did he-?”
Price gives him a sharp look. “You don't believe it.” It's not a question.
“Nae. Not for a fucken second.” His voice sounds more assured than he feels and he viciously shoves down the doubt gnawing at the back of his mind. He knows, knew , Riley. No matter how bloody mysterious the man was acting, MacTavish would take trust in the man to the grave.
The older man hums, a contemplative sound. “This isn't about it being confidential. It's not my story to tell and even I don't know everything.”
That makes Johnny’s eyebrows arch in surprise. He knew Ghost’s file is as redacted as it gets but he'd expected that at least Price would be in the know. Still he motions for his old friend to continue.
“I wanted to leave it up to him who he tells but well…” Price balls his fists where they rest on the table, leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken. It's supposed to be Riley’s choice whom he deems trustworthy enough and MacTavish wanted to give him all the time he needed. But that option was taken from them by cruel, treacherous hands.
“Ghost… Simon’s squad was deployed to Mexico. The Zaragoza cartel had been growing out of control under Manuel Roba and they were sent to clean it up. But shit hit the fan and the whole op went south. The whole squad was presumed KIA.
The Americans picked him up months later at the Mexican border. I never got a hold of the details but he must've spent almost half a year in Roba’s hands.”
Johnny breathes out sharply, his knuckles white where he's gripping the edge of the table, holding on for dear life. Even he has heard of Roba and his brutality back then; he doesn't need details to imagine what kind of shit the lunatic put his lieutenant through.
The scars. Those deep wounds carved into Riley’s flesh that left him unable to look at himself in the mirror. The filthy hands that defiled the man and turned him from the smiling recruit to the jaded soldier.
“Took him about four months to recover, then they sent him home. Decommissioned because they didn't think he was sane enough to stay in service.”
Price's lips are thin, bloodless as he presses them together tightly. “Again, half of this is classified above my pay grade. From what I gathered they picked up two of his squad mates but unlike Simon, they turned coat. And Roba sent them after him.”
“He was framed.” Johnny says slowly through clenched teeth. “Christ, Price, they killed his whole bloody family and he took the fall for it!”
Anger boils hotly in his veins, bile burning his throat as he struggles to come to terms with this knowledge.
Price only nods. “They found one of his squad mate's body after his house burnt down. Along with his dog tags.”
“But it's better ta have a vet go crazy an go on a killing spree than ta admit they had a couple unstable bastards runnin’ loose, aye?” Johnny's vision is tinted red at the edges, his breathing ragged. He never was the kind to blindly believe the higher ups were saints. And Shepherd’s betrayal only made him less willing to trust command.
“Pretty sure no one knows exactly what happened but when the SAS picked up Simon, Roba was dead. I'm sure we can both fill in the blanks there. The SAS recruited Ghost and Simon Riley was a dead man.” Price takes a deep breath and gestures for the waitress to refill their drinks.
Johnny’s head is spinning, jumbled thoughts fighting for his attention. Riley had to live knowing that everyone thought him a monster. Riley’s vandalised grave, a reflection of what had been done to the man at the hands of friend and foe alike.
He doesn't question for a second what would've happened if Riley hadn't accepted the SAS’ offer. They couldn't have let him live after everything. Not when he could’ve gone to the press and torn the whole story wide open.
But Riley kept his mouth shut. He allowed them to take his life and his name and continued to serve the country that was so eager to leave him six feet under.
The idea of his squad being sent to deal with the rogue soldier, slips unbidden into his mind. Of being the one to hunt down and put a gun to Riley's head, ensuring that they'd never get to work together. He banishes the thought quickly.
Riley survived so much only to end up discarded and burnt like trash.
“Ah… ah need ta go,” he mutters and Price doesn't say anything in return.
Johnny stumbles out of the pub, holding onto the crutches like a lifeline. He didn't ask half the questions he meant to, didn't get any closer to figuring out who sent him the fucking flowers. But none of that matters right now.
He needs to get home. Needs to shut himself in where he can be alone with his thoughts. Needs to see Riley and beg him for forgiveness even if he's just a figment of his imagination.