Chapter Text
“There will no recovery mission for Lieutenant Riley.”
“You can’t do this,” Price immediately replied, eyes wide and burning from besides him. Ortega turned, not even bothering to hide aggression.
“Who are you to stop me?”
“The United States brought us together for this, captain,” Price replied, unafraid. “You’re willing to answer to them?”
“Sir, Ghost is one of ours. We’re all he’s got, you can’t do this,” Gaz replied, voice a little desperate.
“Let me repeat myself sergeant, who are you to stop me?”
“He’s alone! Everyone in this base is all he’s got!”
“One of yours for the entire Los Sureños cartel—”
“There are no tunnels.”
When Soap spoke, it was with such burning intensity that everyone’s eyes were immediately on him. His eyes were fixed on Ortega, the stupid beret in his crosshairs— like a predator on prey.
“Excuse me?”
“There are no tunnels. Gabriel was one of yours, he called him Ghost. No one told him that callsign.”
Ortega chewed on his tongue, turning to him.
“Be that as it may—”
“You leaked the fact that special forces was here. It’s what I’ve not got,” he continued, “that first mission, they knew special forces was there. That’s why they were taking hostages.”
A long silence followed that. Even the Lambda soldiers were looking at Ortega, eyes wide.
“Because you could have undermined Price, or outranked me and Gaz, but you knew you couldn’t get away with killing civilians because he would have stopped you. Ghost would have stopped you.”
“I was tasked with clearing a cartel, sergeant,” Ortega replied viciously. “He was the only person with a problem.”
“Give us full access to the armoury, none of this leaves here,” Soap offered, shoulders squared. “You want to see us take down a cartel? Don’t get in our fuckin’ way, captain. We’re getting Ghost back.”
***
By the time the taxi pulled into the empty plot where the Moore house had been, the night was impossibly dark. It had been almost a three hour journey after Soap couldn’t get the refunded tickets back, and he had spent it silent in the back seat, unwilling to read any further on the murders but mind reeling too far to do much else. The silence was good; it helped Soap sort out what he needed to think.
He had to consider the very real possibility that Ghost hadn’t done something good. He had still gone without a weapon, because blindly, madly, he trusted him. On the other hand, whatever had happened couldn’t have been easy on Ghost. Soap hadn’t forgotten that panicked look in his eyes, like a deer in the headlights, as Veronica had turned to him. His chest twisted, and he rubbed his face. He’d deal with it— whatever Ghost had done, they’d deal with it together, because Soap had promised him that much.
“You sure this is it?” Khalid asked, looking at the empty plot. He had been at the station when Soap had been, and offered him a ride after seeing his face. Soap looked at the plot, abandoned and empty.
“Are there any graveyards nearby?”
The only graveyard nearby was in the shadow of a large church, a mix of old gravestones and new ones. There were several twisted trees, and the ground was uneven— the place was empty as Soap walked in. It was icy cold now, dark— a stillness had descended over everything. Several roots stuck out in odd places as he walked. The church was tall and imposing, windows dark and empty. Soap shivered; he’d never been able to stomach graveyards, much less at night.
The Moore graves had a handful of flowers still over them; they were buried towards the back near a Mary Moore, who had died when Tommy was fifteen. Ghost’s mother. Joseph’s headstone was so much smaller than his parents.
Soap kept walking until he came across it— the uncared for stone, so contrasted to the loved stones around it; Simon Moore, two years older than his brother, dead on the same night as the others. Moss had eaten away at his name, burying it in the dark— there was the telltale stain of red paint over the stone, like someone had poured it over. On his knees by the gravestone, Soap touched the crumbling stone almost reverently. He tugged at the weeds growing along the edges, and tried to clear some of the moss. Simon Moore.
He had hated that name. To his left, the grave of Nigel Moore— they had buried him by his father. Ghost wasn’t at the graves yet— he’d beaten him there, the car had been faster than whatever train he was on.
Unless he wasn’t coming here.
Soap ripped up another weed, hands shivering in the cold. Distantly, he heard a step— from the other side of the graveyard, he stood up.
“Johnny?”
Ghost. Soap practically ran to the gate of the graveyard where he stood, illuminated by the one light of the place, awkward and cold. His mask was gone, his breath misting in the air— Soap didn’t hesitate as he rushed over.
“Simon? Jesus Christ, you just left!”
“I know,” he whispered in response. “I’m sorry.”
“What— what happened, Si?” Soap was desperate, standing there— Ghost stayed safely behind the threshold of the graveyard, while Soap stood just past it. He was dressed the same; button up, thin jacket, mop of blond illuminated in the light. In his hands, he held a gift wrapped in golden paper.
“I promised— the captain. After everything had happened,” Ghost explained, knuckles white around the gift, face drawn like he was in pain, “I promised him that I’d come back. Five years, I’d visit them. Wouldn’t— wouldn’t leave them waiting for me again.”
His voice was wracked, wavering, the scar pulled back. His eyes were wet, and he kept blinking, refusing to take the step forward.
Soap offered his hand.
Hesitantly, Ghost took it; Soap wrapped himself around his arm, and they walked together, steps slow and careful over the ground, towards Ghost’s family. Ghost didn’t talk, eyes far away; Soap watched him swallow, hard. Silently, he offered him the letter, still in his pocket. Ghost took it in his free hand, gift under his arm, momentarily confused, before he nodded with recognition.
“What happened?” Soap asked again, voice gentle. Ghost sniffled. They kept walking.
“I was… twenty five. A mission in Mexico, the Zaragoza cartel. Heard of them?”
“I don’t— think so,” Soap replied, hazarding a look up at him. His eyes were forward, shoulders tense.
Ghost nodded. “Their leader, Manuel Roba— had this obsession with— with human experiments. Wanted soldiers, see, wanted to break us, wanted soldiers that couldn’t— couldn’t say no.”
He swallowed again, hard. Soap gently guided him over a root. The letter was tucked away into his pocket.
“Well, he tried his best. It worked, if you’re curious. Thirteen months, they’d declared me dead by the end— he hadn’t— hadn’t broken me, but Sparks and Washington…” he broke off, and the weight of what was happening seemed to hit him at once; he stopped, and brought a hand to his face, hiding everything but the corner of his mouth, drawn back in grief.
“Can’t blame ‘em. He did everything to us, everything. Took my name, took my face. Tortured us. Killed me in the end.”
Something about his voice, Soap knew it wasn’t hyperbole. He let his hand down, wiping his face in the same movement, and nudged closer to Soap, eyes not meeting his.
“And they got out. Escaped, maybe, or he let ‘em out— point is, they got out, and I dug myself out of my grave, so had I. But they found ‘em, Johnny. My family.
“The army didn’t tell Tommy I was alive for four months. They’d fucked up so badly, and— well, I was hardly alive, wasn’t in any position to fight it. Price was the one who basically undermined his CO to tell him. But he did it, and he— Roba, had moles inside of the army. Found out I was seeing ‘em Christmas Day, got there first. Sparks shot my father, and then— and then he got to Tommy.”
They’d reached the graves. Three, neatly in a row. In the cold air of the night, they stood, unmoving. Three identical dates of death.
“You didn’t kill them.”
“How could I?” Ghost whispered, voice broken. A tear fell down his cheek, onto the icy ground, and then another. “My baby brother, and my sister, and— oh, god, Joseph— fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, wiping his face. It was futile, but Soap reached up, wiping his face on his sleeve. Ghost caught his wrist, eyes closing.
“Tell me about ‘em, please.”
“Tommy would’ve loved you,” Ghost murmured, opening his eyes. His eyes were so blue— framed by wet eyelashes, the distant light reflecting in his eyes. “And you would’ve loved him— been a nightmare together, mind. He was a good man,” he said, turning to the grave. There was a jar of water for the flowers on its side, and he ducked down to set it straight, fractals forming around it in the cold. Soap sat down right next to him as Ghost set down the present.
“He was— after I left, he got into the wrong crowd. Did a lot of drugs, made a lot of bad choices. I have the addiction gene on both sides,” he explained to Soap, with a glance over. He nodded.
“You don’t take painkillers.”
“‘Cause I’m scared,” Ghost admitted, straightening the jar, looking up at the gravestone. “Saw it tear up my parents, and Tommy, and…
“But he got better. Used to say it was ‘cause of me, but it was him, really. Straightened out. Already had Jo at that point, but stepped up. Met Beth in rehab, became a father, a real father, not like ours. D’you remember the Bible?”
He stood up again, and almost instinctively, took Soap’s hand, leaning against him as he stood up too. Soap nodded again, squeezing it in return through the gloves.
“It was a gift from his counsellor. Had been his father’s before him. Tommy converted, got baptised, but he’d left it with Joseph, and Jo had treated it like a sketchbook. I was convinced that if Tommy saw it, he’d beat Joseph, so I hid it for him. Til the next morning where I spot him leafing through it, laughing at that picture of a dog. He was nothing like our father, a good man, through and through. He fought back against Sparks.”
“You two look really similar,” Soap said absently, looking down at the stone. Ghost hesitated, and then smiled a little despite himself, wiping his face again.
“This is Beth,” he said, voice slightly steadier. “They met in rehab, but honestly a miracle she didn’t bulldoze into our lives before that. He loved her like anything, and she was amazing. Stronger than him, stronger than me. Didn’t hesitate to put Joseph out of the way, shield him.”
He looked down at her grave, and his hand tightened around Soap’s.
“She protected him,” he said softly. “I should’ve protected him.”
“What was he like?” Soap prompted him, voice gentle. Ghost looked at him with impossible softness.
“Met him when he was one. Tiny baby, mother was some girl living in our house. Abandoned the kid rather than go to rehab with Tommy, and he was so small, fit right in one arm.
“I practically raised him. He was my kid, essentially, did everything one handed ‘cause he was always balanced on my hip. Sweetest thing, all quiet, looked up at you like he was always trying to work something out. He couldn’t say uncle so he called me his dad first. Took two years out of duty to make sure he had a home, had a parent, that he didn’t have to grow up like— like me.”
Ghost stopped there, voice shaking. Soap snaked an arm around him, and they just stood still, Soap’s head on his chest. Ghost was still crying quietly; he could feel the staggered breathing against him.
“Knew you didn’t do it. Knew— knew you didn’t kill ‘em,” Soap murmured.
“May as well have,” Ghost replied, voice wracked. “I told Roba about ‘em. Told him everything.”
“You had it tortured out of you, Si.”
“I should’ve protected them,” Ghost replied, voice cracking. “Fuck— I should’ve— protected them from him, not— not led him right to them.”
“Simon…”
“What they’re saying’s right, Johnny,” Ghost cried out. “I’m— a fuckin’ monster, I killed my family, killed my father—”
“Ghost—”
“D’you know the worst part? After everything, I didn’t even hesitate. Made Sparks shoot himself in the mouth, gave him my tags. Doused the place in petrol, set it on fire, went to Mexico and destroyed it all. Zaragoza, Roba, San Miguel— I killed Sparks, and Washington, Johnny, and—”
“Please,” Soap murmured, cupping his face. His lips were parted in surprise, pink and perfect in the cold. Soap ran his thumb down the ridge of scar tissue through the skin. “You’re not a monster, Si.”
“I tore apart a village in North Mexico to get even. Just because they hurt me.”
“I know. So did I,” Soap replied, looking up at him. “La Cruz— I wanted you back. Wanted you. They let me into the armoury and I tore the place apart.”
It spilled out before Soap could stop it; Ghost’s breath hesitated against the soft skin of his inner wrist.
Distantly, Soap knelt down, and offered him the gift where he had left it on the floor. The golden wrapping paper glistened in the light, and Ghost looked at it, stricken.
“I can’t.”
“Yeah, you can. With your brother.”
“I can’t, Johnny,” Ghost's voice cracked, but Soap was insistent— gently, he pulled him towards the grave, and he guided Ghost’s hands to the aged tape, waiting, hands over his.
“Johnny,” Ghost murmured.
“That’s it, I’ve got you.”
Hesitating, struggling, Ghost peeled back the tape and unfolded the wrapping paper.
1001 More Shit Jokes, the cover boasted, bright yellow too. Soap looked up at Ghost, who just looked at it, almost reverently, before flicking it open.
Soap read it upside down in the half light. Only a few lines in that same messy scrawl.
Simon—
When you’re reading this, it’s probably Christmas day, and we’ve got you back. Can you believe it? I just got the letter, and then me and Beth were in town, and I saw this book, and it was like the heavens aligned!
Joseph’s so big now, tall like you. He’s been asking about you, and Simon, he’s going to see you!! Tomorrow!!
You know I’ve never been good at words, so I’m writing this here instead of telling you, though I’ll probably say you the same on Christmas. I’ve missed you so badly, Simon. You’re my big brother, and my best friend, and I’ll kick you to shit if you ever scare me like that again. I love you so much.
Lots of love,
Tom
A tear fell on the writing, followed by two more in rapid succession. Soap looked up; Ghost stifled his expression with a sleeve, but it wasn’t enough. Soap leaned up again, taking his face in his hands, and Ghost made a long, wounded noise.
Soap pulled him in, pulled him closer, hiding his head in the safety of the crook of his neck— if Ghost felt the wetness of his cheeks, he didn’t say it, pulled them together like he was trying to make them one. The book was between them, and Ghost was crying now, chest heaving against Soap’s.
“He loved me. He loved me.”
“I know…”
“They were waiting for me . Oh, god—”
“You didn’t kill ‘em, Si.”
Ghost sobbed— short and broken, and pulled him in closer. Soap rubbed circles into the back of his neck, a hand in the soft skin of his neck.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, that’s it.”
“‘M sorry, Johnny,” Ghost murmured, “I’m so sorry—”
“Nothin’ to be sorry for, sunshine,” Soap replied, voice tender. “I’ve got you, come on.”
“It hurts.”
Ghost, who hadn’t complained after days of torture, Ghost, who’d shoulder anything if it meant saving someone, saving Johnny—
“I know, darlin’, I know,” Soap cooed, pressing them together, “I’m here.”
“Please,” Ghost begged, “please.”
“Easy, easy. I’ve got you.”
“I didn’t kill them?”
“You didn’t kill ‘em, Si, you loved ‘em. And they loved you.”
Ghost made a short indistinct sound, like an exhale, or a sob, or a hysterical sort of laugh, and Soap pressed his lips to the skin on the side of Ghost’s neck, Ghost pulling closer—
“You kissed Veronica.”
“Didn’t mean anythin’, Si, she kissed me.”
“I love you,” Ghost whispered.
There was a moment. Soap’s thumb paused where it was making circles, and Ghost’s heart sped up under him; he shifted for a second under him, like he was making to pull back, to leave, but paused.
He wasn’t running, Soap realised. And with that swooping realisation, that Ghost had torn himself apart and put himself in his hands, he pulled back, meeting Ghost’s eyes, lips parted—
Soap moved first. He closed the distance, drawing him closer from the hand on the back of his neck, Ghost’s breath on his lips— and he tasted like honey, like citrus and sweet. Soap felt the scar tissue of that scar under his lips, and Ghost nearly stumbled forward with the force he responded with, a hand on Soap’s waist, gentle, guiding. They pulled apart, if only to breathe, the air misting between them.
The air was still.
“I love you too, Simon.”
Around them, it started to snow.
It didn’t ache any less; this much Soap knew. But they stayed together for a moment, swaying, and when they pulled apart, Ghost’s eyes weren’t so wet anymore.
“Merry Christmas,” Ghost whispered, eyes warm, loving. With a start, Soap glanced at his watch. Ten past one.
He leaned forward again, and kissed him— without the urgency of the first, it was soft, genuine. Ghost rested his forehead against Soap’s, and sighed. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss onto Soap’s eyelid, and Soap responded by kissing the corner of his mouth.
A fat snowflake fell and landed in Ghost’s hair, another brushing against Soap’s cheek. Ghost leaned forward, and placed a hand against the cool stone of the gravestone, and murmured something very quietly to each of the three of them. Finally, he straightened up, turning to Soap.
“Let’s go home, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Soap smiled, “let’s go home.”
Hand in hand, they left the graveyard.
***
The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air, and distantly, there were car alarms. The APC rolled to a halt right outside a tall building, the smell of petrol rising as the car idled.
“Laswell traced the videos to here,” Gaz nodded up at the building. In the dark, it hung over them. “Two exits, no windows.”
“Blow the first and enter through the second?”
“Me and Gaz’ll clear a path. You go find him for us, yeah?”
The three of them were geared up to the teeth; around them, everything was oddly quiet.
“Roger that, sir,” Soap replied, as he began taking out the charges.
They’d been fighting for six hours, non-stop. None of them seemed tired. It was easy, when they got down to it, because the cartel was only a stepping stone in where they wanted to be— who they wanted to get to.
“In position, sir,” Soap nodded several minutes later, hidden behind the second exit.
“Rog. On my count, Soap.”
The charge blew perfectly, and at the same time, Gaz and Price disappeared inside. There was the telltale sound of gunfire, but Soap ignored it as he ran.
First room, empty.
Second room, empty.
Down a set of stairs. No guards. He threw open the door.
“Simon!”
He couldn’t help it; the relief, the warmth. Ghost sat up in his chair a little, blindfolded, t-shirt stained red and black, lips quirking as if to talk. His shoulders were at an awkward angle, and he was favouring one side— and yet, and yet…
“Johnny?”
“Yeah,” Soap immediately replied, rushing forward, “yeah, Ghost, it’s me.”
He tugged off the blindfold, met with those blue eyes; one sported a stain of purple around it, but they were both fixed on him—
“You broken?”
“Not yet,” Ghost replied a little hoarsely. He shut his eyes, slouching a little, and then cracked them back open. “You’re here for me?”
No one was there to say anything about the little hysterical laugh that escaped Soap; no one but Ghost, alive, watching him.
“Yeah, I’m here for you, you fuckin’ eejit,” Soap practically wept, and began working on the cuffs behind him. He was gentle, careful, doing his best not to jostle him any further. All the time, Ghost watched him. The handcuffs fell to the floor, and Ghost’s position didn’t change, like the muscles had gone stiff.
“Your hair’s fuckin’ filthy,” Soap replied, with nothing but concern— he ran a hand through his hair, and Ghost pulled away slightly, before shutting his eyes and letting him.
“Not exactly a five-star hotel down here, is it?”
Soap laughed again, a small chuckle that seemed impossibly loud between them, before radioing in.
“Found him, sir. He’s okay.”
“Simon?” Price immediately asked, and Soap held the walkie up to him.
“Sir.”
“Fuckin’ hell, am I glad to hear your voice. We’ll get you out in a second, okay?”
“‘Kay,” Ghost replied quietly, and Soap realised he was shaking. Gunfire erupted above them, and he tensed up, shoulders tight— and without warning, Soap wrapped his arms around him and held them together. He could feel his eyelashes brushing against his skin, but he didn’t move, hardly breathed, and said nothing if Soap’s cheeks were wet when they seperated.
“I’ve got you now, yeah? Nothing’s goin’ to happen to you ever again.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Soap promised, wiping some grime off his face. “Can you stand?”
***
“Johnny.”
“Hm?”
“One time I shot a bar of soap.”
They were sat in the station; Soap was resting on Ghost’s shoulder as he leafed through his book. In the dark and relative quiet of the station, they watched the snow fall through the window. Their train had been in the earliest, 5AM— Soap was nodding off on his shoulder as they waited.
“What’d you do that for?”
“Dunno. Was a clean shot though.”
Soap paused for a moment, and then groaned into Ghost’s shoulder, sighing.
“Awful. Terrible.”
“Go back to sleep, you don’t know what you’re saying.”
Ghost brought up a hand and absently brushed Soap’s cheek, before returning back to the book. Soap let his eyes slide close.
The funny bit about it all to Soap was how much time they seemed to have. For two people who had met and fallen in love with the hot breath of death always a few steps behind them, everything seemed to progress with such languid slowness that Soap couldn’t help noticing it. The train came at five exactly, Ghost squeezing Soap’s hand to wake him up, and even though the carriage was full, it was so quiet; Soap curled up into Ghost, and they watched through the window as the sky gradually lightened, and the wide moors slowly became covered in thick snow, falling from the skies like there was no end to it. Like making up for the month without snow, it only seemed to get heavier; there was something impossibly cosy about it. Soap fell asleep around Lancaster and woke up to find Ghost looking out the window, the falling snowflakes reflecting in the endless blue, and with a start, Soap realised he could just kiss him.
So he did, over and over, in the quiet of the train carriage; the voice calling out the stops wished them a Merry Christmas as they left, hand in hand, both absolutely exhausted.
It was on the way home, still holding hands, and Soap couldn’t stop looking around, drinking everything in; Lower Southurst had been transformed, clean and white and perfect. There were several snowmen on the roads, as no one had bothered to clear them from snow, and he kicked up flurries as he went, looking down at the prints they were leaving, side by side. Ghost glanced over at him; still maskless, a light peppering of snow over his hair and shoulders, lips curved up in that lopsided smirk, when—
“ Ow!”
“Sorry,” Soap immediately cringed at the stranger. They had rounded a corner, and immediately run into Mister Barnes, hobbling down the street—
“Ah! Riley! Lad! Merry Christmas!” Barnes grinned up at him, after straightening up. His hair was thrown away in the cold, skin ruddy and pink, and he smiled toothily up at the two of them.
“Merry Christmas, Mister Barnes. Sorry about that, my,” he glanced over at Soap, the smile stretching, “ boyfriend has never seen snow before.”
“I’ve seen snow!” Soap immediately responded, and Ghost gave his hand an endeared little squeeze. “And Merry Christmas, sir.”
“Go, be young, be merry,” Barnes smiled, “I’m off to see my daughter.”
“Boyfriend?” Soap repeated a little breathlessly, as the shuffling of Barnes cane disappeared into the snow behind them. Ghost met his look, eyes far too tender for how cold it was.
“What would you call this?”
“Well— boyfriend is a little juvenile, isn’t it? Partners.”
“We’d sound like cowboys.”
“Lovers?”
“Like affair partners,” Ghost laughed, though he seemed far more open to the idea. Soap nudged closer, their shoulders brushing.
“What if I just introduce you as my love?” Soap suggested, more to see Ghost’s cheeks go slightly pink as he said it, hardly able to stifle the smile now.
“Why bother with that? Just say I’m yours,” Ghost suggested quietly, voice lowering to a warm sort of purr.
“Yeah?” Soap replied, after taking a moment to recover, blinking hard. “Then you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” Ghost replied, as they reached their door. Their door, their home.
Soap didn’t think his heart could get any more full.
The funny bit to Ghost was how little everything seemed to change. It had changed, that much he was sure of; he kept remembering that he could pepper Soap with kisses as he wanted, or not hesitate before holding him, because he was his— and Ghost had no intention of letting go.
They climbed back into bed, the joke book kept safely by the bible. They fell asleep for a few more hours, Ghost waking up with Soap around his waist, and he raked his fingers through the mohawk until he woke up too, sitting up abruptly.
“Simon, it’s Christmas!”
“So?”
“Come on, get downstairs!”
There was a pile of presents under the tree, all wrapped in different colours; gold, and silver, and purple, and red— Soap pulled the first one he could from the pile, pushing it into Ghost’s arms with a wide grin.
“Go ahead, darlin’.”
Sarah had given them both expensive chocolates, and drinking chocolate; Maria had wrapped up expensive teas and coffees. From the church, he’d received several tins of biscuits which he immediately shared with Soap. Soap, on the other hand, had gifts from all three of his siblings and his father— two jumpers, several spiced deodorants, an annotated recipe book and more chocolate and gingerbread than he could eat. He pulled the second jumper over Ghost’s head without thinking about it, the blue bringing out his eyes and messing up his hair as it went on. Caroline had gifted Ghost an expensive set of socks, and he pulled it over his ensemble without a second thought. Finally, they reached the gifts they had gotten each other; Ghost’s hand came around the littlest box, before Soap caught it.
“I need you to promise you won’t judge me for this one,” Soap asked, looking into his eyes sincerely. Ghost tilted his head.
“It’s not a ring, is it?”
“…Would it be bad if it was?”
“No.”
“ Fuck, I should’ve got you that ring. No, open it, open it.”
It was the silver of their dog tags, wrapped neatly together with ribbon— on the front, where the badge number typically was—
IF LOST
PLEASE RETURN TO J. MACTAVISH
“I thought it was funny at the time,” Soap grinned, abashed, “because your tags don’t have your name on ‘em, so…”
Ghost was already pulling off the chain, unclasping it to slide it on without so much as a second look. It was so endearing, his tongue resting on the edge of his lips with concentration, that Soap leaned forward to kiss him once. Ghost immediately caught the back of his neck, and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss.
“D’you like it?” Soap asked after he pulled back, breath catching against his skin. Ghost looked back at him, eyelashes fluttering.
“Bit embarrassed to be honest.”
“What? Why?”
“Completely misread how we were doing this,” Ghost replied, before reaching under the tree and pressing a small box into Soap’s hands.
“Is this— a ring box?”
“I thought you’d like it,” Ghost replied defensively. “We were in Edinburgh. Speaking of, your siblings thought I was your boyfriend, too.”
Soap tore open the box, opening it, eyes shining with excitement. It was a plain silver band with a simple engraving, and Soap practically dropped the box tugging it on. Mouth falling open, he looked back up at Ghost—
“Simon Riley, how long have you been waitin’ to ask me out?”
“Four days.”
“You got me a ring before you even wanted to ask me out?”
“Your siblings were very convincing,” Ghost replied, though his lips were curled upwards all the same. “And I saw it, and it made me think of you.”
“Yeah? I’m never takin’ it off. I should’ve got you a ring,” Soap groaned, leaning forward, “I was in the jewellers!”
“This is better,” Ghost grinned, reaching up to his chest. “Never going to get lost again.”
Ghost got him some good bourbon, and loved the books— they waited with bated breath over the candle, both curious—
“It just smells like chemicals,” Soap scowled after five minutes, “spent 15 quid on this shit!”
And even after all was said and done, the wrapping paper cleared away, Elmer having been offered a candy cane on the shelf by Ghost for ‘not snitching’ and two mugs of Maria’s hot chocolate in their hands, they still had so much time to spend before their tickets to Price’s Christmas party. All the time to take it slow, to find out what each of them liked, to curl up and laugh at Christmas TV, to boo at the king’s speech as it replayed later in the day. The trains were delayed from the snow, but it had slowed by the time they arrived at the station, falling from the skies slowly and steadily, silent and slow. They stood, pressed together, as they waited on the platform; the train arrived and whisked them away.
Price’s house was big and busy, all golden windows and lights, cars parked all around it in the dark; they approached together, but Ghost glanced over at him as the muffled conversation loomed closer.
“We don’t… have to do this, you know. Tell them.”
“Do you not want to?” Soap replied, eyebrows furrowing slightly. Ghost huffed a quiet laugh.
“If it was up to me, I’d have your name tattooed backwards on my forehead.”
“Why backwards?”
“Like an ambulance.”
Soap snorted a laugh, before sighing, lacing their hands together.
“Nah, it’s okay. I want ‘em to know.”
“Rog. Here goes, then,” Ghost replied, reaching up to press the doorbell. Immediately, the volume increased tenfold; very quickly, Soap pulled down Ghost’s mask to plant a kiss to the corner of his lips, before pulling it back up and standing as they were.
To their very pleasant surprise, Gaz answered the door, throwing it open. However, at the exact same time, the fire alarm went off; Gaz immediately turned to look—
“Price!”
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it, it’s the potatoes!”
“They were boiling!” Gaz bellowed back, “they were in water? How did you manage to burn water ?!” He turned back to them, pushing his hair back in the same movement, the Christmas sweater he was wearing scarlet and white.
“Well, Merry Christmas to you two, and—”
His eyes flicked down to their hands, back up to Soap, back down to the hands. He went still, eyes narrowed.
“I didn’t burn the water, Garrick, the potatoes were—”
Price, in a jumper to match rolled up to his elbows, and very amusingly, a stained Kiss The Cook apron, showed up from the kitchen, in a plume of what looked suspiciously like smoke— he came to the door, spotted Gaz, spotted what he was looking at— his eyebrows flew up his forehead.
He looked at Soap, who smiled a little embarrassedly. He looked at Ghost, who shrugged carelessly, a smile creasing his eyes.
“Fuck’s sake, I owe Laswell twenty quid.”
“Merry Christmas,” Gaz grinned widely, before all but pulling them inside. “Come in!”
Inside was a mess of conversation and music, and everyone seemed to be in the kitchen, watching the mess of Price’s cooking. Laswell was there, with her wife; tanned skin and narrowed, careful eyes, she seemed to take everyone’s presence as a challenge— except for Ghost, oddly enough, who shook her hand. She smiled, and they stayed in a scary sort of camaraderie, intimidating the guests.
And the guests themselves; old friends of Price’s, ones who Price knew and Soap knew, men and women he thought he’d never see again. Asher from Georgia, Marlene from Afghanistan, one after the other, they recognised each other, finding each other in the warm heat of Price’s kitchen. Eventually, dinner was served, around Price’s table, all of them squashed together on mismatched chairs, elbows bumping. The table was decorated in holly and battery candles, warm and flickering— despite Gaz’s best efforts, it was burnt and undercooked and the best meal Soap had ever shared. After dinner came celebrations, and Price could finally take Ghost aside, pulling him to the relative quiet of the garden, their boots crunching under the snow.
“Been wanting to talk to you, Simon. Just the goddamn dinner—”
“It would have helped if you defrosted the chicken,” Ghost replied mildly, looking up to the sky. In the dark it had settled to a dark grey, and a snowflake landed on his eyelash— blinking it away, he looked over at Price.
“It said 45 minutes from frozen,” Price huffed in response, his words misting and catching his outdoor light. “I was cooking it from frozen!”
Ghost huffed a laugh; in the privacy of the garden, he could pull the mask down to his chin, taking long breaths of the crisp night air. Price looked up at him, something warm coming across his face.
“How’ve you been, Simon?”
“Good, sir.”
“Been keeping out of trouble?”
“Far from it.”
“You and MacTavish,” Price shook his head, sighing. “How did that even happen?”
Ghost shrugged, honest.
“Not got a clue. He’s better than me in every way, I keep telling him, won’t hear a word of it.”
“Shouldn’t do that, Simon,” Price replied, frowning. “Whether it’s true or not, he’ll listen to you eventually.”
“So I’ve just got to be better, then, isn’t it?” Ghost shrugged. “Be better for him.”
Price looked at him a moment, and then broke away, smiling despite himself.
“Can’t believe I bet against you.”
“You don’t have to pay up.”
“I’m a man of my word, no matter how poor that word may make me,” Price sighed forlornly, snow crunching under his boots as he shifted. “Speaking of— you’ve been keeping promises, I’m sure?”
“I did, sir.”
“And? How was it?”
“Shit,” Ghost responded honestly. “I was trying not to think of it, but this girl I knew brought it up— coincidence,” he added hastily as Price’s eyes widened, “and I panicked. Got on the first train to Manchester, left Johnny behind.”
“He was going to go with you?”
“He did. Chased after me in a car. Got to introduce him to the folks. Stayed with me, even when— I was being difficult.”
“Hm.” Price nodded, like he was thinking about what he was saying.
“Honestly, I sort of get it now. Retirement,” Ghost explained quietly, looking back to the sky. “Never really realised being in a home was s’posed to be like that. Kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it didn’t. Had Johnny, he had me. Could get used to it, to be honest.”
“You know I’d hate to lose my best lieutenant,” Price sighed, “but if you want…”
“Not yet,” Ghost replied, smiling a little. “Like to think I’ve got a little more fight left in me.”
“Given enough for a lifetime, son,” Price replied warmly. “I’m glad you’re happy.”
“I am,” Ghost blinked after a moment. “Very happy.”
“Come on back inside,” Price suggested, with a jerk of his head to the door. “And I have to know, even though I know I’ll hate the answer… was it the mohawk?”
***
“Tav, mate, can we talk for a sec?” Gaz asked very quietly, in the middle of the hubbub after dinner. Someone— either Laswell’s wife or an officer Soap had worked a mission with once, had put on some music, and drinks had come out— Soap followed Gaz into one of the side rooms, where the noise had quietened down slightly.
“Laswell’s wife is terrifying, isn’t she?”
“I thought I’d get used to it!” Gaz immediately replied, shutting the door behind him. “Aside from me, they’ve been here the longest, and she just gets more scary!”
“Is that what you’ve called me here for?” Soap replied, leaning against the wall. The room was darker, colder— Gaz looked over at him, eyes sparkling in the low light.
“No— no. I just— wanted to make sure that you didn’t tell me about Ghost because you thought I’d be— you know,” he explained haltingly, gesturing to try and fill in the gaps. Soap tilted his head.
“What d’you mean?”
“You’re entitled to your privacy, ‘course,” Gaz replied, “but… you didn’t keep it from me because you’d think I’d have a problem with it, did you? Because I don’t,” Gaz added quickly, “seriously, mate, I’m not…”
“Gaz, mate,” Soap replied, and he couldn’t help the smile. “I knew you wouldn’t be a dickhead about it. Honestly, just sort of happened.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Should’ve told you first, to be honest. Though my family’s apparently been thinking he was my boyfriend for weeks.”
“You took him to see your family?”
“They loved him,” Soap replied, smiling. “So do I.”
“Good for you,” Gaz replied earnestly. “Got to ask, though, what did it for you? The mask? The voice? That time he broke a man’s neck by fuckin’ jumping on him and we all agreed it was absolutely unhinged?”
“…All of the above?”
“Christ, you’ve got some wires crossed,” Gaz sighed, with no real concern. “Come on, that’s all I wanted to sort. And Soap,” Gaz turned back to him as they moved to the door, the conversation picking back up, “if anyone gives you any sort of shit—”
“You’re the first person I’ll tell,” Soap replied warmly. “I’m sorry for not tellin’ you about us sooner.”
“Don’t be thick,” Gaz smiled. “Though, full disclosure, I’m pretty sure Price is going to have the whole break-his-heart-break-your-ribs talk with you later.”
“Can’t wait.”
***
The break-your-heart-break-your-ribs talk was far more neutral than Soap had expected; a general serious talk about fraternisation, but how Price did so much off the books that it’d be pretty unreasonable for him to start caring now. With that said, he did describe in vivid detail six different interrogative techniques that wouldn’t leave any sort of marks on skin and had broken down fully grown men into nothing; he concluded with a knowing look over at Soap, before lighting a cigar, and congratulating him. A little unnerved, more than a little appreciative, he nudged himself safely into Ghost’s side the first moment he could.
The night continued; Price got steadily drunker, the music gradually louder— he opened their gifts, put on Gaz’s tie haphazardly and looked oddly close to tears at the mug, while everyone laughed around him. Stories were shared, Laswell’s wife procured a set of cards and began the most intense game of blackjack they had ever witnessed— eventually, several hours later, Ghost excused himself to the kitchen to go get a drink of water. Price’s house was big, warm, never too small to be constricting and never too big to be lonely. Ivied walls and a large garden, Ghost liked to imagine a house like this with Soap. Soap wasn’t keen on dogs, so he’d settle for cats, and they could invite Soap’s family around for Christmases and birthdays…
“Alright?”
“Solid,” Ghost hummed in response, turning away from the sink. Soap stood in the doorway, face a little pink, seemingly smiling just by meeting eyes. “Just got a bit loud.”
“Was a good call. Price is demonstrating his dancing skills. Won’t let anyone sober him up.”
“Gaz is recording this, right?”
“Naturally,” Soap replied, coming closer to peck him on the cheek. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“What did you and Price talk about?”
“Waterboarding,” Soap replied, smiling a little at Ghost’s confused glance back at him. “You?”
“Retirement.”
“No!”
“Not yet,” Ghost immediately replied, hands coming to Soap’s waist and resting there. “But maybe, soon.”
“Always thought we’d retire together,” Soap replied, eyebrows furrowing. “Or go out in the same explosion, like Romeo and Juliet.”
“That’s not how that ends. And besides, I wouldn’t mind playing military wife for you,” Ghost replied, a little too easily. Surprised, Soap looked up at him; Ghost kissed the patch of skin between his eyebrows.
“We’d have to be married for that.”
“John Riley has a ring to it, no?”
Soap laughed, tugging Ghost’s mask down to kiss him properly. It was slow, lazy, and when they pulled apart, Soap was looking at him like there was nothing else there.
“Simon MacTavish.”
“People’d assume I was Scottish.”
“Is that so bad?”
“I suppose it’s better than John Riley.”
“We could double barrel it,” Soap suggested finally. “MacTavish-Riley, or Riley-MacTavish.”
“First one.”
“We could do it,” Soap said, humour not quite hiding a seriousness under his voice.
“Only been together for a day.”
“How long d’you want to wait?” Soap asked honestly. “‘Cause really, if you told me you wanted me to marry you now, I’d already be gettin’ in the car. I’ve loved you forever, Si.”
Ghost’s mask was still hooked over his chin, and Soap got to watch his expression change; his eyes widen a little, the dull flush spread across his cheeks. He kissed Soap again, and when they pulled apart, the music from the other room had changed.
“Oh, listen to that. War Is Over,” Soap murmured, as it began playing. “Bit slow for my liking.”
“Really?”
“Can’t dance to it,” Soap replied, sighing against Ghost’s chest.
“That’s not true.”
“What, are you going to…” Soap began, humour on his lips, before Ghost moved one hand from his waist to his shoulder. He looked up at him, heart in his throat, and Ghost just tilted his head in that same perfect way. Soap wrapped his arms around his waist, as they began swaying.
“Is this even dancing?” Ghost asked after a moment, voice brushing against Soap’s hair.
“You’re not wantin’ to be dipped, are you?”
“Scared you’ll break my head against the countertop.”
Soap huffed a laugh, and let his eyes slide close, listening to the quiet conversations through the walls. The lyrics were slow, calm.
“A very Merry Christmas…” Soap breathed along to the song, “…and a happy new year.”
“I’m not singing it with you, Johnny.”
“Let’s hope it’s a good one,” Soap continued, smiling, standing up on his tip toes so his lips were inches from Ghost’s. “Without any fear.”
Ghost looked at him for a moment, eyes soft, before he closed the distance, lips meeting his. No one came in, no one interrupted; the music was quiet, the kitchen cold.
“D’you know, I was thinkin’,” Soap said after a long moment, pulling apart.
“Oh, no,” Ghost replied immediately, earning him an eye-roll from Soap.
“Piss off. I was thinkin’ that I never got you an advent calendar!”
“…So?”
“So, I promised you Christmas done proper, yeah? I’ll have to do it next year!”
“I’m stuck in ‘til then?” Ghost gasped, with mock despondency. Soap snorted, kissing the corner of his lips again.
“Afraid you are.”
“Right shame, isn’t it?”
“Terrible.”
They lapsed into silence, still swaying, listening to the music.
“I love you,” Ghost murmured after a long moment. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too. More than anything.”
“Merry Christmas, love.”
“Merry Christmas.”