Chapter Text
It’s late afternoon on a balmy summer day in the north of Scotland when John ‘Soap’ MacTavish first wonders if this is really what he wants.
Sitting on the uneven stoop that had come unattached from the old farmer’s cottage, he lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. The place is a fucking disaster, though that’s hardly a surprise, considering no one had lived on the property for the better part of a decade.
Pressing his thumb into the thin skin of his eyelid, he tries to remember what it looked like before, back when he was a child and his grandfather was still in good health, but the images are vague and blurry. There’s muddy snapshots of cows grazing on sweetgrass and a big blue pot filled with stew on the stove, spliced memories from summers spent running roughshod over the hills as a child. He remembers the harsh bark of his grandfather’s voice and the sense of peace he’d feel at the end of the day, his belly full and his body exhausted from chores and play.
A lifetime had passed since then. The barn now stands empty, nothing having lived in its walls in years. The cottage, once cozy and well-maintained, is now dilapidated and drafty. A leak has developed in the bathroom ceiling and the wood beams in the living area are bloated with moisture and rot. No matter how much he airs the damn place out, it still smells stale, like still water and mouse droppings.
His grandfather would roll over in his grave to see the place now, neglected and barely habitable. If he was somewhere out there looking down at Soap, he certainly would regret leaving his grandson the farm in his inheritance, seeing how poorly he’d taken care of it over the years.
In his days as an operator, Soap had often daydreamed about his future on the farm. It was a nice place to escape to when the mission encroached too closely on his peace of mind, or on cold, sleepless nights when rest evaded him. He’d come here, to the little cottage in the shadow of the steep Scottish hillside, and he’d picture the life he thought he’d have.
Back then, he’d really thought he would be sharing it with someone else; that they’d wake together beneath the glow of the early morning sunrise and grumble sleepily at one another over their morning caffeine, Soap with his coffee and—
Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. Now, he knows he’s alone, and that the farm isn’t the dream he’d once thought it was.
Beside him on the step, Ruby shifts, nosing her way under his elbow so she can rest her head on his thigh. He exhales his cigarette smoke away from her, stubbing the butt out on the ashtray he’d left on the step next to him. One hand finds its way into her coarse, tan fur, and she sighs contentedly, tail thumping a steady tattoo against the stone.
When he’d retired, he hadn’t been convinced he needed a service dog. Compared to some men he’d met over his career, Soap had thought of himself as fairly well-adjusted. He could sleep decently most nights, and he never would have considered himself depressed or anxious. The military psychologist he’d met with as part of his discharge had disagreed. She’d said he exhibited an “advanced degree” of paranoia and hypervigilance, and that she was “concerned” about his plan to move back to Scotland by himself.
She’d probed him about his family and his support network, who would he call if he was having a tough time, etc. He’d told her he had Price’s number on speed dial, which had apparently been the wrong answer, though he couldn’t understand why. After all their years working together, the 141 had become his family, his support system, everything he’d ever need.
Eventually, just to get her off his back, he’d agreed to sign up for a program that would match him with a service dog, though he’d continued to deny that he needed one. It seemed like a waste to give him a service animal when another soldier could probably benefit more from one.
Four months and countless panicked, paranoid calls to Price later, he could admit that, maybe, just maybe, the psychologist had had a point.
Without the structure of service, he’d fallen apart quickly after moving into the old cottage. Seeing its fractured state had left him feeling helpless, but the sheer list of things he needed to do in order to get the place back in order felt overwhelming, and he couldn’t figure out where he should start. Every time he seemed to fix a problem, two more would appear in its place, and the never-ending volume of things that urgently needed his attention left him feeling worn and defeated. Even when he did manage to finish something, it felt so insignificant against the mountain of unfinished things still left to do that he couldn’t even dredge up a sense of pride over a job well done.
It’s just too much for one man.
Ruby huffs, as if to remind him he isn’t really alone. It’s enough to tug a small smile from him, his hand coming around to pet the soft fur at her scruff.
Looking back up at the pasture, he sighs. In a few months time, the cold would move in, and he knew he needed to prioritize getting the house in order first if he wanted it to survive the winter. If he didn’t, his only choice would be to find a place in town, a prospect that filled him with a sense of dread. When he’d started this project, he’d told himself that if it weren’t done by the first snowfall, he’d give it up.
Now, he’s wondering if he should even bother trying. In what world would he manage to get it all done? Some days he could barely get out of bed, and others, he swore he could still feel the invisible weight of a sniper’s scope on his back, tracking his every move, just waiting for a moment of vulnerability to exploit. Even on the rare good day where he was able to focus on work, it felt like he wasn’t making any progress. He’d probably be better off tearing it down and rebuilding the damn place considering all the demolition he’d already had to do just to get it mold-free. Hell, he probably shouldn’t even be living in it, but he was sick of not having a place of his own.
For years, he’d made a career of destroying things, tearing down evil in whatever shape it took until it could be brought under heel. His retirement is supposed to be about building something up in its place, making a life instead of ending one.
You’re too fucking idealistic, Johnny. This is the real world—get it through your head, it was never going to work out!
The words echo dully in his head. He’s replayed them so many times over the years that they hardly sting any more.
“Mayhap it’s time we try somethin’ else, Ru,” Soap murmurs softly, his heart sinking as he considers it; giving up, selling the old farm, going… well, he didn’t know where. Town, maybe. His mother would be over the moon, at least.
Maybe one day he’d adjust to life there, with the loud noises and the car horns that reminded him of warning cries and the milling masses of bodies that made his skin crawl with paranoid dread. Maybe one day, he’d meet a partner who could help him through the long nights filled with dreams of car bombs and gaping wounds, the memories of dead comrades and the sound of crackling gunfire.
Maybe one day, he’d stop being so fucking idealistic, and accept that being just okay was enough.
A glint of light catches his eye, and he frowns at the sight of a black pick-up truck climbing the road towards his property. It’s not a car he recognizes, considering the only other family who lived out there drove a puttering sedan with a broken taillight. He hadn’t been expecting visitors, and there was no way it could be a lost traveler, not in a remote area like this.
As the truck turns up his drive, Soap stands quickly, Ruby coming to attention. She looks at the truck, and then back at her owner as he vaults up the stoop and moves into the cottage, reappearing moments later with a hunting rifle in hand. The person inside the truck is hidden by the glare of the afternoon sun on the windshield, but Soap doesn’t hesitate to lift the butt of the rifle and press it into the crook of his shoulder.
Distantly, he can hear his psychologist’s voice reminding him that he’s safe, that no one is hunting him, take a deep breath—but her words are quickly deafened by the roaring in his ear as the truck’s door swings open and the occupant steps out. Soap feels too exposed on the stoop, and keeps the gun in a low-ready position as his unwelcome guest steps around the car door, swinging it closed behind him.
He recognizes Simon Riley instantly.
He brings the rifle into a high-ready position, eyes locked on the ghost standing in his driveway.
Standing next to the pick-up’s bumper, Ghost looks much like he always had; clad from head to toe in all black, the lower half of his face obscured by a paper surgical mask. Predictably, the older man looks unfazed by Soap’s show of force, one pale blond brow quirking as he looks from the gun to Soap’s face.
There was a gauntness to him that felt new. Even at a distance, Soap could make out purpling crescents beneath his flat, soulless brown eyes. He wore a ball cap pulled low across his forehead, but Soap would bet that his pale blonde hair was now flecked with silver.
It had been a few years since they had last seen each other. After Makarov had been defeated, the task force had eventually been dissolved, and the squad had gone their separate ways. The star-shaped scar that sat just north of Soap’s left temple was a daily reminder of the years he had devoted to hunting down that traitorous bastard in service of the 141, as well as the price he’d been forced to pay for his pursuit.
That scar wasn’t the only wound he’d been forced to carry as a result of that mission in London.
Clenching his jaw tightly, he keeps the gun trained on Ghost.
Ruby stands alert beside him, body tense, her attention pinned on Soap. As a service dog, she’d been trained to identify and react to signs of anxiety, but this was different. Soap’s body practically hummed with rage, violence born of years of unmended heartbreak and anger that he’d tried and failed to suppress.
Fuck, he did not need this right now.
“What’re ye doin’ here?” Soap grinds out.
“Thought that’d be obvious,” Ghost shrugs one broad shoulder, his expression hidden by the mask. He stands with his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatshirt, his posture open but otherwise unreadable.
Soap cocks the rifle, but Ghost’s eyes stay trained on his face. There was nothing obvious about his presence there; they hadn’t had a polite word for each other in almost a decade.
“Well, it’s not, so let’s try that again: why are ye here, Ghost?”
Maddeningly, Ghost doesn’t respond, his gaze still trained on Soap. Those eyes, soulless and flat, give nothing away. Even before they’d ended their relationship all those years ago, Ghost had always been a difficult man to read, and it seemed to Soap that he was taking pains not to give anything away. They were each guarded, in their own way; Soap, with his rifle, and Ghost with his thin veneer of calm. The only indication that the older man might not have been as unaffected as he seemed was the tightness in his shoulders, and the rigid stillness of his posture.
Even as angry as he is, a part of Soap can’t help but wonder what he looks like to Ghost. At 40, he feels decades older, his joints achy and his back constantly sore. He keeps in shape because it drives him crazy not to stay active, to keep moving, but he's cognizant that he's grown soften around the middle since returning home. He’d done away with the mohawk years back, letting his hair grow into a more regulation-friendly fade.
Obliquely, he realizes he’s currently long overdue for a haircut, the dark strands falling limply across his brow. A traitorous part of him wishes he’d showered instead of sitting on the stoop smoking, his body caked in sweat and grime after spending the whole day patching holes in the exterior of his house.
Eventually, Ghost turns his gaze away. Deadened eyes the color of clay sweep over the cottage, the overgrown pasture, before pausing at the shell of the old barn. The place looks like a fucking dump, Soap knows, and seeing Ghost take it all in borders on torture. Absurdly, he feels the impulse to apologize, as if he owed Ghost some kind of explanation for why the farm was in the state it was.
Years ago, they had laid in bed together, talking about life after the military. Ghost hadn’t contributed much to the conversation, but Soap hadn’t minded filling the silence, jabbering endlessly about the farm with a reverence he could no longer summon. Back then, he had rested his chin on Ghost’s chest and told him about the way the light painted the valley golden, and how the cottage always smelled of linen and warm food. He waxed poetic about the songbirds and the satisfaction that came with a day’s hard labor—labor that didn’t require them to fight other men’s wars or to put their lives in jeopardy to further a politician’s bottom dollar.
The farm looks nothing like what he’d described, not any more.
“Looks like you could use a hand with the place,” Ghost says eventually, eyes trailing back to Soap. His tone is neutral, void of judgment, but Soap can’t help but feel judged anyway. More than anything, he wants to rage, wants to raise his gun and pull the trigger and remind Ghost it wasn’t his decision to end their relationship, it hadn’t been his choice that they become strangers.
What right did he have to try and change things now?
“That’s not what I asked ye,” As if to punctuate his point, Ruby barks, her body braced against Soap’s leg. The anger simmer in his gut like acid, burning away at what little patience he’d been left with after a long day of hopeless labor.
“Let me help.”
“Let you—? Ye cannot be fuckin’ serious.”
By what fucking right did he have to come into Soap’s life and act like this?
And why now?
For ten years, they’d existed as little more than coworkers, and even less than that after the 141 had parted ways. The time for reconciliation had long since passed; Soap had moved on.
He’d moved on, hadn’t he?
He’d fucking tried to, hadn’t he?
Why now?
“You still have trouble waking up early?” Ghost cocks his head slightly, “I can come by later in the morning, if that’s easier.”
Soap pulls the trigger, but Ghost doesn’t so much as flinch as the bullet buries itself into the grass a few inches away from the toe of his boot. His expression remains sickeningly blank, what little Soap can see of it. Panicked, Ruby makes a low whine, her hackles standing up. Well-trained as she is, she’s still just a service dog, not a guard dog. To her credit, she doesn’t leave Soap’s side, pressing her shoulder more tightly into his thigh.
“Show up here again and I will shoot ye dead, so help me God.”
“So six, then? Or seven?”
“I mean it, Simon. I will leave ye to rot on the fuckin’ lawn!”
Ghost nods, and for the barest moment, Soap is hopeful that the other man might actually listen.
Idealism can be such a bitch, sometimes.
“Promise me you’ll plant flowers wherever I die then, yeah?” is all Ghost utters in response, voice almost too soft to hear, before he turns back to his truck and climbs into the driver’s seat.
Soap keeps the rifle raised long after the black pick-up disappears over the edge of the hill. He grips the barrel so tightly he’s not sure he’ll be able to let go, his brain replaying the conversation over and over in his head like some fucked up record scratch.
He stands there long enough that Ruby gives up on trying to get his attention, her weight settling in at his feet as he stares out at the horizon, eyes unseeing.
Had he finally fucking cracked? Maybe the psychologist was right, maybe retreating alone to the Scottish Highlands had been a bad idea. Had his brain just come undone at the seams, leaving him to freefall into some crazy delusion that Ghost had reappeared in front of him after all this time? It must be all the trauma and toxic fumes he’d inhaled over the years, because he struggled to believe any of that conversation could be real.
And if it was real, then fuck him. Fuck Ghost, for thinking he could just waltz back into Soap’s life after all this time, for deciding he could just resume the closeness he had forfeited that night ten years ago while Soap was still laying in a fucking gurney with a bandage around his skull.
Fuck him.
Soap would have died for his lieutenant, once. He wouldn’t have regretted it, because he hadn’t wasted a second of the time they had shared together. Ghost had been his everything, his person, the man he could rely on through any hardship—until suddenly, he wasn’t. Ghost had ended their relationship in the span of five brutal minutes, the bullet wound at Soap’s temple only half scabbed over. He hadn’t even been able to cry properly because it hurt his head too much.
Price and Gaz had visited him as often as they could up until the day he was discharged, but Ghost never stepped foot inside his hospital room after that day.
It had been difficult working together after that. Soap had had a few months reprieve as he recovered from his injuries, but the heartbreak felt no less fresh when he finally returned to active duty. Out of sheer pride, he’d refused to let it affect his performance. If anything, it was one less distraction, he told himself. It was easy to keep it clinical with a man like Ghost; they only spoke when absolutely necessary, and only ever about the mission.
If any of the rest of the team had noticed the change in their dynamic, they never said anything.
Eventually, his knee begins to throb, an old meniscus injury acting up after having spent his whole day climbing up and down a ladder to get to the various cracks and holes in his cottage’s siding. His arm and shoulder ache from holding the gun up, and his stomach rumbles, reminding him it was past supper time.
Tomorrow, Soap would force himself to be awake at six. He’d be ready, sitting on the stoop, a cup of coffee in one hand and his rifle in the other.
And when he shot Ghost dead, he’d plant thistle in the viscera he left behind.