Chapter Text
“In position. Got a clear visual on you both.”
The voice is a familiar low growl over comms, and Soap briefly lets his gaze drift behind him, to the church steeple he knows Ghost is watching from. He’d never admit it outright, but he’s glad for the oversight, glad for the eyes on his back as he makes his way through the crowded marketplace. It soothes the nerves thrumming in his chest as he sweeps the area, noting three men with concealed weapons. Could be nothing, could be cartel.
“Eyes on the prize, Johnny.”
He zeroes in on the mark again, a high-ranking cartel boss out for a suspicious stroll. Visible thanks to his greasy, balding head that shines like a beacon in the midday sun.
“Remind me again why Gaz isn’t doin' this?” Soap murmurs, too quiet to be picked up by anyone around him.
“Got better things to do, I hear. Something-something Germany. Loads of red tape. Just be grateful it’s a nice day, eh?”
“Easy for you tae say, Lt. How’s that air conditioning treating ye?”
The mark turns suddenly, eyes landing on Soap. Instead of averting his gaze and changing course, Soap brushes straight past, pretending like he’d been keen on the booth directly across the market all along. He intends to stop only for a moment, allay suspicion before moving on.
Unfortunately, the woman at the booth perks up, looking at the approaching man with a delighted expression that already says she’s not going to let him get away so easily. Her dark eyes crinkle at the corners as she leans forward on the table between them, an eccentric collection of necklaces swaying against her chest.
“Here for a reading, love? Step up, then, don’t be shy! Come sit, come sit.”
Too late, Soap notes the lack of merchandise on the table and clocks the sign hanging from the awning.
TAROT READINGS — Health, Wealth, & Love!
“Ah, I was jes’...” he starts to protest, before his ears pick up motion behind him. Risking a glance back at the mark, he sees the man move towards a nearby stall to greet the vendor there. The tones of voice indicate familiarity and the beginnings of a longer conversation. Looks like Soap is still flying under the radar—and the mark doesn’t appear to be in any hurry to move on.
“Well, Johnny?” says Ghost’s voice in his ear. To anyone else, the Lieutenant’s tone might sound annoyed, but Soap’s familiar enough to catch the underlying amusement. “Gonna get your fortune told?”
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Soap scratches the back of his head and hopes Ghost can see his middle finger. Still, it’s not a bad cover while he waits for the mark to move on.
“...Aye, got a keen interest in, uh, tarot,” he hears himself say. He drops into the available chair across the table from the woman, resigned to his fate.
“It’s pronounced tarot,” the woman says, not a dent in her smile. This close, she smells strongly of incense. “Let me get a look at you...”
Soap stiffens in his seat as the woman’s expression becomes focused, almost uncomfortably so. She looks him over as though evaluating him for weaknesses, like she’s getting ready to strike. Or maybe that’s the urgency of the mission impinging on his thoughts.
Then the woman sits back, smile in place once more. Her hands dip out of sight for one nerve-wracking moment before they come up again with a deck of well-worn cards. “Military, eh?” she says casually, and Soap just about chokes. He wills his eyes not to dart next door to where the mark is still chatting away with his acquaintance.
The woman laughs as she begins to shuffle her cards. “No need to look so startled, love; this is my job. I read people, remember? But I’ll tell you a secret, I get a lot of off-duty vets passing through. They’d never admit it to anyone, but they’re a superstitious lot. Now, tell me, what kind of reading do you need? Do you have a specific question in mind?”
How long until exfil pops up in Soap’s head. He forces a smile. “Just want tae get a general kinda reading, I guess. Check in. See what’s what.” He’s definitely talking too much.
The woman’s eyes glint, and a disturbingly knowing smile curves her lips. “Ah,” she says. “You’re here for a love reading.”
Soap feels his face heat several degrees, not helped by the deep, muffled laughter over comms. “I dinnae say that...”
“What, you shy? C’mon, Johnny, you know me. I won’t tell a soul.”
The fortune teller is still gazing at him patiently, as though she knows it’s only a matter of time before he says yes. And as much as Soap wants to deny her, he realizes that refusing a love reading in front of Ghost would probably be more telling than whatever a stranger with a pack of cards has to say. So he presses his lips into the shape of a smile and shrugs, like he really couldn’t care less. And he couldn’t. Really.
The fortune teller brightens at the confirmation and quickly shuffles again, this time full of purpose and focus. Her all-too-piercing gaze falls on the cards instead of Soap, giving him a moment to brace for whatever comes out of her mouth.
“This first card will represent you, in your current situation,” the woman explains. Her long fingers snag one card from the deck at random and lay it face-up on the table. In bright colors, a figure plays trumpet beneath a large, fiery sun.
The woman studies the card for a moment, nodding as though agreeing. “The Sun. You’re single, aren’t you? But there’s something—maybe someone—that you know you want, so fiercely that you’re willing to wait however long it takes.”
Soap feels the corners of his mouth tug down as Ghost’s rough laughter sounds in his ears again.
“Got your eye on someone, eh Johnny?”
You wish, Lt, is what almost slips out of Soap’s mouth. Instead, he makes a noncommittal hum.
The fortune teller takes that as confirmation. “You seem content to wait,” she says, tracing a finger around the edge of the card. “I’m willing to bet it’s because you already enjoy what you have with this person, right?”
It hits uncomfortably close to home. Soap gives an awkward laugh. “Aye, you’ve got me there. Happy tae take my time. No good rushin’ intae things.”
It’s the woman’s turn to make an acknowledging-but-otherwise-unreadable noise. “We’ll see about that,” she says simply. “This next card represents the other person and what energy they bring to the relationship.” Her fingers flash, and Soap nearly leaps from the table.
“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” he says, hands gripping the edge of the table. Staring up at him from the second card is Ghost’s mask, clear as a gunshot on the black-and-white card.
“Something wrong, Sergeant?” Ghost’s voice is sharper now, no teasing edge. He’s on alert after Soap’s exclamation, and Soap realizes with a swell of sweet relief that he can’t see the cards.
“Sorry, jes’ not expectin’ that,” he says out loud, ostensibly to the fortune teller. His heartbeat plays a staccato rhythm in his ears. There’s no way she could know. There’s no way anyone could know, because Soap has only known for a few short weeks and would run naked through Las Almas before admitting it to someone else.
“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about, love,” the fortune teller is assuring him. “It doesn’t mean literal death; it’s a more metaphorical death.”
Soap blinks down at the card again. It depicts a fairly stereotypical Grim Reaper figure, complete with the blazing-eyed skull that so strikingly resembles a certain lieutenant’s aesthetic. Along the bottom of the card are a handful of white letters. XIII - DEATH.
The woman is both right and wrong, then, because Ghost does mean literal death. He’s the wraith in the darkness, taking down enemies before Soap even knows they’re there. He’s the trusted Lieutenant, executing each mission to perfection like he doesn’t know how to fail. He’s taken hundreds of lives with those massive hands and he’ll take hundreds more. Death follows Simon Riley like a shadow, and Soap has never felt safer in another man’s company.
“Ya still with me, love?”
Soap realizes he’s been silently staring at the card, heat rising to his cheeks and ears as he thinks about Ghost’s sniper reticle following him, those dark eyes keen on his every move. About one of those large, rough hands landing warmly on his shoulder with a rumble of, Good shot, Johnny. And maybe, just maybe, he thinks about the face beneath the mask, all sharp angles and crooked scars with unaccountably soft lips.
Soap blinks up at the fortune teller. “Aye, I heard ye. Metaphorical death, how’s that?”
The woman gives a small chuckle, as though she’d read the thoughts on his face. “You already know who I mean, don’t you?”
Soap licks his lips, a nervous habit. He risks another glance over at the mark under the guise of trying to avoid the fortune teller’s eyes. “I may. Tell me more, though.”
“The Death card symbolizes a transformation taking place,” the woman says. “This person is in turmoil, their old self burning away to make room for new growth. It’s a painful process. I sense they are fighting the change. But you make it easier.”
“Me?” Soap can’t help it; he’s starting to listen more intently. Ever since that damn skull card came up, he’s felt like he’s almost in a trance. Like right here, right now, he’s poised perfectly on the edge of something, looking infinitely outward. Like maybe there’s some truth coming forward, regardless of whether or not this woman actually knows a thing about him.
The fortune teller taps the Sun card again, a gentle smile on her face. “The Sun isn’t just a source of light for itself, you know. You have a warmth to you, one that others can’t help but reach for. And your person—whoever they may be—is starting to realize how dark it’s been without you. They’re coming around to the notion that they want your light.” Her eyes flit back to the Death card, and in a voice so soft that Soap barely catches it, she adds, “That maybe they even deserve it.”
Soap feels a tug in his gut. He remembers the brutally chilling rain on his back, the sting of countless injuries, and the wild-eyed, clenched-fist feeling of being hunted. He remembers Ghost’s steady voice on comms, the only thing keeping his feet moving forward.
“It’s the other way ‘round,” he murmurs. “He— This person, they’re the light. I’m the one who needs tae measure up.”
“Don’t tell me you’re buying into this,” Ghost grumbles. Now he sounds irritated.
Soap smiles down at the table, grateful for the grounding presence. The specter at his back. It’s a reminder to keep his feet firmly in reality.
Meanwhile, the fortune teller just nods slowly. “You could be mirroring each other. Let’s take a closer look.” She draws a third card, which flicks from the deck to land between the other two. Soap finds himself leaning closer despite his renewed skepticism.
The illustration shows a young woman dancing barefoot in a creek beneath a velvet night, a single star illuminating the scene.
“What’s that one mean, then?” Soap asks, glancing up.
The fortune teller’s hands are pressed together in front of her mouth like she’s praying, but her eyes are on Soap. “It’s a long road ahead,” she says. “I think you know things won’t be easy. Right now, what you desire seems like a distant thing, maybe even just a fantasy you want to dismiss. There’s fear here that your feelings aren’t returned.”
Soap sets his jaw. “...Huh,” he says, noncommittal.
“But,” the fortune teller says, leaning forward with dancing eyes, “I can guarantee they feel the exact same way. Like you are untouchable and beyond their grasp. But you want this. You both do. And if you choose to pursue it...” She taps the Star card firmly. “It’s yours to claim.”
Soap hears Ghost inhale sharply over comms, and for one absolutely dumbstruck second, he thinks Ghost’s about to say something vitally important. Something like I feel it too, Johnny.
“Mark’s wrapping it up. Get moving, Sergeant.”
Soap feels a stupid twinge of regret before he firmly reminds himself what this is: a goddamn mission. The cards are just cards, the woman is just good at reading people, and Soap is just uselessly in love. He lets out a breath. “That sure was somethin’, alright. How much do I owe ya?”
The fortune teller regards him for a long moment, smiling gently. Finally, she shakes her head. “For you, hon? On the house, just this once.”
Soap’s eyebrows lift, and he starts to protest before Ghost’s voice growls, “Now, Sergeant.”
Soap makes his apologies and rises, casting one last glance at the three cards on the table. A heavy feeling settles in his chest, but before he can identify it, he catches a glimpse of the mark slipping away from his acquaintance at the booth, headed northeast as expected.
Drawing another deep breath, he shifts his focus back to the mission.
After the job is done and they have the information they need, Soap itches to talk to Ghost. But even as he enters the SUV serving as their exfil, he starts to doubt himself.
“Good work, Sergeant,” Ghost murmurs as the vehicle jerks into motion. “Played the dewy-eyed romantic quite well there.”
Soap looks him over, the civilian clothes that clash with the black-and-white skull balaclava. He feels a question rise to the tip of his tongue. God, how he wishes he was brave where it counted, but all his fearlessness seems to have been spent on dodging bullets. Biting his tongue feels cowardly, but familiar.
“All credit where it’s due, Lt,” he says instead, glancing out the window. There will be a tomorrow, he decides. Nothing’s killed them yet, so maybe they’re immortal. Maybe Soap and Ghost are frozen in time, mid-dance around the other, and maybe it will always be like this.
Soap can live with that.