Work Text:
Ghost circled his latest bolt hole several times before he was satisfied that it was uncompromised. Although it was his favorite, he seldom spent time here and rotated out often. After standing quietly in the darkness of the back alley and listening to the familiar night sounds, he slunk into the back garden and let himself into the old terrace house. To the outside world the house appeared to be in a near constant state of renovation and all the rooms on the first floor reflected this except for the pristine kitchen. He’d bought the place years before he left the SAS, under one of his false identities.
To his elderly neighbors he was the reclusive military man who kept to himself and was often deployed far from home. Only Mrs. Holly who lived next door has seen the inside as he paid her a nice sum to air it out once a month and keep an eye on the property. Mrs. Holly was a very effective neighborhood watch wrapped up in one plump, gray-haired gran who has her beady, bifocaled eyes on every soul in the neighborhood. The little woman knew everyone’s business and he’d determined long ago that it was better to feed her a few tidbits of intel to satisfy her intense curiosity and to cultivate her friendship.
As far as she knew, he was an SAS man who trusted her enough to confide that he had to maintain a low profile to fight international terrorism. He knew she would keep his ‘secret’ because her own father had been in service and she had adored him. Ghost has carefully vetted all of his neighbors. He knows all their proclivities, including Mrs. Holly’s love of armchair detection. Yes, Ghost was paranoid, but for good reason.
It was a much nicer story than the unvarnished truth. Ghost was now a government sanctioned sniper with an astronomical kill rate who took on ‘contracts’ one at a time and only for pay. His so-called handler, Laswell has no idea about the side jobs he took when bored. It irked the former CIA chief of operations that he refused to trust her any further than he could yeet her. Ghost would never make the mistake of fully trusting a teammate again. The last time he did, it cost the life of the one person he cared most in the world about. He no longer blamed Price for the bad call he made that night in the Chunnel, but he no longer trusted him either. Johnny should have been with him, that night, not Garrick.
Once inside, Ghost set his duffle beside the back door and checked the house from top to bottom in the dark. It was untouched, so he double locked all the doors, slipped into the master bedroom upstairs, twitched the black out curtains closed and turned on a bedside lamp. A quick shower, redressed in old joggers and a long sleeved Henley, and he crashed on the big bed with a sigh of relief. It felt good to shower the Syrian desert sand off. Before he dropped off he reflexively ran the discs on the chain around his neck through his fingers and pressed them to his lips. All he has left of his lad other than a footlocker of belongings. His sergeant was long estranged from his family.
He’d spent three months stalking a HVT before eliminating him, but the paycheck had been worth it. He’d picked up the briefcase of cash and immediately distributed it to a cache and his well hidden accounts. Ghost no longer accepted electronic payments. They could be traced too easily by Laswell and her people. Ghost would never have to worry about money again in his life, his personal needs were few and he was beginning to plan his ‘retirement.’ He was cognizant enough to realize that he has acquired too many enemies now and his paranoia informed him that another betrayal was imminent. Spoiled for choice now, he wasn’t exactly sure where he wanted to retreat to and live long term. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to live. His ‘job’ was the main reason he functioned these days.
The next day he rose with the sun and ambled down the stairs to put the kettle on. He would have to go out if he wanted breakfast and groceries. He thought he might stay here for at least a week this time. As a treat. He reached up into the back of the highest cupboard and removed the secure laptop he kept there. Sitting down in his silent kitchen he sipped his morning cuppa and opened his email, not really expecting anything important from the old account of Simon Riley, retired SAS lieutenant.
He raised a brow at a single message from Gaz, sent the previous week. He hasn’t seen him since… He’d given the young sergeant this contact email more out of sentiment than anything. After all, Gaz had been Soap’s best bruv. The two were thick as thieves. He raised a brow at the ‘Urgent’ in the subject line and opened it to find a couple of encrypted video files. Opening the first, he found himself staring at Garrick’s grim face. Gaz was angry and upset and trying hard to rein his emotions in.
“Ghost, I hope you fucking get this! I found it totally by accident on Price’s computer when I was looking for a file for him. He knew, Ghost! He and Laswell knew and never said a fucking word! Get in touch with me as soon as possible. I’ll help any way I can.”
Ghost opened the second file and watched the brief minutes long clip. Blinked hard and watched it again. And again. He could feel a surge of heat surge up his face and his throat tighten as his anger built. On the screen a frail figure in a wheelchair struggled with two burly nursing aides. It was security cam footage from what appeared to be a hospital. Taking a deep breath he zoomed in on the footage and stared at a very familiar face.
Johnny. His Johnny. His bright boy, his sunshine.
He clicked play again with a shaky hand. Watched as his sergeant objected strenuously to being removed from his patch of sunlight by an open window and being manhandled and wheeled back into a nearby room. The aides emerged and locked the door behind them. They were laughing as they walked away and Ghost coldly took notice of their faces so he would recognize them later. Then he carefully replayed the clip, frame by frame, taking note of the vivid scar slashed across his boy’s temple. His frightened, unhappy face. His thin wrists and frail frame. The timestamp was a month ago.
His sergeant survived. His sergeant was alive and Laswell and Price have tucked him away to rot in a fucking private hospital somewhere without a word, while they moved Ghost around on the chessboard of the Great Game, their deadliest, most effective Knight. Picking up his phone he hit a contact and waited.
”Garrick. Speak.”
****
Ghost spent the rest of the day after his conversation with Gaz making plans. He had to force himself not to hurry, and rein in the urge to wring both Price and Laswell’s necks. No doubt they had their very logical reasons for keeping him and Garrick in the dark. That did not matter. He would revisit that later after he recovered his boy. Soap was his first and only priority now. Now he actually had to force himself to sit back, breathe deeply and regain control of his emotions. For so long now, he has existed in a colorless, gray toned emotional wasteland and now he suddenly found it flooded with light.
For several hours, he simply sat and shook. It felt like his neurons were on fire. Was this what true resurrection actually felt like? This slow, painful rebirth? The pain being slowly consumed by incandescent joy? If it was, he could allow it to consume him as long as he could look into a pair of true blue eyes again.
He picked up his phone again and made several calls to certain individuals who owed him private favors. One to a well to do computer expert in India whose only daughter he had recovered from a trafficker before she could be sold off to the highest bidder (the recovery had been a total accident, Ghost was there to kill the traffickers anyway, but Singh didn’t have to know that) and another to a few local hard men who specialized in special transport.
Singh sent him a detailed file within a few hours and he greedily read the hospital information and especially Johnny’s file, memorizing all the details. Especially the important medical ones, his boy was on some pretty heavy anti-seizure meds and still frail after long months of coma and hospitalization. He then passed these details along to his transport men so that a trained medic would be present and duplicates of his prescription meds secured. He was taking no chances with his lad’s health.
He was concerned after reading about Soap’s seizures, migraines and memory issues. Not to mention the hearing loss and the aphasia. Would his bright boy even remember him? Their relationship had been so very new then. Time spent together on leave and stolen kisses on base. He cast a searching, thoughtful glance around his kitchen, regarding it with new eyes. The kitchen and upstairs rooms were finished, quite comfortable and habitable. The location of this house was good. The town was large enough that they would not draw undue attention, especially since he has ‘lived’ here now for several years. It has quality shops and a modern hospital. It would do, he thought, as a good stopping place until they decide where they want to retire.
In the meantime he has a special ace up his sleeve that would help. The next morning he knocked on Mrs. Holly’s kitchen door with a bag of fresh pastries, dutifully admired her prize geraniums, scratched her rotund moggy Edgar under the chin and politely asked a favor. She was delighted to help with such an important task and he left her with a detailed list and a fat envelope of cash. Checking his watch, he noted with approval that he was right on schedule to meet up with Gaz. Gaz, who had taken family leave to help his pregnant sister and would be absent from base for two weeks. Long enough to help exfil Soap and establish his alibi with his sister and family. He has already informed Ghost that he was planning on leaving the SAS after his current contract expired. Like Ghost, he was rapidly developing trust issues.
****
Soap glared at the door of his room.
He was locked in again. His simple request to sit in the hospital garden denied yet again for the flimsiest of reasons. He wished fiercely that he could exfil himself out of this place. They would tell him nothing about his team, even if they survived the Chunnel. His last memories were of struggling with that cunt Makarov. Had Price survived being shot? Dear God, were they all dead? His struggle to research found no info about that deadly night at all. All his inquiries were met with silence. So, at least the bomb hadn’t detonated. Had they been buried in a hospital somewhere like him?
Outside in the hall he could hear the shift change as the afternoon shift switched over to the night shift. He tenses as the door is unlocked and Jones strolls in to ‘tuck him in’ for the night. He is barely given the chance to use the toilet before being roughly hefted onto the bed. Jones tsked at the sight of his defiant glare and clenched fists, as he roughly pulled the sheet and blanket up and smirks.
”None of that shite, little man. You want to be strapped in for the night again?”
He waggled one of the restraint belts on the bed rail at him and smirked when Soap dropped his eyes, shoulders slumping. He hated being restrained at night. He always woke stiff and sore.
”Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
Whistling, Jones pulled the bed rails up and left, flicking off the lights as he shut the door. Soap heard the lock click again and blinked angry tears back. Jones was a fucking bully who loved to throw his weight around with all the patients. He couldn’t even string together enough coherent words to protest his ill treatment. Hell, he couldn’t even walk unaided across the fucking room yet without keeling dizzily over. He slumped back against his thin pillows and rubbed at his eyes. The night nurse is late again with his meds, which is probably why his head is starting to ache. He turns his head and stares out the window, wishing he could see the stars.
Despite himself he dozes off, only to wake with a jolt at the click of the lock on his door. Heart pounding, he stares at the door, hoping it isn’t that freak Simms again. Simms, with his leers and groping hands, always looking for an opportunity to touch Soap. So far, Soap has managed to fend him off, but he can’t take the big man in a fight. Wildly, he looks around for a weapon, but all he can reach is the pencil from his writing practice workbook on the bedside table. He slides his hand under his thin blanket, clutching his pathetic weapon and waits, heart pounding.
****
Getting into the private hospital in the suburbs of Birmingham is a piece of cake. After all, it's not exactly designed to be a fortress and no one expects anyone to try and infiltrate it. There is no outer wall or even a guard shack. Apparently they simply depend on heavy duty locks and thugs for security. In her bid for anonymity for Soap, Laswell has sacrificed security. Ghost and Gaz simply ride into the lower level hospital parking garage inside the private ambulance that Ghost’s transport specialists drive. Ghost nods at the medic to wait and she nods alertly back, medical bag at ready.
It takes Gaz all of three minutes to take the coms, cameras and automatic locks offline, and shut down the bank of elevators. Then he snorts and rolls his eyes at Ghost because apparently the night shift is so sparsely staffed and boring, no one notices. Shrugging they take control of the freight elevator and head up to the secure floor where Soap’s room is.
They step off and move silently down the hall, and Ghost grins savagely beneath his mask when one of the thugs who manhandled Soap steps out of the bathroom. In two seconds Ghost has grabbed his throat, punched him in the face and strong armed him back inside, where he quickly rendered him unconscious. He briefly considers drowning him in a toilet bowl, but he’s got a schedule to keep. Stepping back outside, he finds Gaz tossing the other thug’s limp form onto a gurney and rolling him into an empty exam room. They reach Soap’s room without further incident and Gaz watches his back as Ghost slips silently inside.
The room is dark except for a weak night light from the tiny bathroom. The thin form in the bed is still and huddled under the covers. Ghost approaches quietly and gently reaches to touch Soap’s shoulder and awaken him. The second his hand makes contact, the man on the bed lashes wildly out and nearly takes Ghost’s eye out. Ghost grabs the thin wrist and hauls his sergeant close, noting his weapon of choice appears to be…a pencil? He can feel Soap shaking in his arms and before he can make a sound or struggle he speaks softly in his undamaged ear.
”It’s alright, Dove, it’s me.”
Soap stills in his arms breathing hard, and it dawns on him then that his boy was expecting an attack tonight and he can feel himself start to go nuclear. He will kill both those fucks before he leaves, schedule or not. They laid hands on his boy and by all that is holy he will send them to hell for it. In his arms, Soap makes a garbled, inquiring sound, then attempts speech.
”Ghoss…?”
”That’s right, love. Gaz and I are here to take you home. Where are your clothes?”
He scowls at the small negative sound Soap makes, as he shrugs, then tugs on the sleeve of his paper thin, cotton gown. Fuck them all twice over. They couldn’t even allow him the comfort of a pair of joggers. He gives his lad a comforting squeeze.
”Anything you want to bring with?”
Another negative and Ghost is very glad his sergeant can’t see his face. He lowers the bed rail and helps Soap swing his legs off the bed. Then noting his obvious vertigo, his sergeant is swaying dizzily in place, he quickly wraps the thin blanket around his bare legs and hefts him up in a bridal carry. His lad squeaks in indignation and Ghost grins helplessly. His beautiful, stubborn, alive boy. He knew if he had simply ordered Soap to fall in, his sergeant would have followed him, even if he had to crawl.
Outside the room he hands Soap over to a grinning Gaz and jerks his head towards the elevator, cutting his eyes to where they left the aides. Gaz’ eyes widen in realization and fury and he carefully cradles and soothes Soap, who is making soft, happy sounds at the sight of him. He strides away down the hall murmuring soothingly to “Tav”, telling him how much he missed him, while Ghost attends to business. He wishes he could take his time with these abusive fucks.
It doesn’t take long, his knife is sharp, and he joins them in the elevator, where both young sergeants are grinning foolishly at each other, pleased to be reunited. The exit is quick, they step into the ambulance and the driver pulls easily away from the garage while the medic gently examines Soap and questions him about his medications. It turns out that Soap has not been given his nightly sleep aid and staunchly refuses it now, clinging to Ghost’s hand, eyes darting back and forth between he and Gaz, like he is marveling that they actually came for him. He can’t really verbally express himself, but his eyes speak volumes.
Gaz steps up and fills the silence, gently catching him up with all the excitement he has missed while ‘lazing about in hospital’, which earns him a scowl, an eloquent middle finger and an angry huff. Ghost is content to sit in silence and hold his boy’s hand while the medic concludes her exam and hands over the duplicated vials of prescription medication to Ghost. She quietly informs him that she is quite certain that some are not necessary and that one is downright dangerous. Ghost will need to corral an actual specialist to examine his lad and prescribe a proper drug regime.
He nods in thanks and makes a mental note to add a generous bonus to her fee. If he remembers correctly, she is working her way through medical school. An anonymous donation is in order for her account. It takes less than an hour to reach the car park where they switch vehicles, and Ghost sees them off on their way with envelopes of cash and a nod of thanks. Tonight was an easy job for them. Hell, it was practically a cake walk for him and Gaz. He watches fondly as Gaz bids goodbye to Soap with a tight, rough hug and kiss to his scruffy cheek and a promise to visit soon before he climbs into his Range Rover and heads for London and his sister’s house.
Ghost then makes sure his boy is comfortable, as he digs a pair of his own joggers and a hoodie out of the go bag in the boot and helps his lad dress. Soap makes happy, garbled noises at the warm, comfortable clothing and gleefully flings his tatty hospital gown into the back seat, even as the hoodie swamps him and Ghost grins as he turns up the sleeves for him and rolls a pair of thick socks onto his perpetually cold feet. It’s less than a three hour drive to his house near York and they are home well before dawn. Soap struggled to stay awake, but the motion of the car lulled him into a sound sleep after all the excitement. Ghost carries him tenderly into the house and tucks him into bed, then makes his usual rounds, checking the locks.
Mrs. Holly has done a splendid job.
The pantry and fridge are bursting with food, including some Tupperware containing home cooked delicacies. There is even an enormous chocolate cake with a piped ‘Welcome Home’ on it sitting on the counter and a vase full of bright flowers cut from her garden. Ghost had simply told her he was bringing a mate home who had been in hospital, after being badly wounded in battle and she went above and beyond.
He smiles when he sees the bag of comfortable new clothes on the sofa as well as a lovely fleece lined tartan blanket and a pair of sheepskin slippers. The clothes are all in Soap’s sizes, or at least will be, once he regains a healthy weight. Soap will be very appreciative. When they do decide where to settle, Ghost will bring home the footlocker of possessions he removed from Soap’s quarters on base. He couldn’t bear to part with any of Soap’s things and placed it in storage in London.
Now he undresses slowly, eyes locked hungrily on the sleeping man in his bed. It’s the first time he has ever believed in miracles and it feels holy to slide under the covers and curl around his beloved and gently tug the tousled, dark head onto his shoulder and feel his humid breath against his throat, as he unconsciously snuggles close. Feel his warmth and weight and his heart beating against his. He loves this man. He lives for this man. It doesn’t matter if Johnny is never as hale and hearty as he was, he will take him as he is. John MacTavish is it for him until they lay Simon in his final grave and the Ghost is laid to rest forever. Reverently he presses a kiss against his love’s scarred temple, wraps his arms around him and follows him into sleep.
****
It takes a surprisingly long time for Laswell to learn of Soap’s disappearance.
The shady hospital administrator dragged his feet and delayed contacting her despite the deaths of the two aides. For a long moment, she sat behind her desk, then she swallowed hard and contacted Price. He had fought her on her plan to keep Soap’s survival hidden from Ghost and Gaz. It caused a rift between them. After that he seemingly questioned every decision she made and inquired often about Soap. Especially when she kept sending Ghost on lone missions slowly separating him from the team until the team seldom ran missions together.
The first thing he asked was if she had contacted Ghost. When silence was her answer he hung up on her. She had thought at first that a faction of Makarov’s men might be seeking revenge for his death and discovered and taken the young Scot as revenge. In fact she had rather hoped that was the case. He could be retrieved and the blame would not fall on her. It had not occurred to her that Ghost might discover her ruse. She had never dared to think of what might happen if he learned of her part in it. She only realized months after effectively splitting the team exactly how close Ghost and Soap had become. Then in too deep, she hesitated to come clean about the entire deception.
Ghost was an unstable element, but very effective weapon. That was one of the reasons she preferred to work him alone. He was an unstoppable juggernaut in combat with the highest kill rate she has ever seen. She didn’t want that particular sharp knife to turn in her hand. It was with great reluctance that she dialed his current contact number. When he never answered that or his back up number, she realized she was fucked. That cold, empty silence spoke volumes. She called Price back, more as a warning than anything. Then she waited and hoped for the best.
Price rang off and sat back in his office chair. He honestly felt he could not predict how Ghost would react now. One thing was certain, Ghost was in the wind and he wasn’t coming back and Price suspected that he took his injured sergeant with him. At least they would be beyond Kate’s machinations now. He ran a mental timeframe and estimated when Soap was retrieved and frowned. Something was not adding up. He glanced across the office to where Gaz was industriously working on reports and his sergeant looked up questioningly, brown eyes clear and innocent. His sergeant just returned from leave yesterday, bringing a gift of homemade Barbados rum cake from his sister. It was delicious. No, clearly Gaz knew nothing.
Sighing, he spoke,
”Gaz, son I have something to tell you. I’ve been intending to for some time but there were… unforeseen complications.”
****
Three Months Later
Kate Laswell sat on the terrace of her house located in an affluent gated community outside of DC quietly scanning the newspaper, while her wife Emma read and sunned herself by the pool. Things have been strained between her and TF141, especially since Price told Garrick about MacTavish, so she took a small, much needed vacation. Emma had been pleased and they spent a few days at Martha’s Vineyard. She was due to return to work in a few days.
As she paged through the current news her work phone chimed. She picked it up to find an encrypted voice message which she hesitantly opened and a chill slid up her spine at the instantly recognizable baritone that growled coldly in her ear.
”Quid pro quo, Laswell. You stay out of my business and I stay out of yours.”
It ended and the phone chimed again and she opened the photo and swallowed hard, staring at the realtime photo of Emma lying by the pool, nose in her book. Her heart pounded in her ears. Ghost had eyes on her. Ghost has eyes on them now. No one knew her address, no one. She had made sure of it. Yet Ghost found her easily and issued a grim warning. He could take what she cherished most from her as easily as she took Soap. Carefully she set the phone down and took calming breaths.
She was damned lucky and she knew it.
Somewhere on the coast near Las Almas, Mexico
Ghost lay back in the hammock in the shade, slathered with sunblock, a book in hand and watched with deep satisfaction as his boy happily played in the gently lapping surf, cackling with glee and vigorously splashing poor Rudy, who was trying to catch a nap on a floatie. He gave up and began splashing vigorously back at the laughing Scot and two of the deadliest men in the country played together in the warm, clear water like children. An amused snort sounded from Alejandro, who had just walked up with a fresh tray of snacks and cold drinks. He grinned at Ghost and took a seat on a nearby lounge chair and handed him a cold beer.
”Estas vacaciones was a good idea, Fantasma. My Rudy needed the rest, and it is good to see Jabón again.”
”Thanks for hosting us, Alejandro. My boy needed some sunshine and fresh air. He’s been working hard.”
Alejandro nodded solemnly.
Ghost had told them about Soap’s clandestine months concealed in the hospital courtesy of Laswell, whose convoluted thinking remained eternally frustrating. Price, at least offered a logical explanation for his part in the deception to Gaz—he had been ordered by the brass to go along with the plan— and Gaz passed that info on to Ghost. Ghost still chose to maintain a no contact policy with Price for now, and he has issued the only warning to Laswell that he will ever give. Alé and Rudy kept their location secret, neither cared for Kate’s ruse, they found it dishonorable behavior on the former CIA chief’s part. Ghost just found it despicable, but Soap had asked that he let her be, she did good work in the world, so he begrudgingly complied.
Now he lay back and watched as Soap and Rudy waded out of the water and walked back up the beach towards them. Soap moved cautiously, but was steady on his feet. After months spent with Ghost and a change of meds and visits to a specialist on TBI (under an assumed name) as well as the best PT and cognitive therapy Soap was doing much better. His balance was good and he could walk on his own and his seizures stopped. His hearing has been treated with aids and while he still suffers from bouts of aphasia, and headaches, he has found his words again and Ghost once again enjoys teasing him about his ‘incomprehensible’ accent and trading horrible puns and japes.
They decided to visit Rudy and Alejandro on their ‘honeymoon’ as they wandered and explored whichever country or city that caught their fancy. Soap had been more hurt than angry at being dumped in the shitty hospital and actually held less of a grudge than Ghost. (Especially now that Gaz was in regular contact. He was due to take leave and join them for some R&R in the sun and surf before they left Mexico.) Ghost was more than happy to hold that grudge for him. He would never forgive Laswell for leaving his lad in shitty circumstances without careful vetting of both people and institution.
The house near York remained their home base, partially because Mrs. Holly spoiled Johnny rotten and he basked in her loving attention and he wanted to stay in touch. The acerbic little woman reminded him of his late, beloved granny and he was starved for maternal affection. Mrs. Holly’s expert application of delicious meals went a long way to putting some much needed meat on Soap’s bones as well.
She even attempted to coddle Ghost and knitted him an enormous jumper with a pattern of tiny skulls and crossbones on it. She thought he was a Goth like her grandson, which Johnny found hilarious. Ghost rolled his eyes but he was actually quite fond of the jumper and wore it often at home. When at ‘home’ they spent their time leisurely fixing up the house and garden, and Ghost learned that his partner had strong opinions on paint samples.
“It’s still fooken beige, Simon! The most boring fooken color on earth! Look at this lovely russet.”
Soap had set up a studio of sorts in an unused sunroom and enjoyed splashing ink and paint about and making a mess as well as some quite remarkable artworks while he worked on his fine motor skills. Ghost indulged him at every opportunity with gifts of art supplies. They had a dog now as well. Hesh Walker had wanted a good retirement for his military dog Riley, and retrained him as a service dog for Soap. His ‘service’ consisted mainly of leisurely walks with both men, chasing squirrels in the garden, annoying poor Edgar and snoozing at Ghost’s feet while he read and Johnny painted.
The couple were building a new life together and taking it day by day and enjoying every moment of their civilian life. (Civilian life was quite novel to them after years in the military.) They were not certain what their future held, but they could face anything as long as they were together.
FINI
11/20/24