Chapter Text
Fully geared, rifle—a Honey Badger—gripped tightly in hand, and the soles of his combat boots planted in the fine sand of this godforsaken desert, Ghost marched on. The merciless sun shone down on him, as if punishing him for being here—for he did not belong here. His balaclava's black material absorbed and retained heat, practically smothering him with the sticky sweat that rushed down his face.
It made him miss Verdansk, which was something, given that the last time he was there, it was more than a FUBAR op. A goddamn bloodbath, that’s what—not against enemies, however. There had to be something utterly malevolent living in Victor Zakhaev’s brain when he considered producing and supplying Al-Qatala with the gas they released at that airport, which then turned brothers-in-arms against each other. Gave him a whole brick of déjà vu.
Another slot canyon he passed between; the vantage point couldn’t be far away now. The wind and the rustle of the parched branches of the trees that loomed over the desolate terrain became his constant companions. It had been a long time since he had gone on a mission alone, so it took some adjustment to get used to the absence of Johnny’s awful singing over the comms. The desert heat must have gotten to him because Ghost was reluctant to believe that he was missing it now.
A crackle in his ears, then came Kate Laswell's voice: “Watcher-1 to Bravo 0-7, you in position?”
Ghost pressed his PTT button. “Nearly there.” He replied, continuing his way through the gap between the rocks. A chopper came flying low overhead; he squinted as the wind kicked up fine grains of sand. “Got a heli incomin’”
“That’s General Ghorbrani.” Laswell explained.
Another voice joined the conversation. "Right on time. Now get up there and let's see what he's up to in the middle o' nowhere." General Shepherd, in commanding tone matching his position.
“I'm eyes on.” Ghost reported in, standing at vantage point.
“What do you see?”
Raising his spotter scope, he scanned the area from a distance. “Armed personnel, armor and hardware... All Russian.”
“What the hell are the Russians doin’ with Ghorbrani?”
"Supplying Iran. It's an arms deal." Laswell answered.
“You copying this, Shadow-1?”
At Shepherd’s question, Philip Graves, who had been listening in silence, spoke up. “Affirmative – two birds, one stone...”
“We need positive ID on Ghorbrani before we kick this off, boys.”
“Ghost, can you identify the General?” Shepherd asked.
Ghost focuses his scope on a group of men. "Armed escorts around one VIP. Russians are very happy to see him."
“It’ll be the last time they do...”
The lens of his spotter scope followed the group as they moved. Then, his attention finally landed on a man in a high-ranking military uniform. Stars and badges gleaming even from afar, striding with broad shoulders and hands on hips, proud of the men under his wisdom.
“Visual on General Ghorbrani.”
“Copy that, all stations – target confirmed.”
“Shadow-1, you are cleared hot for launch.” Shepherd gave the green light.
“Roger that, Actual.” Graves acknowledged. “Ghost, you are danger close to the zone. This arrow’s gonna pack a punch.”
"Copy. Approved." Ghost stood up and quickly claimed a safer spot. "Send it."
The moment seemed to stretch on endlessly. He could hear the high-pitched whine of incoming missiles, getting louder and louder by the second. Then, with a thunderous boom, the scene before him erupted into a blaze of light and fury.
Ghost tears his spotter scope away, shielding his face as the shockwave slams into him, debris flying everywhere. “Bloody fuckin’ hell,” he mutters to himself before pressing his comms button and announcing, “Direct. Target destroyed.”
(And your fleeing doesn't guarantee what you're escaping from will stop its pursuit. Time is a friend and a foe, it will give you just enough to let it find you.
In the midst of a sun-dappled day.)
As the aircraft’s cargo door extended to the tarmac, the soldiers—privates, sergeants, and fellow lieutenants—stopped their disciplined steps and immediately cleared a path for him. No one dared to get in Ghost's way, especially when he was still fully kitted out in his gear: bulletproof vest, assault rifle in front, that damned hard-shell skull mask and secretive balaclava, and a mix of his glare coupled with the fatigue after a long flight from the Middle East back to continental Europe and British soil.
Behind his forehead, he imagined his living space, the one bed with plain sheets singing an aubade to him, urging him to hurry and shed the 70 pounds of gear from his body. But Ghost knew a debriefing was waiting—Captain John Price was waiting in his office.
He trudged through the HQ's hallway, his fatigued eyes straining against the overhead fluorescent lights, even behind the shadow of his mask. Another turn and he was on the familiar path to Price’s office. He reached the door labeled “Cpt. Jonathan Price” and gave it three firm knocks. A muffled “Come in” sounded from within, and he pushed the door open, stepping inside.
Inside, Price's table lamp is turned on, but the man is doing anything but work. Leaning back in his chair, a fat cigar clamped between his teeth. He acknowledged Ghost’s arrival with a nudge of his chin, taking a pull before releasing the smoke into the air.
“Simon,” Price called his name.
“Sir.”
Price balanced his cigar between his index finger and thumb. “How’d the mission go?” he asked, eyes flickering up to meet the lieutenant’s. “Y’have fun?”
“Was a good show.” Ghost replied, and Price chuckled.
“Seein’ terrorists bein’ blown to pieces?”
“Yes.” Ghost answered, and he let the conversation die down.
The absence of his cigar was replaced by a pen, its inked tip scribbling on the paper on the table. Mission report. Ghost watched, waiting for Price to jot down the necessary information and sign his name at the bottom, signifying another objective met and mission accomplished.
“Any issues I should know about?” Price asked, more out of procedure than in doubt.
“No, sir.”
“Laswell didn’t mention any other upcoming missions.”
“No, she didn’t.” Ghost said.
Price hums, then leans forward, elbows resting on his desk. “Well, in that case, I'd suggest you enjoy your time off somewhere that isn't the base,” he said, a smile beneath his thick mustache. “The lads are doin' just that—Garrick is back home, an' even Soap's gettin' his vacation.”
Ghost raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't say anything.
The chair squeaked when Price leaned back against it. "As a matter of fact, it's my son's birthday this week. The missus might cook up a big feast; you're more than welcome to join."
“If ye need a clown, I’ll be sure to make time.”
Price exhales a long sigh. “Christ, son, you’ve got no life outside this place, do you?”
“’fraid not, sir.”
Shaking his head in resignation, Price waved his hand dismissively. “Well, you may go,” he said.
Ghost was about to do just that, turning around and reaching for the doorknob, when Price called him again. "One more thing. They're renovating yer office tomorrow, so you'll need to move yer stuff to the west wing."
“The army’s got money to spend, don’t they?” Ghost grumbled beneath his balaclava.
A chuckle from the older man as he opened the box where his precious cigars were kept. He tore the tip with his teeth, casually spitting it out onto the floor, then toasted the foot of the cigar with his torch lighter. The smell of tobacco wafting in the air tempted Ghost to reach for his cigarette pack, considering smoking a few before heading to bed.
“Aye, that they do, lad,” Price affirmed, eyes following the movement of his lieutenant as he opened the door to step out. "That they do."
The next day, Ghost did what Price had told him to do the night before—packing up his things and moving into his temporary office in the west wing. He has very few personal belongings, so his main concern was the pile of ring binders and the stack of overdue paperwork scattered across his desk. There was also a box of his old medals in the corner, as well as more boxes he couldn't remember the contents of. He realized he might have more stuff than he had initially thought. Ghost begrudgingly admitted that he was fortunate enough to have an extra pair of helping hands.
Even if the helping hands were John Mactavish, who was still brimming with energy thanks to his recent trip to Malaga, bloody Spain.
“Och! Bloody great it was. Ya shoulda seen the Spanish babes on the beach, beauties. It was like they cuid smell a Scotsman a mile away. They were all over me, LT!”
Ghost hoisted up one of the heavier box, barely paying attention to Johnny's incessant chatter. "Hard to imagine," he said, uninterested.
“Ach, ye jealous, Ghost? Canae blame ya, really, it was like a slice o’ paradise. Sun on me back, a cauld beer in me hand, an’ a gaggle o’ lassies ol around me. An’ the food? Bloody incredible. Ajoblanco, Gazpacho, ol theim Spanish dishes ye cuid imagine. Next time, yer comin’ along wi’ me, mate. Maybe ye’ll finally get a proper tan!”
“You'll get a tan too if they burn you at the stake, Johnny,” Ghost quipped, holding out his hand. “Pass me that box.”
The sergeant handed him a date-labeled box. "I'm tellin' ye, a vacation wuid dae ya guid. Might make ye less moody," he persuaded, but when Johnny realized Ghost wouldn't provide him with a response, he continued, "Canae understand hou ye dae it, stayin' in the base ol the time. The second me feet hit solid ground, ol a want is to get home, find a nice pub 'at ainae full o' the lads from base, have a pint or two.”
“There’s nothin’ for me out there.”
It wasn't an exaggeration, nor was it a devaluation—it was simply the truth. Another mission accomplished was another layer of him to shed; it made him feel reptilian, unfit for society. There was once a time when he attempted to pretend: renting a flat despite his absence, pushing a trolley through aisles full of families and crying infants. In the past two years, he had come to accept who he is—a bestial being, truly belonging in the only place where violence and aggression reigned supreme. The military.
“Aye, a know ye’re rubbish at makin’ friends,” The sergeant taunted him with a light jab. When Ghost stayed silent, guilt tugged on Johnny's bleeding heart, prompting him to add, “Just tryin’ tae help.”
“Ye’re helpin’ with the boxes.”
Ghost's biceps clenched and strained as he lifted the two big boxes from the room and carried them to his new office in the west wing. The room has big, curtainless windows that allowed in sunlight and a fresh paint smell. He returned to where Johnny was to retrieve the rest of his belongings.
The two ended up in the middle of the hallway, with Johnny carrying the final boxes.
“This is the last o' them,” The Scotsman said, passing the boxes over to Ghost.
Taking them, Ghost nodded his head. “Appreciate it.”
“And, ah, here ya go, LT. Looks like ye left yer wee friend behind.” Johnny extended his hand, unclenching his fist to reveal the gaunt figure of a skeleton keychain.
A halt in his actions, his breathing, his thoughts, and his heartbeat. Usually perceptive, Johnny failed to read him this time; instead, he pushed the solitary bone friend into Ghost’s fist and, without him realizing it, forced his fingers to close around it. Ghost barely registered Soap's words or the light punch on his shoulder before the sergeant walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Slowly, he lowered his gaze to his bare hand, staring at it as if it were a foreign object. He opened his fists with greater caution than someone who had stepped on a mine, the hollow socket of his skeleton friend glaring back at him. Being on the other end, Simon wonders if this is how people feel when they face him, if the bones and emptiness in between remind her of him; thus, a woman in the past bought this for him.
The woman. The apparition. Now he acknowledged her haunting, the memory he submerged in the depths of his hippocampus—the repository of the good things he believed he didn't deserve—pushed its way forcefully through the barrier.
Oh, and it taunted him spitefully. Two years of his attempts to pretend (Christ, now that he put it that way, it sounded more like he was a theater actor than a practical soldier) that it didn't happen—that she didn't exist and that what ended between them didn't end because, as he reasoned, nothing between them had ever begun—had come undone no more gracefully than pieces of shrapnel in arteries, over a keychain that wouldn't have been discovered for another year if not for some stupid renovations and Johnny's keen eye.
Simon stood there like a fool who had lost all sense of time, transported back to the last night he saw her. There she was, on her knees, gripping his hands and pleading, begging him to stay. And Simon remembered how he made her feel that night—how she made him feel after he closed the car door on her and drove away. Like the worst piece of trash in the whole bloody world, that’s what.
All because he was afraid. Of the love she's willing to give him, and the love he felt for her.
It would have been better if this keychain was her revenge tactic, her way of punishing him for the way he had treated her. But this wasn't that. This skeleton piece had been a harmless gift, given to him after a cold night together. Now, this was proof that no matter how far he ran, no matter how many times he had dreamed of her obscured face and acted like it didn’t bother him, it would always find a way to resurface when he least expected it.
Who is this cruel interloper?
If it is none other than himself, his guilt, but also his insistence on showcasing his unworthiness of love.
Lining up his suffering like an exhibition. Never afraid of the threatening edge of a gun, but a woman who gave her heart made him call it quits. Now he was disgusted by himself, as if he had never approved of his internecine way of living all this time.
Even so, no one could prove that he was a changed man. For he only dared to recognize the true weight of his guilt and regrets after a full one hundred and thirty days. For a man of his size, he was a coward.
And his heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing.
Often, he simplified remorse as inconsistency.
If he hurt and killed and felt heavy-hearted, it meant he was inconsistent in his actions and beliefs. It was this mindset that fueled his determination as he hunted down his former friends turned enemies—the same echo in his head as the sharp tip of his knife glided through the sleeping Washington’s carotid arteries and painted his dull white pillow red. He repeated that throughout his torture of Sparks at the Riley house before ending him, too.
There was no looking back for him, even after all that and Mexico. Guilt would get him nowhere, would make him no better man. There should be no gaps in a soldier, no weakness for the enemies to exploit. He murdered his own heart because he knew it would lead him to his death in this line of work.
But that woman... she wasn't an enemy. Nor was she a brainwashed friend turned family killer. She was just someone who loved him—who kissed his scars and wept over them, and maybe it hurt her more than it once hurt him.
So, he was left wondering. Was remorse still just an inconsistency? Because he had hurt her, and now he regretted it—longing for chances to turn back time, to change how things turned out? Is it really better to be a full-blown asshole than a half-good guy? Was it worth it to break her heart just because he was no longer able to feel his?
Tossing and turning in his bed, his glare burns holes in the guiltless ceiling. It seems that the month of July has been full of revelations for him. He used to believe that acting like he had no heart would make it true—that concealing his love would mean he didn't love at all. These are all basics that he should have known all along, but he only realized it now. He has his weaknesses (after all, what is a soldier without anything to threaten them with?), his gaps.
And that’s how she gets in, isn’t it?
That woman and her love, her vulnerability. Her ability to present herself bare to him, exposing herself like a cadaver during an autopsy despite knowing that he lacks the forte to be kind or preserve the things he loved. Her ability to say his name so beautifully, warmly—full of wanting and longing for him.
As if what was between the two of you was a pretty fair trade.
Simon said her name, the air of the dark room carrying the echo of his voice everywhere. Then, he compared his memory of the way she said his. Simon, Simon. A winner had been found. Her and her love, her vulnerability—weakness and gaps, yet for all that she would always be forever braver than he.
His ballerina.
You.
Simon Riley doesn't look back, but his skeleton friend did. More like spinning around, desperately seeking solid ground while hanging from a chain attached to his head, hooked to the duffel bag Simon was carrying as he made his way to his truck parked away from the other vehicles.
On his way, he passed Price, who appeared to have just gotten out of his own vehicle, a mediocre cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“Simon,” he acknowledged him.
“Captain,” Simon replied curtly.
Price glances down at Simon’s duffel bag, then takes in his appearance—out of his service uniform and instead wearing a dark microfiber jacket and a plain black balaclava covering his face rather than the usual skull-painted one.
John nudges his chin towards him. “Goin’ somewhere?”
Ghost was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Thought about what you said.”
The corner of Price’s lips lifted into a smirk. “That’s good,” he gave Simon a firm pat on the shoulder, “Enjoy the outside world, eh?” then walked past him.
Simon paused, standing there listening to Price's footsteps becoming fainter. He resumed his steps toward his truck, unlocking it and tossing his duffel bag onto the passenger seat. The engine hummed after he turned the ignition, his hands firm on the wheel as he reversed out of the parking area.
Leaving the base, he insisted he had no destination in mind. He was just driving his car along the road, and he was considering making a few stops, perhaps at a restaurant or a petrol station along the way.
But as he continued, passing by a restaurant and another petrol station, his truck naturally found its way onto a route he knew so well. When his windscreen revealed the view of the road he had frequently driven in those two years, with the same tree line on the sides that he had seen a million times before, he could no longer pretend about where he wanted to be.
It wasn't to stop for a quick meal or to refuel his tank. This was the path taken by a man full of regrets for all that he had taken for granted in his life.
For every word spoken and unspoken, for every prematurely lifted touch. For every moment he missed out on telling her how much of a liar he was to her, but mostly to himself—and that, God, darlin’, I love you so much, but he was fucking scared, a little too stupid and too prideful to admit it. And now, he’s paying for it all. He’s paying with every second spent carrying this unmet void inside of him, paying with him severing himself from the society, thinking it’ll make him forget her. Paying with every silence surrounding him, even as he turns up the radio.
Though he wasn't entirely sure of what he sought in London, he still set off on the trip anyway.
Upon reaching the metropolitan city, the first thing that greeted him was a massive billboard with the face and album title of a musician he had never listened to. The rest of the view was a blend of modernist and art deco buildings. He stopped at a red light, watching a pedestrian cross the street, followed by another who quickly went into the subway system's entrance. Like a keen observer, he is, or perhaps a man in need of a distraction.
Due to his lack of a place to stay, he rented a room in a nondescript 2-star hotel and ate dinner at a small, uncrowded restaurant. He smoked a cigarette in the beige glow of the sidewalk lamp before getting into his car.
On the second day, he stayed in the cheap bed until noon, went out for a quick lunch, then returned to the hotel to shower and put on the closest thing to a “normal,” inconspicuous outfit he could manage. That meant ditching his usual leather jacket and hoodie—the only thing he could keep on was his black propylene mask. Didn’t want people calling the authorities on him for being a “suspicious individual.”
Simon drives straight to the Metropolitan Opera, checking his appearance once more in the rearview mirror before getting out of his car. He walked up the stairs, and as he reached the entrance, the usher asked him for his physical ticket or e-ticket, whichever he had. Immediately, he pulled out his smartphone and held it up, waiting silently with tense shoulders as the usher scanned the QR code.
Once he gets “You’re good to go, sir,” Simon enters the hall and heads to his seat. The second he settles in, he feels like a fucking disturbance—either because of his height despite him already sitting, his masked face, or because he’s shaking his knees. Fucking hell. He tries to lean back and cross his arms, but it’s the bloody title of the ballet that’s got him all worked up.
Swan Lake. When he got the idea (and the audacity) of coming here, he just browsed the opera website and clicked on Swan Lake. Didn’t really read the details or anything, just paid for his ticket and hoped for the best. He knew the story—from her, of course—the love story of a swan girl and a prince, who, if he remembered correctly, ended their lives. Tragic, yet she called it romantic.
A faint smile flitted across his lips as the memory came back to him, but it was short-lived when he remembered two years had passed since then. He was two years too late. Exhaling a subtle sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose, preparing himself for the headache that was sure to come.
As the light dims and then darkens the room, his heart begins to race. The orchestra begins their first score, and he's unable to tear his gaze away from the stage, waiting. For her. He doesn't want to miss her when she walks through the curtain, most likely dressed in a swan costume. Again, he didn't know much about the production—not the order or the storyline, even when it’s presented on the brochure he got from the usher—but he didn't care. All he knows is that he’s waiting for her.
The woman from two years ago—the one he met under the merciless London pour, exchanging overshared information, with him sharing more than he would usually over drinks. He made sure she got home safely before letting himself see her a second, third, fourth, countless times—
A flute opened the first music. Simon took a deep breath.
—the woman he spun in a romantic dance at someone else's wedding reception—
The orchestra volume swelled; next to him, a couple whispered that “it’s about to begin.” Simon sat on the edge of his seat.
—the one he held in the warmth of his arms until the sun chased away the darkness of dawn.
The swan girl glides onto the stage. And his heart sank.
It wasn't her.
It was another woman. It wasn't her.
The orchestra drums hit a loud, thunderous note as Simon hunches over in his seat, holding his head in his hands. The tension pain in the nape of his neck—the same one his old therapist used to tell him about—is throbbing, the veins around his temples popping and straining against his skin. Jaw locked, he tried to process and accept the fact that it wasn't her—that the woman he knew two years ago might not be the same person anymore because it's been two bloody fucking years.
Fuckin’ hell, he knew her as a ballerina—his rational mind told him she might have just missed work and someone else had to take her place, but it was also possible she might have left that life behind and moved on to something she felt was better for her.
Her... leaving the thing she loved the most?
But, Simon did that too. So, he doesn't know what's impossible.
He stayed for the entire performance, hopeful that maybe—just maybe—she will appear as one of the dancers. But as the final curtain falls, her face was nowhere to be seen.
On the third day, he found himself outside her old flat—the one he used to visit all the time. From the exterior, the building looked the same as it always did, but he knew two years was enough time for changes to happen. He couldn’t waltz in there without confirming that, yes, indeed, she was still living here.
So, Simon parked his car across the street and waited. Hours went by, and he was still here—only leaving to grab some to-go lunch and finishing it in the car, using the nearest bathroom in the bookstore on the sidewalk if he needed to. Otherwise, he was practically holding his bladder, barely drinking any liquids, just so he didn’t pass anyone coming and going from that building.
The hollow socket of his skeleton friend “stared” at him in disappointment. Simon turned it away to avoid the burn of its glare.
All day, he was there and she was still nowhere to be found.
After extending his stay at that arse hotel, he did the same thing next day – sitting in his car, watching the comings and goings of that flat, like it's some bloody recon mission.
On the fourth day, he finally confirmed it—she was no longer living there.
Slamming his glass down on the counter, he signaled the bartender to serve him another. The young lad complied, didn’t ask any questions—just as Simon preferred—and poured him another glass of his poison of choice. In a tight grip, Simon slightly tilted the glass, the amber liquid swirling inside before he downed it all in one go. A thud, though this time he abandoned his glass rather than asking for another.
It seemed as if he was intently staring at the non-interesting swirl of the old wood, but in reality, his mind was elsewhere. Her.
Searching for her everywhere like a lovesick boy, but worse. And what could be worse than a lovesick boy if not a man full of regrets? He rubbed his face, hoping to dispel the heaviness on his skin. Whatever was weighing down on him persisted. He took a deep breath, but the heavy anchor at the bottom of his ribs remained unmoved.
Perhaps he chose the wrong approach, perhaps the wrong drink too. Should’ve opted for something that would burn his thoughts rather than enhance them, because now the memory-version of her seemed more vivid than ever. She's consuming him, tearing him apart from the inside—right where she's always resided without his permission. Inside his heart.
The cold heart that he always fooled Johnny with.
That woman... she wasn't the ballerina he was supposed to be watching on that stage, and she no longer lived in that flat. She's truly moved on then. It's been two years, he chastised himself. It's been two years, and he's still here.
Sitting in this pub, he wonders what the hell she’s doing with her life now. Did she get a better job? Is she with another man now? One who can love her openly, without the complications and the bloody mess Simon is?
Perhaps she has become that happy family he often eyed in the grocery store. Perhaps-
Simon’s breath caught in his throat as he finished that thought.
Perhaps she is now a mother to a child that isn't his. He always knew she was capable of that soft life. Unlike him. That once was a rose-colored dream for him, one that he eventually had to bury deep because the thought of “family” meant crimson to him—the recollection of a gory Christmas day. It would always be “in another life” for him. In another life, he would have that family with her.
But her? She didn't have to wait for anything for it. She could have it right now or probably did already. Whereas he had fucked everything up—lost the only woman he ever truly loved. It was the something rotten inside of him.
It was there in that old pub that he realized that the worst-case scenario wasn't finding her and not receiving her forgiveness.
No.
The true horror is not finding her at all.