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“Soap…”
”That’s Sergeant MacTavish to ye. Ye don’t get to call me that anymore.”
Soap sat stiffly in the hospital bed, gaze locked stoically over Laswell’s shoulder to the window behind her.
”All right, So…Sergeant MacTavish, what do you need me to do.”
”An honorable discharge, full pension and to never have to see you, Captain Ahab, his pet lapdog or that skull-faced freak again. Ye do that and I won’t drop the info to the media about how the high and mighty SAS torture their own men.”
”Soap…Sergeant…”
He didn’t look at her stricken face, unbandaged eye focused on the dusty gray sparrows fluttering in the tree outside.
”Nae. That’s it. Ah want no contact with those fucks ever again or Ah drop the story to the media. Ah have the info on several flash drives that friends are holding for me. If ah go dark, they mail them out to the media. You especially doon wan’ that Laswell, ah know where ye have tha lovely wife of yers stashed.”
He turned a cold blue eye back to her face, mouth curling with contempt. He couldn’t stand the sight of her now.
“Ah can arrange tha’ everybody knows if ye like. Ah don’ think my asking’ ta be left in peace is too fuckin’ much ta ask for since yer shitty intel ruined me. Quid pro quo. Ye leave me in peace and ah grant ye the same grace.”
His voice was cold as ice and his gaze was unnerving, the most sunshine hearted, infectiously friendly man she knew was gone. She studied his bruised and bandaged face feeling equal parts guilt and compassion. At least he still had the sight in his injured eye, it would just be scarred from the precise surgical slice straight down through the brow to the cheekbone. His taped nose was still swollen, but it and his black eyes and split lips were healing. His jaunty Mohawk was gone, his head had been ruthlessly shaved with a knife blade and was only now regrowing soft, dark peach fuzz.
The same could not be said for his hands and his knee. Soap would have to fight hard to regain any semblance of normal mobility now. His left kneecap was shattered in a thousand pieces and nearly every bone in his left hand, and several in his right were broken. Ghost had been ruthless and very thorough in the fruitless interrogation for nonexistent intelligence. Soap had broken after days of ruthless questioning, his inability to provide information he simply did not have mistaken for training and sheer stubbornness.
****
The whole thing had been a diabolical set-up.
Phillip Graves has managed to gut the 141st from the inside out by using their own skills against them. Soap’s set-up had been masterful. It had genuinely appeared that the Scot was a long term sleeper agent, planted in their midst to siphon intel off to the Konni. An anonymous tip, video of Soap (innocently) chatting with a female Russian operative who approached him in a pub, a thumb drive of stolen intel tucked in his gear bag to be delivered to his ‘handler’. The ‘evidence’ had been flawlessly crafted and the 141st’s reaction had been quick, incendiary and brutal and Soap had suffered from it. The only thing that saved him was when Graves couldn’t resist and actually prematurely called Price to gloat.
”How does it feel, Captain? To lose the most elite team in the SAS? To have cracked it apart with your own hands? I could have waited a few more days until you killed him, but I like the kid. He has spunk. Hope you didn’t cripple him up too bad.”
He had laughed raucously and rang off, leaving the entire team in shock. A few seconds later a ding announced the arrival of proof— the entire, annotated file of manufactured evidence to rub in their faces how badly they fucked up. Graves liked to brag about how clever he was. Ghost had rushed to the interrogation room to free his Sergeant and carry him to Medical. The big man had apologized the whole way, deep voice desperate for a response, agonized, but the Scot had remained mute, battered, bloody face still and blank as he stared vacantly into nothing, lying limply in the Lieutenant’s big arms. Soap had checked out of the 141 mentally and physically.
Ghost and the team stayed in medical throughout all of Soap’s surgeries until he awoke to no avail. The first thing he did when he was conscious and coherent was have them all booted out of the hospital and barred from seeing him. He wanted nothing more to do with his teammates. He wanted nothing to do with the people he had loved and trusted most in the world, who had very professionally and systematically beaten that trust and loyalty out of him. They could take their heartfelt apologies and shove them where the sun didn’t shine. Apologies didn’t heal his shattered bones, his ruined career or his battered heart.
Captain John Price put the remains of his team on permanent stand down until a thorough investigation was done. In his savage zeal to capture Makarov, he had gone too far too fast. His team was in ruins mentally. Soap was gone, vanishing from the hospital overnight and Laswell could not or would not provide any information on his location. Gaz, who had been the most vocal and adamant in defense of Soap, no longer trusted his Captain. His dark gaze was now wary and accusing and he had calmly informed Price that he would not be renewing his contract with the SAS when it expired at the end of the year. One of the most talented SAS operatives Price has ever known wants nothing to do with his chosen career now, because like Soap and Ghost, he no longer trusted his superiors.
Ghost—-well, Ghost vanished. He hadn’t bothered to leave a note or say goodbye. His personal things and gear disappeared from his quarters, all his keys and base ID cards dropped carelessly on his empty desk. He had, however, helped himself to certain items in the armory. When Price and Gaz went to his flat in Manchester they discovered it empty and newly sold at a considerable market loss. Ghost was in the wind and it was impossible to track a dead man.
Even Price’s oldest friend Nikolai was angry with him and distanced himself.
”I told you to wait, da? That something was wrong, that something stank like bad fish, to wait until I checked things out on the Russian end. You chose not to listen, instead you cut out the heart of your team with your own hands. You are a fool, Johnathan. Go away. I do not want to speak with you now.”
So Price found himself with his two best men gone—one who would never be able to return to the team, even if he wished to, and one who few even knew existed whom he would probably never see again, a Sergeant who had given his notice and an estranged best friend. As soon as his contract expired, Gaz would be gone as well. His men no longer trusted him and that in itself was a career killer.
Garrick kept their interactions strictly professional and by the manual now. No more friendly jokes or smiles, just cool, professional efficiency and ‘Yes Sir, No Sir’. The frigid contempt was kept firmly leashed, but it was there. Gaz no longer trusted him. He kept to himself on base, except when training the recruits and rumor was that he was already being actively headhunted by an elite international private security company.
Price had no one to blame but himself. Perhaps it was time to seriously consider retirement. He was in his office going over reports when Laswell called him and tensely informed him to check his inbox. There was a waver in her crisp voice that he’d never heard before. He opened his laptop and clicked on the message.
It wasn’t long. It was a video clip and it was horrific. A fresh, flayed open corpse lay on a metal autopsy table. Its internal organs were neatly arranged beside it. Price stared into the dead face of Phillip Graves whose last expression was a frozen rictus of agony. Every inch of skin was slashed into strips and he was missing his left eye and his hands and knees had been smashed to pulp with a sledge hammer. Ghost had been very clinical and taken his time with him and kept him alive for a long time. A blood soaked black skull balaclava was dropped carelessly into his empty chest cavity and grinned toothily out at the camera.
There was a bar of soap rammed deep between Grave’s crooked, broken toothed jaws.
With a grimace, Price recognized the posh brand that Soap used and Gaz always teased him about. He knew if he checked Soap’s locker in the gym, it would be missing from his shower caddy. Price still has Soap’s box of personal belongings in his office, waiting for an address. It contained very little, even though he left everything he owned behind. A couple of battered journals, a roll of drawing pens and pencils, his medals, photos, a few battered paperbacks and an old ebony and mother of pearl rosary, some civilian clothing.
Price sighed and sat back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose hard. Graves succeeded, he realized dully. TF141 was now technically defunct. He isn’t at all surprised when a few weeks later, after the internal investigation, Price is given the choice of retirement or a total reconstruction of international task force 141. He takes all his accumulated leave to think about it although he is uncertain if he will return. After all, he helped destroy one of the brightest and best men he knew—a man he cared for and felt paternal towards and he will never be able to forgive or trust himself. It’s an ignominious end to his long career.
A month after he received the video, he did return to his office, determined to rebuild his team, to find Soap’s possessions gone. Left in its place was a full hard plate skull mask. Ghost had slipped onto base in broad daylight, taken it and left, all in the span of a couple of hours and no one saw him come or go. Price hoped he was taking Soap’s things to him, wherever he was.
Three Years Later
Soap locked the pub door behind the last drunken patron as he staggered away and limped around the room, placing chairs on tables to make it easier for Mickey to mop the sticky floors. He picked up a set of keys and a pink cardigan to drop in the Lost and Found box and returned to the bar. He wiped down the long mahogany surface, washed the remaining glasses, then emptied the bills in the tip jar into his pocket. He could hear Ben in the back room so he headed that way to let him know he was heading out. The pub owner has been very good to him.
”Ahm out mate. See ye Wednesday night, yeh?”
”Aye. See ye then John. Have a good ‘weekend’.”
Ben waved him away with his clipboard as he took inventory of the liquor stock, focusing on his work. Since his wife passed, he focused most of his time energy on the pub. It was a family legacy and popular in the neighborhood and could get raucous on the weekends when there was live music on the tiny band stand in the corner. His youngest daughter Sarai helped when she wasn’t at university. She was in the office now, tallying up the night’s receipts.
Because weekends were the busiest days, Soap always worked them and now was taking his regular Monday and Tuesdays off. The weather has been good, so he is thinking of strolling through some galleries tomorrow, and maybe do some sketching in one of the parks or botanical gardens. The weather is supposed to be sunny and clear. His knee has been in a good mood too, so he will risk it. As he is leaving the pub he hears a voice call after him.
”John, wait a moment”
Rolling his eyes, he mutters a curse under his breath. Sarai is a nice girl, but she has the two-kids-picket fence mentality and is relentless, and he is tired of being pursued because it's edging into harassment. He has been polite because she’s the boss's daughter and he wants to keep his relatively mindless barman job. He takes a deep breath, hands thrust deep in his bomber jacket’s pockets, and turns to face her, trying to keep a polite but neutral look on his face.
She gives him a winning smile and he notices she’s wearing a bright red shade of lipstick that is much flashier than her usual subdued peach tones, and has her mousy hair swept up in an up-do unlike her usual practical braid.
“I was wondering if you would like to grab lunch tomorrow, I know a lovely…”
Okay. He’s done. Time to yank this crush out by the roots and burn it.
”No.”
She blinks at the abrupt refusal. He is usually much more polite, which is probably why he still has this problem.
”Ahm nae interested Sarai. Ah don’t fookin’ date and ah especially don’t date women.”
There. That’s clear enough, right?
”Oh, I thought once we…”
Apparently not. Shite.
”Sarai, ah said no. Unless yer hiding a nice, thick cock under yer skirt, Ah’m never going to be interested.”
Flushing scarlet, she stammered an apology and scurried back into the office and Soap took the opportunity and fled. Hopefully he would still have a job when he returned. He ignored the bus stop and keep trekking. He knew his knee would hurt anyway, bus or long walk home. A couple of older ladies carefully stepped aside as he limped past oblivious to their presence, much less their unease at his appearance.
Gone was the neat as a pin military man with the unique haircut. In his place was a melange of artist and battered, jaded punk. A vintage leather motorcycle jacket covered with patches and pins and paint, over a short, saucy MacTavish kilt, black band tee, kilt hose and black Doc Martens embroidered with red roses. He sported piercings in his left brow and studded in his ears and person, but only the one in his face. It emphasized his scar. He liked brawling too much to get ones too easily torn out in a fight. His fingers were lined with heavy, silver rings and he wore a lot of bracelets, both metal and leather as well.
His hair was longer now, parted and plaited in slender side braids drawn back and tied up in a messy knot. He trimmed up the ragged ends now and then but he’d never proudly wear a short military ‘hawk again, while he still sheared the sides shorter into a modified fade, he often streaked his long,ruffled mare’s tail of hair with bright slashes of color. This week it was purple and crimson. He has more tattoos now and is thinking of getting more. He very noticeably never wears anything with a skull motif and he is working on a sleeve design to have his favorite tattoo artist cover his SAS tattoo.
He moved a lot, seven times in the first six months when he first returned to Glasgow, paranoid about his former team locating him and even lived on the streets for a while, like when he was a youth. His few possessions barely fill a duffle bag now, but he really likes his new place. It’s a former Victorian greenhouse that was remodeled into a tiny home tucked in the lush back garden of an elderly artist. Opal Montgomery made her living teaching art and producing vibrant, botanical illustrations.
She is an eccentric old bird, who never married, but who has connections with apparently everyone in Britain. It’s rumored that some of her work is in the Queen’s personal collection. Upper class, prim and proper, she and Soap should never have met in the first place, but they get on like a house on fire. They ran into each other at a high-brow midnight gallery opening, both admittedly there for the free food, not the pretentious ‘modern’ sculptures shown by the snooty artist. Soap walked her to the tube, and seeing the way a couple of predatory tweakers were eyeing her enormous pocketbook, ended up escorting her all the way home. She invited him in for a cuppa and like a stray cat, Soap never really left.
Soap will never admit it, but he stays because he is lonely and he wants to keep an eye on her because at 77, she is a bit too adventurous and independent for her own wellbeing and at the chronically ‘forgetting’ things stage of life. Things like a good meal. Plus she is good company and an excellent teacher and he has learned a lot about art from her. He reminds him of his deceased Gran, the one person in his family whom he remembers loving him unconditionally.
Opal took great delight in introducing him at gallery openings and parties and letting them all speculate wildly about whether he was a beloved grandson or a secret, much younger lover. They both cackled like hens over that, the joke was on the gossips because Opal was asexual and Soap openly gay. It was Soap who talked her into teaching a few private classes from her home studio and allowing a couple of uni students from the local art college to rent rooms in her huge house. That way, he could ensure that she was happy and engaged and there was usually someone trustworthy on the premises to watch over her if he was out or at work, while leaving her to her independent life without having to hire a caregiver.
Arriving home in the wee hours, he unlocked the garden gate with the massive Victorian iron key on his keychain and let himself inside. There was a soft chuff and a huge head shoved at his hip while an ice cold nose rammed into the tender back of his bare knee followed by a warm, wet tongue swiping it, causing him to yelp and jump into the air as though electrocuted.
”Och! Fuck ye, Albert! Ah thought ye were in the hoose.”
The big mutt, a massive mix of Cane Corso, mastiff and possibly moose, gave a gruff bark and happily nudged him again as Soap gave his huge, floppy ears a vigorous scratching. Despite Albert’s size he acted like a giant puppy and was about as effective a watchdog as one, as he was more than a bit dim witted. Opal did have the spinster’s habit of collecting strays and poor, developmentally disabled Albert was one of the latest. Only it was usually birds and cats. She found Albert as a wee pup, dumped in an alley, behind a dust bin and took him home despite the visible forewarning of the ominous size of his paws. They were the size of small plates now, and sadly much larger than his intellect. Albert would forever be a giant puppy. At least the great eejit hadn’t rammed his cold nose under his kilt and into the crack of his arse again.
”Aye, did she get caught in again and forget ta feed ye? Poor starvin’ laddie. Come on, afore ye perish of hunger.”
Inside the big kitchen he found a platoon of assorted cats lined up, sitting patiently on the counter, waiting as well and he tsked to himself as he filled food bowls and checked that the water bowls were refreshed as well. He left them to it and made his nightly check of the perimeter of the house—all the windows and locks. There was a new painting drying on Opal’s easel, explaining why she forgot the animals. Knowing Opal, she forgot to feed herself as well. Once Opal was in the creative flow, only a missile strike could disengage her.
Tasha and Evon, Opal’s student boarders were out for the weekend and not due home until later in the day. They were still in the sticky, clinging stage of young love, much to Opal’s amusement. Upstairs, he turned out lights, ensured that Opal was actually safely in her bed and finally retreated to his own place. He was tired enough to actually sleep tonight without the nightmares, but he made sure his galaxy night light was on before he went to bed, just in case. Maybe the stars washed across his ceiling and walls would keep Ghost from haunting his sleep.
****
Outside, deep in the shadows of the massive oak in the back corner of the garden, a tall figure watched wistfully as he moved about his small house. The back part of it was still part greenhouse, all the big glass panes letting in the north light for studio space and allowing a lovely view of Soap as he moved about his tidy living space during his bedtime routine. When Albert nudged the silent watcher he absently patted the big head and slipped him a thick piece of jerky.
It was enough, he told himself, to see that his sergeant was well. He should leave, but he waited until Soap tucked himself in his bed before slipping quietly away over the tall brick wall. He longed to enter, sit down on his bed and stroke a hand through that tangled tail of hair. He has been in love with John MacTavish for years and never had the courage to act upon it, although he was almost certain that his love was reciprocated before he beat it out of his sergeant. Soap was simply waiting for him to make the first move, out or respect and because Simon was his superior. Now that budding connection was crushed by his own brutal, efficient hands.
****
The next day Soap slept in, as was his habit now, having gone almost entirely nocturnal. Gone were his days of rising at the crack of dawn to hit the gym or to run. He kept in shape by seldom eating a full meal, heaving heavy crates and kegs of ale and liquor about at work, and walking all over Glasgow. He seldom slept more than a three hour stretch due to insomnia and nightmares, so sleeping in was a treat.
He never visited his older sister, who as a devout Catholic disapproved of his ‘lifestyle.’ He suspected it was of him in general. After they were thrown in foster care as kids, she had always blamed him for them never being adopted. Admittedly he was a needy, hyperactive, volatile little shit, but the simple fact was, no one wanted kids whose father had murdered their mother, suspecting the apples never fell far from the tree.
Soap’s first and last real home had been at the base in Credenhill, his first family, the 141st. He revered Price as a mentor and father figure, regarded Gaz as a brother and he had fallen hard and fast for his Lieutenant. He had utterly failed to take Ghost’s dire warning, “Friendship isn’t in the field manual,” to heart. He had honestly believed that Ghost was at least his friend. Ghost had proved him wrong with every precise hammer blow to his body and cold, relentless round of interrogation. Soap had been stupid, he realized and sometimes when he was recovering all those lonely months in the rehab center when the pain of his healing bones nearly overwhelmed him, he wished with all his heart that he had been killed in action instead. That at least, was an honorable end for a career soldier.
Now he checked on Opal, who was already up and painting in the garden, taking advantage of the sun. She was having a class in her studio later and he’d heard Tasha and Evon caroling hellos to her earlier, so he felt it was safe to leave for the day. So, she wouldn’t worry, he gave a vague description of his plans for the day, grinned when she swatted his behind and ordered him to eat a good meal to fortify himself. He promised he would and escaped, with his ratty, thrift store rucksack containing his sketchbooks and pencils over his shoulder. Most of his clothing and possessions were obtained from thrift stores or dumpsters these days. He cannot abide waste and has found an affinity for discarded things.
He hiked to the nearest bus stop and caught one heading into the center of the city near the Clyde. From there he would let himself drift in the ebb and flow of the people as they moved about their day. Maybe he’d head for the Botanical Gardens and sketch the glass house and find and take in a concert later, if he could find a bangin’ one. His only self-appointed chore was to get refills for his meds today, and he could do that on the way home this evening. Most people avoided him, eyeing his hair, paint spattered torn jeans held together with safety pins and Doc Martens with suspicion. Soap ignored them, he didn’t give a rat’s ass about what they thought anyway. His days of trying to fit into normal were long gone.
He was a good soldier, elite. What was he now? Just a wandering, semi-stray mutt kicked back onto the streets.
He spent most of the sunny morning sketching in the park, before his knee started to threaten to lock up, so he decided to walk some more. He tried very hard not to take his pain meds often because as powerful as they were, they were also addictive and the dose that actually controlled his chronic pain also knocked him on his arse and left him groggy, muddle headed and lethargic for hours after he woke.
Soap was not risking addiction. He had come too close, when shortly after he left the hospital, he hooked up with a smooth talking guy who managed several underground bands but made his real money dealing. Heroin had definitely taken the edge off of his pain, the relaxation and high a relief, but Soap cut himself off after trying it a couple of times. He also dumped the dealer after he saw him encouraging young band members to use. No, Soap didn’t need a gear addiction on top of his chronic pain. Instead he lost himself in his art and if that didn’t work, he walked until he exhausted himself enough to sleep. He only took his heavy duty painkillers on the rare days when he just couldn’t manage the pain in his hands and knee.
It was later afternoon when he forced himself to stop and grab a curry from a hole-in-the-wall Pakistani restaurant. It was good enough that he asked for a second order with extra naan to go for later, and took note of the place’s name and location and even grabbed a take-out menu to add to his growing collection. Outside the weather was threatening to shift to clouds and rain, so he set his wandering course homeward. He was cutting through a small park when he got that distinct impression of eyes on him. Well trained in situational awareness, he immediately moved onto a busy sidewalk and watched his back through the shop windows as he walked. He didn’t catch a glimpse of a tail, but the sensation of eyes on remained until he was almost home.
He veered into the Chemist’s and picked up his meds, then wandered through a tiny corner shop for a few snacks and a large beef bone from the tiny deli counter for Albert. It was an apology of sorts for not taking Albert with him today, not feeling like dealing with the big mutt’s natural exuberance. He was barely out of puppyhood despite his size and had a tendency to get excited about just about anything he found interesting—other dogs, cats, squirrels, ducks, small children. He wanted to befriend everything. Unfortunately poor Albert’s intellect was tiny compared to his paws and while he tried to be a good dog, sometimes his natural exuberance was difficult to manage. The last time Soap took him to the nearby park, Albert dragged him into the duck pond, in his delighted attempt to greet the water fowl.
There was always the chance that an old enemy would catch up with him due to his SAS work. Soap was kind of indifferent about it, either they would find him and put a bullet in his head or not. They couldn’t do much worse than his own squad. Ghost has always been very meticulous in his work. Soap guessed he should be glad he didn’t get time to use a blow torch. Just his fists, his favorite knife and the hammer. The ball peen hammer that starred in his worst dreams had done the job well, with Ghost’s smooth, precise strokes. He flexed his hands, feeling the joints protest, as they always did.
Ghost stared coldly down at him as he set the hammer aside and picked up the razor sharp secateurs. Before he could use them, Gaz called him away.The threat was clear. He was about to lose some fingers when Ghost returned.
It had taken him months before he could even hold a pencil, much less write or sketch. He didn’t like to think about it. It hurt to remember, even now with time and distance the recurring nightmare of being under Ghost’s razor sharp blade was bad enough.
He got home after dusk and paused outside the back gate, the hair on his nape rising again, at the feel of unseen eyes. He felt his heart start to pound and the blood rush through his head because he recognized this feeling. It was all too familiar. Once he had basked in how safe he felt when Ghost was on Overwatch. He felt his eyes fill and blinked hard, and turning he glared back down the alleyway, where the shadows were pooled deeply.
”Fuck off, Ghost! Ah am doon with ye, if ah see ye again, ah will fuckin’ end ye!”
He snarled, voice echoing. He twisted the latch and went inside and slammed the iron gate behind him.
****
He never saw the tall, broad shouldered figure that shuddered and slipped from his place in the shadows and slunk away like a beaten dog, knowing he had no right to be there.
Ghost returned to his current squat in a kind of daze. He had thought himself unnoticed as he shadowed his sergeant all day, wistfully watching as he visibly tired and slowly limped the last few blocks home. He has watched Soap do this over and over again, wandering restlessly over the city to exhaust himself so he can manage a few hours of sleep. His careful overwatch has revealed that the man doesn’t take care of himself. He seldom takes his meds or eats a full meal—he just drifts around the city when he isn’t at his pub job. He is doing better though. His stamina is better and his halting gait smoother except when he tires.
When Ghost first located him, he thought he would have to kill the bloke Johnny had hooked up with—the dealer. Especially when he realized that Soap was using. But his sergeant had pulled himself out of that mess, gone cold turkey and walked away from the drugs and the man. That didn’t stop Ghost from beating the shit out of the fuckwit and smashing his smarmy face in a few weeks later after warning him off the kids he was trying to hook.
He still has connections in low places so he put the pillock on a police watch list that got him arrested a few weeks later. The officers found enough product to put the man in prison for years—Ghost made sure of that. It had given him great satisfaction to hear the confused man whine to the officers that the hefty block of pure, uncut heroin they found in his house wasn’t his.
He had watched from afar as Soap made friends with the old Bird and rented her back garden cottage and relaxed a bit when he seemed willing to stay safely in one place for a while. The cottage was a safe place, locked away behind high stone walls in a posh old neighborhood, so Soap wasn’t crashing in sketchy hostels and dangerous squats anymore. He still wasn’t nesting, like he used to in his room in the barracks, but he unpacked his duffle and acquired a few more things, like books and art supplies. Ghost still has his things from Credenhill tucked safely away. He pages through the sketchbooks a lot—they hold a lot of memories because Soap sketched everything from the meal he was eating to the landscape when they were stuck waiting for exfil and scribbled in everything from recipes to bad jokes to try out on Ghost.
Ghost had been stunned at how many sketches Johnny had done of him, with or without his masks. He doesn’t wear the skull anymore. While he does mask a lot, he usually just wears a plain, black medical mask. It provides quite a bit of anonymity, much more than the skull ever did. Ghost is well aware that Price is still looking for him. He is likely on several watch lists courtesy of Laswell. The Brass would love to have him back on their leash again. He will never return to the SAS though. He will never trust his old friend again. Instead of obeying his heart, which told him that the whole sleeper intel was rubbish, he had reluctantly obeyed his Captain’s orders and nearly destroyed the one person who meant everything to him.
He had been so angry, that the dark, hurt buried part of him that never truly resurrected from the grave totally bought into the sleeper bullshit, that Soap had deceived them all and pounced on it and he took that buried anger out on his sergeant’s sturdy body. Still, a tiny part of Simon Riley doubted and had held back and instead of totally crippling the man for life he had concentrated on one knee instead of both, and done the majority of damage to his left hand instead of his dominant one. He had used words to cut his vulnerable sergeant like a knife, and humiliated him chaining him to a chair for hours without access to a toilet, by roughly shaving his head (he still has a thick lock of dark hair tucked carefully in his wallet—when he holds it to his nose he can smell Johnny’s shampoo). But he hurt him, body and soul with both words and hard, brutal hands and he can never forgive himself for that.
He would never forget the vacant look on Johnny’s face when Ghost rushed to retrieve him from the dank, cold interrogation cell and carried him to Medical. Soap checked out and never came back to him. Johnny refused to have anything to do with them all after that. He refused visits, refused to even look at them, they were dead to him. Refused to acknowledge their heartfelt apologies. He disengaged. Instead of venting and cursing them to hell and back he simply cut all ties and Laswell helped him vanish.
She was good, but Ghost was just as adept with a computer and what she didn’t know was to his advantage. He’d hacked into her personal laptop long ago and kept a back door open. He discovered Soap had been discharged with a promotion, a pay rise and a full medical pension. He also learned he had returned to Glasgow, but left no forwarding address after the private rehab center Laswell tucked him in and Soap seldom tapped into his pension account or savings. For a while it seemed he lived on the streets. Ghost finally located an area in the city and the chemist where he used his medical card often and triangulated from there.
Ghost found him by walking the streets himself. Trying to put himself into his wounded sergeant’s boots. It had taken him months, but he had done it. He checked out gyms (but Soap no longer used them), art galleries, pubs and music venues. He located him by happy accident. Noticing the logo of a band that Soap favored (he’d had that logo drawn in a sketchbook with a scribbled scrap of lyrics from a favorite song) on a poster, he hung out near the club where the band played and watched as his sergeant exited it with the Dealer cunt.
He had not recognized his sergeant at first. Soap was leaner now, his face thinner, with a sturdy knee brace and a bad limp, long hair and piercings, not to mention the kilt and the punk attire. Gone was the sunshine smile and friendly attitude. Instead there was a wary silence, a hard demeanor and an undercurrent of pain in his aloof face and shadowed eyes. It had taken every bit of restraint Ghost had not to walk over and rip that fuck’s wandering hands off his sergeant. Fuming he had trailed Soap and his hookup to the man’s house and waited outside long enough to realize that Soap was living with the man. The rage he felt had been indescribable and he forced himself to walk away.
Later when he realized that Soap was using, it was all he could do not to enter the house, kill the fucker and forcibly exfil his sergeant. In fact he had planned to whisk Soap away and detox him at his own isolated cottage in the Lake country (he had purchased it long ago with vague ideas of taking Johnny there someday on leave) before Soap extracted himself. Ghost kept an eye on him, but clearly he wasn’t addicted. Soap was smart enough not to let the Gear get its hooks in him despite his chronic pain.
Ghost watched as Soap got himself a pub job where he was paid under the counter in cash and drifted from squat to squat until he took up with the rich old bird and she settled him into her little glass house in her back garden. Instead of charging him rent, she simply asked that Soap look after the garden and her menagerie of rescues. Ghost checked her out, and she was salt of the earth, a genuinely good person, kind and generous to others less fortunate. Ripe for being taken advantage of if not for Soap’s vigilance. He suspected that is why Soap still stayed there in her garden house.
Now Ghost found himself back at the abandoned warehouse where he had a squat set up in an old office on the top floor behind a false wall. It was luxurious compared to some, dry and enclosed, plus he has stolen electricity for a lamp and small heater and hot plate, and a cot covered with thick blankets. He could easily afford an apartment, but he was punishing himself.
Ghost was diligent in keeping others away, and the nasty boobytraps he rigged worked well in discouraging any junkies or urban explorers. Now he retreated to his squat to brood. What to do now that Soap knew he was stalking him? The intelligent response would be to withdraw completely. But Ghost lost all common sense the moment he obeyed orders and cuffed his sergeant to a steel chair in the interrogation room.
He tracked Graves down and made the fuck suffer far worse than his sergeant. Every blow he gave Johnny, he tripled with Graves. Then he send the video to Price as more of a taunt and contemptuous fuck-you to his former Captain. It gave him a purpose to track and take revenge on the sleazy American. Then, job done, he floundered. Ghost has been a military man for all of his adult life. After Roba, it gave him structure and allowed him to rebuild his profoundly broken sense of self-worth. Ghost took pride in his job and he was very good at it and he slowly began to recover his sense of self, and his confidence grew after he met Johnny.
Then all it took was his superior officer’s zeal and a piece of masterful, carefully crafted false intelligence to bring everything down. Instead of believing his sergeant-instead of believing Johnny—his first real friend—his second, the man he had come to trust and love, he obeyed orders and nearly killed him. He had destroyed his spirit. The beautiful light in his sunshine boy’s blue eyes was gone. Soap had checked out and he never came back and that was entirely due to Ghost’s grim skills at interrogation. Ghost should have put his gun in his own mouth then.
For the first time in his life he didn’t know what to do with himself.
He walked away from his career in the SAS without a thought. He has money tucked away. It wasn’t as though he had anything to spend his pay on over the years other than new knives and an occasional quiet holiday. He has a small, rural house tucked away in the Lake country that no one knows about. Even Laswell wouldn’t be able to track it down, its under an identity that a more paranoid Simon Riley crafted years ago and has carefully cultivated ever since. Before Graves, before his walls came crashing down with every blow on his sergeant’s sturdy body, he had planned to invite Johnny to spend his next leave with him there. He knew the Scot would love it, the land backed up to a nature reserve and there were no near neighbors to disturb the peace.
****
Soap spent the next few days on high alert, but the feeling of eyes on never returned and it occurred to him that it was probably a one time thing or even his paranoid imagination. Ghost was feeling guilty about his handiwork and checking up on him. No doubt he was back at Credenhill now, giving the FNGs hell. The wistful pang of sheer homesickness took him by surprise. He sniffed and wiped at his eyes, then stood and went into his bathroom to splash his face with cold water.
Part of him wanted to grab his duffle and hit the road. Maybe travel entirely out of the United Kingdom. Take the train to Paris, do some museum hopping, see the sights he never got to when on ops. But he felt responsible for Opal now, and he would have to see that someone dependable replaced him in the garden house. So, he would stay a bit longer, draw up some travel plans and scout for a replacement to look after Opal.
Back at work, Sarai kept her distance, much to his relief and Ben either had not noticed or was indifferent. Soap kept a sharp eye out, but Ghost never shadowed him again that he was aware of, so either it was indeed a one time thing or a figment of his own imagination. He came home one morning to find a large, beautifully crafted easel on his stoop, along with a set of professional acrylics and some expensive sable brushes, all wrapped with a fancy red bow.
Opal beamed at him later and wished him a very Happy Birthday and he thanked her in some confusion, because he was pretty sure, he has never told her the date of his birth. Still, it was a very thoughtful, if expensive gift and he dragged the whole lot inside and spent an hour or so setting it up in a spot that caught the light well. He has never painted or used an easel, used to small, easily carried sketchbooks, pencils and cheap, shitty biros, but he decides it's worth giving it a go.
He buys a large panel of gessoed hardboard and tentatively sets to work, acquainting himself with the paints and brushes. The result, to his eye, is a chaotic mess of bright slashes and experimental marks, splashes, thick blobs and layered drips of color. Opal however, is enchanted and refuses to allow him to paint over it. If he looks at it sideways and squints, it kind of resembles a stormy landscape. Instead she hands him a stack of prepared panels from her vast studio supply stock and confiscates his ‘first masterpiece’. It has ‘energy’, she informs him firmly as she carries it off to examine it further. Bemused, he shrugs and loses himself in learning the new medium, loving the fluidity and bright colors of the paint, as he builds up thick layers of pigment. It engages him so much that his aching bones are more easily ignored when a bout of nasty weather brings on the usual assault of aches and pains.
****
Ghost watched silently from his usual blind under the tree, hidden by the night shadows and rain, pleased that Johnny was enjoying the gifts he left. He would buy Johnny the world if he could. Feeling himself begin to spiral, he accepts a contract from an old acquaintance who has provided him with lucrative jobs in the past. The money really doesn’t matter to him, but the distraction does, as does keeping his skills sharp. Also, he is building a studio addition to his Lake house with a vague plan of willing the property to Johnny. Johnny could also set up a creative space in the stone garden shed on the grounds if he wished. Ghost at one time, toyed with the idea of turning it into a wood or metal shop if he survived long enough to retire.
The hit is on a cartel leader in Mexico, by one of his own lieutenants. Apparently by contracting an outsider, he hopes to avoid all suspicion from the man’s extensive and deadly family. The fact that it's in Mexico, which holds no good memories except of Johnny and Los Vaqueros doesn’t matter. He still stays in contact with Alejandro and Rudy. They know he has gone mercenary and avoids the SAS and the 141 and why. Their outrage had mirrored his own and they had helped him unearth Graves from his hiding place and a snarling Rudy had offered to set him alight again.
Both men encouraged him to make an escape and effort to reunite with Soap, probably because they were long time companions themselves, having been lovers since they were boys growing up together. Ghost didn’t have a clue how to even begin to do so. All he has the balls to do is pine from afar like some lovelorn Romeo. He doesn’t have the courage to even approach Johnny now.
Ghost takes his time with the contract and fulfills it with his usual competence. He could have lingered and drawn it out a bit, but part of his mind was still firmly in Glasgow with his sergeant. He doesn’t want to venture far away from him, afraid Soap will take it in his head to do a disappearing act on him. Now that Soap knows he has eyes on, he would take extra care in disappearing and Ghost can’t bear the idea of losing him again, even though his sergeant wants nothing to do with him. He needs to make amends somehow. He needs forgiveness or some kind of closure, even if it's Johnny simply putting a bullet in his head.
Because his mind is not 100% on the job, it nearly gets him killed. The cartel lieutenant decides it would be a good idea to take out the hitman he hired so he cannot be incriminated in the death of his jefe. Ghost is ambushed on the way to the small private airport he is exfiling from.
Because he isn’t wearing a plate carrier or Kevlar, for the flight, he ends up taking a bullet, even as he coolly eliminates the men sent to murder him. It’s a nasty wound in his side, just above the hip bone. The bullet goes through and miraculously hits nothing vital but it's still painful and he loses quite a bit of blood before he can pack the wound properly with clotting powder and sterile gauze and slap a pressure bandage on. In his haste to make his private flight out of Mexico (he has already bribed the customs officials) he doesn’t bother with seeking out any antibiotics. By the time he is back in Scotland, he’s irritable, hurting and running a temperature.
He holes up in his squat, cleans and redresses his wound, swallows some antibiotics, turns on the small heater, piles all his blankets on, determined to sleep his way through healing and if he dies of sepsis instead it won’t really matter. He sleeps but his unconscious mind is rift with anxiety dreams of losing Soap, of his bright sergeant dying in his arms in a train tunnel and as his infection worsens, his fever increases, and delirium sets in and takes over.
In his muddled dreams he is desperately searching the dark, rain washed streets of Las Almas for his wounded sergeant. In reality, a fever wracked Simon Riley leaves the relative warmth of his squat and stumbles out of the warehouse into a cold, stormy Glasgow night seeking to protect the man who means the world to him. Like a shambling, delirious, heat seeking missile he aims himself unerringly towards his beloved sergeant.
****
Soap was awakened by Albert’s deep bass boom of a bark at the back gate. Sitting up, he scowls and throws his covers off and swings his legs stiffly off the bed. What the hell is Albert doing outside in the rain? Albert hates rain and he is afraid of thunder and it's been storming off and on all night, which was rare in this part of Alba. Grumbling, he yanked on a hoodie and his battered boots and grabbed the brolly and a torch from beside the door and sloshed out into the garden. He found Albert anxiously trying to lick the face of a form slumped unconscious against the wrought iron gate.
Swearing, Soap quickly unlocks it and stoops beside the man. He quickly switched to Gaelic invective and ratcheted it up a notch when he pushed the man’s sodden hood back and recognized the bruised, unconscious face. A quick exam uncovered Ghost’s wound and he could feel the fever heat rising off his pale, wet skin. He bent and heaved his LT over his shoulders and staggered back to his house, a solicitous Albert at his heels.
By the time he pushed the door open all three were drenched and dripping puddles on the floor. Still swearing and growling under his breath, Soap managed to heave his burden onto his bed and hastily went to the bathroom for all his towels and his industrial grade medical kit. Albert dropped to his haunches by the bed and whined, worried for his tall friend who always petted him and fed him treats.
As he prods and cleans the big man’s wound, Simon opens his eyes and blinks wet lashes and blearily reaches out to shakily and tenderly touch Soap’s face. With his other hand he fumbles a handgun out of his hoodie and presses it into Soap’s surprised hands. Voice hoarse, slurred and totally sincere, he tells him to kill him so that he can never hurt him again. Tells him that he will never have to worry about Graves setting him up again, assures him feverishly that he took care of him for Soap. Confesses exactly what he did to the American. That Ghost left the SAS and that he swore he would let Soap set things right. He rambled incoherently, lost in delirium, unaware that he was spilling his heart out as well as his confession. Then his eyes roll back and he passes out and slumps unconscious and nearly scares his former sergeant to death.
”Ghost!”
John bends over him and slumps with relief when he finds a pulse. The glaikit eejit has nearly killed himself with neglect. He blinks down at the gun in his other hand and quickly sets it aside. Quickly he searches his former lieutenant and finds knives of various sizes secreted in places that he didn’t realize could be used for that purpose. He carefully locks Ghost’s armory into a cupboard, afraid that the big man will try to off himself when he wakes.
He recognizes what Simon is doing.
Hell, he tried it himself. Slow suicide by neglect, fueled by self-hatred. He strips Simon and replaces his wet clothes with a ratty pair of his own joggers and a tee shirt, wincing at the vast amount of scars carved into the expanse of pale skin. Fucking hell. He knows the stories of most of them, has heard them whispered about base and has caught glimpses here and there when Simon changed in the locker room. He traces the vivisection scar marring the big chest down to the gnarled knot of scar tissue above his hip from the meat hook with trembling fingertips. Simon is leaner now, still broad with muscle, but the bit of belly fat padding his stomach is gone and there are several new, deep knife marks, the scars still pink from healing.
Eventually he finds himself sitting with one hand wrapped around Ghost’s thick wrist, reassured by the steady pulse and for the first time he sets his hurt and anger aside and thinks. He forces himself to remember certain things about his sessions under Simon’s skilled hands. Ghost, the most efficient, professional he knew when it came to coercion had taken his sweet time. He had targeted areas of Soap’s body, but more importantly, he had not targeted certain areas. He had not crippled Soap’s right hand, his dominant one—yes, he damaged it, but he could have taken most of his fingers. He had not broken both kneecaps. He had targeted Soap’s already bad knee, instead of the good leg. He had not taken an eye. He had not used a blow torch or a drill. He had been very selective. He had spent a lot of time just humiliating and questioning him.
He had been waiting to be ordered to stand down.
He gasps and shudders out a breath, the sudden realization hitting like one of the lightning bolts that is currently splitting the night sky as the rain sheets down and the storm grumbles and moves away over the city. Ghost had obeyed his Captain’s orders, but he had held back and delayed as long as he could despite believing that Soap was a traitor. Soap knew about the betrayal and torture Simon suffered because of Major Vernon and that cartel cunt Roba. Ghost has suffered betrayal in one form or another his entire life, yet he survived and still strived to be an honorable man. It must have killed him to do what he did, even as he obeyed orders. Graves had destroyed the SAS’s best task force from the inside out.
He thinks of that cunt Graves and remembers what Laswell had told him about the set-up, the carefully and expertly crafted evidence planted on him. No wonder his team had believed it. He would have as well, if say, Gaz was set up. He sat back with a huff and felt strong fingers clasp his hand, as Ghost sighs in his uneasy sleep, even as he holds tight to Soap’s hand. He feels a bit cooler now. Perhaps, like the storm, his fever is passing as well. God knows Soap has pumped him full of some damned powerful antibiotics that he had left over in his professional strength medical kit. Soap stares down at his sleeping, scarred face as he accepts the fact that part of the reason for his festering rage was his sense of betrayal because of his intense love for the man and it's time to let that seething anger go, because otherwise he will never move beyond it.
A love that apparently has not faded despite his best efforts to forget it. He gives an annoyed huff and glances over at Albert who is still vigilant as he ‘guards’ his new friend. He snorts, realizing that the dog has probably been canoodling with Ghost at night for weeks if not months while he remains blissfully ignorant. He scowls at the great mutt, who thumps his tail sheepishly and looks appropriately guilty, even if he is clearly not certain why he should be.
“Ye are both great bampots.”
****
Simon wakes to sunshine and the delicious scent of homemade soup and opens puzzled eyes to find himself propped up on pillows and a pair of bright blue eyes behind huge, red-framed spectacles that make her look rather like an inquisitive, silver haired owl. She beams at him and aims a silver spoon for his mouth with a cheerful,
”Open up, laddie!”
The second he opens his mouth to ask where Johnny is, she pops the spoon in and he has no choice but to swallow or choke. It’s delicious. Chicken with barley and vegetables. Opal reads the question in his eyes and beams again at his cooperation.
”Our John is off to the shops! Says he has to get in enough ‘messages’ to feed your great arse!”
Opal informs him cheerfully, as she aims another spoonful at his mouth.
Obediently he opens his mouth, too weak and frankly hungry, to protest. Inside he feels a faint bloom of something like hope. Johnny didn’t call the dibble on him yet, or inform Price, or shoot him and chuck his corpse into the Clyde and apparently has plans to feed him. He will take it, he decides. This chance to spend more time with his sergeant, even if Soap changes his mind and chucks his arse out into the street tomorrow. Satisfied with his plan, he settles back and allows Opal to feed and interrogate him about his intentions. Later, as he drifts off again after she made sure he swallowed a hefty dose of painkillers and antibiotics, he groggily admires her real aptitude for the later. Price should recruit her for his team.
The next time he wakes, it's to a sturdy weight straddling him, a strong knee squeezing his bandaged hip, and a sharp blade tipping up his chin to meet cool, ocean blue eyes. He swallows hard and tips his head back, showing his throat, even as he holds Soap’s eyes and keeps his hands lax and still on the sheets. His life is Soap’s now and he can do with it as he pleases.
Soap studies him silently with narrowed eyes, reading his no doubt dopey expression and Simon wonders if he is reconsidering slitting his throat. Instead, the Scot snorts at the expression on his face, flips the blade around (it's one of his own custom throwing knives, he realises) and hurls it into a wall joist. Then he leans over and takes Simon’s mouth with his and there is nothing gentle about it. It’s hot and wet and sharp with teeth and just when Simon sighs and leans into it, Johnny nips his lower lip sharp enough to draw blood and sits back with a satisfied smirk on his handsome face. He has been claimed, he realises with a shock. It’s a totally awesome first kiss and he scowls when Johnny eases off him and struts over to the tiny kitchen area, turns and gives him a shit eating grin as he brandishes a kettle.
”Tea?”
Simon shuts his mouth on a smart arsed retort when he realises two things as his stomach rumbles loudly and his bladder lodges a protest. The scents from the kitchen are a melange of his favorite, pricy Earl Grey, his favorite Indian chicken tikka masala and Soap’s beloved spicy lamb and potato stew. Instead he clears his throat, licks his still tingling lips and meekly replies,
”Yes, please.”
They have a lot to talk about, a lot of grief to hash out and he realizes as he cautiously relaxes back against the pillows that now smell of both he and Soap, all the time in the world to do so without being constrained by regulations or interrupted by a high octane op. They have the rest of their lives. If this is his second chance he is going to grab it by the throat with his teeth and not let go.
One year later
Gaz lingers in the shadows near the corner outside of the old hole in the wall pub.
He’s more than a bit chagrined at how long it took to track his once best bruv down. He isn’t here to confront Soap, but to check on his wellbeing. He is still on TF141. It took a shit load of groveling from Price and a promotion to lieutenant to keep him there, but he hadn’t been quite prepared to relinquish his SAS career. Price and he tracked down every person involved in setting Soap up (at least the ones still alive after Ghost’s lethal rampage) and personally taken them out of the equation. Laswell hadn’t protested for once and she was very careful to scrutinize any intel now. He likes to think they are better now. At least he hopes so.
As he watched, he saw the last few patrons leave with a cheery wave to the man briskly ushering them out and quickly locking the door behind them. They toddle off down the street, more than a bit blootered. The lights go out inside. After a few minutes, a kilt and leather jacket clad Soap emerges from the alley, having exited and locked the back door. His hair is cascading in a glorious, purple-streaked mane down his back and he flashes a megawatt smile at the dark, hulking figure that emerges from the shadowed doorway across the cobbled street to meet him and slides a big, possessive arm around his waist. He has an enormous mutt of a dog leashed at his side, who greets Soap with a happily wagging tail and pushes a big head under his hand for pets.
Ghost is instantly recognizable to the man who worked with him for years. His cropped, white blond hair gleams under the street lamps and he wears a simple, black medical mask. He is clad in his usual, funereal black, including tight black jeans and tall, laced Docs, and Gaz huffs out a silent laugh at the huge fanged skull emblazoned on the back of his hoodie. The most lethal Goth ever. As they stride away, he can hear Soap’s lilting brogue as hands flying; he tells his tall companion some tall tale. Just before they turn the corner to the high street, Ghost looks back over his shoulder and meets his eyes directly—the warning clear and Gaz startles before chuffing out a laugh.
Of course, Ghost knew he was there all along and luckily decided not to break his neck for stalking Soap. Smiling ruefully to himself, Gaz pulls his ball cap a bit lower and walks away in the opposite direction, hands in his pockets. Price will be relieved to know that the two have reconciled and although Gaz knows they will never return to TF141, he is happy that they are together. Maybe one day soon, Soap will accept his own apologies. A man can only hope.
FINI
08/03/2025