Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1941

10 perfect soldiers, picked for skill, tolerance, loyalty, resourcefulness, and lack of next of kin.

Offered a lifetime of wealth in exchange for participation in a scientific experiment run by scientists from multiple allied forces, they were told it would be an honorable task, whether it worked or not. They were told it would be physically grueling, like their other training. They were told they would need to work together, lean on each other and each other only. They were told it would change their lives. They were told it was an extension of their duty, a chance to serve the cause.

They were lied to. It was nothing short of biological warfare.

For weeks after the initial containment, they sat for ‘treatments’, preparing them to reenter the fight. Take to the field.

6 survived.

They attempted to lean on each other, to fight through the physical changes, the confusion.

It took mere days after they were turned out for them, all of them, to feel the heavy hunger set in. Then bloody, consequential, life-altering, soul-damning choices were made, separating them even further. Irrevocably.

Chapter Text

Current day

Feeding was just habitual at this point, a means by which Simon kept his body functional, his mind sharp. He had fought it for a damn long time, searching and searching for tricks, alternatives. Chasing battlefields wasn’t guilt free, but it was the best he’d found. Human blood, before it had settled and curdled, the ones that weren’t his fault. Human blood was far more satiating, it helped him heal faster, stay awake longer. He had drank from a few interrogation subjects in his time, just to see them lose their shit. But on leave, in everyday life, animal blood would do. Taste didn’t matter, although he had a deep, intimate knowledge of craving. He fed himself with regular food to curb the emptiness in his stomach. The rest of it, the hollow feeling of living in his body, he had decided would never be filled. So he curled up inside of it like an empty tomb and watched for ways to be used. That was the original goal anyway, wasn’t it? The reason he had signed onto the program in the first place.

His father had been a monster of a man, different than the monster Simon was now, and it had taken decades for Simon to come to terms with the fact that “serving his country” had not been an act of honor and duty, but of escape. And he hadn’t just escaped the constant abuse, he had escaped a mother and brother that needed him. He had escaped a duty more important, a duty at home.

He ran his tongue over his overly sharp canines beneath a cloth mask. At least he had perfected one thing, a way to hide his face, a persona that allowed it, a reason for people to fear him that had little to do with the truth.

Simon Riley had been through literal, god-awful hell. Name it. Loss, torture, false blame. But there he stood, at attention, with the rest of them. And he was really fuckin good at what he did. That’s why his Captain, Captain John Price of task force 141, had chosen him to lead this particular outing. He knew all the details it would entail as well as the men that would be joining him. Sergeant John Mactavish, who he had worked with before, more than once, and two Russian men converted and recruited by Price several years ago. They knew the landscape, spoke the language. They would be useful, if not boring.

Riley, who went by Ghost, had already been to the location once to make sure it was up to par. It wasn’t much, a small base, currently blanketed in snow. The snow provided the cover by which they hoped the Russians they were tracking would make the weapon’s drop they planned to intercept.

Ghost was more apprehensive than usual. The wilderness they were entering allowed for very little hunting. The small number of people they were operating with meant any move he made would be noticed. And having “Soap” Mactavish alongside meant he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t scrounge. He couldn’t hide. He would have to go in well fed and hope for the best.

Not that that kind of risk would make him say no. Ghost never said no. A little hunger had yet to kill him, or anyone else around him. In fact, he often longed for the pain of his true hunger, to punish himself for the sins he committed all those years ago. For the mistakes he had made. And every good thing he did, every perceived right, was repayment on behalf of himself, his 5 blood brothers, and the evil that had created them. Repayment to who, he had never quite been sure. He figured that if there was a god, he wouldn’t have allowed it to happen in the first place. To the universe then, to mother nature for being a true abomination. His unnaturally long life gave him ample time to repay, repay, repay.

“Go. Good luck.” Price waved them off. They were hopping a jet from the main base in Germany to the smaller one in Russia.

The other men walked ahead of Ghost, he watched them, his more-than-perfect eyesight picking up on how they moved. Judging potential weaknesses. There were few in a group like this. He wondered who watched for his. If anyone was the wiser. He wondered often if the Captain that had first taken him under his wing had known that something was off. If he had, he never questioned it. Price had never doubted him.

Aside from his eyesight, his slightly more powerful run, his ability to go days without sleep, his hearing was enough to judge the blood pumping through another person’s body. It was probably the most dichotic of his abilities. It had saved lives, alerting him to blood loss before it might have been noticed or predicting shock. The cursed other half was hearing a heart sputter and stop. It could alert him to nearby enemies, it could remove any doubt that he had ended an opponent, it could induce full blown panic when attempting to administer aid to someone you’d rather not lose.

He could hear the heartbeat of the man beside him as he climbed into his seat. Soap was trustworthy, steady, a tried and true marksman and battlefield expert. He seemed to carry an unnatural amount of luck that had his attitude teetering on the edge of cocky. Seemed, however, that he tended toward humor and humility. Ghost liked him as much as the next man, but he also trusted him which set him apart. The two men across from them he did not trust. Price did, which gave him some confidence, but they would have to earn it.

“How’s life, Sir?” Soap asked, absentmindedly cleaning a rifle across his lap.

Ghost had gotten his nickname because of a mask he wore. One that covered how his face might portray his lack of humanity and his inhuman teeth. Most people were thoroughly unsettled by it. Even Price seemed to treat him differently when he wore it. The only person who didn’t seem to give a fuck about it was Soap.

“Same old.” He offered the smaller man an answer out of the kindness of his marble heart.

Soap deserved some kindness. Ghost always wondered how a man like him ended up somewhere like the 141 instead of putting his talents to safer use teaching or coaching or raising a family. He guessed, as with all of them, it was a sad story and not one worth repeating. Although, it was hard to imagine anyone wishing suffering on someone so obviously genuine. Selfless. He was known for it, that and his quick smile.

The way he flashed it then made Simon almost jealous of his perfect teeth. He ground his own ruined ones against themselves like after all these years he might actually begin to wear them down.

“Good to hear, I suppose.”

Ghost didn’t feel bad not answering him again. He didn’t feel up for a chat, and he had heard Soap’s pulse quicken when he asked the question, indicating that he was nervous to start the conversation. It was easy enough for Ghost to decide to put him out of his misery quickly.

Soap let the conversation slide. Working with the Lieutenant made him nervous. Not in an apprehensive way, he wasn’t afraid. In more of a god-don’t-let-me-fuck-this-up kind of way. Simon Riley gave him some kind of complex. A need to please, to make the man proud. It was strange, Price had always seemed fatherly but Riley, Ghost, he seemed like the friend you made a blood pact with as kids. Like breaking his trust, disappointing him might cause a rip in the space time continuum. And Soap liked working with him in particular because the trust seemed to go both ways. He seemed to be unwilling to let his men down. And on a mission like this, where Ghost led, Soap was one of his men. He liked the sound of that.

They arrived at the base after a few hours of flight time. Plenty of time to think and plan and clear their minds for what lay ahead. What lay ahead at that very moment was their camp for the next small while. It may not have seemed like much, but Soap liked a smaller center of operation. It seemed cozy, it felt tighter, safer. Easier to defend. Easier to stay hidden. Not that the enemy wouldn’t know they were there. They probably did. But the base had been occupied on and off for a while, as a training location, or to simply remind the Russians that they were watching.

Ghost addressed all of them after they settled into their bunks and returned to the meeting room.

“We’ll take turns in the galley, mostly prepared shit anyway. We’ll leave here at 0800 tomorrow to scout a location. I’ll give you a better briefing then. For now, we eat, and then get some rest.”

They all nodded, the two Russian soldiers entered the kitchen, working together to prepare them some food and then sharing the load of doing the dishes after. A little voice in Soap’s mind told him to admire the effort. He had worked with plenty of flipped operatives in his career. Especially in special ops, and these guys seemed kosher enough. But Soap, and he supposed Ghost as well, were used to working with the 141. They were as comfortable as brothers there. Here, it was basically as though they were working alone. Just the two of them.

Ghost watched Soap sit at the table and eye the other two men as they cleaned. He appeared relaxed but Ghost noted the hand seated at the crook of his hip, within quick reach of the knife in his belt. His legs were wide, comfortable, but both boots were flat on the floor in case he needed to stand quickly. Maybe it was habit, muscle memory, or maybe he was wary of the others as well.

Ghost had never gotten close with anyone, not in decades. He hadn’t had friends since—

Soap standing rather suddenly caught his attention. Caught and held it. The man walked over to him nonchalantly.

“There a place we can smoke around here?” He casually flashed a lighter in his hand.

“That’s a bad habit, Mactavish.” Ghost answered.

Soap felt a common urge to try and get that voice to go any direction at all, up, down, or sideways.

He cocked a crooked smile. “Yes, sir, it is. You don’t hafta join in if you don’t like it.”

Ghost stood, slowly enough to force Soap to watch him, turning his eyes up to meet his. Bastard. “Hope you brought something warm.”

They parted, put on their coats, met again at the back door. Ghost opened it, revealing a small covered area. It wasn’t well lit, but it was out of the elements.

“Did you get more than a basic rundown on our friends?” Soap asked between drags, as if he weren’t aware that his superior likely wouldn’t tell him if he had.

He didn’t realize that Ghost saw him very equal this go-round and would tell him anything he knew. “Just the usual. Seems Price likes ‘em, don’t need much else.”

Soap nodded, letting the cigarette hang from his lips for a moment. “Been a minute since Mexico.”

Ghost could hear Soap’s heart again, but it stayed steady. And truthfully, he didn’t want to leave him out there alone. He’d rather stand there, breath forming clouds even through his mask, than be alone inside. And he couldn’t quite put a finger on why.

“I think that’s fair to say, yeah.” He replied.

He liked the smell of the cigarette. It was almost enough to make him push the balaclava up over his mouth and ask for it. In the darkness the sharp sergeant would be unable to see anything out of place. It was almost enough. They had worked together well. They had saved each other’s necks more than once. He had been impressed with the sergeant on that mission. He searched his mind for any time he had relayed that message and came up empty.

“Glad you’re back to lead this one. I wasn’t sure I’d take it.” Soap interrupted his thought.

“Why’s that?” Simon’s eyes had begun to follow every move of the red end of the cigarette. It barely illuminated the Scot’s face.

“Not my usual gig. Price said he needed two sharpshooters on.” Soap was known for demolitions but was a surefire shot every time he slowed down long enough to finger a trigger.

“I wanted you on my six.” The words slipped out of Ghost’s mouth mostly unbidden.

It was the truth, and he certainly didn’t care that Soap knew the truth, but like he had said, Ghost was here to lead. Not to go soft in snowy darkness. He stilled, listening for the reaction, either from Soap’s mouth or from inside his chest. His heart didn’t stutter, but his lips curved in a smile.

“I’m on it, then.” The answer wasn’t snarky. Cocky. It seemed genuine. “We’ll have to get the whole crew together again after this. Feels wrong leaving them out.”

“Aye, it does. Price gets to sit comfortably on his ass somewhere and order Gaz around while we freeze to death with a couple of Russian mutes.”

It was a lot of words for Ghost, and a lot of humor. Soap chuckled, the smoke in his mouth making him cough.

“He trusts us, right? That’s why we get the fun ones.”

Ghost shook his head once. “Must be.”

He ran his tongue over a particularly sharp tooth. He might go so far as to say he admired Soap. He remembered being his age. That sort of in between of wanting to serve for the thrill and wanting to serve because it was the only thing you felt truly good at.

“I trust Price, but we’ll keep an eye on things. If all goes well, this will be a nice little vacation and we can get back to Germany.” Ghost didn’t know if he felt the need to speak the assurance for himself or the sergeant.

Soap looked out at the deathly silent night. Quite a vacation. He didn’t exactly dread returning but training recruits wasn’t exactly his favorite thing. It was a fulfilling part of his duty but dreadfully boring. He missed action, a little danger. Adrenaline.

“You’ll be headed home then? When we’re done.” Soap snuffed out the cig and didn’t pull another.

Home. Simon no longer comprehended the meaning of it. He’d been staying in the countryside, renting a small place. He supposed that was home enough for now.

“That’s the plan.” There, unexpectedly, was the drop in that frustratingly even voice that Soap had been looking for.

He looked over at Ghost. The man had several inches on him, but it wasn’t his size that was daunting. He could easily say he understood the mask. A desire to hide your face, to be an anonymous harbinger of death was something he felt they could all understand. In fact, he found the man braver for covering himself. It was certainly no weakness, and it made him a target. The thing to be feared, the face of the enemy’s enemy.

And he knew. He knew what had driven him to it. It was a story many knew, a story that made it easy to believe that Simon Riley no longer existed. That the thing beneath the mask was exactly its namesake. A ghost. But he knew better. He knew Simon and the Ghost were one in the same. That it was a measure of ownership over himself that he had more than earned the right to. And Soap admired him for embracing it and taking up the fight again anyway.

Anyone that could have lost everything, been tortured for days, been buried alive and came out walking and speaking on the other side deserved more than admiration. Anyone who had done all of that and chosen then to devote his life to this type of cause, to the saving of others, deserved reverence.

Ghost stood, his face fully covered, his broad shoulders wrapped in a heavy coat, but Soap could see that his eyes were off into space, that his body curved forward as if to protect himself. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked about something as sacred as home. For many, it was a difficult reminder. Himself included. He was as alone out there as he was inside. He’d grown up with siblings and he hated the feeling of an empty house, the quiet echo of empty rooms, no one else to exist in your space. Home felt more like a prison cell these days.

Without the light from the cigarette, the cold air driving a wedge between their shared body heat, they collectively turned and walked back through the door.

Ghost went back to his room and sat, in his coat and boots, for an inordinate amount of time. He was wrestling quite violently with the idea that he had missed Soap. That Soap offered him some level of familiarity and safety. When the man asked about home, it sunk him, he couldn’t tell him that working with the 141 was the closest thing to home he had felt since he was young.

His persona, his mask, made it easy for him to hide his past. No one asked him about who he was, no one thought he would answer. Many just assumed it was too hard for him to talk about. Many knew some basics about him, shit childhood, military lifer, experiences other soldiers had nightmares about, and that meant they never even felt the urge to ask.

Of course fucking Johnny Mactavish asked him if he would be headed home. Like a true home was a thing for any of them. Like they were casual coworkers.

He pulled off his mask and rubbed his eyes. They were casual coworkers, goddammit.

Chapter Text

The next morning, everyone ate on their own, pouring strong coffee in silence.

 At the specified time, they stood in the meeting room again and Ghost laid out the plan for them. They were fully dressed, ready for the harsh terrain, ready to search. They had several points laid out and a couple of days to do recon, find possible drop locations and make a plan for interception.

Only four of them had been sent in so that it wouldn’t be seen as a full operation and it was up to Ghost to determine whether they act or call for backup.

Their Russian companions were chattier that morning, amongst themselves anyway, but they were obedient and they led the men as they exited their base and climbed into a vehicle more suited for the snowy forest.  

One of the men rode up front with Ghost. Dmitri. The other went by Alex and he took his seat next to Soap. He was the taller of the two men and it seemed his English was good. He had a trustworthy face, Soap thought, although he had been burned plenty of times by that notion in the past. And he didn’t like that Ghost was driving while he hung back, it was more risky and he didn’t trust Dmitri to watch out for them like Soap knew he could. The man was there to navigate, not cover. So who was covering, then? Something in him felt they shouldn’t be parted, even like this. The other part of him told him to calm the hell down. This wasn’t warfare, open combat. No one was shooting at them.

Being in a tight space, even for a short time often got him worked up, put him on edge. That was the deeper, darker reason he wished he was beside the Lieutenant. Ghost let off of calm that helped him regain focus. He never got worried, he never hesitated, questioned himself. He was steady, never changing. Few things in life were and Soap chased it shamelessly.

It wasn’t a particularly risky mission, not like some of the others they had faced, but they did feel especially exposed against the monotone landscape. They soon entered the cover of trees and forest brush. Ghost stopped the truck and looked at his coordinates. They weren’t far from what was supposed to be some kind of marker. That’s where their foreign friends came in, they would be able to identify it.

Ghost climbed out of the car and Soap slipped out the same side.

He had been able to hear Soap’s nerves grow as they drove. He knew whatever form of PTSD Soap couldn’t admit to had something to do with tight spaces. He also knew that the fact that it gripped him now had nothing to do with lack of control and everything to do with lack of action.

Soap caught Ghost watching him and nodded, walking to the back of the vehicle. He didn’t want the man’s pity. And as intimidating as he was, he was just that. A man. Soap didn’t need to know his face to know that. They might differ in size and skin tone and god knows what else but he was willing to bet their hearts were quite similar. The way he watched though made him somewhat curious, made him wish more of his expression was free so that Soap could have an easier time understanding if it was just habit or if it meant something.

He shook his head as he pulled open the door to the weapons storage. It didn’t mean shit except that they were meant to watch out for each other, meant to know each other’s status at all times. It meant Ghost was doing his job.

Soap needed to clear his mind and the silent chill of the forest surrounding them provided that ability. If small spaces made him antsy, then this was the place for him to find reprieve. Above the trees was a grey-white sky, not so different from the plains beyond them as if the earth itself had forgotten where the horizon lived. His thoughts had nothing to echo against out there, they just floated away, landing softly in the snow.

They fell into formation, Soap and Ghost hanging back. Ghost hanging back slightly further. It felt natural, to watch the backs of the men before him. A bullet could kill him, blood loss, head trauma, hypothermia, he wasn’t invincible. But he was a little more invincible than they were, a little tougher, a little quicker to heal. His belief that he was superhuman had been wiped off the face of the earth years ago. Many, many years ago. He shook off the memories and let them bury themselves beneath his feet.

It was important to understand the climate there. It was cold, cold enough that over exerting could be dangerous, cold enough to hide their scents. And storms could come up quickly, blinding them and hiding their tracks so it was imperative that they were aware of how to survive if that happened. That was a big reason the other men were with them, to fill that area of expertise. Ghost was protective of them because of that. Because he had a lot of knowledge but little practice. He could survive for a while, he could get far on his heightened abilities, which left Soap as the weak link in the chain. He had knowledge too, but his luck wouldn’t get him far out here.

They would scout today, leave themselves markers, gather any details to tell them whether or not the location was accurate. They would set up camp tomorrow and wait. The date wasn’t known but the general range was.

“Adding to our resumes with this one, huh, LT.” Soap fell back to walk beside him.

The snow wasn’t fresh and pretty well packed. The shoes they wore made it fairly easy to traverse, but not as easy as hard, level ground. They stopped, standing next to each other.

“Lowering our life expectancy, more likely.” Ghost answered him.

Before Soap could come up with further one sentence talking points, they reached their intended destination. As expected, The Russian men spotted a circle of twisted branches, where they had been tied some time ago to force them to grow in a certain direction.

“Witchy.” Soap mumbled.

Ghost nodded in agreement. They had been told it had been a common practice to mark secret meeting places for civil rights groups for some time, but it looked strange to him, seeing nature bent to a human’s will against its own. Even more disturbing still since it was something he was able to distinctly relate to.

He stole a glance at Soap, who’s light eyes were gray against the cold background but wide open and filled with wonder. Adding to his resume. Adding to his life experience, to his memories. In the pit of his stomach, Simon hoped he had been wrong, that their life expectancies wouldn’t budge an inch out there. Simon’s life had ended a long time ago, but in moments like that, Johnny was filled with enough for both of them.

Alone after Mexico, Simon had spent a lot of time wanting for that, realizing he had become addicted to it in a way. Drawn to it. The younger man had a drive and a fervor that Simon had lost with his years. He still felt a drive to the cause or else he wouldn’t be there, but Soap still held some boyish wonder, if not darkened by the harder experiences. Simon wondered if he’d ever possessed something like it or if his chance at boyish wonder had been kicked out of him before he left grade school.

“Shame the art has lost it’s original purpose.” Ghost mumbled, failing to hide his admiration at the poor souls that walked all this way for a freedom he exercised daily.

Soap looked up at him, forever surprised at the moments when Ghost chose to put feeling behind his words. Forever surprised by the realizations he would miss if he weren’t standing close enough to hear him. Ghost was an old soul, but Soap had seen first hand that it could be a fragile façade. Ghost never lost his temper or his cool but he retreated, steeled those brown eyes, became unreachable. His default was still cold and still but with some life in him. Like now.

They marked the trail their own undetectable way, stopping to eat something and making their way back to the truck. Ghost would have to meet with Price for a report and Soap would have to take a hell-hot shower and prepare himself to be out in it for a few days.

They were prepared to camp, they had what they needed to keep warm and to stay out of sight, and they would spend the rest of the day getting it prepared.

The ride back wasn’t much different than the ride out, except Soap’s mind was more occupied, less focused on his own echoing anxieties. Occupied by the mystery in the seat in front of him. Seemed to be a common theme of these missions.

Soap goes in thinking nothing of it, simply glad to be working with someone he knew he could trust, that he knew was watching him, and tells himself that the infatuation with the masked man is truly nothing but a strong curiosity. But then, it gets worse, and he finds himself worried about him, wondering if he had anyone to care for him when he was on leave. He knows he doesn’t and then inevitably, he has a desire to become it. Wondering what it might be like to know the man as Simon and not Ghost. In his little daydreams, Simon’s face was still covered, because that was how he felt at home. And it was often platonic, although on some long, dark nights, he imagined that it simply wasn’t. That it was just a little deeper. And that, he knew, was his own slew of daddy issues and untreated loneliness. That made it a schoolboy’s crush, and there was nothing on earth more delusional.

Ghost and Soap trusted each other, they had worked together enough that they understood one another, but friendship would be a far stretch, let alone something more intimate. But he cared for Ghost regardless and he’d do anything for him. For duty or for that stretched idea of friendship. It was true for any of his 141 family, but Ghost watched all their backs. Soap took special care to watch his in return.

Soap cooked for them that night, the best he could with what he had. Simon always liked Johnny’s food, he always found some way to add a touch to what they had, even if it was bland and flavorless. Like he had a flavor of his own. Simon liked food, he was glad he hadn’t lost the ability to eat it. He only wished, like the others, that it was all that he needed.

Soap handed him a plate with a nod and Simon took it with him into the back office so he could speak to Price and uncover his face to eat in private.

“We found the markers, we’ll go out and set up camp tomorrow.”

Price nodded. In the dark, Simon was barely visible, and Price never failed to feel some warmth in knowing the trust was so great that he would readily reveal his face. Their history was long, he had known Simon before Ghost existed, and sadly, he could tell how much more comfortable the man was when he was unseen.

“Good. You’ll be back in no time, then. Staying warm?”

Simon nodded. “As best we can.”

“And the others…” Price let the question trail.

“They’re fine. They were a good assist today.”

Price knew there was something different about the man across the screen. Always had. He was a little too good, aged a little too slow. But he’d been through enough in his life to learn to not look a gift horse in the mouth. Simon was the gift horse to end all others. Absolute unit on the battlefield. Tough, smart, selfless. Been through hell, things even Price would cringe at, and came back whole. Came back good.

“Take care of yourself, Simon. And Mactavish.”

“Got a reason to be worried?”

“No.” Price shook his head. “Not at all.”

Mactavish would be fine. Johnny could take care of himself. But if it came to it, he wouldn’t have to, there wasn’t a chance in this cold hell that Simon was going to let anything happen to him. Nothing was going to push him further into that hole of taking these missions because it was the only reason to keep your body functioning, to wake up and check messages. His cold heart hoped a man like Soap died before he felt that. It was a sad and lonely place to sit.

“We’ll have a direct line right?” Simon checked, taking another bite of his food.

“Weather permitting. That’s why I’ve got you out there, Lieutenant. You might have no line at all.”

Simon nodded. “Unless we’re here.”

“Best to plan on being back there as quickly as possible.”

“Right.”

 “Use your discretion.”

“Always.” Simon saluted his Captain and closed the computer.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t exactly the tundra, he knew that. But Soap felt stranded anyway. There were no smells, no sounds. Nothing familiar. Even the footfalls and heavy breaths from the men around him were muffled, silenced. They hadn’t driven quite as far in this time, and they had hidden the vehicle. They had to carry everything into the campsite they had chosen, and they would rotate two by two, keeping watch. It was hard work and an excellent way to pass large amounts of time.

With the campsite set up, the rotation officially began, leaving them alone with the camouflaged tent. They could have a small fire during the day. They had spotted more than one ice fishing cabin nearby, so smoke wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for others to see. Neither would cigarette smoke.

Soap stood alone at the edge of the clearing where the forest looked dark in the distance, even in daylight. He let his mind wander. Scary stories were written about places like this.

Ghost sat staring at his hands, listening for the two men they had sent out to guard. He could hear their feet in the snow, their low voices. Soap was closer. He could hear Soap’s heartbeat. Scary stories were written about creatures like Simon Riley.

They weren’t in the same location as the day before, but close enough to know if anything was going to happen. They had brought enough supplies for a few days, they’d have to go back and restock if they were wrong about the timeline. Ghost ran through an internal inventory of food and ammunition before rising from beside the fire and going to stand near Soap.

He didn’t say anything, he just reached for the cigarette. He surprised Soap who turned quickly and looked at him for a moment, confused. Realizing, he handed the cigarette over, the idea that Ghost would put his mouth where his had been making his luckily-covered cheeks flush. Ghost pushed his painted balaclava up enough to reveal the lower half of his face and took a drag. Soap watched him out of the corner of his eye, the way his chest rose and fell. It was as comforting as the taste of smoke on his tongue. He had always been infatuated with things that could kill him.

“Nice day.” He offered, smiling. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut now that it’s distraction was hanging from someone else’s lips.

Ghost flicked the end of the cig and held it back out to him. Soap had taken off his sunglasses, his pupils barely visible. Big, blue-gray pools. “Cover your eyes, you’ll go snow blind.”

Soap turned back to the woods, leaving his glasses pocketed. “Aye, I know.”

“I spoke to Price last night, he said a storm might be comin in.”

Soap nodded, happy for the casual conversation. “Was afraid of that.”

“We’ll be fine.” He wanted the cigarette again.

Soap fought the It’s okay Ghost, I know we will, and nodded instead. He didn’t want to seem like he needed reassurance, he didn’t want to seem like he felt the need to reassure his superior.

“We’ll rotate at midnight.”

“Yeah.” Soap knew that, they’d been over it a handful of times already.

Ghost stayed next to Soap, staring at nothing. He figured all of his empty spaces weren’t just empty, they were filled with swallowed words and unwanted thoughts. It was where his nightmares usually formed. He figured it really wouldn’t be much longer before he filled up completely and some of it spilled out.

Every so often, he had the urge to say what he was out loud, catch someone off guard. He wondered what would happen to this young man, tougher than most, more experienced than most, if Ghost simply said “I’m an experiment, I’m 100 years old, I drink blood to survive” . He knew, without a doubt, whatever came after, the initial reaction would be confusion and then fear. Vampires were mythical bedtime stories, but engrained in every culture’s psyche as an immediate danger. The Scots were especially superstitious, he might get a stake to the chest instead of a chance to explain. He wasn’t a vampire at all, just a failed attempt at the best laid plans of truly desperate men. And they stood now, to keep the world from getting to that place again.

He'd drank plenty of human blood in his time. Mostly against his will, all out of true desperation. Plenty enough, anyway, to know that even if the victim is willing, and they often weren’t, they would always be afraid. And fear gave off a dirty, bitter taste that sat in the back of his throat and made his guilt so heavy that it nearly threw him off of bridges and skyscrapers and ocean cliffs. But somewhere in the concoction that had turned him was a need to survive. It was as simple as that. It was the last ditch effort to drink when he was nearly spent, it was the heightened healing ability, and somehow it kept that self-directed handgun from firing too many times to count. Enough times that he finally gave up and started working to give back somehow. To let the universe use him in the form it had cursed him with.

But instead of telling his secret, he turned and went back to camp. Soap followed him not long after. It was getting dark and they should both get some food and some rest before having to get up and go out in the dead of night.

And they did. In comfortable silence, it was the thing Soap had been after, a chance to settle into Simon’s orbit and let his calm wash him out, remove some of his color so he could blend into this ugly landscape long enough to flee it safely. And Simon knew what he was doing, that he settled in near to him and mirrored him, matching his breathing and his line of sight, nearly every movement. He noticed more than Soap did really, how he sought Simon’s silence as his own. He knew he would never really have it, that his personality was too loud, too bright, but he let him have the moment anyway. And he lied to himself that he didn’t need it, too.

It was, however, Soap who rose first to lie down. The tent was small, only big enough to change and sleep. It was warmer than outside, but it wouldn’t be comfortable until their body heat filled it. He left his base layers on, they had to be able to leave quickly and properly dressed. No use in getting out on time and freezing to death anyway. He unlaced his boots and set them by his head, his pants and coat near his feet. He checked the clip of his handgun and laid it within easy reach. And then he settled into a sleeping bag, and under other heavy blankets.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, it was how he preferred it. He had found that soft beds and city sounds were no longer soothing to him. He figured he had outgrown the need to go home, that he had simply become the mission, the task force, the 141. He laid there alone for a long time, his wide eyes watching for Ghost to put out the fire. For Simon to join him.

And Simon waited for a long time, not really on purpose but because he felt on edge and he thought if he sat there long enough, it might leave him. It didn’t and he eventually sought the solid body of the Sergeant beside him. He was always warm and steady. Always sure of himself. They could wall each other off from whatever was lurking. For duty.

Soap pretended to be asleep when Simon finally came in, letting a draft in with him. It was instantly warmer anyway. Simon knew Soap wasn’t sleeping, he was breathing too loud. For all the nervous energy he harbored, he was a completely silent sleeper. Perfectly still. Opposite of Simon, who barely slept deep enough to keep from waking at any small sound, either inside or outside of his mind.

That night was no different. He lay down next to Soap, their bodies not quite touching. Not that they would anyway, with all the layers between them. Not that it would be strange if they did, it was a common thing to do, sleep wherever was available, fill as little space as possible. It was how they had always operated, with whoever was in the field at the time.

He listened as Johnny finally relaxed the rest of the way and quieted even further. They had a couple of hours still, until they needed to get up again. He didn’t really expect to sleep, instead he drank in the complete silence and pressing darkness around them. It wasn’t often that he was glad he wasn’t alone. For some reason, the dread he felt made it one of those nights.

It wasn’t even an hour after Soap heard Simon come in and let himself slip into sleep that he was woken by a hand over his mouth. He tensed, reaching for his gun, and when his hand landed on it, he realized he wasn’t pinned and opened his eyes. The hand was Ghost’s and so was the voice in his ear.

“Quiet.” Soap nodded and Ghost moved his hand. “Where are your boots?”

“Right here.” Soap whispered back, his heart picking up speed. Ghost was pressed up against him, his body nearly covering all of Soap’s and it wasn’t nice. It scared him.

“Get dressed.”

Before Soap could answer, Simon was standing, zipping his coat and leaving him in the tent. He gave himself exactly four seconds to get his shit together and then he was up, laced into his boots, bundled into the winter clothes. He exited the tent, pulling his balaclava over his head.

Ghost was standing nearly twenty paces from him, straight out toward the forest. Soap couldn’t hear or see anything out of the ordinary. It was as quiet as it had been when Ghost put out the fire and laid down next to him. Totally silent. The crunch of his boots in the snow sounded like buckshot as he approached Ghost. He had his six, he didn’t know what for, but he had it. And Ghost was deathly still. He barely even looked like he was breathing, his rifle tight to his chest. Soap shivered, and it wasn’t the cold. It was completely unnerving, and he blinked thinking maybe his eyes were wrong. That his Lieutenant didn’t look like a statue, frozen in time.

He finally stood just behind Ghost. When he moved to step up next to him, the taller man turned. His eyes were always dark and they looked like inkwells in the moonlight, rimmed in white.

“Johnny, listen to me.” Addressing him by name threw Soap off, made him hesitate. He lowered his weapon. “Go back to the truck.”

“Ghost—”

Ghost stepped toward him, threatening. “Don’t question me.”

Soap straightened. This wasn’t a Lieutenant-Sergeant conversation. Something was wrong, and the order fell on deaf ears. “I fucking will, you acting like this, Simon. What’s going on?”

Ghost heard his first name out of Soap’s mouth and knew his plan to remove him from the equation wouldn’t work. He didn’t have time to pull rank, or beg. Because they were already there. Over Soap’s shoulder, he could see them creeping in. The sound of bodies being stabbed, gasping and dying had woken him, and he already knew who’s voices never got the chance to cry for help.

“We’re surrounded.” Ghost said, with some kind of finality that bothered even him.

Soap turned quickly, barely able to make out the shadows moving. And he ran toward them, gun raised, dropping to one knee and firing at the first one he saw. And hitting him. He stood and turned, watching Simon land a knife in the neck of another. When he bent to remove it, Soap shot at another movement in the shadows, unsure if he hit. Unsure how many there were. Very sure that he and Ghost were easy targets in that clearing.

Ghost had the same thought as he stood, met Soap’s eyes and nodded. Soap ran through the snow and into the trees, sure there were others who would be shooting at them. But they could be a part of the forest, slow down and blend in. He led, Ghost close behind him, and at least three Russian soldiers behind them both.

But the soldiers knew the forest better than them. They knew this place inside and out, and they caught up, easily and quietly. Ghost stopped, fell behind, throwing knives again. Completely focused, Soap turned and shot to his left, at one that had crept up beside them. He made the shot, the man fell, but someone shot back.

Soap turned looking for Ghost. Much further away than he remembered him being, he could see him lying on the ground, through the trees. The shots had come from further back, and they’d hit the Lieutenant as he turned to face them hand to hand. Soap was moving already, trying to see where they had hit him, but all he could tell was that he was down, flat on his back, and they were still coming.

Panic didn’t exist in moments like these, it couldn’t fight its way past the adrenaline, and all Soap could think was that Simon had left him out there in the woods, alone.

He reached Ghost as the other enemies did, and he didn’t plan to let them finish the job. Besides, once he was within a few steps, he could see Ghost’s chest heaving, his arms braced to try and push himself up. Soap dropped his gun and stepped over Simon’s body, planting a hand on his shoulder to push him back down and simultaneously pulling another knife out of the sheath across Simon’s chest. He smelled like blood. He grunted in pain as the motion pulled at the tactical vest he wore and the sound made Soap wonder if he’d been hit, too. He ignored it for a moment, long enough to turn and throw the knife. It buried itself in the chest of a soldier not ten paces from them and he dropped to his knees, reaching for his gun. Soap grabbed his out of the snow with one hand and shot, hitting him square in the face before swinging it across his body and shooting the last of them in the chest, also chillingly close. Close enough for him to take two steps and kick the gun that fell from the man’s hand out of his reach. Just in case.

He was back beside Ghost before he had the chance to try and rise again.

“Be still.” Soap said, pulling off his gloves.

Ghost had taken a bullet through the shoulder, and another beneath his ribs on the right side. It had been slowed down by his vest and was still inside of him somewhere. His hands went to the wound in his shoulder to try and determine if it was arterial. If it wasn’t, he might have a chance. The cold conditions and Soap’s field medic knowledge made it possible.

“Go to the truck, Soap.” Ghost’s voice sounded normal, if not nervous.

“Stop.” Soap muttered, ignoring him.

Ghost gripped Soap’s wrist, his hands already slick with his own blood. “Go back to the truck, Soap.”

“Simon, shut the fuck up.” Soap guided Ghost’s hands to put pressure on the bullet hole in his stomach.

He took the gloves he had discarded, pulled the knife from the soldier nearby, and cut them in half. He then stuffed them into the wounds in Simon’s shoulder. The physical pain made Ghost feel like he was just waking up. He didn’t know which would be worse, Johnny watching him die, or Johnny watching him die much slower than a human should. But they weren’t safe there, either way, and if he was going to die slower than usual, he was going to make sure that the Sergeant made it out alive before he did.

Soap moved Simon’s hands. He was going to bleed out, but not as quickly as he might have if he hadn’t gotten goddamn lucky enough that the shot through his shoulder missed an artery. But they would have the get the remaining bullet out of his chest cavity. They would need supplies for that. Light. Water.

Soap sat back on his heels for a second. Ghost watched him. He had the distinct feeling that he should apologize, but Soap spoke first.

“We have to move.” They had run far from camp. It would take precious minutes for him to go back, but without any supplies at all, he was useless.

“Back to camp.” Simon said.

Soap chose to ignore that it seemed to take effort. He was wasting Simon’s life, sitting there and thinking about it.

“Yeah, and then we hunker down. Get you patched up.”

And they would have to, hunker down and find some real shelter. Because fresh snow fell in great, large clumps, through the trees and mixed with the dark red snow beneath their bodies.

Chapter Text

Ghost had known how close the soldiers were getting, that they were like animals, predators, they weren’t going to stop. He didn’t have time to focus on how they’d gotten caught, he only had time to turn and block the one man’s shot at Soap’s back. Gladly. Soap had plenty to put back into the world, if Ghost could keep him alive then he had done his duty, he could rest.

But it hadn’t happened quite like he planned. In the darkness, the man didn’t land a deadly hit. Soap did, though, and came to help him. He hadn’t wanted the aid prior to, but once Soap was there, Simon suddenly regretted his decision. He’d been ready to die for years and years but there were things unsaid. Maybe he should have told Soap his secret when he thought of it before. He had a deep, distinct fear of taking it to the grave.

They weren’t as far from camp as Soap had thought. Seems they ran a half circle around it instead of straight off into the forest. He tried not to think about how they were about to be lost, completely lost on purpose, and they needed to fucking hurry because the storm they’d been outrunning had found them.

He'd slowly gotten Ghost up, taking pressure off his chest and keeping him awake, guiding him to keep his hand pressed firmly over his wound. Ghost was quiet, almost disturbingly so, letting Soap half drag him back against a tree. Soap was focused on their survival, edging out any need for fear. He stayed alert, making sure they remained alone, but his total focus was on small steps, one checkmark after the next.

Find their things.

Get Ghost’s bleeding slowed down.

Find shelter before they couldn’t tell down from up in the coming blizzard.

Call for backup.

The flight in had been a few hours. He refused to entertain the possibility that they couldn’t get a call out or that they would be unfindable. He had to believe that they could get Ghost out of the snow and get him some aid.

He was away from the Lieutenant for less than five minutes, counting every second and every footfall. In that time, he let himself feel some anger. They had been sent out there essentially alone. He trusted Ghost and he trusted Price and he trusted himself but this had gone left too easily. Maybe they should have scouted better, waited before going in. Maybe he shouldn’t be in a line of work where people he cared about were suffering and dying to prevent some kind of danger, future danger they knew nothing of yet.

He gathered the food they had, the first aid kits, ammo, and then he went back to where he had left Ghost. Absolutely disturbing, the man was still sitting where Soap had left him, staring off into space. He looked dead, Soap thought, his own breathing halting in his throat for a second before Ghost turned his eyes toward the Sergeant. His heart seemed to start again with such force that it made his hands shake. They could get out of this together, but if he had to leave Ghost’s body somewhere, try and survive on his own….no. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t going to leave Simon anywhere, certainly not in this frozen hell. He would stick beside him, take him home, or die trying.

He approached Ghost, who didn’t speak, just watched him. Soap knelt beside him. He was also extremely aware that the group that had attacked them was likely just a first wave. Maybe the storm would offer them some cover to get out, but they couldn’t count on having a lot of time. His plan was to get to the truck and get as far as they could back toward base before the fresh snow made it impossible. He could temporarily stop the bleeding in all three wounds. Whether it would be enough for Ghost to survive the blood loss already suffered would be a question for them to ask later.

Ghost felt like he sat there for no time at all. In fact, when he heard Johnny’s feet crunching back toward him through the snow, he thought he was beginning to hallucinate. That’s why he didn’t look up when he got close, until he heard the man’s heart jump up a notch. Then he turned.

Ghost wasn’t quite human but Soap was overly so. So deeply, beautifully human, so grounded in his emotions, focused on survival, drinking in every moment. Ghost wondered if he had been like that when he was young. He was beginning to forget those years completely.

He hurt, a deep stabbing pain at multiple points, but he ate it up as human experience, grasping for some way to relate to the unwarranted empathy in his Sergeant.

“Soap.” Ghost said, his voice surprisingly strong.

Soap didn’t let it fool him. “Don’t talk, Simon. Please.”

He helped Ghost lie down so he could get the powder in the wound beneath his hands first. Then his shoulder. Then he made him sit up again. Ghost was shaking, from cold or pain or shock, Soap didn’t know and he didn’t have it in him to ask.

“Soap…” Ghost sounded tired that time.  He wasn’t sure exactly what it was that he needed to say. He could feel Soap’s steady hands at work, a feverish contrast to the air around them.

“Tell me later, alright?” Soap didn’t sound so serious that time. He sounded human and young, and afraid. No one else would have picked up on it, but Ghost did.

Satisfied that it was as good as he could do in darkness, his hands aching from the cold, Soap sat back on his heels for a moment.

“You can’t carry me.” Ghost muttered as if he’d just realized.

“Alright, fuck you.” Soap stood. “That’s why you have to stand up, so we can figure it out.”

“You should leave me.”

“You should shut the hell up.”

He went to Simon’s side, the one where his shoulder was still operational, and braced an arm beneath his. It took a moment, both of them silent except for heavy breathing, but Ghost was able to drag himself to his feet. They stood, Ghost leaning heavily on Soap’s shoulders, but he stayed planted, perfectly steady.

“Where do you figure we’ll go?” Ghost asked, almost comically. It was a fair question.

“I was thinking back to the truck.” Soap muttered, looking at the now very heavy snowfall. Every flake lowered his confidence in finding the truck at all, let alone before they froze to death.

Ghost didn’t answer, still breathing like he’d run there.

They had to hurry, they had to get warm, they had to get that bullet out of him and stitch him up properly. Without speaking, Soap began walking. Ghost, his hand still over the wound in his abdomen, followed as best he could.

Soap knew the walk through the monochrome forest was life or death for both of them. But there was a radio in the truck that might work since their lines were useless, and they needed to put as much distance as possible between them and whoever was coming to clean up the mess.

A few steps out, he paused. Ghost immediately knew where the hesitation came from and it pained him, it was that sweet empathy he wished he felt, too. Soap wondered if they should bring their Russian counterparts’ bodies back with them. It would be an impossible task to find and move them, but he thought about it nonetheless.

He didn’t speak though, before he kept moving. Ghost had been right, Soap hated the thought that they would be unceremoniously buried in the ice for no reason other than being sent to help the two of them. They had died for nothing. Their families wouldn’t get them back. He clenched his teeth.

Simon was silent as they walked. They both were. And as they reached the truck, nearly a half hour later, the relief he felt was so great that he wasn’t sure he could go beyond it. He wasn’t sure he could even climb inside, let alone back out again later. And he knew they wouldn’t get far. They would warm up, try to get a call out, have access to their extra supplies, but it wouldn’t provide them a great shelter. It wouldn’t get them home.

Soap opened the door and all but lifted Ghost into the passenger seat. He ignored the larger man’s soft groan when he pushed off the ground, the sharp intake of breath as he reached to pull himself inside. There was nothing he could do about it except let it hurt him, too. This wasn’t what it meant to have his six. He hadn’t protected him, he had failed at the very thing the Lieutenant had brought him out there for. The thought turned his vision dark, but it didn’t slow him down. Letting Simon die would certainly only make it worse.

Ghost turned his head slightly and watched Soap turn the key. The truck started. Both of them had been holding their breath, hoping it hadn’t been sabotaged before they got there. Looked like they were in the clear.

Soap debated turning on the headlights. Making them a beacon. And he was about to take a risk he knew could either save or end them. They weren’t going to get far, they weren’t in the right kind of vehicle, and it was impossible to see. He was going to have to just drive in the general direction they knew was right and hope for the best. He turned on the fog lights only, hoping it might keep them hidden at least from a distance.

Ghost watched the snow blow by in front of them, unaware whether or not they were moving at all. He couldn’t tell what was the movement of the truck and what was his consciousness rolling around and trying to leave him. He’d sat there too long, he’d bled too much. He was an ageless monster, but he could still die like this. And deep down, a thought he didn’t want to have began to slip his control. His hunger would find him exponentially faster and with more force. If he lived, he would need to feed soon, or it would kill him, even if a human might survive.

His eyes had been on the snow outside the windscreen but slowly, confusingly, they weren’t anymore. They were on the roof of the truck.

“Ghost.” Soap warned from the driver’s seat. “Ghost, don’t go to sleep.”

His head had fallen back against the headrest, out of his control. He heard Soap’s command, but he didn’t answer to him. He didn’t have to obey. And he needed just a moment, just a bit of rest. He let his eyes fall closed.

“Simon.” Soap reached for him, laying his finally-warm hand firmly on Ghost’s leg. “Stay with me.”

That wasn’t a command, but a heartfelt request. A plea. And deep down, beneath the obsidian walls around his heart, Simon found he wanted to oblige him.

He pulled his eyelids open like there were weights attached to them and lifted his head. He thought he might be hallucinating or finally fully unconscious when, after a few minutes of silence, something appeared ahead of them.

Soap hadn’t been going fast, he hadn’t been able to, and he’d be lying if he’d said he knew where they were headed. But him and Simon both sat, staring straight ahead at the broadside of a structure. He already knew the radio didn’t work. He’d tried it as soon as they got in. They would have to wait for the weather to clear a bit and try again. But this was shelter. He glanced at his Lieutenant, who looked like he was barely holding on. He would have to make the decision. He put it in park and shut it off.

“I’ll be right back.” He promised.

Ghost was still fighting to hold his body upright. He braced his uninjured arm against the dash. “Be careful, John.”

Soap didn’t even look back at Ghost, he just nodded and slipped out, the fresh snow now past the top of his boots.

Simon held his head up long enough to watch Soap draw his gun and walk around the side of the building, disappearing. He was keenly aware of what it was like to care for someone and lose them without a proper goodbye. Dread gripped him as he lost sight of Soap, afraid he might not reappear. He slowly, gingerly, leaned back. He let his head fall back on the headrest again. He put himself in Soap’s shoes for no reason other than punishment.

Soap managed to make it back to Ghost’s door before he passed out completely. He pulled the door open and reached for him. Ghost barely had the energy to move at all and Soap gently pulled at him, helping him back to his feet.

“We’re all clear.” He said quietly.

Leaving Ghost in the truck, he felt his adrenaline fading. Just because he hadn’t bled to death yet didn’t mean Simon was anywhere near being out of the woods. He took several long deep breaths once around the corner, before entering what appeared to be a hunting cabin. The door had been locked but he knocked it in easily. It was one room, with an attached outhouse. A kitchen, a large fireplace, an old, comfortable sofa obviously used for sleeping and a closet with a few supplies and a handful of tools.

They were slow to get to the door, but Soap and Ghost made it inside. Soap needed to start a fire first for warmth and light. He would need Ghost close to that fire. A worn rug lay on the ground and Soap knelt with Ghost, providing support as he laid himself down. He shrugged out of his vest and unzipped his coat, folding it carefully and sliding his arm under Simon’s neck, gently raising his head to place it beneath. Simon’s eyes opened, he meant to tell the man it wasn’t necessary, but he got dumbly distracted by the way Soap’s arms looked reaching across Simon’s body and unbuckling his vest, laying it open. Before he remembered how to speak again, Soap was gone.

He took the wood that had been stacked inside, the long matches he’d found in the kitchen, and lit a fire. There was a covered stack of wood he’d seen outside, he’d go and get more when he had the chance. The fire lit the room nicely and he pulled a small flashlight from the supplies they’d brought, digging around and removing from the pack what he would need to remove a bullet and properly dress Simon’s wounds. They had only what would be needed in emergencies and little fresh water, he’d have to work on a way to prevent infection if it came to that. Later.

Soap knelt back down beside Simon, half surprised to see his half open eyes still following him. He slowly unzipped his blood-soaked coat and pulled his arm out, deciding he should wrap the shoulder wound first so Simon could rest after the hard part.

Simon kept his eyes on Soap’s face as he held the flashlight sideways in his mouth and used scissors to cut his base layer open and pull the ruined fabric out of the way. Backlit by the fire, he realized that Soap wasn’t just a soldier, lost in boyish wonder, there to have his back. He was steady, hopeful, a more than capable leader. Simon was lucky to have him. If Simon didn’t have him, he would be alone. He wanted to tell him that he had his six, too. That he hadn’t brought him out just for his own protection, that he saw them as a team. But he tried to open his mouth and failed.

With gentle hands, Soap cleaned the wounds the best he could and dressed them properly, noting clots forming with relief. They wouldn’t need stitches unless they didn’t stop on their own. He changed sides, this time the fire in front of him, illuminating his face. Ghost’s eyes still followed him. He found it easier to stay awake with him to watch, memorizing his dutiful focus, hoping he might someday repay it.

Ghosts skin was bloody around his wounds and Soap wiped it away as best he could, he needed to, to clean it, and he needed to because the amount of Simon’s blood that he had seen that night was about to be more than he could stand. And he wasn’t done.

He ran his fingers lightly over the bullet hole beneath Simon’s ribs. He flinched. Soap looked up at his eyes. It might be best if he went ahead and passed out before Soap had to do this.

He dug through some of his things, pulling out one of his spare gloves, lighter than the cold weather ones he’d been wearing. He folded it in half.

“You’re going to want to bite down on something.” He held it out, curious to see if Simon would take it.

Slowly, Simon took the glove from Soap and pushed his mask up far enough to slip it between his teeth. Soap gave him a small nod and committed to making it as quick and clean as he possibly could. He fought the shake in his hands, tired and nervous. He committed not to look back at Ghost’s glassy eyes until he was done.

He cut through the gauze he had placed over the wound in the woods. A stream of blood ran out, soaking into Simon’s cut up clothes. The bullet hadn’t gone deep, and he debated for a moment whether he would need to make an incision to get to it. He knew how to tell. He pressed his fingers against Simon’s side, just above the entry wound. The shoulder wound was nearly straight through, meaning they likely hit him there first. He would have been falling when they hit him the second time, meaning the bullet would likely be slightly above the wound. Simon grunted again, biting down and Soap worked hard to ignore it.

He believed he could get it without cutting him further. He took the small forceps from the trauma kit he’d taken from camp, took a deep breath and spread the wound wider with his fingers. Ghosts breathing sped up but he didn’t make a sound. He didn’t make a sound until the forceps went in, digging against his ruined flesh. He groaned against the glove in his mouth, tensing. Soap kept going. A few seconds later, he relaxed, his head falling to the side, and Soap counted on the fact that he had just passed out from the pain. He paused, touching Simon’s wrist and feeling his pulse, not weak enough to be worrying, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He kept going, finding it easier without the bigger man fighting against him, and dug the bullet out within a few seconds. It needed stitches, something he had done dozens of times both in training and in the field, and he had it closed quickly.

Knowing he wouldn’t sleep until Ghost was awake and fully alert again or until they had help on the way, he sat back for a moment. Eventually he rose and went back out to the truck, convincing himself that leaving Simon’s sleeping form wouldn’t kill him, and dug out emergency blankets and a few frozen bottles of water. He would boil more, melted snow, when they needed it. He reentered the cabin, knowing that, while the little building would keep them alive, it also made them sitting ducks. He forgot all of that, standing in the doorway and looking at the Lieutenant laying still on the floor. He still breathed, he wasn’t gone. Coming down from the urgency of the last couple of hours forced a lump into Soap’s throat. He didn’t like that Ghost, who he thought to be the strongest man he knew, looked weak lying there.

You can’t carry me.

The words wouldn’t stop echoing in his mind. Simon hadn’t meant it as an insult, but the truth of it ate at him. If Simon hadn’t had it in him to carry himself, they wouldn’t have made it. And if the roles were reversed? There wouldn’t have been a question, Simon could easily haul him through a forest in darkness.

He knelt beside him again. That didn’t matter now. He pulled the ruined clothes out from under Simon as carefully as he could, taking one of the blankets and covering him, hoping to regulate his body temperature and keep him comfortable.

And then he unlaced his boots and sat on the edge of the sofa. He laid his gun on the dirty cushion beside him and leaned toward Simon, his elbows on his knees, hands tightly laced, and kept watch.

Chapter Text

Ghost woke a few hours later. The sun was rising, maybe, the light through the singular window in the small kitchen dark gray instead of dark black. The pain in his side was hot, stinging, and his mouth and throat were uncomfortably dry. In fact, all of him was. It was the thirst, hunger that dried him up from the inside. He pressed his hand over the clean stitches Soap had given him, the pressure forcing a wave of pain through his side and distracting him, grounding him. He would be fine, he still had some time. Regular food might help but he was afraid to ask how much they had left.

He still had his mask on, which did something to him, made him frown. He was seriously injured, Soap had cut his clothes off of him, but left his face covered. He cracked his eyes, taking in a room he barely remembered. It was warm, the ground was hard, and he was alone. He opened his eyes in earnest then, searching for his companion. He felt dizzy and lightheaded, even lying down, and it kept him from moving, raising up to look around. He closed his eyes again instead and listened. Someone was outside the door, walking around in the snow. Their heartbeat was normal and steady. Familiar.

Quietly, Soap pushed the busted door open and stepped back inside, his arms full of firewood. He wasn’t sure it was dry or useable but he was determined to find out, and to dry it out himself if he had to. He slipped his wet boots off by the door and went to lay the wood down by the fireplace. He had already used a pot he’d found in a kitchen cabinet and the hook inside the fireplace to boil additional water. When he turned back around, he noticed Simon’s open eyes, watching him.

“Ghost.” He said by way of greeting, dusting off his hands. If it was a knee-shaking relief to see the Lieutenant awake, he didn’t let it show.

He knelt, pulling back the blanket and checking the bandages over Simon’s wounds. He didn’t seem to have a fever yet, which was good, but it was still early. There hadn’t been a lot of additional bleeding since last he checked so he decided to leave them covered.

Simon swallowed, looking for enough moisture on his tongue to speak. He was too hot, he wanted his face uncovered so he could breathe.  “You left the mask.”

His voice was rough. Soap looked at him blankly for a moment. There hadn’t been a question in his mind, moving it only to take back the glove he hadn’t needed after passing out. His wide eyes were earnest, Ghost was confused by them, until they went back to their usual serious gaze and looked away.

“I respect you. Of course I left it.” He looked intently at what he was doing instead of Ghost’s face, pulling the blanket back over him.

Ghost pulled the mask off himself, holding his breath against the pain in his shoulder. “It’s hot.”

The complaint, the only one Soap had heard out of him, drew his eyes again.

“Here.” He reached for it, folding it carefully.

He had seen Simon’s face before, a choice few times. The man was a mystery, even uncovered, but certainly not hard to look at. His strong jaw and roman nose accented his scarred skin, overly pale from lack of sun. And lack of blood.

“You should rest. We’re fine.”

Simon let his brown eyes drift closed again. “Have you called for Price?”

Soap stood. “Tried.”

Simon’s stomach dropped. He knew they weren’t safe, Price had asked him to protect Mactavish if something like this happened, but he was stuck on the floor, literally burning from the inside out and unable to do anything at all.

“They’ll find us here.”

Soap was on his knees to stoke the fire. He knew Simon didn’t mean their rescue. He meant the same men that had come for them the night before.

“At least we can be found.” He leaned forward, pushing logs around. “Our bodies can make it back to a gravesite somewhere. Proper like.”

Simon did feel empathy. For Soap. For that guilt. He spoke again, quietly. “There was nothing we could do, Soap.”

Soap didn’t turn around. “Aye. I know.” He stood, walking to pick up one of the water bottles he’d brought in from the truck. He squatted back beside Simon. “Here. If you’re going to keep talking, you ought to drink a bit. You sound awful.”

Simon eyed him, his blonde lashes barely parting enough for him to see. He took the bottle from Soap who watched him closely as he raised his head to drink. It did help, it soothed his throat, making him think that maybe it wasn’t the thirst getting to him, just the trauma of the fight the night before.

He owed Soap his life. Maybe he always had, they had fought a lot of battles together, but this was different. This was intimate. He’d been told to save himself and refused. A sacrifice. Simon knew that his constant desire to die didn’t negate the selflessness of the other man in his attempt to save him.

“Thank you, Johnny.”

The way he said it made Soap feel that he was talking about more than the water. “Of course, sir.”

Simon let the honorific settle heavy on his chest. Because he knew Soap meant it. He knew the man respected him when he shouldn’t, titles be damned. He wasn’t near the man Soap was. Never had been. He vowed that if he did survive this, if they both did, then he would try and be more like him. He was an old dog, but maybe he could learn. Maybe Soap’s grace would rub off on him a bit while they had this time alone. Or maybe he would lose himself inside the hollow monster that he was and ruin any chance he had to repent the sins that had led them there.

Simon didn’t realize he drifted off again, his mind going from listening to reality to bending with his exhaustion. It wasn’t quite a nightmare, where he lay in his mind, it was just empty and cold. That had never scared him before, he wasn’t sure why it should then.

Soap sat back on the sofa, careful not to let himself close his eyes. There wasn’t much else to be done. They had enough clean water for a few days and enough food for one. He’d checked the radio again, still unable to get a line out. And snow still fell. It was burying them, and the little cabin would all too soon transition from shelter to tomb if it didn’t stop soon. If they couldn’t find a way back.

He wasn’t sure when he could rest. He was far too cautious to sleep while Ghost slept. He wouldn’t leave them unguarded. But Ghost being awake wouldn’t really be a good time for him to sleep either. One, because Ghost couldn’t do anything to protect them if it came to that. Two, because he wasn’t going to move him off the floor yet. Three, he wanted to be with him while he was awake, not allow him to have to be on guard. But there was a line he would cross where he would become more useless for being awake longer, and he’d been up for around thirty hours he guessed, not including the short nap in the tent before the attack. He was a few hours from crossing it, then.

He stayed quiet, pacing a bit, going to check the radio yet again. He wondered if they were looking for the stranded men already since they hadn’t checked in when they were supposed to. He figured they were. He didn’t know how easy they were to find, how far they had actually driven. He stepped out into nearly knee deep snow and wondered briefly if they were already dead, in purgatory somewhere.

He rationed the food, planning to eat less than Ghost who needed some strength. He dug through the truck until his hands were freezing, looking for additional meds or food, and coming up empty.

It was the middle of the afternoon when Ghost woke again. He felt a little stronger, a little more alert. He looked down toward the couch to find Soap with his arms crossed, watching him. He looked tired. He must be tired. They stared at each other for a moment.

“Are you hungry?” Soap asked, standing stiffly.

He had no idea. He hadn’t the slightest idea how hungry Simon was. “Yeah.”

He nodded. “Good.”

He rummaged around. They had some MREs but he pulled out a protein bar instead, something easier for him to process. He opened it and handed it to Simon. Then he slid down and sat, his back against the wall.

“How’s the pain?” He asked knowing damn well there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

Simon focused on the food, knowing the same. “I need to move.”

Soap nodded. That was true, he couldn’t lay flat on his back for long without other risks presenting themselves.

“And you need to sleep.”

Soap nodded again, unwilling to admit it out loud. He needed to be super human in that moment, finally give Simon a chance to rest. The man never got a chance to rest, his life was wracked with suffering, and this was just more of the same. But he wasn’t super human. And he was a liability without some sleep.

Ghost watched the battle in Soap, obvious on a face too tired to mask it.

“Help me up so you can lie down for a bit.” Soap’s blue eyes avoided Simon’s. Even so, he could see they were dull, lightless. “We’d be dead by now if they were set on hunting us down.”

“I know.” He got up, supporting Simon like he had before, and pulling him slowly to his feet.

He stood surprisingly steady but kept a hand on Soap’s shoulders as they walked the short distance to the old couch. He still had his boots on, and no desire to admit enough defeat to remove them. Soap handed him a shirt he’d found in Simon’s pack he’d grabbed from the campsite. An under shirt in case they were there longer than expected. Simon took it and put it over his head, sliding his good arm in. He was focused, determined to dress himself but Soap stepped up to him, gripping the wrist of his injured arm and helping him fit it into the sleeve of the shirt.

Ghost had to feed. He had no choice. He could feel Soap’s pulse in the heel of his hand, he could hear it in his chest like a drum. He hadn’t been this thirsty in a long time. And Johnny wasn’t an option. He would rip into his own flesh to taste blood before he hurt Johnny.

“You okay?” Soap asked, his voice casual, still carrying that thread of exhaustion from before.

Ghost realized he was staring off into space past Soap’s waist. At the door. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

Soap laid on the ground facing the fire. Ghost almost stopped him, told him to come lay beside him, there was plenty of room, but it might deter the plan he was forming.

Battlefields had been a dark blessing for him for his entire career. Since being turned, he learned that human blood was exceptionally more substantial, especially when injured or under some kind of stress but drinking from humans was always unappealing, even more so as the experiment grew further and further into the past.

So, once, in the same fog of desperation he felt creeping in on him now, he had tested a theory. In a dark room, an enemy he’d just killed with a knife to the neck at his feet, he tasted death. And it was….stomachable. It tasted like nothing, no fear, no life, no hormones, just platelets and cells. But it did its job. And it became a lifeline for him. And now, knowing he wouldn’t find any animals not nested or burrowed, he had a new idea. Blood in a corpse that had begun to decay would make him sick, but in sub freezing temperatures, it wouldn’t have turned in the hours they had been there, in the cabin.

He looked at the man laying at his feet. Soap was already sound asleep, silent as usual. He looked different when he was relaxed. Goddammit if Simon was going to let him be a victim in this. He wasn’t sure he could find the bodies of the men they’d killed, he wasn’t sure if they’d been recovered or not. He wasn’t sure that there weren’t others there now, waiting for him. But he was sure that the strength, the adrenaline running through his veins now was inhuman entirely, it was the impossible-condition survival that had been forced into his physical body decades ago, making him into something that could do just this.

He stood, testing his steadiness. He walked to the door. He turned to make sure Soap hadn’t woken. It hurt him, unexpectedly. His chest tightened. Soap slept soundly because he trusted Ghost completely, with abandon. He had no reason to believe that his superior would leave him behind, exposed, and unaware of where he was going. The tightening in his chest turned to a burn, knowing that either way he was leaving Soap in grave danger, he could be caught off guard by their enemies, or he could be caught off guard by Simon’s bloodlust. His dirty, selfish, reclusive heart wouldn’t let Simon risk the second.

He picked up his bloody coat from where it lay on the ground near the entrance of their miracle shelter. Soap had cut his clothes off beneath it but the coat was intact besides the holes the bullets had left. He was disgusted by the fact he had survived that. It was unnatural.

He stepped outside.

He slipped the coat on once outside, placing a hand on the handle of his weapon. He had an idea of which direction to go based on how the truck was parked but that was it. There were some places where ruts had filled with snow unevenly but otherwise their tracks were covered. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he would have to find his way back somehow, even though light snow still fell. He would hurry, get back before his tracks were covered beyond recognition. He held to that even as he felt winded not fifty meters from the shelter.

He held to that even as the sun began to set, sooner than he’d anticipated, and nerves set in. Even if he was able to feed, he could still freeze to death if he found himself lost.

--

Soap startled awake, his face hot from facing the fire. It was getting low, it stole his focus and he crawled out from under the blanket to stoke it. Absentmindedly, he turned to check on Ghost. But Ghost wasn’t there. He sat back on his heels and looked around the room. There wasn’t anywhere for the hulking, injured man to hide.

“Simon?” He called out, thinking maybe he was in the outhouse. But the door was open. He scrambled to his feet. “Simon?”

No answer. Maybe he had gone out to the truck, to smoke or get some air, to check the radio. The thought that he had gotten up and opened the door without Soap waking made him sick to his stomach. He shouldn’t have left him alone, he knew he shouldn’t have, even from just a few feet across the floor.

He went to the door and opened it, slipping on his boots without lacing them and stepping outside. The truck was dark, no one was inside.

“Simon.” He said, to himself, knowing something was wrong.

He turned back into the house to find the Lieutenant’s coat missing. He laced his boots and threw on his own, going back out to look for him again around the house. He wasn’t near the truck or the cabin, and freshly filled prints led off in the direction they’d come from the night before. He stared at them.

He couldn’t imagine what would make him get dressed and walk off. Fever, maybe. Some kind of brain bleed, a stroke. He looked back at the door he had closed behind him. He might be signing his own death certificate, but he’d promised not to leave him. This was no different. He followed the tracks.

--

Simon felt like a robot trudging through nearly knee deep, powdery snow in search of anything to give up it’s life force for the sake of his. He should have died. He was an abomination and this was the price he would pay for his existence. A mantra he repeated over and over again as he forced one foot in front of the other. He only needed enough energy to get him there and then his energy would be somewhat replenished, hopefully enough to make it to rescue. He reached a clearing that looked familiar. His eyesight hadn’t failed him.

Renewed, he pushed deeper into the trees, and he found something, upright, caught in a snow drift. It was a gun. His gun. The rifle he’d been carrying that night. He kicked the soft snow from around it and found it empty. He had dropped it when he was shot. That meant the bodies of the men Soap had killed would be nearby. He walked an increasingly larger circle around the area, shuffling his feet through the snow, looking for anything. And finding nothing.

The men had been retrieved. He guessed their Russian friends with them. So the trip was useless, frivolous, and probably his last. He was beginning to sweat, which was a danger on its own. And now, he was so tired, so out of breath, and so hopeless that he wasn’t sure he could make it back at all.

He’d left Soap alone, to fend for himself, and the man would be looking for him he knew, meaning that he wasn’t safe. He looked over his shoulder, back toward where he came. He had to go back now. Find it in himself to wait. Let the desperation sweat out of him and freeze on his skin.

He started walking, hoping he was going the right direction, attempting to follow his own tracks in the failing light. He made it about halfway before he stumbled, the cold air like a knife in his lungs. He righted himself to keep going but it wasn’t long before he fell again. He landed on his knees and stayed there. After a few minutes, he attempted to move, to stand, and the momentum forced him to lose his balance. He caught himself with his good hand but couldn’t push the weight of his body back up. He bit his tongue, trying to hold onto consciousness, until he tasted his own blood. It did nothing for him. It wasn’t enough. He fell the rest of the way down, into the snow, knowing with crushing shame that it was how his Sergeant would find him. And maybe Soap had it in him to leave those two soldiers behind before, but he wouldn’t leave Ghost.

--

Soap walked quickly, keeping his eyes peeled. He was still tired, but his heart in his throat kept him alert. His mind worked on full speed, trying to understand what had happened, why Ghost would leave him. He’d seemed fine, better even. Stronger than he’d expected. He’d looked good, a little color in his face. He’d made Soap feel safe enough to sleep.

He kept looking back over his shoulder. He’d lost sight of the cabin a while ago, but he wanted to remind himself of how to get back.

He’d counted another fifteen steps before he saw something. Holstering his gun, he stood still for an undue amount of time. He didn’t want to face what he saw, he didn’t want to do this. Not after what they’d been through the night before and all the months and years before that. He didn’t want to face his own failure. He had half a mind to turn around and go back alone, unsure he could drag Simon’s dead weight all that way as it was. He would have to face for the rest of his life that their last interaction was their last interaction. That he hadn’t been warm and kind and put his hands on him, comforting, like he had wanted to.

His heart told itself to break but his mind told him that the powder covered, unmoving body might not be dead. That there was a chance. So he moved, he approached him, the wind ruffling his uncovered hair. He knelt down beside Simon, hesitating before rolling him over.

“Simon.” He breathed, wiping snow from his face before removing his glove and holding his fingers alongside Simon’s neck. And feeling a pulse.

He let out a heavy breath, pushing Simon the rest of the way onto his back, and he could see him, somehow, breathing, too.  

This time, he could carry him. He would carry him, get him warmed up, get him to tell him what the fuck was going on. Because he would wake up again. He dropped to one knee and pulled Simon onto his back, across his shoulders. They would be leaving together

Chapter Text

Soap was pure adrenaline at this point, beyond the hope for rest and into the runner’s high. This was what he had trained years for, what he was built to do, but damn if Ghost wasn’t making it more difficult than it should be. And it snowed on, the break in the storm fleeting.

It wasn’t a long trip back, just a tiring one, and a few minute’s walk from the little cabin, Ghost moaned against Soap’s back. He paused. Ghost jerked around for a second, trying to get his bearings.

He felt the tight muscles of the man’s shoulders beneath his body and he knew what he’d done. The horror of it wasn’t lost on him, that he'd sought something he knew was unlikely to prevent something he knew was inevitable. And he’d almost dragged the Scot down with him. He patted Soap’s side with his free hand, wincing at the pain in his shoulder.

“Put me down.” He said on a strained breath out.

“We’re almost there.” Soap’s voice was just above the sound of the wind.

“Put me down, Soap.”

Slightly concerned, Soap leaned forward until Ghost’s feet touched the ground and helped him stand. He caught his balance enough to turn and bend over to puke in the white snow.

Soap caught him by the back of his coat as he braced his hands on his knees. It wasn’t much, just water and a solid portion of the only food they had left. He ran the back of a gloved hand over his mouth.

“Easy.” Soap helped him straighten, stay on his feet.

It was dark, but Soap caught the whites of his eyes as they flashed. “I’m sorry.”

The words held an ocean of emptiness, they fell on Soap’s ears as cold as the ice at their feet, keeping him from chastising the Lieutenant for wandering off. It terrified him, really, because he believed, to his core, that Simon wasn’t the kind of man to do anything without reason and forethought. Whatever desperation had driven him out on his own didn’t seem to have been resolved. That meant it could happen again.

“You can’t do this to me, Simon.” He warned, his tiredness showing through his voice.

Simon only looked down in shame, wavering on his feet again, so Soap took the man’s body against his and walked them back through the door.

The warmth inside was a contrast that made them both start sweating, and now, beyond the ripped open wounds bleeding from his shoulder, Soap had to be concerned about hypothermia and frostbite. He pushed Simon down to lean against the couch and stripped his wet clothes off of him, down to his shorts.

“No sleeping.” He mumbled, a reminder for both of them. He looked at the red patches along Simon’s cheekbones. “You’re probably frostbitten.”

Simon looked back at him with glassy brown eyes, confirming another of Soap’s fears. “I’m sorry, Johnny.”

Johnny ignored him, pulling at the soaked bandages he had so carefully placed before. “You’ll need stitches for these now.”

Simon watched him rise to get the medical supplies. He knew he was going to die there, he could fight the need to feed but he likely wouldn’t survive it. And that was fine. But it wouldn’t feel good, and it wouldn’t be good for the other of them. Soap wouldn’t understand.

There was one thing he had to do, then. To make him understand. He had to confess, he had to leave some memory of who he was and what he’d done. Simon, in his fevered mind, wasn’t strong enough to take it to the grave alone. Soap came and knelt beside him again. Always beside him. They varied in rank but that hadn’t mattered since they set up camp. He was torn again, between wishing it wasn’t the Sergeant he had to do this with, and being infinitely glad it wasn’t anyone but Soap.

He would find the right moment, gather his thoughts. Figure out where to start. Soap gently removed the bandages. Ghost sat stone still, tense, as he cleaned the reopened wounds.

“You want to tell me what you were thinking?” Soap spoke gently, his voice warmer than it had been before. He felt relieved that they were back, accepting that he had another chance to fix things.

“Not particularly.” He turned his face away from what Soap was doing.

“I didn’t particularly want to wake up to you gone, but here we are.” He glanced at Simon’s face. He had that strange look again, staring off into space.

This couldn’t be the man he stood and smoked with at the back door of that tiny base. That man, while he appeared pained, lonely, he didn’t look distraught like this. This man looked weaker than the Simon he knew. He looked afraid. And defeated.

“In Las Almas, you trusted me even when the others flipped. Why?”

Soap was surprised by the question, but he offered Simon the best answer he could. “You never gave me any reason not to, LT.” 

He finished stitching the wound on the front of his shoulder. He stood, forcing Simon to lean forward and sitting behind him, his knees against his back.

Simon let his chin fall to his chest. “I didn’t mean for you to follow me.”

Soap kept his hands steady even as Simon flinched under his needle. “I don’t know why you think I wouldn’t.”

“You shouldn’t have, Soap. It was dangerous. Stupid.”

Soap shook his head. “Don’t give me that, Simon.”

“One wrong turn and you’d be gone.” The thought felt like it was going to close his throat. He swallowed against it. He hadn’t intended to take this moment to chide him.

“Tell me you’d leave me, if the roles were reversed.” Soap all but demanded. He knew Simon’s scolding was actually groveling.

“No, John. I wouldn’t leave you.” He didn’t hesitate, he didn’t have it in him to lie, or to act tough.

“But you did, didn’t you? Here in this shack. You left me, and I think you owe me a reason.” His voice wasn’t demanding anymore.

He was desperate to keep Simon talking. He was afraid that this time, if he passed out, he wouldn’t wake back up. And selfishly, he wanted a goddamn explanation.

Simon knew he wouldn’t frost bite. He healed too quickly for that kind of thing to set in. He stared at his rough, ancient hands and wished he could grip Soap’s shoulders and tell him off. Tell him to stop asking questions, get back to post. But it was beyond him, he couldn’t be harsh with him. He didn’t just owe him something, he wanted to share it. Unload the burden, even for a small while.

“I—” He swallowed. “If I tell you, you have to make a promise to me, that it won’t leave this room.”

Surprised by him again, put off by his suddenly dark tone, Soap laid a hand on his opposite shoulder in reassurance. This was man to man, friend to friend. Deeper. He sounded vulnerable. “You can trust me.”

He nodded. He knew that was truth. “I needed to find the bodies of the soldiers. The ones we killed.”

“Okay. And why is that?” Soap’s hand was still on the man as he sat in front of him on the ground, leaned against his legs.

He was silent for a second. He listened for Soap’s heart, it sounded solid. Steady. “Blood.”

Soap sat back, letting his hand fall from Simon’s shoulder. The air felt cold in its place. He repeated the statement. “Blood.”

“I, uh..” He raised a hand, and let it drop back onto his legs. “I need it.”

There was no simpler way to state it. The air burned in his sore throat and against his tired eyes. He fully understood the possibility that Soap wouldn’t believe him at all, or that he would leave him behind. He had never told another person, not since the experiment, but he knew how human minds processed these things. How his had at first. With contempt, and horror.

Soap watched the hand, perfectly formed, stained with its own blood, rise and fall back onto Simon’s lap. He wondered if his exhaustion was muddling his mind, what he had heard. He couldn’t imagine why Simon would need the blood of dead Russian soldiers. He zeroed in on Simon’s behavior, though. The hand that he had admired shook as it fell, and sweat still dripped down the back of his neck. He was sick, and nervous.

In his confusion, he could still recognize that this was hard on the other man, and he put his hand back on him. “Keep going. Explain.”

“It’s a long story, Soap.”

“I have all night.”

“I’m very old. I was born in 1906.”

Soap shifted, trying to be gracious. But the fear of a brain injury was forefront again. He didn’t answer, he quickly climbed out from behind Simon who turned his face up to watch him, wary, and knelt in front of him. He took both sides of Simon’s face in his hands and watched his eyes intently, looking for signs of a concussion or shock.

Simon watched his eyes steadily, matching their movements. Knowing what he was looking for. “I’m okay, Johnny.”

Somehow the fact that Johnny knew he was telling the truth made it worse. He nodded, serious. “Then—” he swallowed. “Then, what do you mean? That would make you—”

“A hundred and…something. Seventeen. A hundred and seventeen.”

Soap’s mouth felt dry. He sat back, pulling his knees up toward his chest. Simon watched him, looking for every minute reaction. He chuckled, the sound looking like it surprised him. It was a comical conversation between dying men. He owed Simon his ears.

"Go on.”

“I was too young to fight in the World War, so I enlisted for the second. My family was all gone at that point, and I was a good soldier, so I fit the bill for an allied experiment. A super soldier experiment.”

Soap nodded, now very intent on the story, his exhaustion forgotten.

“There were ten of us, we were paid a healthy sum, and genetically altered by scientists in Germany. I don’t understand the science much beyond that. It was very secretive, even to us. We went through treatments following that, only none of us knew it was infusions of human blood, to keep us from realizing our hunger. When they were sure we would survive the experiment, they turned us out into the world. To fight.”

Soap blinked his big, blue eyes. They were wide, curious. But his body was tense.

“There were six of us left at the end, we split. A man I’d fought with before, grown up training with, he and I were unable to bring ourselves to drink from humans. The others didn’t have the hesitation. We found a way to make it work, animals, raw meat. Battlefields.”

“You—” Soap swallowed, searching for the right question. “You drink blood? Like a vamp.”

“Aye, like a vamp.” He looked down at his hands, wringing them together.

“And you were planning to drink from the soldiers we killed.”

“I was hoping.” His voice dropped impossibly lower. “I’m starving.”

Soap, who’d heard most of what his Lieutenant had just said with unbelieving ears, heard that statement all the way down in his soul. Because it was wrapped in shame and fear, and even if he thought Simon was losing his mind, he didn’t want to see him suffering.

“Tell me how to help you.” He said, cautiously, afraid of what request might come from between lips that he now noticed rarely pulled back far enough to reveal his teeth.

The demand was multifaceted. The situation was more so. Either John Mactavish had just learned that reality wasn’t reality, or he’d just learned that a man he trusted more than even himself was under a delusion so deep that he was willing to die for it. But not to kill for it. He held to his claim that he didn’t feed from humans. Both were equally terrifying. He felt his own insides roll threateningly.

Simon looked at him with sadness he didn’t think he’d ever seen. Not in anyone. “You can’t.”

Soap shook his head. “You’ve survived this long to give up now?”

“I’ve lived this long because I always had a way to feed. Without my injuries, I could go weeks, but…”

“But nothing.” Soap stood, pacing. “You’re going to die without it.”

Simon’s head hurt, but his eyes followed Soap’s feet. “I would most likely heal from everything else.”

“Oh.” Soap raised his brows. “That’s part of it too? Healing?”

Simon hunted for sarcasm in the words but found none. Just curiosity. And urgency. “To an extent. The plan went wrong, I think. We can survive anything that gets us to our next meal. The need to feed is more important than anything.”

“You didn’t ask for this.”

Simon didn’t look up because he could hear pity in the man’s voice and he hated it more than any single feeling up to that point. “I asked to serve my country to the best of my ability, to be properly utilized. The sentiment was abused.”

Soap still paced. “Does Price know this?”

“No one knows this besides you, John.”

The way he said Soap’s first name was as serious as a grave. “Then how did you get to work for him for so long?”

“He saw I was a good fighter, that I had a desire to work, a need for purpose. And he chose not to ask any further questions.”

“So he suspects something, then.”

Simon shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “I assume so. He’s smart. He knows more about the world than any man should have to.” He was fine entertaining Soap’s questions, to keep him from running.

“Where are the others? You said there were six.”

“They’re dead, I believe.”

“All of them? Even the one that went with you?”

“Yes.” A memory Simon tried, and failed, not to recall. “Even him.”

Soap stopped pacing. The way Simon sat on the ground, shoulders hunched forward, one leg pulled up to rest his arm on, his head in his hand, was like an artwork. Sweat plastered his blond hair to his forehead, his fever was getting worse, likely from the beginnings of infection and the harsh elements. He was beautiful, somehow more now with this intense air of dangerous mystery. And defeat.

He had asked Soap to leave him, multiple times, so that no one would have to witness this. So he could die in peace. Soap had denied him that. And he would continue to.

“You’re not a vampire, Simon.” He crossed his arms. “Vampires are not real. They’re stories.”

“Soap—“ Simon shook his head without looking up.

“No. Listen.” Soap knelt back beside him, yet again, close enough to touch. “You’re a victim of something horrible, that I can be sure of.”

“You believe me?” He looked surprised, almost critical. He knew Soap to be extremely intelligent, logical. He shouldn’t believe something so wild so easily.

“You haven’t given me a reason not to.” A familiar determination crept into the lines around his eyes, drawing Simon’s attention.

“I’m glad you’re here.” He said it like a deathbed confession and Soap’s expression hardened further.

“We’re gonna fix this.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t think we are.”

Simon was about to pull rank. It was on the tip of his tongue, because he could feel Soap dying to make some kind of stupid suggestion about something he didn’t even believe, let alone understand.

“Yes.” Soap was up, pacing again. “We are. You look sick, you must have been desperate to go out like that. You mentioned meat earlier, right? Maybe I can find some, I—"

“The storm’s dangerous, Soap, and you need rest.”

Soap huffed a laugh, cutting his eyes at the other man. “Are you kidding? This is what I live for.”

“If there were animals to be found out there, I would have gone for them first. There aren’t. They’re hidden away from this storm, same as we are.”

Soap’s rapid-fire thoughts were interrupted by Simon’s cough, hollow, deep in his chest. He knew those bullet wounds could have killed him. Should have. The fact that he didn’t bleed out walking to the truck was a miracle that Soap had chosen to ignore.

Regardless of whatever else he was, he was a sick, injured man and he deserved some tenderness. Some safety. Whether or not he was what he claimed to be, he was still Simon Riley, and he had still suffered enough for ten men. More. Soap reached for his arm.

“You need to lie down. Come on.” Simon let him pull him up onto the sofa and lay him down. He pulled the blanket off the floor and put it back over him.

“I expected you to question me.” He said, closing his eyes.

“You told me not to, remember? It’s never gone over well for me when I did.” He pulled the blanket up over his arms, wondering how long they actually had. “I always knew something was different about you. Finding out you’re super human isn’t actually that far-fetched.”

The flattery wasn’t lost on Ghost. “You can question me now, Soap. It’s alright.”

“Show me your teeth. I can tell you’re hiding them.”

Simon stared at him, the effort it took to hold his gaze steady obvious to Soap. But he opened his mouth and curled his lip, just enough to reveal the end of a too-long canine. Soap stared at it. It would look normal if he’d seen it in passing, but the longer he gazed at it, the more unnatural it looked, the point sharpened so far that he wasn’t even sure he could see the tip with his naked eye. Simon ran his tongue over it in what looked like habit before shutting his mouth. He watched a look of wonder cross Johnny’s face that he had seen many times before, and it turned his stomach again, knowing why.

He had nothing to say. Soap thought it was beautiful, the revelation, it was like a child learning magic was real. Like all the theories, the mysteries, they all held a tangible thread of truth. And the proof was his and his alone, imparted on him because of the trust between the two men. He cherished it, and he felt unworthy of it.

Soap leaned forward, unable to resist the urge to reach out and touch him, to assure himself that he was real. He adjusted the blanket again, letting his hand brush Simon’s arm. “There’s another option that we haven’t discussed.”

Simon frowned, a pained look on his face. “No Soap. There are no other options.”

“I’m not stupid, Simon, if you need blood to live, I’ll give you some of mine.”

“No.” His eyes flew open, momentarily crystal clear and perfectly serious. “Absolutely not.”

“If you were in the hospital somewhere and needed a transfusion from me, you wouldn’t say absolutely not.”

“No. It’s not the same.” He let his eyes fall closed again. His skin was so warm that Soap could feel it radiating heat from where he knelt next to him.

“Then I’ll give you a transfusion, I can find what I need. It’s not that hard.”

Ghost wanted to look at him. He wanted to see his face, one that he liked, that was familiar to him. That he looked forward to. And he wanted to hear his voice without that desperate line through it. But he couldn’t.

“It won’t work, Soap. Believe me.”

“Then we don’t have a choice. I can put it in a glass or something.”

“I don’t drink from humans. I already told you that.”

“Even to save your life.”

“Even then.”

“But, the soldiers—”

“They were dead. I’ll drink from freshly dead.” He pulled his eyes open again with great effort, looking at Soap through his lashes.

“Oh.” Soap furrowed his brow. “So I hang myself from this beam,” he pointed at the ceiling above them, sarcasm in his voice, “and you can just lay right here and have your fill then.”

“That’s not funny.” Simon mumbled.

He didn’t want to think about that, how much worse it would be to drink from him dead, even worse than drinking from him alive. He hated what he was so deeply that he craved the same from others and frustratingly, Soap didn’t give it.

The Sergeant turned and leaned against the sofa, where Ghost had been before.

“How is it we end up in these situations? I always leave you feeling like I’ve been in the twilight zone or something.” Soap was afraid again, that if Simon went to sleep he wouldn’t wake up. It was almost cruel, keeping him talking. It was selfish.

“Hardest battles, toughest soldiers.”

He picked up a pebble from the floor and turned it over in his hands. “Religious now, LT?”

“I think I’d burn in a church.”

The attempt at humor, Simon’s brand of humor, wasn’t lost on Soap. The fact that they were there together for a reason wasn’t lost on him. The fact that he would slit his own wrists without hesitation to save the other man’s life wasn’t lost on him.

“You have to drink from me, Ghost. I’m all there is.”

Part of him heard the words out of his mouth and knew they sounded crazy, that he didn’t see the truth in Simon’s story, even with the physical proof. Part of him knew that Simon wouldn’t lie to him and wouldn’t put him through this for no reason. And another, smaller piece knew that he had risked his life both for and in front of his Lieutenant multiple times in their time in the 141 and that if this was something he refused, it was deeply personal. Tied to a part of himself that wasn’t used to the attention.

“I can’t.” The words, filled with angst, gave Soap a little bit of hope. It left space for more questions. An argument.

And if there was a chance to keep him, any chance at all, Soap found it worth the risk.

“And I can’t lay here and watch you waste away knowing I could do something about it, so you better give me a damn good reason and I’m tired of dancing around it.”

“It’s not right. It’s not natural.”

“That’s not something to die over, Simon.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“You think it would kill me then?”

“No.” Simon clenched his fists. “I’m not out of control, I wouldn’t kill you.” The words were more to comfort him than they were for Soap, even though his fevered mind was making him unsure of his strength, even in that.

"It would turn me then? I’d be like you.”

“It’s not contagious.” He swallowed, fighting the urge to cough again. Fighting the urge to be emotional and shut Soap up for real. “It would hurt you.”

Soap hesitated, eyes flitting around the room looking for a way to ground himself. He was stumbling over his own emotions. “Worse than seeing you like this?”

Simon’s next breath burned in his chest.

It was easy enough to walk into a situation and compartmentalize, in the field you would live and die for the men beside you but it was duty, it was work, and when you walked back into the real world, it was nothing. There was a perfect separation between long nights in the wilderness huddled for warmth and two regular men living regular lives in the regular world.

This kind of thing blurred lines. They were stripped of their weapons and orders and enemies and they still desired that closeness, and the sacrifice.

Simon had blurred those lines before, and it had cost him so greatly that he forgot who he was. The 141 had reminded him. Soap had reminded him. Johnny reminded him.

 Johnny’s heart rate was high, stress weighed his shoulders down, curving them forward.

“A real man would have died out there and you wouldn’t have to deal with this, John.”

Soap stood, determined. “You are a real man, Simon.” He walked across the room and slipped back into his coat. “A difficult, self-sacrificial man. And one I’m not keen on losing.”

Ghost widened his eyes, attempting to sit up. “What are you doing?”

“I can be as difficult as you, you know. Just as stubborn.” He shoved his feet into his boots, pulling at the laces.

“Soap, stop. That’s an order.”

Their eyes met across the room, Soap with one hand on the door and Simon raised up onto his elbow. Disobedience wasn’t something Soap made a habit of. That’s what had made them such a good team, Ghost’s leadership, Soap’s instinct. Ghost had the long sight, Soap had the quick hands.

“You want to be a martyr? Do it when I’m dead.” He checked his clip and pulled at the door. “I’m going to find some food for us. I’m hungry too, you know.”

“No.” Simon pushed his feet to the floor, sitting and bracing his hands on the cushions. “Don’t leave.”

The request, even as the bigger man hung his head, almost, almost stopped Soap. But not quite. He shut the door behind him and all but ran. The sun had risen, but snow still fell, lazy, and peaceful. He didn’t know where he would go or how far he would have to dig, but he would find a way. He wondered if there was any chance Ghost had missed the bodies he’d been looking for before.

He tried not to think too hard about Ghost stealing across a dark battlefield, slitting throats, pulling at his mask so he could drink from their wounds. The mask did a lot for him. It protected Simon Riley, it gave him the cover he deserved after the horrors he had faced, but it also protected others from having to face the horror that he embodied. And that thought, the power of him, against his better judgement, excited Soap in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

But Simon didn’t feel like embodied horror abandoned in that little shack the same as he’d done to Soap. He felt fear, as cold as his empty core, and a fierce longing to have him back in the room immediately. A fierce longing to have him back in the room forever.

He couldn’t bite Soap, not to drink, it wasn’t the kind of emotional stress he wished to inflict. And besides that, the bite caused a release of endorphins that clouded the victim’s mind. It made them stop fighting, it made them want to be bled dry. And worse than the fear, the physical pain, Simon didn’t want Johnny to feel that. It could be blissful, erotic even, but coming down was worse than a hangover, shame that lasted days.  

And that hesitation was purely selfish. The other issue was the fact that he respected the Sergeant as a human being. Cared about him, had sworn to protect him.

Maybe he was stupid. Blinded by fever and old, old heartache. Maybe he should have just let Soap give him some little bit of himself. Enough to get by.

Enough to get drunk on.

The thought scared him even more, again, from deep inside his mind. He was afraid that if he tasted Johnny, he might not be able to stop. And Johnny was a man, fallible, breakable. He didn’t deserve to be used that way. No one did. That’s why he had decided all those years ago to stay away from beating human hearts.

But a different fear, a worse one, gripped him by the throat even tighter as each minute passed. Because Johnny had gone out that door, against orders, on a suicide mission.

Simon tested his strength, pushing his hands against the cushions to try and raise himself up. He shouldn’t have let him go. He should have used the last of his fight for that instead of wasting it. And he knew it was futile. He guessed, even in Soap’s exhaustion, that he knew it too.

Then it was just stubborn. And purely selfless. Exactly who Simon knew him to be.

--

Nearly two hours later, Simon had made it all the way to the door. His coat was on, despite the inflammation in his wounds making his arm hard to maneuver. He’d been unable to zip it. He’d tried for so long that tears clouded his eyes.

Looking down at the floor in the attempt had made him dizzy, and instead of falling all the way down, he’d caught himself against the wall and slid to his knees.

He didn’t know what he would do if he made it out the door. He didn’t know how he would make it through the snow, find Soap’s tracks. He didn’t know what he would do if he found Soap. Drink from his body, he supposed. He let the thought run through him, to his bones, so the pain would keep him awake.

That was how Soap found him, leaning against the wall right next to the door, his gaze on the dying fire.

Simon hadn’t heard him approaching, and even the door opening took a moment to register. When he turned and looked up at him, it was like waking up. He didn’t have the strength to move quickly but Soap shut the door and squatted down beside him.

“You’re back.” Simon said through cracked lips.

Soap looked at the tear streaks down the man’s face and his own empty hands. “I didn’t find anything, Simon.”

Simon laid his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. “You’re back.”

Soap had thought the entire trek back about what he was going to do. It was simple. Simon feeds or dies. Soap wasn’t sure of any of the other implications, the mechanics, the repercussions. He didn’t know if he could force him. What it might do to them if he did.

He hadn’t known what he would do until he walked in and saw him, sitting by the door in his coat like he thought he’d do something else fucking stupid in Soap’s name.

He pulled a small knife from his pocket and opened it. Simon’s eyes flew open and his pupils dilated, blown out like he was poisoned.

Simon watched the blade near that perfectly good forearm and felt himself panic. Not like this.

“Wait.” He licked his dry lips, trying to make himself sound sane. Every shred of adrenaline in him now was supernatural hunger. The last of it.

“I won’t.” Soap shook his head, his cheeks red from the cold. “You’ve fought enough.”

“Let me—" he swallowed. “Let me do it right.”

Soap hesitated. He suspected there was a right way to do it but his only intention had been to get it into Simon somehow. The method didn’t matter. But Simon had straightened now, rising up to his knees as if moved by some other force. His eyes were glued to the vein Soap had sought with his knife and self consciously, he let his sleeve fall back over it.

“Tell me what to do.”

They were so far over the line now, Simon wasn’t sure they could even see it in the rearview. “It...um,” he wiped a hand across his impossibly dry mouth as if it would help, “it would be better if you lie down.”

“Why?” Soap asked, his voice quiet, only curious.

Simon’s face hardened, drained of emotion. “It’s going to feel strange. I don’t want you to fall.”

“Okay.” Soap’s face opened further, listening, obeying. Submissive. He dropped to his knees.

Simon looked down on Soap as he sat back on his heels. “The bite will make you feel a sort of euphoria. It’s meant to make a victim lie still, stop fighting.”

He nodded, blue eyes wide and steady. Red rimmed, tired, but unwavering. “Where?”

Simon nodded toward the arm he’d held the blade against before. “That’s fine.”

Soap slowly laid the rest of the way down. Simon could hear his heartbeat, fast paced but as steady as his eyes. He moved to Soap’s other side, where he’d pulled his sleeve back up.

Gently, Simon slid his hand beneath Soap’s arm where it lay on the ground, gripping it. “It’s going to leave a mark.”

Soap let out a nervous laugh. “I have plenty of scars, LT, no one will be the wiser.”

Simon simply stared at that smooth, pale arm for a long time.

“What are you waiting for?” Soap asked. Curiosity again. Calm.

“The fear…” he shook his head, “the fear in a live victim is bitter. It tastes dirty.”

“Simon.” The Lieutenant looked down at him. “I’m not afraid.” His heartbeat never changed. “I’m not afraid of you at all.”

Chapter Text

Simon gave up arguing, and for Soap, the euphoria began some time before the bite marred his skin. The Lieutenant’s face was serious, and blank. Soap imagined he must have to retreat, hide somewhere, to bring himself to do this. That was the only negative thought he had, that he wished it wasn’t so hard on him. Not when Soap was so willing.

Simon was over him, in total control and it was mysteriously familiar. Laying beneath him, given up completely. Caught lazily in the gravity of the man kneeling over him. It felt natural. Freeing. He didn’t know what the bite would do to him, but he couldn’t imagine it would feel sweeter than those few seconds in which they both gave in.

He was wrong.

Simon turned off his mind but he couldn’t turn off his eyes. He avoided Soap’s gaze even though he could feel his blue eyes boring holes through him. Not looking at his arm where he was about to be scarred, but looking at Simon. At his face. He knew the trust he would see there and an inability to lie. Which meant that he truly felt he wasn’t afraid, but he couldn’t be right, fear was inherent in things like this. Bloody, unnatural things. Simon could still see the rise and fall of his chest and the skin of his arm. How small and human he was.

Better to get it over with.

He sat back on his heels and bent, bringing Soap’s arm up to his mouth. Instinctually, he pressed his tongue flat against his skin. Soap closed his eyes and pulled a long breath in as Simon’s lips replaced his tongue, gentle like a kiss, feverishly warm. And then teeth. It didn’t hurt like he expected, it didn’t feel like a bite.

Simon’s unnaturally sharp canines sunk into his flesh and it felt like someone had hit him in the back of the head. He saw stars. Beautiful, life changing, and not painful in the slightest. Quite the opposite.

Simon stayed still, letting the blood run out on its own and against his tongue. He wanted to finish it quickly, but he didn’t want to cause Soap any pain. However, it didn’t take long before he had no choice. His own instincts took over, his incredible thirst, and he took a pull from Soap’s life force like it was a top shelf bottle.

It tasted sweet and warm, unlike anything he had ever tasted in his life. He felt tears choke him again. The bitterness he knew, the fear he was dreading simply wasn’t there, and Soap felt relaxed and tender beneath him. And buzzing.

The feeling of the bite on his body was nothing compared to what it was doing to his mind. He was prepared, he knew he was going to feel something unexpected, but he hadn’t known it would feel like complete, untethered reverent devotion. Suddenly Simon didn’t just look like a large, capable man. He looked like a god. He was utterly flawless, what he was doing was a gift that Soap didn’t deserve. Tears ran out of his eyes at the emotion brought on by the honor it held. He hoped it killed him. He hoped Simon drank every last drop if it meant his lips would never leave his skin.

He almost laughed at the thought, knowing it was stupid. He chided himself for thinking it, his mind flip flopping and rapidly turning corners into new, unguarded territory. He never wanted to die. He never wanted to stop this. He never wanted to stop laying at Simon’s mercy.

Simon saw Soap reach for him out of the corner of his eye, his free hand rising to touch Simon’s arm or hair or neck. He reached for it with his own free hand, gripping Soap’s wrist and pinning it against the floor. Affection shown now, in this stupor, it wasn’t real. It was more to add to the shame that followed the realization that you hadn’t died from the bite.

Unexpectedly, he had to remind himself of that too, as his awareness pinpointed on his hand around Soap’s arm, the steady pulse he could feel there even as he drank from the other.

He slowed. It wouldn’t take much to make Soap weaker, to make it hard for him to recover. And he didn’t need much to survive.

Relief washed over him in a warm wave and he realized, gripping Soap tighter, that he would do anything for his Sergeant, to repay this kindness. He would offer him every comfort and every sacrifice that he could afford, he would show him what this meant to him. Another life debt to repay.

It would take much more for him to forget how the Sergeant tasted. The dead tasted like coppery water. Flavorless. Animals had gamey, wild tastes, humans were generally bitter and full of hesitation. But not this human. He was intoxicating. He tasted like spring, a welcome contrast to the never ending winter they now faced. Hoping it lingered, he pulled away.

Soap, through red-rose colored glasses, watched Simon slowly part his mouth from his skin. He pressed his tongue over the wound as he did, the pressure a welcome ache, before licking his lips clean. Color bloomed high across his perfect cheekbones and the bruise-like circles around his eyes lightened, Soap could tell even beneath the traces of his grease makeup left behind. He could be a marble statue, a herculean portrait, his unzipped coat revealing his perfectly cut chest as he took long, deep breaths into lungs that no longer ached and felt heavy.

Soap must have looked as strung out as he felt, because Simon eyed him from head to toe before placing two fingers against the side of his neck and feeling for his pulse. It wasn’t necessary, he could hear it, he just wanted to touch Soap again.

“Not so bad, was it, LT?” He asked, surprised his words weren’t slurred. He felt like a haze settled over him, making everything shiny and smooth.

The nickname sent warmth sliding down Simon’s spine. He didn’t want anyone else to give him nicknames but he wanted that one from Soap. He liked it.

“Not bad at all, Johnny.” He said, hoping he was reassuring, wishing he could express the truth.

The words felt like highest praise. Soap lay still, waiting for further direction and fighting with every ounce of his strength to keep his arms down on the ground. What he really wanted to do was grab Simon by the collar of that ruined coat and pull him down into a kiss. Devour him the way he had just devoured Soap. Feel those lips against his own instead of against the skin of his arm. All of it made worse by a frightening desire to taste himself in Simon’s mouth. He swallowed.  He needed to move, get his blood flowing in literally any other direction, before he rightly embarrassed himself.

He tried to sit up, Simon attempted to stop him but Soap gave him a look that made him back off.

“I’m alright.” He said, still unsure of anything except that he wasn’t hurt and the endorphins were slowly wearing off. The haze lifted.

“Stay still, let me wrap you up.” Simon stood to get the supplies.

He came back and sat again, facing Soap. A trickle of blood flowed from the bite, and it had begun to bruise where he’d pulled it into his mouth in gulps. Shame lit his cheeks as he looked at it, his hands pulling out the things he needed to cover it up.

He couldn’t meet Soap’s eyes. “I’ll repay this, whatever you want, Soap. Anything.”

Soap was quiet for a long moment. “Why are you so worried about this burdening me somehow?”

Simon pursed his lips, concentrating. “You put your life in my hands.”

Soap huffed a laugh. “Like I haven’t before?”

“That kind of blind trust is dangerous, Johnny.”

“Not with you.”

“I’m meant to protect you, not force you into things like this. Where you get nothing out of it.”

Soap leaned toward him, scooted closer, closing the gap. “You didn’t force me. I was planning a way to force you, for god’s sake .” He paused, letting his emotions even out again. He raised a hand, motioning at Simon across from him. “And I did get something out of it. You. Alive.”

Simon didn’t speak again, he just carefully wrapped a bandage around Soap’s wrist. They had to return to the other very real issues at hand now, and overlook whatever rush they had shared. Simon may not have starved to death, and he could go some time without eating anything again. Even so, there wasn’t much left for Soap and he needed his strength back. They had to get the radio operational, or get the truck back to base. He wasn’t sure which they had better chance of, although it seemed the snow had finally stopped.

He didn’t want to talk about it yet, he wanted Soap to rest. To actually get some sleep. He was still sluggish but now that Simon was alert, he could see the effects of the last few days weighing on him. He’d exerted himself more than once. He bit his lip to keep from apologizing for that too. He needed to get a grip. What they were outside this place couldn’t change, it was something he wasn’t ready to grieve.

But there didn’t seem to be any harm in being gentle with each other. After everything, who could blame them?

As he cleaned up his own mess, he watched Soap stoke the fire again, watched him turn to count how much wood they had left.

“I’ll do that, Soap.” Simon cleared his throat. “Why don’t you lie down for a bit.”

He nodded to the sofa, his blanket still spread out on it.

“Shouldn’t you? You still need to recover.” He frowned.

“No, I’m okay. I can be up for a while now, and I can handle the fire.” He stood. “Please.”

Soap stood too. Slowly. He recognized the subtle difference between Simon’s requests and his orders. To hear that particular word out of his mouth was sobering, it brought them to the same level. Eye to eye. And he had no less respect for the man. More, actually.

He nodded. “Fine, then.”

As if he had any privacy at all, he went to the sofa, shrugged out of his clothes, down to his base layer, and laid down. He turned to face away from Simon. Simon’s heart sped up when he did. Soap’s didn’t. It was simply for comfort, and for Simon’s privacy.

Simon listened for him to go to sleep. He did after a bit, so he rose, prepared to bring in more wood and fuck with the radio a bit. His arm was still swollen and sore but he was able to zip his coat this time.

He knew human blood was powerful, aiding in the healing process, but it felt like Soap’s blood had healed him itself. He was in dangerous territory.

He walked quietly to the door, but not quietly enough.

“Not leaving me again, are you LT?” He said, not turning to look.

“No.” Simon said softly, and with conviction.

Soap rolled over. Their eyes met, a flipped replay of the night before. But Soap stayed quiet. He had nothing if he lost trust for Simon now.

Simon looked away, nodded to himself and stepped out the door. The cold air brought him some clarity. The few days they’d spent there had been strained, and dramatic. Nothing they hadn’t faced together before. But this time it was intimate. This time, he was laid bare instead of being the one in charge, in control. Part of him hated it, it felt as unnatural as what he’d done to Soap, but part of him craved it. As badly as what he’d done to Soap. To finally find a place where he could lose the mask for real, be his true self.

Again. Find that place again. Because he’d had it before and Roach had been a companion that he thought he would die without. He’d tried to. Soap wasn’t like Gary, they weren’t the same men, they were different in a multitude of ways. That was, until Soap knelt before him, looking up at him with such giving eyes, and then they were one in the same.

Simon stomped around the wood pile, kneeling to find logs that were dry enough to burn. When they left the program, and the others, behind, they had been equal in their risk and their will to try and find a quiet, normal life. They still fought, they still felt a call to duty, but doing it side by side meant the burden was shared. All of their burdens were. Thirst, loneliness, shame. They didn’t belong in society for anything that they were. They didn’t belong in society together. They were hardly together. They just were. They became nearly one person, Gary was Simon, Simon was Gary. It wasn’t about one man loving another, they were hardly two men at all.

He bit down on that thought, cutting it off as he usually did. At the point of emotion. Maybe it had been worth some at the time, but it would likely never be again. What he’d felt for Soap wasn’t the same thing, it was only a reminder.

That was why they had to settle back into their roles, not let this get out of hand. They cared for each other, protected each other, they always would but they still had a job to do. Together.

He dropped the logs inside the door, listening for Soap and noting that he still slept before he walked out to the truck. The snow was so deep that he had to work to scoop some of it away before he could open the door. And it was work with only one good arm and a deep ache in his side. His previous thought that they may be able to drive it back to base seemed laughable now.  He got the door opened and stood on the running board to clear fresh snow from around the antenna on top. He could see that Soap had tried that before. He climbed inside. He looked around, his eyes sticking to the passenger seat that was streaked in his blood. All of this would be hard to explain away. He counted, heavily, on Price’s knack for forgetting to ask questions. He refocused. That only mattered if they actually got to the point of rescue.

He picked up the radio. He knew for a fact that it hadn’t been tested since the previous day. But the clouds had thinned, the sun threatened to poke through. He clicked it and static came through. That was a good sign. He sat up straighter. Soap had told him that they had no line out due to the storm. This was a clear line out. A major improvement. They’d have to continuously send a signal. Loop one until it was heard. They could pull the radio from the truck, set it up inside and do just that. It was a two man job that, up until that point, hadn’t been possible.

He went back inside, standing at the door to slip out of his boots, his eyes on Soap’s sleeping form. He moved, jostled awake by Simon’s noise again.

“Sorry.” Simon said to him.

Soap opened worn eyes. “You look tired.”

Leave it to Soap to lead with honesty again. But Simon had felt his rush of returning strength beginning to wane. He was cured for now, but he had a lot of healing left to do.

“I am.” He admitted, shedding his coat.

Soap immediately moved, like he was going to get up.

“No, don’t.” He held up a hand. “I’ll just sit. Go back to sleep.”

Simon walked over to where Johnny lay and sat down near his feet, laying his head back against the cushion.

They could do this. They could keep up with the norm.

He had a nasty habit of beginning to mourn something before it was gone, a sick need for control. Not this time. He would hold onto this for as long as he could.

Chapter Text

March 27^th, 1946

Poland

“It’s okay, Roach.” Simon said, his voice low. There was still danger of being discovered. “Having to hide never bothered me. We can go to the countryside, like you wanted.”

He shifted. They had plenty of reason to hide beyond their mutually stolen humanity. They were regarded as a deadly duo, and those that valued their skills often chose to overlook their obvious closeness. They avoided affection but they were far too connected for anyone looking close enough not to notice.

There were plenty who didn’t overlook it, so they pocketed it carefully. Protected it. Keeping it a secret somehow made it sweeter. It was only theirs.

They were in the field now, side by side as always. The war was officially over but British intelligence had tasked them with taking out several fringe Nazi sympathizer operations. They were deep in Polish wilderness, but not deep enough. They’d taken out their target but it seemed they’d been compromised. Simon had managed to pull them into what appeared to be a safe location to reconvene and plan a route out.

It was quiet for the moment. He pulled Gary closer, halfway into his lap.

“You were right, we should take a break after this.” He pulled off his gloves. “I’m so tired.”

He looked down at Roach’s face. One perfect brown eye stared back up at him. The other was gone. Blown through the back of his head.

His blood soaked Simon’s leg, it was splattered across his face and the right side of his body. It felt cold in the night air.

Simon ran his thumb along Roach’s jaw, and down the side of his neck.

“Beautiful boy.” He murmured.

He left his hands wet and uncovered as the sun rose and he pulled his companion over his shoulder, leaving literal pieces of him behind. They had to leave before it was light enough to be seen.

--

January 13^th, 1943

London

It was a particularly cold winter, and they’d been in the field for weeks, spying. Their ability to go longer without sleep and food made them slick, silent operators, they often came in together, quietly, and left the same way once they were done.

They had finished a mission, successfully, and had some time. A week maybe. And they were both hungry.

The flat they had shared for a year was wrapped in warmth and privacy, two things they had been without for some time. They were both hungry, but not just for sustenance.

Simon was often wary when they returned from duty, anticipating when the younger, more outgoing man would tire of his reclusive nature and dark demeanor. Everything felt precarious to him, but especially these good things. Any good things.  

But Gary always looked like a weight had fallen from his shoulders when they returned. Like he finally felt safe. He could let his guard down. If that’s what Simon could provide for him, then he would do it to the best of his abilities until the day he died.

He watched every one of the other man’s movements. How he removed his gear, set his boots back by the door, weapons on the table. He mimicked some of them, slower. He’d rather just watch Roach. After a few moments, Gary approached him. Simon looked at him expectantly.

“You’re doing it again.” He said, taking Simon’s jacket out of his hands and checking the pockets before hanging it up beside his.

Simon looked down, continuing to undress. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do, Si.” He smiled, Simon could hear it. “You always walk in here like a ghost. Like you’re afraid to exist in the real world.”

Simon frowned at him. “I don’t like bringing heavy things in here, into your space.”

The other man, down to his pants, approached him where he sat by the door and absentmindedly reached behind Simon’s neck to run his fingers along the chain of his tags. “It’s our space. We brought the heavy things in here.”

Simon took a deep breath and reached up to take Roach’s hand where it rested along the side of his neck. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s never easy.” Gary said quietly, squeezing Simon’s hand lightly. “But we do it together, that’s the deal.” He pulled Simon to his feet. “Right?”

“That’s right.” Simon reached up and ran his thumb across the Gary Sanderson that lay warm against his heart. A common show of affection.

Gary loved Simon, loved him so much it was like his own heart beat outside of his chest, directly in Simon’s hands. But Simon didn’t like words like that. He held Gary’s heart carefully, but he didn’t feel the need to mention it. It was these moments, where Gary could remind him that they weren’t completely inhuman, and they weren’t dead. They could still have some life together.

That brush of Simon’s fingers across his chest, reaching for his name, that was how he said love. And that’s how Gary heard it.

They needed to bathe, but they moved lazily around the flat instead, putting things away, heating water in the kettle. It was late for tea, but they both craved it after the time away. And they’d have to go out and hunt. It would be a long night yet.

Simon leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and watched Roach move about the kitchen.

It had taken some time but their relationship had come completely naturally. One day they were watching each other’s backs from across town, occasionally leaning on each other as they learned how to navigate their new lives, and the next they were living together, irrevocably intertwined. And they’d kept fighting together. They’d been a good pair prior, but they became lethal with their new genetics.

It was after a long, loud, sleepless battle that they’d ended up in Gary’s flat, still covered in mud and unidentifiable blood, and fucked for the first time in complete desperation. They’d been still for a long while after, laying in bed dirty and aching. Unspeaking. They’d been faced so explicitly with the prospect of losing each other that they’d found it extremely difficult to separate, even for a short time.

Simon had expected shame. That type of thing was sinful, it made them outcasts. But he realized, looking into eyes that reflected his own, that the man across from him was the only person on earth who’s opinion he gave a shit about.

Gary poured him a steaming cup and handed it to him. He cradled it in both hands.

“We are going to have to hunt.” He said.

“We are.” Simon agreed, not looking up from the liquid in his cup.

“Maybe tomorrow.” Gary said quietly, raising his brows in contemplation.

Simon looked up at him. “You’re not hungry now?”

Gary smiled, his eyes still lowered. “I am. But it’s fuckin cold outside, I’m in no hurry to run out.”

“I’ll go.” Simon shrugged. “I’ll bring something back.”

Gary set his cup down and walked across the small space. Simon was bigger than him but he placed his hands on either side of his waist and sized him up anyway. “I don’t think I’m going to let you leave.”

“Then you’ll starve.” Simon muttered, watching the way the muscles in Roach’s arms flexed as he gripped the counter.

He felt butterflies in his stomach. A sensation he often marveled at, that someone had that power over him.

“Starve?” His hand left the countertop and landed on Simon’s side, warm and gentle. “When I have this beautiful piece of meat right in front of me?”

“Roach.” Simon warned, cocking his head to fight a smile of his own.

He was hungry. Starving, even. It was a game they liked to play, like edging their own bloodlust. He was already hard and he could hear Roach’s heartbeat so loudly that he thought maybe he could taste it.

But he didn’t let it show. He took a sip of his tea, the hot liquid scalding him back to reality for a moment. Reality was no less lusty. He sat the cup down.

Roach fit his hand into Simon’s and ran his thumb over his pulse. He leaned forward ever so slightly, letting their bodies press together for a split second, letting Simon know he was also wanting, and then he pushed off and walked away.

Simon straightened, watching him walk to the dresser near their bed and begin shuffling through the top drawer. Bastard.

He stalked across the room, closing the space in half the time Roach had. He hooked his finger through one of Roach’s beltloops and jerked him backward. He held him tight against his body and leaned to breathe against his neck.

“You’re a tease.” He said against the base of his ear.

“Am not.” Roach flattened his hand against the outside of Simon’s thigh. “I intend to give you everything you ask for.”

Roach pulled out of Simon’s grasp and turned, pushing his weight against him. Simon caught him easily, pushing back and gripping his chin in one hand. Their eyes met for a second before Simon bent to kiss him, portraying the depth of his hunger with it, shoving his tongue into Roach’s mouth, making their teeth knock together. Roach met him with the same force. He gripped Simon’s hips, digging his fingers in and forcing him to step backward. Roach was smaller, but he wasn’t weak. He let Simon kiss him for a moment, slide his hand down his neck to his chest, before he hooked his foot behind Simon’s heel and pushed, making him lose his balance.

Simon huffed into his mouth, dropping to one knee as he caught himself. He looked up at Roach, at his mercy, and the man pressed a hand against his chest, pushing him the rest of the way down. It often happened this way, the bed much softer than what they were used to. The hard floor felt more familiar. He lay on top of Simon, slowly stretching himself out along the length of his body, his weight warm and welcome. Simon touched Roach firmly, running his hands along his back, digging into sore muscles. He kissed him gently for a moment before rolling over on top of him.

He pinned Roach beneath him and raised up to run his eyes down his heaving chest and the smooth plane of his stomach. He unbuckled Roach’s belt and pulled at the button of his pants.

“I’m afraid of losing you, Roach.” Simon said, in a frighteningly uncharacteristic confession. He fumbled with Roach’s zipper, watching what he was doing and avoiding his lover’s face.

Gary raised up on his elbows to get a better look at the man that never so much as said ‘be careful’ or ‘I was worried’. Roach was the sentimental one. The anxious one. An admission of fear from Simon in any capacity was striking.

“Why do you say that?” He asked gently. Simon had successfully lowered his zipper but his hand was pressed at the base of his stomach and he was still.

Simon simply shook his head, sliding down so he could kiss a line from Roach’s sternum to his navel. He couldn’t say why. And really, he didn’t need to. Gary knew that to Simon, good felt fragile. That letting himself enjoy this, believe in the truth of it, made it feel precarious.

Simon pressed his tongue flat against Roach’s skin, tasting his sweat. Before he could go any further, Roach pushed against his shoulders, guiding him back onto his knees as he sat up.

“You’re not going to lose me.” Roach assured him. “We have forever.”

They both knew that was likely a lie. How they lived was secretive, but it was also dangerous. But the moment felt endless. Even so, Simon could feel himself slipping away from the warmth of their lust. Sinking. Gary felt it too.

He got up onto his knees, wrapping his arm around the other man and speaking softly. “Bite me, Simon.”

Simon sank back to sit on his heels. He licked his lips. “I can’t do that, Gary.”

Roach moved closer. “Why not? I know you’re hungry.”

“You know why.” He ran a hand over his mouth. “The taste.”

“You think I’m afraid of you?” He bent to force Simon to look at him.

“You were before.”

“You were terrifying before. It’s not like that now.” He ran his hand up Simon’s shoulder and let it rest at the base of his neck, over his pulse. “I want to taste you.”

Simon closed his eyes. “I just told you I was afraid.”

“But not of me.”

“No, never.”

Gary had let Simon drink from him once before, just after leaving the others. They had gone their own ways to try and find a routine. They’d met back up, Gary well fed and settling in and Simon finding it harder and harder to kill anything, even an animal, and had settled on fighting the hunger completely. Gary thought he was sick, so he took him in. Turns out it was bloodlust at the blinding edge of starvation. For fear he would attack an unsuspecting bystander if he sent him away, he had convinced Simon to drink from him. And he had been afraid. But Simon healed and groveled and Gary forgave him a million times over until they realized the vulnerability for both of them in that moment had tied their hearts together.

Gary leaned down and kissed Simon’s neck, dragging his teeth against his skin. He knew what the bite had done to him before and the desire to take Simon there, to make him relax into him was overwhelming. But only if they could do it together. Only if it was a mutual euphoria.

Simon pulled him roughly down to his level and wrapped an arm around his warm body. “You’re not afraid?”

“I love you, Simon.” He let his own confession slip out.

Simon fit his forehead against Roach’s neck for a moment before he pressed his lips against it. Then his tongue. Then his teeth. At the moment he sunk them into Roach’s flawless throat, the man did the same to him.

A warmth spread from the bite unlike the one in their little room. It was under his skin, inside of his muscles and his mind. He pulled Roach’s blood into his mouth, letting it rest on his tongue before he swallowed, bruising and marking him. His pounding heart pushed his own life force into Roach’s mouth. They drank only for a moment. When Roach pulled back, his swollen lips red, Simon felt like he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. The heaviness in his limbs and heart lifted and he threw himself into the other man’s open arms.

Gary knew Simon was beautiful, but the rush of chemicals brought on by the bite made him look like a scarred, blond angel. Like he was glowing.

“Dammit.” He cursed, unsure he could get him undressed fast enough, before he fell apart at the seams.

Simon, relaxed, let Roach push him onto his back. He pulled Simon’s belt loose, shoved his pants down below his hips, immediately gripping the length of him like it might kill him if he didn’t get his hands on it. Simon ground into Roach’s hand, letting a groan escape him.

“Beautiful.” Roach whispered, just before replacing his hand with his mouth.

Simon never even opened his eyes. He ran his fingers through Roach’s hair, tugging at the soft strands as he slowly moved up and down, flattening his tongue against him, opening his throat. He wouldn’t go to heaven. He knew that. His soul was damned, cursed. But he could have this, and it was close enough.

He knew he wouldn’t last long, not drugged. He pushed up onto his elbows and gripped Roach’s hair, pulling him off of his cock. Roach just looked at him, starry eyed.

“You’re greedy, bug.”

“Oh, fuck.” The nickname was enough to make him twitch in anticipation.

Simon sat up, pulling Roach to him and rolling back over. He placed his hand at the base of his neck, pressing his thumb gently against the bruise he had made himself. His other hand finished the job of pulling him free from his clothes.

He tightened his hand on Roach’s neck, running his still wet erection against Roach’s, gripping them both in one large, calloused hand.

He moved, straddling Roach and gripping his cock alone. He laid against him, whispering in his ear.

“Finish for me. In my hand.”

He let his thumb run over the tip, feeling the moisture there, and then it was seconds before Roach bucked upward and covered Simon’s hand in himself. A low moan vibrated against Simon’s grip where it was tight on his throat. Simon’s hand went to his mouth. Roach hoped the sight would burn itself into his brain.

“Who’s greedy now?” He asked, sliding down far enough to reach Simon.

He pumped his fist around him slowly, steadily, until Simon’s head fell to his shoulder. He came across Roach’s stomach, mixing them between their bodies.

--

March 26^th, 1946

Poland

“I think we should move.” Gary laced his boots in their small camp, not looking up.

“Why?” Simon had his back to him, packing his things. Preparing for the following day.

“I’m tired of the city. Of hiding. And I want a milk cow.”

Simon chuckled. “You have time for a milk cow now?”

Gary shrugged. “Maybe we will. When this is over, maybe we can finally settle down for a bit.”

Simon looked at the man over his shoulder. He ached for him. He’d lost hope of a normal life some time ago, but Gary held to it, even when it made his hands bleed. He turned and went to stand in front of him.

“Maybe we will.” He echoed, wishing he could force even a little bit of sincerity into his voice.

“I’m afraid of losing you, Simon.” Gary said, his voice even. It was a common sentiment between them now. A stand in for more vulnerable phrases.

Simon brushed his fingers along Gary’s cheek. “You’re not going to lose me.”

Looking at the man was like looking in a mirror. Every good thing he had ever had was reflected in his eyes, every good thought, every piece of hope since he had spiraled at the hands of those allied scientists, it was all in him. Nothing scared him more than seeing him lose his own hope. Simon had no light, but he had devoted any years he had left to protecting Roach’s.

And, as if he were a mirror, Simon saw some of his own darkness in the man. But it was beautiful in a way, because Roach cherished it. Held it in high regard.

They lay down together on the hard ground, their arms touching as they took turns sleeping and keeping watch. Another day or two and they could go home. Simon would take some time to ease Gary out of the idea of domesticity. He would do it gently, with care. And then life would go on.

Chapter Text

Simon woke, groggy, leaning over against Soap’s legs where he had curled up on his side. Slowly he sat, the pain from the weight he’d put on his injured shoulder deep and broad across his chest and back. It distracted him from a different ache. One at the base of his spine, between his hips. Against the shorts he wore.

Recovery, sustenance, it didn’t help. Dreaming about Roach didn’t help. Soap’s warm body beside him, the quiet sound of his breathing, didn’t help. He scooted away from the other man and laid his head back again, resting his hand over his erection and letting the pressure take some of the edge off.

He hadn’t been with anyone in a long time, some of the events of his past making it more of a task than he wished upon a partner. It was vulnerable, even if he tried to make it casual, and it brought out all of his insecurities. His fear of letting his guard down, his inability to connect, his scars.

After he lost Roach he didn’t even speak to another person for months. He couldn’t bear to look in other people’s eyes, the sickening, wet crunch of a bullet through a skull and Roach’s small, surprised gasp following him around every corner. His heartbeat had been the score of Simon’s life for years, and it ended so suddenly that the sound of anyone else’s, even his own, nearly drove him mad. But when your time to recover is infinite, eventually you get bored of your own wallowing.

He went looking for more work. For all the times he had tried and failed to take his own life, Simon made a plan to trick the universe into taking it for him. In battle. He sought the deepest, darkest, most precarious jobs, the ones that Generals and mercenaries raised their eyebrows at when he accepted. That’s how Price learned of his reputation nearly six decades later.

And here he sat, having very nearly found the rest he’d sought for so long. He didn’t know if Roach waited for him at the end of this life, but he often hoped that he did. He wondered if the anger and blame the man would hold for him for getting him killed that night would have worn off after all this time. He wondered if Roach realized he still hadn’t lost him. Regret was a more familiar emotion to him now than anything else, even sorrow. He battled contempt against Soap for bringing all these things back up in him. For reminding him what it felt like to feel the soul of someone else brush up against his in reassurance.

He didn’t understand why Soap wasn’t afraid of him, even before his confession. Soap saw him. In a way he himself was afraid of, and drunk on. He wished he knew more about him, who he was outside of these life or death situations, how he saw the world, how the world saw him. Part of him knew his curiosity was a bastardized hatred for loneliness, but at least some fraction of it was because he cared about the man. Another fraction, one he wished he could ignore, was an attachment to anyone willing to meet his eyes and treat him like a human being. He figured he could blame himself for that longing.

He let his body relax again, and in a move that he told himself was weakness, he laid a hand on Soap’s leg as he slept. He checked his watch. It was late. They had both slept for several hours and he hoped Soap would sleep through the rest of the night. He let the Sergeant’s heartbeat lull him back in and out of dreaming again.

Soap was the one that woke at first light, Simon still asleep at his feet. And Simon’s hand, large and warm, was resting just below his knee. So he didn’t move for a long time. Even though he could tell the fire was low and he was painfully thirsty, he stayed still, that physical connection something he craved so deeply that it nearly brought tears to his eyes.

Soap had been a wild young man, illegally enlisting when he was sixteen and abusing the power his tags gave him over both men and women in civilian life as soon as his boots were back on the ground. Now, grown out of young love and faked seduction, he had found he typically longed to be with someone already on the inside. Someone who understood him, his nightmares and quirks and fear of small spaces. Someone who made him feel like he could turn his back to the door, like he could give them one hundred percent of his focus instead of pulling half of it away to watch for danger. He’d lost his desire to dominate, he found himself turned on by the idea of being safe and comfortable and not having to hide his scars, both physical and mental. But that was rare. And he’d found he often ended up with bits and pieces of his desires, but at least it gave him some release. A little distraction, a false comfort. Even so, it had been a while. It had been since before Mexico.

He turned as quietly as he could to get a better look at the Lieutenant. He had slept so hard that he struggled to string the events of the previous day together in a way that made sense. In some way that didn’t seem like a fever dream of some sort.

The fact that Simon was sitting there, face uncovered, sleeping in his presence was something to marvel at on its own. He swallowed. He wished they could go back to the tent in the woods, that they could have been better prepared, gotten ahead of the attack. So Simon wouldn’t have suffered the way he did. But….then they wouldn’t be here. They wouldn’t have shared something deep and irreconcilable by his weak human mind. Something soul-altering.

Rescue would come, they would go back to their lives, but an invisible thread connected them now, whether they wanted it or not.

He slid himself out from under Ghost’s touch as gently as he could and stood stiffly to add to the fire. They were warm at least, but it did little to distract him from the burning hunger in his own core. He squatted, poking at the embers. When he stood his stomach growled loudly. He reached to cover it, as if it would stifle the noise, but he saw Ghost move from the corner of his eye. Embarrassed, he didn’t look up.

“Eat, Soap.” Simon frowned. “We still have some food.”

“Don’t know how long we’ve got to stretch it out for.”

Simon leaned forward, folding his hands. “Not long, hopefully. I checked the radio while you were asleep and I believe we have a line out.”

Soap turned. “A line out? So we need a loop, then.”

“It’s a two person job.”

“Right.” Soap nodded. He walked to the door where his coat hung.

“Eat first.” His voice carried an air of command.

Soap gave him a look but didn’t answer. He just went to the kitchen where he’d stashed what they had left and pulled something out. He went to sit next to Ghost, offering him a bite.

“I don’t need it.” He said softly.

Soap heard wariness in his tone. He figured that Simon was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Soap to reject him, turn away from him. Run scared. He just sat back, completely relaxed and shrugged, taking the food all for himself.

“How long until you do need it?” The question was casual, Simon heard no hesitation in it.

“A few days without anything, I think. If we get more food, then I can probably go a week or two without drinking again.”

“Do you like to drink? Other things, I mean.” Soap asked around a bite of food like they were having casual Sunday afternoon dinner.

Simon humored him. “I’d murder for a whiskey, if I’m honest.”

Soap grinned, not looking up. “You mean scotch?”

“I drink bourbon.” He relaxed back into his seat, very nearly smiling back.

“You surprise me, LT.” Soap said, shaking his head.

“That’s what surprises you?” He asked, placing his hands on his knees and standing to get dressed.

Soap shrugged one shoulder. “That and the fact you haven’t asked for your mask back.”

“Keeping it from me, then?”

“Safe keeping is all.” Soap eyed him while his back was turned. His long legs were covered in scars, too.

“Gonna describe me to a sketch artist or something?” Simon turned his head, not quite looking at Soap, listening to the cadence of his voice. “Should I be worried?”

Soap kept his smile but lowered his tone. “No, sir. No plan to.”

Simon chuckled, shaking out his pants and stepping into them. Soap watched unashamedly from where his Lieutenant couldn’t see. He wouldn’t mind if Simon never covered his face again, but he would always give him the option. But hearing him joke about it, portray a desire to leave it off, it made Soap feel trusted and wanted and a multitude of other things he knew he shouldn’t feel at all.

He got up and finished bundling up alongside Ghost and they walked out. The sky, while still cloudy, was certainly lighter than it had been, even the day before.  They entered the truck from opposite sides and he got to work on the wiring. That’s why Ghost had said it was a two man job, because Soap knew a lot about that kind of thing, was confident in it, while the colors and thicknesses of them meant very little to Simon.

“I wouldn’t have made it without you, Johnny.” Simon said after a long time of mostly silence. They were close to being able to take the equipment inside.

Soap didn’t acknowledge the sentiment for a moment. He knew it would be hard for Simon to get past, feeling that he’d used Soap to further his abhorrent existence. He knew it was his way of acknowledging the risks Soap had faced to find him, twice, and save his life both times. He also knew there was no need to thank him. What Simon perceived as sacrifice, Johnny knew to be duty, brotherhood. Desire.

He met soft brown eyes across the small space, shining in the bright light glinting off the snow outside. He saw something he didn’t think Simon meant to show him. Hope, maybe. Vulnerability. Sincerity.

“You would have found a way.” He said confidently.

Simon nodded, taking the words to heart. Understanding Soap, knowing him well enough to realize that he would likely never find it easy to accept praise. He would never say outright the truth, that Simon would have died three times over if not for his bravery. Soap never hesitated, he trusted his instinct implicitly, that’s what made him an asset.

“You should get your medal for this one.” Simon fiddled with something to make himself seem useful.

Soap knitted his brows, ignoring the comment. He should have gotten one after Las Almas but what happened off book made his worthiness hard to prove. But Ghost knew.

“Speaking of, how are we going to explain all this?” Soap asked, his voice half muffled as he bent to unhook something else.

Simon nodded to himself. It was a dilemma he’d faced numerous times in his career. “We tell the truth. We were ambushed, we lost our guides, you patched me up when I was injured, we came across the shelter and waited to be rescued.”

Soap relaxed a bit. He had hoped that was the plan. It seemed Ghost and Price had some kind of special relationship but he wasn’t well versed on how to handle this other side of the man. Best, as usual, to let Ghost handle himself.

They got the radio inside and Simon watched Soap go to work on it. Once it was running, he looped a message with their names, affiliations, and coordinates. They lugged the truck battery in to power it, giving up their mode of transportation in hopes of getting a call out. All they could do then was wait for an answer.

Soap stood and absentmindedly went back to the kitchen to look through the few food items they had left. Simon sat back down and watched him. His heart was so exposed, there in that little room with him, that he felt raw and sore. He felt like a child again, wanting to cry because the beating he would take for it would distract him from the pain in his soul. He hadn’t been faced with this kind of feeling in so long, it excited him, but it also touched a myriad of poorly healed scars and he found the discomfort an immoral distraction. Soap was easy to accept. To fall into step with. He was an easy smile, easy banter, not quite an open book but one closed just tight enough to give you the confidence to ask him to reveal the pages for you.

Simon’s desire to claim him and his desire to protect him were at all out war. Because he would never really be safe from Simon’s darkness. Someone like Gary Sanderson could take it, mold it into something for themself, wear it with pride, but it would weigh Soap down. Change him in a way that Simon didn’t want to see.

Soap was a grown man, old enough to be training, running solo missions, doing special ops. He wasn’t a child. He was plenty capable of handling whatever was thrown at him, if these few days were any indication, but he didn’t deserve weight after weight beyond the job he’d been given.

That’s all Simon was. Weight after weight. Even if he did want to explore a familiar feeling with a man he adored, he didn’t think it was worth it. Beyond the complications of rank and workload, there was not a single person on earth that Simon loved, because all of them were dead. And putting Soap in that line of fire seemed infinitely unfair to him. And besides, all of it hinged upon the unlikely chance that Soap felt the same.

Lost in thought, he barely noticed Soap approaching him.

“Here.” He said, handing Simon a bottle of water. “You alright?”

Simon glanced up quickly before looking away again. He missed fighting for his life, when his mind wasn’t so active. He opened the bottle and took a sip.

“That’s a loaded question, Sergeant.”

Soap wanted a lot of things from Ghost. Pride, praise, honesty. But nothing more than that vulnerability he’d caught a glimpse of before. A chance to offer him some comfort beyond physical aid.

“What can I do for you?” He hoped he sounded even half as sincere as his heart felt.

His muscles ached, his head ached, from hunger and lingering exhaustion, but he would walk to the ends of the earth for Simon and Simon knew it.

“You’re willing to do whatever I ask, aren’t you, Soap.” He said, his voice dropping into a familiar low.

“Yes, sir.” He answered, dropping his own.

Simon laid the bottle down beside him. “Come here, let me look at your arm.”

The sun was setting, the room darkening, but his powerful eyes could see perfectly fine.

He listened to Soap’s heartrate elevate as he stepped closer and held his hand out to Simon. With gentle hands, he unwound the bandage he’d placed the day before. The wound was barely anything, the cuts from his teeth were shallow and scabbed over. The bruise, however, was dark and tender. Simon lightly ran his thumb over it. It was warmer than the rest of his skin, and Soap didn’t so much as flinch.

Soap’s heart rate was still raised, sitting at a pace that Simon knew he must be fighting to control. It raised his with it. They were tired, dirty, stranded men. Complete equals in that moment.

“It doesn’t hurt.”

Soap spoke quietly, and immediately Simon reached for him, desperate for some contact from anyone. Anything. He was glad it was Soap in front of him.

He gripped his wrist above the bite and pulled him forward, his other hand wrapped around the back of his thigh. Soap had to raise his knee and lay it on the sofa to catch himself, to keep from falling forward. He didn’t say anything, he was sturdy, inches from being pressed against Ghost. And it was Ghost who was completely in control of the situation, but not of himself. Soap reminded himself that there were no lines to cross for them in their little shelter. All they were doing was surviving.

Simon moved his hand from the back of Soap’s leg and wrapped his arm around his waist, pulling him down, against him. Soap let him, bracing his hand against the back of the couch so he didn’t lay all of his weight on Simon’s wounds. But Simon kept a solid grip on him, the pain a reprieve.

Soap was a good bit smaller than him in height but his entire body was wrapped in heavy muscle and the weight of him was sweet and comforting. Something Simon hadn’t realized he needed. He pulled him the rest of the way down, until he was perched across his thighs. Soap kept his breathing steady, no doubt a learned and practiced skill.

Their gazes locked momentarily, both extremely serious, somewhat wary of the other’s reaction.

Simon opened his mouth to speak.

“Shh.” Soap hushed him, shaking his head.

Simon closed his lips. Soap studied them in the firelight. A thin scar, almost invisible, pulled at one side. Soap zeroed in on it, running a finger over it. Simon’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. Soap’s same hand suddenly reached for Simon’s hair as he kissed him.

Simon hesitated only for a second before he fisted the back of Soap’s shirt, pulling him even closer. He couldn’t just hear his racing heart, he could feel it against his own. He felt very alive in that moment. Extremely, dangerously so.

Simon’s lips were softer than Soap had expected judging by the hard edges around the rest of him. Edges Soap had never minded, but now he felt malleable to him, very human. He liked that. He moved his own lips against them, running his tongue along the seam until he opened them. He tangled his fingers in Simon’s short blond waves, tugging at them. He didn’t want to seem desperate but he figured this might be his one and only chance to ever taste him in return.

Simon held Soap’s shirt in his fists so tightly that he felt his own nails digging into his palms, and he let Soap lead, kissing him with confidence and kindness, reading every line of what Simon was letting himself portray.

Just as they went to pull apart to catch their breath, change positions, get closer, the radio sputtered from the corner of the room. They both looked at it, their hands frozen on one another. It clicked again and Soap backed off of Simon’s lap, walking to it.

“This is Captain John Price with the 141. Over” came through weakly. Hard to make out.

Soap gripped the mic and spoke into it, relief forcing his shoulders to drop. “Price? That better be you.”

Chapter Text

“Soap?”

“Affirmative.”

Silence, long enough to make Soap frown and drop his hands to his side. “Come in, Sergeant. Where the fuck are you?”

Soap knew he didn’t have time for niceties. “Not sure exactly, sir. We were one click South of the original coordinates, there was an ambush. We drove South again.” He pressed the heel of his hand against his left eye, hoping he was right about the direction they took. He hadn’t been thinking too hard about it in that moment. “Maybe another two. We’re in a hunting cabin of some sort.”

“We? Who’s with you?”

Soap swallowed. “Just Lieutenant Riley, sir. He’s injured.”

“Sit tight. We’ll find you.”

Soap dropped the mic in his hands and stood slowly. Simon still sat, right where he’d left him, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. His eyes, in an obvious attempt to hide his emotions, were unnaturally blank. Even for him.

Soap could still feel him on his lips, could still taste him, but the clarity of the moment pulled him back. They couldn’t be kissing like schoolboys, they weren’t done with their job. In fact, they had failed it, and they would have to clean it up somehow. And even if they didn’t, they would end up back in Germany and go their separate ways. It was no time to start something.

But it was a time to say something. And he couldn’t resist the closeness from before, even if the intimacy of it was fleeting. Simon sat back as Soap approached him and cautiously reached for him as he gently laid his shin on the cushions and lowered himself back across Simon’s lap.

Simon, poorly disguising surprise on his face at Soap’s return, placed his hand on his thigh beside him. He was still hard from before, the kiss making him want something he knew he shouldn’t, and watching as Soap knelt in front of their makeshift comms station, leaning to adjust things, working to save them, it hadn’t helped. But Soap wasn’t, he was focused on something else, and Simon hoped the darkness hid his flush of embarrassment. He could absolutely pretend he felt nothing, remain stoic, but he was used to relying on his mask to cover his face.

“You know I trust you, right, sir?” He spoke quietly. His pupils were large in the low light, hiding most of the blue-gray around them.

Simon nodded. Fuck him, calling him sir, while he sat in his fucking lap. Like he could focus on his words after that. He drew on his training and forgot the sensation.

“You’re my leader, I’d follow you anywhere.” He looked out the window in the kitchen, nodding to the wilderness outside. “Even there.” They faced each other again. Soap held up his left hand, showing Simon the spreading bruise beneath the bite. He pointed to it. “Even here.”

Simon nodded again, never taking his expressionless eyes off of Soap’s face.

“This changes nothing about how quickly I would follow you. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I do.” He finally spoke, his deep voice just above a whisper. “I owe you a lot.”

“No.” Soap shook his head. “This is what we are trained to do. What we committed to.” He let his eyes leave Simon’s and wander his face, knowing it would be hidden again soon. “It’s no different than what you’ve done for me in the past.”

Simon just stared at Soap, his overgrown stubble and dark circles, and stayed still.

“This isn’t going to change anything. We’re going to go back to normal.” His voice held authority, but he knew it was risky spouting orders to his superior.

 Besides, he was lying.

Soap wasn’t sure he could ever grasp the concept of ‘normal’ again. But he hadn’t gone SAS and special forces for ‘normal’. He had always craved a challenge, and this would be a new one. He embraced it but he feared it would drive a permanent wedge between him and someone he needed in his circle.

He got up, gently sliding his leg out from beneath Simon’s hand. He took a seat beside him, not quite close enough to touch. Simon leaned away and placed his elbow on the arm of the sofa.

“It’s alright, Johnny. I’m not going to swear you to some kind of secrecy. Sharing this with you was my choice, I can handle the consequences.” Simon spoke, his voice back to an even cool tone.

Soap frowned. That wasn’t what he’d been thinking of. That wasn’t even something that had crossed his mind. He’d meant to tell Simon that the feeling that passed between them when Simon drank from him, that the physical affection they’d both displayed prior to being interrupted, the sacrifices made by both of them for the sake of the other, that they could come back from those. Not that he would pretend Simon hadn’t poured out his deepest secret to him thinking he was on his deathbed. And certainly not that he would go and share it with anyone else.

“Simon, no one could pull your secret out of me, alright?” He glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye. He was staring into space again. “Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“It’s your turn to rest, LT.” Soap stood up and went back to the radio.

He didn’t have anything he needed to do, he just wanted to give Simon some space. He knew the man would fall back into his usual persona. He always did. And so would Soap. Pining wasn’t exactly the aesthetic he was going for, and he had to be back in a leadership mindset once they returned and recouped.

He hadn’t so much as kissed anyone in a while. He’d always imagined it would be more aggressive if he got mouth to mouth with Ghost, he imagined that the command the Lieutenant held in the field and on base would translate to command of another person in his hands. While he’d been the one to pull Soap close, he’d also let him lead. And he’d been in to it. In to it in a way that Soap hadn’t let the man know was obvious, because Simon needed his dignity and control of himself more than he needed any sort of gratification.

It hurt Soap’s heart, thinking about it. He figured that if Simon Riley wanted sex, he got sex, just like Soap could but for him to want to be seen and heard, it was likely much more difficult. He didn’t have to open his heart to be abnormally vulnerable, he just had to ask for normal human interaction.

How long it must have been since he felt safe with another person, not because there was much on earth that could threaten him, but because he felt he put everyone near him in danger. If he’d been alive as long as he said he had, he’d likely loved before. Experienced companionship, comfortability. And loss. It must be a dark, lonely existence to outlive everyone you learn to care about.

 He heard Simon lie down, and he didn’t look over until he felt maybe he’d fallen asleep. Then he stole a glance. Relaxed, he looked completely normal. Simply a man. And he still looked worn, his body fighting to heal the injuries he’d suffered, even if it was at a slightly inhuman pace. He felt himself a monster, and even if he was, he was a beautiful one.

It was maybe a couple of hours later when Soap heard a sound that pushed him to his feet. When he turned to see if Simon had woken, his eyes were on the door. Helo. Their rescue had come. He grabbed his flashlight and boots and slung his coat on as he heard Simon push himself into a sitting position. He ran out to signal for help.

Simon watched him. He wasn’t sure he’d actually slept, he’d just laid in silence and listened to Soap. He needed to be alone, to allow himself to decompress. He often did after a mission, thoroughly unable to process undesired emotions while working, or in the presence of others. This one was especially rough. The drop had most likely happened, so they’d failed. They’d gotten two men killed.

And he’d let a very important and very old wall come down. Things were escaping out from behind it that he’d not intended to let loose. He needed the time to sit quietly and repair it.

The sound coming from outside grew louder, so he reached for his boots and slid his feet into them. Relief loosened his shoulders and jaw. He’d be in a warm bed for the rest of the night, a real meal in his stomach. Soap would have the same. He’d get to see him leave this place in one piece.

He’d managed to get dressed the rest of the way when two men reentered the building.

Price, dressed warmly, looked Simon up and down as Soap began gathering the things they needed to return with. They’d leave the truck for now, taking only their clothes and weapons.

“Gave us quite a scare, Lieutenant.” Price said, his voice painfully serious but not cold.

“We didn’t have such a great time ourselves, Captain.” He matched the tone.

Price turned and waited for Soap to walk back out the door before speaking again. “The Sergeant said you were injured.”

Ghost nodded. “GSW.”

Price searched him, curious how much more detail he might get, and coming up disappointed. “We’ll get you looked at then.”

“Of course.” He looked away, walking to the fireplace and dumping what was left in their water reserve over the coals. “When do we brief the others?”

“Tomorrow morning, if all goes to plan.” Simon nodded. “Anything I should know before then?”

Ghost turned and faced him, stretching to his full height and steeling his shoulders. “We were ambushed, the other two couldn’t hold them off. I was hit, Sergeant Mactavish carried me out and we located shelter and began attempting SOS calls.” He lowered his voice. “Nothing to hide, sir.”

Price nodded and turned to Soap as he walked back in, standing by the door. “Alright, Sergeant?”

Soap’s face lit in a half grin. “Peachy, sir. Ready to eat somethin’.”

“Alright, let’s move then.” Price patted his shoulder as he walked by.

Simon moved to follow, but in the darkness, Soap stepped in front of him. He handed him something he’d pulled from his pocket.

Simon’s mask. Ghost’s. Simon took it, looking at it and then back at Johnny, wishing he could see his face a little clearer.

“There are others out there.” Soap said quietly and seriously.

“Thank you.” Simon said quietly and sincerely.

He pulled the mask, warm from being close to Soap’s body, over his head and followed him out the door. The snow was deep and difficult to walk through. He still felt weak, weaker than he’d like, but Soap kept pace just in front of him, slow enough to grab onto if he stumbled.

--

There was, for the time being, no real plan to go back into Russia, but the weapon’s in question were still in transit, and the operation still needed to be stopped. Soap was stationed there, technically, at a covert joint operations base outside Berlin. Simon wasn’t, but he wasn’t interested in bowing out due to his injuries so he made arrangements to stay in the city and await further instruction. He was back and forth quite a bit, though, shacking up in spare rooms when talks went long or when he began to dread the falsely cozy room he’d selected to rent.

It was one of those days. A meeting had happened, he drove a pickup from base back and forth despite his arm in a sling, and he’d decided to stay that night. They’d been back nearly a week, and the feeling of being displaced was very nearly comforting to him. ‘Home’ was nothing more than another bare apartment in London where he spent most of his time sleeping and eating and doing pushups and reading the same five books and letting the TV drone on in the background to drown out his thoughts. This was better. A good distraction.

He'd been out to hunt the night before and he felt stronger than he had since leaving. Physically. Mentally he felt weak, letting his mind wander quite a bit further and quite a bit more often than he liked, and unsurprisingly it almost always involved a certain blue-eyed Sergeant. He’d been wary of a change in Soap, worried that he’d hurt him somehow, or confused him. But he seemed same as always, graciously meeting Simon’s eyes when he spoke, not moving away from him when they passed. Seemed more likely that Simon had hurt and confused himself instead.

He wandered out the back door after dark, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. He’d bought them when they first got back, thinking it would bring back some normalcy. While he hadn’t been wrong, it had, he hadn’t indulged in them much anyway. But they were an excuse to stand near the back door and avoid mingling with the others.

He exposed his mouth and took a drag, letting the burn of it in his throat and lungs remind him of being young, hiding in much the same way.

He turned when he heard the door open. Johnny walked out. He was in comfortable clothes, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he clicked his lighter, a cigarette already in his mouth.

“Shit.” He said under his breath when it wouldn’t light. He tried again.

“Easy, Sergeant.” Soap whipped his head to look for who’d spoken. He knew who’d spoken, but he wanted to see him.

Simon stood and held his lighter out for Soap.

“Thank you, sir.” He mumbled. He finally lit the cig still between his lips. Simon took his seat again in the shadows.

Soap walked over and leaned against the wall near him. “How’s the city?”

Ghost contemplated his answer. “It’s loud.”

“You live in London, no?” Soap was tuned to Simon’s voice, prepared to leave if the conversation was unwanted.

But Simon seemed relaxed beside him. “I do. But I don’t love the noise.”

“I’m with you, I prefer it out here.”

It was quiet there, and for a bit, it was quiet between them. Simon spoke again first, surprising Soap and drawing his full attention.

“You recovering alright?”

It was Soap’s turn to contemplate. He could answer the surface question easily. But he suspected, while they were out there alone, that Ghost was asking about the other things. Being ambushed and losing half their team. Dragging Simon half-dead through the snow. Twice. Having his blood drained willingly from his body. Having his reality shaken.

“I’m okay, Simon. We made it.” He shrugged, as if it was a simple, lighthearted statement.

It felt darker to Ghost. “If you have questions, uh..” He trailed off, pulling a long breath of burning smoke. “There’s really no one else to ask.” He flicked ash onto the ground at his feet.

Soap smiled to himself, shaking his head. He figured it was the best way the man knew how to offer him support, or comfort. His smile faded though, as he noted that it was also self-preservation, backed by the anxiety that Soap might go looking for answers elsewhere. He wished he knew how to offer Ghost the same support.

“I have plenty of questions. I’m not trying to pry into your private life, Simon.”

Soap used his first name. Twice. It felt intimate when he did that, especially back in the real world.

“Pry, Johnny.”

The Sergeant turned and looked at Ghost whose eyes stayed straight ahead. He could barely see him in the dark, his face half covered, and his heart raced. He didn’t want to give up the opportunity in case he was never faced with it again.

And there were things he was concerned about, things he needed to know if he was going to go on living with this new knowledge.

“You told me that you thought everyone in your program was dead except for you. How do you know?”

“I’ve looked for them quite a few times since then. Read their obituaries.” He’d kept them, too, locked in a safe with most of the information he’d deemed important to keep since he was turned.

“Right.” Soap shifted, crossing one leg over the other. “And the program itself? The people running it?”

Simon noted the relaxed way Soap stood, listening to him. “Unconfirmed, but seems the program was shut down. Those involved would likely be decrepit or dead by now.”

“You said there was one that went with you. Chose not to….pursue humans.”

A hundred images of Roach flashed through Simon’s mind, dominated by the scared young man that stuck to him like glue when they escaped. But he’d been the stronger one. He’d saved Simon many times, pulled him back from the edge.

“Yes. There was.”

“You continued fighting, then?”

“We both did. Special forces, SAS, until I met Price.”

“He was with you all that time? When Roba captured you?” It was a sensitive subject, Soap knew, for most anyway. But anytime he’d heard Simon speak of it, he’d done so calmly. He understood now that it was likely his supernatural abilities that had saved him.

Simon could hear a bit of heat in Soap’s words, like it angered him that someone who he’d stuck so closely with for so long would allow that to happen. “He was already gone.”

Soap was quiet for a moment. “He left you?”

Simon’s voice softened. It fell into a cadence Soap was unfamiliar with. “No, Soap. He died. In 1946.” The conversation had angled itself just a bit too personal. A bit too close to his heart. But he let it. He figured it was fair for Soap to know, and fair for him to suffer. “We were undercover, cleaning up for the allies.”

“Ah.” Soap’s heart slowed, and tightened. He should be more careful with things so fragile. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Simon stood. “It’s alright, Johnny. You didn’t know.”

Soap planted his feet. “You were close.”

“We were a team.”

“And the healing?” He pushed.

Simon dropped the butt of his cigarette and crushed it under the toe of his boot. “No amount of heightened ability can put your brains back in your skull, Sergeant.”

Simon pulled his mask back down and went to reenter the building. He nodded to Soap as he walked past, hoping the man understood that he hadn’t angered him.

Soap did. But the revelation was harder to swallow than anything else he’d learned in the last couple of weeks. He had wondered if Simon had ever loved, not realizing his guarded mention of the man he’d left his first captivity with was a pained confession of lingering heartache.

Chapter Text

2007

Mexico

Simon Riley was weeks into the thing he hoped finally ended his miserable existence. Torture was nothing new to him, and it aided in his martyrdom, but this stint was beginning to turn him upon himself and he was desperate for it to end. His commander was dead, and the two other men he’d been with had already broken. Simon wasn’t particularly breakable but he was getting tired, and hungry. He’d begun to wonder why he didn’t just pretend to give in. Go along with it. Get out of these chains.

It was probably too late for that. Roba knew him now, he’d see through it. And principle made it difficult. Besides, maybe if he let himself fight back until Roba was the one that broke, he’d end up dead. A true martyr. Finally free.

The latest move by the man was different. An angle he hadn’t expected. Physical pain was easy for him to take, welcome even, and up until then it hadn’t been so bad. The usual, dull knives in tender flesh, flame throwers, pliers on fingernails. Nothing that wouldn’t heal or grow back. But he’d found, falling in and out of sleep, that there were certain things that would never grow back. Like dignity. He’d felt out of control of his body too many times in his life to count. He’d been used, discarded, beaten. But the humiliation of being exposed in a degrading way, having his own manhood, what little of it was left, forced into submission was something that was pushing him toward the edge.

She came back a second fucking time. Twice in one day. A man accompanied her, like her life was in danger. Like Simon could do anything to so much as defend himself. Maybe it wasn’t the same day. His sight went fuzzy around the edges and he realized he had no grasp on time at all.

“Hi, pretty boy.” She crooned. “We feeling a little better?”

Her fake concern tasted like soured wine on the back of his tongue. He swallowed the bile that rose with it. He hadn’t felt ‘well’ enough for her earlier. Couldn’t give her what she wanted. She’d left him naked, stretched out, his arms chained above his head. Before that, he’d wondered if she was a prisoner too, if what she did to him was her own brand of survival. He’d dug deep within himself to find some empathy for her. It soothed him a bit. But every time she showed up, every time real hunger for what she would inflict on him shone in her eyes, he lost it. He was beginning to believe she liked it. She lived for it.

“Thirsty.” He answered.

“Yeah, I bet you are.” She grinned, her drug-ruined teeth catching his attention. They reminded him of her humanity.

He was standing, his sweat making long streaks through dirt and blood down his abdomen and legs, his feet and shoulders aching from being unable to rest. He willed himself to retreat from his mind and relax, to let her have it this time, so she would let him down, let him sleep. Her hands were cold and rough. He almost preferred the man who’d raped him before her. He’d obviously been worked up by the blood and the sin of it, he’d lasted only a few minutes. But she liked to draw it out.

He'd been with plenty of women in his life. They were easy for him to finesse. He supposed that his current predicament might be a punishment for all the lies he’d told them to get them into bed. He closed his eyes and thought of them. The ones he could remember. How they would worship him, his dominance, how they didn’t know the truth, they had no reason to fear him. The numbness he felt with them, that separation between mind and body, he sought it with the woman in the cell. And it worked. She got what she wanted, using only her hands this time. He was relieved, no objects, no extra pain. She thanked him, kissed his mouth with her dirty one, and let him down.

He sat against the wall of the concrete room they locked him in, his hands still chained behind his back, his body still uncovered. He wondered, if he concentrated hard enough, if he could convince his own heart to stop beating. He closed his eyes and tried, but a sound jerked him back to reality.

He hadn’t heard the door open so he knew who the footsteps coming toward him must belong to. He cracked his eyes. Two booted feet stood in front of him. Blood dripped on the floor around them. Slowly, sorely, Simon raised his head.

“You’re doing it again.” The sweetly familiar voice said.

“You’re fucking doing it again.” He choked out. “Leave me alone.”

“Now.” Roach squatted down in front of him, close enough to touch. “We both know I’m not here of my own accord, Si.”

No one called him that. No other soul on earth. The casual, comfortable shortening of his name was allowed out of the mouth of only one person. He looked the rest of the way up, into the ruined face of the Sergeant. His Sergeant. He’d seen it plenty of times, it seemed to be plastered to the inside of his eyelids for years after the incident. It was never any less shocking.

“Please just let me die.” Simon said.

Roach looked him over with one operational eye. “What makes you think I’m stopping you?”

Simon looked at him in earnest then, let himself take in the gaping hole in the left side of his face. Every time Simon saw him, it was as though it had just happened. There was plenty of blood to cover up the bone and brain matter, and it ran down his face and hid his freckles and the color of his lips.

“Isn’t that why you’re here? To give me some reason to survive?” Simon felt venom in his words. Of all the times he had needed Gary since that night, he had a tendency to show up when Simon would much rather be alone.

“That’s why I’m here, love. So you don’t have to be alone.”

“Fuck you.” Simon closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the cinderblock wall.

“I do think it would be good for you to live, though. You’ve done a lot of good since we last spoke.”

Roach’s words didn’t echo in the empty room like they should have. Simon wanted to cry but he was so thirsty he didn’t think he had any moisture left in him. It should be him walking around and haunting people, he should have died that night. That was the mantra that got him out of bed every day. That he lived instead of Gary, so he had to take what was left of him to the world.

“You weren’t supposed to leave me.” Simon said.

“You weren’t supposed to leave me.” The dead man countered.

“Oh, god.” Simon whispered, leaning away from the man beside him far enough to puke on the ground and not in his lap. Wouldn’t have mattered, it was nothing but bile. A dry heave.

“I do think it would be good for you to live, though. You’ve done a lot of good since we last spoke.”

Simon turned and looked at him again. He knew he was actually alone. He knew Gary Sanderson was long gone.

“I miss you, Roach.”

“Do you?” He asked, crossing his arms. “Or do you miss having someone that understands you?”

“No.” Simon shook his head. “No. I miss you.”

“I’m glad it was me, honestly.” He fiddled with the gloves on his hands. “I wouldn’t have been able to go on this long without you.”

A dry sob choked Simon. What a cold, hard, monster he was, that he’d been able to move on. He swallowed. He hadn’t moved on, actually, since he was sitting here having a full conversation with the parts of Roach that still lived in his mind.

“You would have. You would have found someone who could love you better.”

“Like you have?”

“No.” He frowned, his eyes still closed. “I don’t deserve that. You did.”

“I do think it would be good for you to live, though. You’ve done a lot of good since we last spoke.”

“Bloody hell.”

“It does appear that way, doesn’t it.” Roach slid lower, propping his arms on his knees. Seemed he wasn’t leaving any time soon.

“I don’t think I’m getting out of this one, Roach.”

Roach nodded. “I don’t know if you will or not, Si. But I think you can.”

“They’re trying to break me like I wasn’t already broken. Losing myself, my humanity, losing the only good things I ever had. What else is there?”

“You are the luckiest man alive, Simon Riley, to have had those things at all, and to live long enough to find them again.”

“God, I hate you.”

“That’s alright. I’m really just you, after all.”

--

Simon slept and when he awoke, still naked, Roach was gone. He thought he could still smell him, blood and sweat, but he figured it was more likely his own. He was getting desperately hungry but he didn’t think he had the energy for bloodlust. He couldn’t imagine having to fight someone just to feed in this state.  He ran his fingers along a pair of deep cuts across his thigh. He’d forgotten what day they’d done it. He’d have to think for a moment about how. Didn’t matter. They were getting infected, hot to the touch. That would be a sad way to go, he thought. Rather boring. But effective, at least, since he didn’t think anyone was coming to tend to them.

But they were coming for him, for other reasons. Two men pulled him to his feet and put a pair of pants on him, leading him to a different room. He did his best to stay alert, so he had a memory of where he’d been. They put him in a room not dissimilar to the one he was in just before. He only sat there for maybe half an hour before Roba himself came in.

“I heard you pleased my lady today, Riley.”

Simon glared up at him in response.

“Still not talking, eh? You know, I’m getting very, very sick of you.” He spat on Simon who didn’t gratify him with a flinch. “What do you say we take it up a notch?”

The same two men from before picked him up again and this time they led him outside. It was warm, which he hadn’t expected. It smelled nice, like spring, which he hadn’t expected. He did expect to count his breaths though. He did expect they were his last.

They took him further out, away from the house above the bunker where he’d been kept. When they stopped, he looked at the tree before him, a rope hung from one of it’s higher branches. He settled his breathing, looking for opportunities to fight or run. They were going to hang him, or stone him, or—

When they got closer he could see the large hook hanging from the end of the rope, and he couldn’t help it, his eyes widened. He had to applaud their creativity.

“Ever been in a meat locker, Riley?” Roba said from beside him. Over him where he had landed on his knees. He didn’t answer. “That’s all you are, you know. Meat. And I’m beginning to fear you’ve forgotten that.”

Roba sounded delusional, but delusion and authority became unchecked power. Simon felt it best if the man was stopped before he let that power spread to other soldiers, and other civilians.

“That’s why I think you should live, Simon.”

Simon’s eyes shot to the man standing across the clearing. The hook, swinging in a light breeze, distorted his vision of Roach, but he locked his eyes there anyway. He was in fatigues, a rifle held across his chest. His face was whole, and young, not aged by what they’d gone through. He appeared how Simon remembered seeing him for the first time. When the hook swung again, he was the Roach he’d seen for the last time. Shredded. Simon watched as the vision flickered back and forth, and Roach’s voice was right in his ear even as he stood far away, in the shadows.

“I think you should live.”

Before Simon could answer, beg for him to stay, he was dragged beneath the tree, held down, and hanged by his ribs. The pain was so white hot, that he wasn’t sure his mind could register it. And he had no voice to cry out with. Tears filled his eyes and he kept counting his breaths until they took him down.

But they did take him down. And he was still breathing.

The blood loss would ruin him, he knew. More, even, than if he was just a strong, healthy man. He didn’t have to think about it long. Because they dragged him to an open coffin, and tossed him in like a ragdoll. He did try to fight that, not incredibly keen on small spaces. Not incredibly keen on being buried alive.

But he wasn’t alone. His commander’s body was inside from when he’d been killed by Roba and his men a few days prior. He had nothing left in his stomach to puke, but the last bit of fight in him went to try and prevent them from closing the lid. He failed. They buried him.

Pressed in from all sides, Simon knew he needed to ration his oxygen. That somehow, with ruined fingernails, bleeding out beneath his ribs, he needed to dig his way out of this. He tried and failed again to forget that he lay atop the rotting corpse of another of his enemy’s victims.

“Simon.”

Simon jumped, slamming the palm of his hand against the tight ceiling. Suddenly it wasn’t the other man’s body beneath him. It was Roach’s.

“Roach, god damn you. Can’t you please, please leave me the fuck alone. I can’t take this.”

“I’m sorry.” He spoke softly, a sadness in his voice that Simon had heard in him only a few times. Usually if they fought. He hated it. “I can’t let you be alone.”

“You’re making me go crazy.” Simon fought his breathing again. “I’m crazy.”

“You’re not. You’re alright.” He nodded to the top of the coffin. “Dig out of here, escape, and maybe you’ll never have to see me again.”

“Then maybe I won’t. Maybe we can lay here and die together like we should have six decades ago.”

“You think you deserve all this.”

“I know I do. You know I do.”

“Actually, better than anyone, I know you don’t. You deserve to find some peace. To stop looking for ways to suffer.”

“Well, you’re not real.” Simon reached across his body and into the mouth of the dead man with a grunt, gripping his jaw. “You’re not really here.” He pulled at it with all of his strength and it came free with a sound he’d pray to forget. “And I’ll always be looking for ways to suffer.”

--

Present

Joint Forces Base

Simon slammed back into consciousness with a force that had him up on his feet. Sometimes, soft beds and quiet rooms induced such incredible horrors in his mind, he wondered if it was worth even trying for a restful night. He lived his life needing distraction, even from sleep. He paced a few steps and caught his breath. His nightmares were almost always memories, a testament to a life that was far too long and far too dark.

He slipped into a shirt and left, walking the dark halls. His watch read two. Most people would be asleep, then.

Most people, but not the one he ran into near the kitchen.

“Lost, sir?” Soap held a steaming mug of something, and he was barefoot, likely also unable to sleep.

“Not lost.” Simon answered. He thought he should walk past Soap, go on down the hall, but for some reason he didn’t.

“Can I make you a cup, then?” Soap owed Simon some kind of apology for earlier. He just wasn’t sure he knew what to say. All of them had suffered, one lifetime’s worth. Simon had suffered three, or four, and it kept going.

“I don’t want to keep you.” Simon lied.

“Not a problem. Water’s already hot.”

The lights were low, Simon followed Soap back into the kitchen and sat at the small table. He pulled his face covering off.

Soap supposed he should have expected that, considering where they were, but it still sent a jolt through him. He supposed it always would. He sat across from him and handed him his own mug. Simon looped his finger through the handle and pulled it closer.

“What’s got you up?” Soap asked.

“Bed’s too soft.” Simon said, taking a sip.

Soap nodded. He understood. “I should apologize to you, for earlier.” Simon looked at him with raised brows, curious. “You said to pry, but I made it personal.”

Simon smiled, small and quick enough that Soap wasn’t sure he’d actually seen it. “Don’t go soft on me, Johnny.”

You deserve soft, Simon. “Not to worry, sir. Just don’t want you to hold it against me.”

“Not to worry.”

Chapter Text

They were silent for a few moments, drinking tea together in the middle of the night. Soap was a comfort to Simon, even if he wasn’t sure how to accept it. It was his ease in Simon’s presence, that his eyes didn’t fall when he was near. Simon was used to his air of authority causing those beneath him to bend to him. Soap never bent. Not even as Simon fell apart in front of him. Embarrassment and guilt would follow him for that for a long time, he thought.

Soap watched Simon in silence. And shamelessly. He wished he was a gentler person, that he didn’t have a tendency to come on too strong. He had vertigo from all he’d learned, knowing that Simon was greater than any human he knew, finding out he wasn’t actually human, learning that he had experienced some extremely human loss and pain. He wondered if anyone had ever gotten close enough to know he needed comfort, let alone into his space enough to say it out loud. It was curious to him, that Simon, as simply the man, was so clear now. Like he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

Simon was trying to hide it, miserably, and failing. They had gone too far before. Not too far as in he held regret, but too far for it to seem normal now. He told himself Soap had done for him what he would have done for any fellow soldier, but the way he knelt before Simon with that knife in his hand wasn’t normal at all. No matter the circumstances, that kind of willingness was kind and selfless beyond what vows they had sworn when taking their roles in the first place. Simon was a Lieutenant in the 141 because that’s what he was before joining, and Soap was a Sergeant, and it was no different than all the military relationships he had before.

Except the man before him carried his secret now. And it put them both in danger. Which was a confusing and comical concern for him since they lived their lives in grave danger anyway. That was the nature of the work.

“You alright, Simon?” Soap said it pointedly and cautiously, pulling his mug closer.

He’d watched Simon’s stare into space get longer and longer. He knew he could handle it, whatever it was. He was perpetually ‘alright’. But Soap wanted him to know he saw him.

“Fine.” He said, draining his tea.

Soap stood, taking his cup from him and putting them both in the sink. Simon had planned to walk back to his room alone, but Soap stood there, waiting for him. They walked into the mostly dark hall together.

Simon had grown to prefer his loneliness, but he didn’t mind Soap walking with him. He didn’t mind Soap chatting with him. He wasn’t really listening though, too focused on his heartbeat and the feeling of being alive beside another person. He felt a little like a moth to a flame. He felt a little like falling on his knees and begging his forgiveness.

He didn’t really hear what Soap said, but he noticed that he stopped walking.

“…back into Berlin tomorrow?”

Simon nodded absentmindedly, turning to face him in the dark hall. “How’s your arm?”

Soap frowned. He looked like he might laugh at him. “It was only a scratch, LT, I’ve just got it covered now for the bruise.”

Simon stepped closer and held out his hand. Soap stared at it for a second, his face softening as he looked back at Simon questioningly, like he felt he was in trouble. Simon ignored the bad taste it left in his mouth.

He kept his hand out and Soap placed his wrist in it begrudgingly, the open look on his face hidden. Simon removed the gauze covering it, turning it gently to inspect the injury he’d caused.

“You got some fixation on lookin’ at a bite, LT?” Soap said, his voice low. Teasing.

Simon knew he was teasing, but he didn’t have time to guard his reaction. He shot his eyes to Soap, like a deer in the headlights. Like the question had shocked him. As quickly as it had come, it was gone, and he looked back at Soap’s arm.

Soap swallowed. He should know it was an absolute fuckin nine ton weight on Simon’s shoulders, and not a joke. “Simon—”

“Just don’t want anyone asking about it, that’s all.” Simon said. He ran his thumb over the bruise again before dropping it.

“No one’s looking at my arm. No one’s asked.”

“Who wrapped it like this, then?”

“I did.” He grumbled, pulling at the piece of tape Simon left behind when he pulled it off.

Of course he did. Soap wasn’t stupid. Simon had to trust him, with everything and regardless of anything. Which incidentally was as intimate as he had been with someone in a long time, even when he pulled the man onto his lap and kissed him. The memory glued his feet to the floor.

“Something else I can do for you then, sir?” Calling Simon ‘sir’ in moments like that felt like a stiff drink to Soap. It burned but the high was worth it.

His eyes were worth it. They dropped to Soap’s mouth when he said it and back up like he thought Soap wouldn’t notice.

“It’s hard to forget what happened,” he motioned to Soap’s arm, “when I marked you like that.”

Soap straightened, whiplashed. “Why should we forget what happened?”

It felt important to him. Sacred, almost. To Simon, it was awful, like b-rated horror. To Soap it was an otherworldly experience. Something that connected them.

“I know how it felt to you, but I didn’t find it so pleasant.” Simon answered, sarcasm in his words. Soap was just glad to hear something beyond nothing.

“Which part are you referring to, exactly?” Soap’s voice was low, it might as well have been a whisper. He didn’t try to hide the fact that his eyes left Simon’s face and roamed his neck and chest where he stood inches from him.

"None of that was real, Soap.” Simon said, his voice just as low.

“Kissing? That wasn’t real?” Soap’s heart sank but he didn’t let the other man know. He was afraid of that, that it would be too slippery a thing for him to hold on to.

“You were drugged, I told you.” That same hesitation he’d heard before slipped through his voice, giving Soap an in.

“I think it was out of my system by then.” He said matter-of-factly. He knew Simon was stretching, trying to justify it away.

Simon shook his head, furrowing his brow, but Soap looked back at his eyes to find they were nowhere near his face. He took a risk, he took Simon’s arm in his hand where it hung by his side.

“Besides, it was never in your system, was it? When you kissed me back?”

Defeat in the form of frustration made Simon’s hands hot, but he didn’t move. “No, Johnny.”

“And now? Is it in my system now? Or yours?”

“No.” Simon took a breath, trying to force some of Ghost into his voice, needing the additional authority. “Johnny.”

“Does this feel real, then?”

Simon didn’t answer, he just turned his head to watch Soap grip his arm tighter and pull it toward himself.

Soap knew Simon’s arm was out of his sling because he’d been sleeping, and that his body was still knitting muscle and bone back together in his perfectly formed shoulder. So he was gentle as he flipped them, pulling Simon’s arm further, forcing him to turn, to stand with his back against the wall. Soap never let go of him, he just took his place, the one in control.

“How did I taste, Simon?” He said, leaning forward to speak closer to him. If Simon could get in a deep breath, their chests might touch. “Was I afraid?”

Simon stared down at Soap’s face, perfectly serious. It was too dark to see the blue of his eyes but somehow, knowing it was there made it hard for him to look away.

“No, Johnny.” Ghost never appeared. Simon was completely exposed.

“I don’t like being babied, Lieutenant, I can take care of myself.” He said it gently, with the intention of easing Simon’s worries. “I was never afraid of you and I’m not now.”

They still stood, Simon’s arm in Soap’s hands and otherwise not touching. “I don’t mean to baby you, Soap.”

“I know that.” Simon was paler than him. Paler than anyone, he supposed, because he kept his skin covered. Because he was always hidden. “What about you, huh? Who’s checking your wounds, Simon?”

Soap dropped Simon’s arm and placed his hand over the covered wound just beneath his ribs.

Simon flinched, not from the tenderness of the injury, but because of the physical contact. Johnny’s hands were warm and strong. They were steady, incredible assets, they were capable of things most men’s weren’t. Like touching a ghost.

“I can take care of myself.” Simon echoed him, his voice was still low, so were his eyes, but they held little force.

Soap moved his hand, placing it on Simon’s shoulder and running his thumb over where he knew the other entry wound to be. “Maybe I should take a look at them anyway.”

He stepped away from Simon, removing his hand, giving him a chance to walk away. Simon stood up off the wall, but he didn’t leave. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to let this person, who he trusted, who saw him, take a little more of his time. He was tired, his mind had been pulled so many directions that night, and Soap had appeared and pulled him back together. Grounded him. The feelings weren’t confusing and they weren’t unfamiliar, they were just an open door to memories and hopes he’d been trying to avoid.  

“Where.” He said it like a statement. A command for Soap to lead him, his last attempt to vie for authority.

Soap accepted the command gladly, nodding once and walking down the hall a few steps before turning into what Simon guessed was his room. It was clean and relatively empty and it felt like an intrusion, bringing his great sorrows into it.

Soap pulled a chair away from the wall, closer to the lamp near his bed that he’d already clicked on.

“Sit.” Soap said. The light was warm, but not very bright.

“I’ll go to a medic for this, Soap, you don’t need to do it.” Simon didn’t know why he wanted to back out then. Showing weakness wasn’t in his field manual. Neither was friendship, or whatever it was between them. He blinked, tensely waiting for Soap to tell him to get up, then. Go on.

“A bit late for that, isn’t it?” He came to stand behind Simon. “Shirt.”

Simon pulled his t-shirt off over his shoulders, keeping his arms in the sleeves and holding it against his body. Noncommittal. 

Soap very carefully lifted the bandages that the afore mentioned medic had recently replaced. There was no real need for him to do this, nothing he could provide for him beyond what had already been done. But he was desperate to remind Simon that he was just a man, that he didn’t have to walk around like he was untouchable. Not around him.

The wound didn’t look so bad. It looked weeks ahead of where it should be. It raised a different kind of concern in Soap. “Maybe you should be letting me take care of these. They’ll surely notice it looks like a cat scratch and not a gunshot wound.”

“I’ll just do it myself.” Simon said.

Soap guessed he wasn’t used to having another option. “Just let me, okay?” He walked around him and removed the bandage from the front of his shoulder. “Let me. I know what I’m doing.”

He smelled good. Whatever he’d washed his clothes with, whatever he’d washed his hair with, it smelled nice. And the little room felt like home. Simon was jealous of it.

Standing over him, Soap didn’t let himself become too soft. He didn’t want his superior to know he wanted to touch every scar on his body as gently.

“What I really wanted to know earlier was if you were safe. From the people that did this to you.”

Simon picked up on the way he spoke about the program. What little he knew of it. Like it was no different than the torture he’d experienced later. Like it wasn’t something he’d willingly volunteered for. He ran his tongue over a sharp canine to feel the sting.

“I don’t know, not for sure, but it doesn’t matter now.”

“Why doesn’t it matter now?” Soap leaned forward and inspected his stitches. “These look good, if I say so myself.” A smile lifted the corner of his mouth.

“It doesn’t matter, Soap, because that part of my life is over.” Simon looked up at him. At his smile. “If they were coming for me again, they would have been here a long time ago.”

“Alright.” Soap straightened, stood back. He walked back behind Simon to recover the stitches. “You can relax, Simon. It’s just me.”

He laid a warm hand on his shoulder, noting that he’d been tense since he sat down. He wished he could take it away, ever. Even one time. He wondered if it was permanently set in the muscles of his neck and the lines of his face.

Just me. Just Johnny. The man wasn’t just anything. Simon let his shoulders drop. If there was one safe place on earth, it was there with him as proven by their experiences time and time again.

Soap taped fresh gauze over the stitched bullet hole. It would leave a scar in spite of his handiwork. Another scar. Like the one at the base of his neck that disappeared into his hairline. It was beautiful, the way his unnaturally strong body had stitched itself back together. How it had healed him. Soap leaned down and kissed it.

Simon felt Soap’s lips on his skin and instead of tensing, he relaxed further, thinking how nice it was for someone to simply accept his existence.

His nightmares had left him feeling raw and ugly and the façade he’d donned when he ran into Soap had slipped when they entered the hallway, much the same way it had slipped when Soap walked back in that cabin and threatened to slice his own wrist. To save Simon’s life. And maybe he was doing the same now.

Soap stood, Simon turned his head slightly, listening for his heartbeat or his voice. They were both even as Soap stepped in front of him and spoke.

“I’m not going to push for something, Simon, if you don’t want this—"

Simon reached out and gripped the front of Soap’s shirt, pulling him against his mouth. He kept his eyes open, he watched as Soap’s widened in surprise before closing as he leaned in to it. He braced his hand against Simon’s good shoulder and pushed him back into the chair. He pushed further, running his tongue along Simon’s lips, asking him to open.

Simon gripped both of his arms and pushed him off of him, standing. But he held onto Soap, keeping him close. His wide eyes glinted in the lamplight as he froze, waiting for Simon to shut him down.

“Careful, Sergeant.” He swallowed, his breathing quick and shallow. “Teeth.”

Soap searched his face, looking for some other warning and finding only a tired, cautious man. “I’ll be careful.”

Simon moved his hands from Soap’s arms to the sides of his face and kissed him roughly, pushing him back the few steps to the closed door and pinning him against it. Soap wasn’t as careful as he probably should have been, wrapping a hand around the back of Simon’s neck, letting his fingers brush the same scar he’d kissed before, and forcing his tongue into his mouth.

He tasted like smoke and the tea they’d shared. Soap slowly snaked his left arm around the taller man’s waist, testing. Simon gave in, letting him pull his body against his own. Soap carefully ran his tongue along the edge of one of those deadly teeth.

Simon pulled away again, the length of his body still resting along Soap’s. “Why aren’t you afraid?”

He laid his head back against the door and looked up into the quizzical face of his Lieutenant.

“What’s there to be afraid of?”

“Should I name some examples?” Simon smiled, just enough to reveal his teeth. It was cold, and Soap marveled at it nonetheless.

Soap pushed against him, standing back up straight. He took the hand from Simon’s back and placed it on his chest, pushing until they stood in the middle of the room.

“I’ve seen a lot of horrible things, Simon Riley. A few alongside you, a few because of you, but never you. You were never horrible. I was never afraid.”

“Even now.”

Soap looked him up and down, at his soft clothes, his soft eyes. “Especially now.”

“Well maybe you should be.”

Soap’s face hardened. A fiery look entered his eyes that Simon hadn’t seen directed at him before. “You can order me around, LT, I know you can. And I’ll do anything you say. But you don’t get to tell me what I should or shouldn’t be afraid of.”

He found his hand back on Simon’s chest, pushing again. Pushing until the back of his knees hit the bed. Simon’s hand came up and gripped Soap’s wrist as he sat. He knew Soap was aware of the state he was in. The way it felt to press up against his body, even through all their clothes, was erotic at best. It felt dirty to him, like he would use the man again, whether it was against his will or not.

But it was Soap that dropped to one knee in front of him, surprising him.

“Soap—”

Soap looked up at him, his hands on the waistband of Simon’s pants. “Tell me to stop.”

He couldn’t. He shook his head and Soap hooked his hands in the waistband of the pants and pulled. Simon leaned back on one hand and raised his hips slightly, letting him. It felt backward. He should be on the ground at Soap’s feet, since he’d vowed to repay him. But the look on his face made it seem like Simon was doing him a favor anyway.

Soap pulled Simon free, running his hand gently over the hard length of him and enjoying the way it made him shift in his seat. He could have imagined that his cock would be as beautiful as the rest of him, but it was still something to admire. He only gave himself a second though, before he flattened his tongue against the underside of him, running it from base to tip.

“Fuck.” Simon whispered, barely audible, as Soap took him all the way into his mouth.

Soap moved slow, both of them knowing the anticipation would make it a painfully short interaction. Simon tasted like salt and skin, perfectly, devastatingly human. Simon placed his hand on Soap’s head, in his hair, not to push him, just to hold him.

Soap went deeper, opening his throat, making his eyes water. Heat coiled at the base of Simon’s spine. What they were doing was wrong, in principle, but he was talented at justifying things. He could justify this.

Soap pushed his hand against the crease of Simon’s hip, the other gripping him at the base, working his hand and mouth together at a steady pace until Simon spoke again, breathless.

“Johnny.”

It was a warning that simply pushed him faster, and Simon closed his eyes, silent as he finished and Soap swallowed around him. Slowly, he pulled off of him, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

Simon eyed him for a second, heat in his cheeks that he knew Johnny could see. He didn’t know what to do, if he should try and get his turn, or leave. He reached for the collar of Johnny’s shirt, like he wanted to pull it off.

Soap caught him by the forearm. “No, Simon. I wanted to get a taste of you this time. Go and get some rest, alright? I’ll see you when you’re back on base.”

Simon bent and kissed him again, quickly, pulling his clothes back on. He stood and left.

--

He was far too wired to go back to bed. Simon paced the floor of the small room Price had offered him should he want to stay some nights there, and decided he didn’t want to stay at all. He was planning to leave the next morning anyway. So he left then, the adrenaline of what had happened in Soap’s bedroom pushing him down the lonely road far too quickly. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t bad. It was the only thought he had. Of course it wasn’t bad, it was like a fantasy, but it was bad of him. Bad of him to get off on his subordinate. Bad of him to leave like that.

But god, it was good. It was good to know he hadn’t lost Soap.

He’d been horribly self conscious of his body, especially since Roba, and he’d barely sought anyone else’s bed since then, even when he was in need. And no bed had ever felt like a safe place, one where his guard could be down. Not since his last life.

He might be old, so wrongly old, but he still felt things. Try as he might, he wasn’t numb yet. And Soap was under his skin. Literally. His blood pumped through Simon’s veins.

Simon stepped off his motorcycle and pocketed the key. The place he’d chosen was dingy and quiet, near the edge of the city. He guessed it must be near four in the morning. He’d barely get any sleep before the sun rose, but he didn’t have anything planned for the day. He could take the time to cool off.

That was the last thought he had before entering the building. When he did, when the door shut behind him, he paused. He could hear another heartbeat nearby, somewhere in the shadows. He chided himself for not being more alert, and in the same breath told himself it was nothing to worry about. He was in a hotel in a huge city, after all. There were people.

But the person that heartbeat belonged to had been waiting for him. He approached Simon as he slid his key into the lock of his room. Simon turned to him as he raised his hand to tap his shoulder. The man dropped his hand but didn’t step back.

“Are you Simon Riley?” He asked in a heavy German accent.

“Who’s asking?” Simon hovered a hand near the gun he had strapped beneath his jacket.

The man, who was as tall as Simon if not somewhat thinner, pulled a syringe from his own pocket.

Simon vaguely registered that he was falling forward, and then nothing.

Chapter Text

Soap watched Simon walk out.

It hadn’t bothered him that he left, he was only glad he had stayed as long as he did. That he had followed Soap into the room at all.

He knew, to be still and let someone stand over him was not something Simon was used to. It always seemed that Ghost was the one to leave precarious situations unscathed, and now he knew why. But he hadn’t left this one unscathed. Soap knew he was in the line of fire when Simon got hit. He hadn’t found it in himself to mention that, not yet.

Knowing he could get Simon riled up, that there was a physical want, was satisfying but it was the emotional vulnerability that sat heavy in Soap’s chest. And it wasn’t much, it was small taste after small taste. Admitting he felt he should be feared was one of those pieces.

They’d gotten closer in Mexico, a mission that had seen serious betrayal and narrow escape, and they’d proven they made an excellent team. And Ghost had proven, whether he wanted Soap to realize it or not, that he was protective of him. That he didn’t want to lose him. None of them wanted to lose each other, but it was inevitable in their line of work, and self sacrifice to prevent it was generally looked down upon. They all knew the risks. The task at hand was the only goal.

Soap had been injured on that one and Ghost had hung back, stuck beside him. He’d gotten him out. And Soap knew that. They hadn’t spoken about it, not during or after, but it had meant something to him. Sometimes, when he saw what even a moment of kindness could do to the man, he wished he’d thanked him better. Told him what it had really done for him. He wore that mask to protect himself, Soap was well aware of that, but many were too wary of what might be hiding beneath it to go searching. Soap had been offered a rare glance at it. At Simon.

He'd heard Simon leave the base. He hadn’t been able to wind down for a bit either, Simon’s hand in the collar of his shirt something he very much wanted to give in to. But it hadn’t been about him. He hadn’t wanted it to be. It had been an apology in a way. Sorry you had to risk your darkest secret on me. Sorry you lost the one person who truly related to you. Sorry I can’t do more for you, Simon. Sorry I pushed at an open wound.

It had also been a want. Like a fantasy. Soap had always been loved, by his family, his friends. He knew he was a likeable person and he embraced it because it was something he could use to his advantage. His own mask. He had wanted to let it down for Ghost the same way Ghost had removed his for Soap. He didn’t want to joke and play, he wanted to sit the man down and show him just what he was willing to do for him. Without asking for something in return.

He wanted to protect him, not physically because god knows he didn’t need it, but emotionally. Protect his peace. Maybe he didn’t have any left to protect, maybe it was wild of Soap to think he had the ability. But he could open himself up to try. Give him a safe place. Not that he hadn’t had one before, he just hadn’t had one in a long, long time.

--

It was late morning, judging by the way the sun came through a single window at the top of the wall. Simon had been awake for a while, groggy, coming off of whatever they’d drugged him with. He remembered why he hated the city. You could be knocked out and dragged through the halls and streets and no one gave a fuck.

His weapons were gone, as was his shirt and his mask but his tags remained, which he noted with a shiver. His bottom lip was split, he ran his tongue over the tender, swollen flesh. He must have fought. Otherwise, he seemed unharmed. Just confused. He’d made a lot of enemies in his life, but none very recently, and few that would be able to find him there, in Berlin, in that dirty little excuse for a hotel. He calmed himself, fighting for clarity, and listening for his captors to finally approach him. He hoped it was a random kidnapping of some sort, that it wouldn’t put anyone else in danger. He shifted, trying to keep his cuffed hands from falling asleep. If he did things right, he’d be out before anyone knew he was missing. He wasn’t due back on base until the next night.

He could hear footsteps from beyond the metal door so he stood. He steeled his shoulders, stretching to his full height. He didn’t know who they were, and they thought they knew him. But he wasn’t Simon Riley in that moment. He was just a ghost, and it was likely they didn’t know what they were messing with. A man, not the one from a few hours before, walked in. Two followed him, taller and stronger. Guard dogs. One of them was the man that had approached him in the hall. Ghost eyed all of them with his chin high, but his gaze kept landing on the first man. He was oddly familiar, a beard covering most of his face.

“Simon Riley.” The bearded man spoke, in the same accent.

“Yes, but—" Ghost said, his voice and face expressionless.

“Riley, S. It’s on your tags.”

“Riley is not an uncommon name.” Ghost countered, making sure his voice let the man know he was annoyed by his ignorance.

“Do you know of another Simon Riley? Your father maybe?”

Ghost ignored the mention of his long-dead, monster of a father. “I’m not acquainted with all of them, no.”

The man chuckled, his hands clasped behind his back. “Fine, then. Maybe I can jog your memory.”

Simon blinked, his gaze cold, hard, and unchanging. He didn’t speak or move or alter his breathing. He was too busy looking for a way out. Even if he pushed past them, he’d have to find a way to free his hands, and he didn’t know where he was. He could hear traffic so he assumed they hadn’t strayed far from the city.

The man spoke again. “Simon Riley was a soldier, a British Commando, in the second world war. Six-foot-four, blonde, brown eyes. Part of an underground covert operation run by multiple allied…..leaders.”

Ghost stood perfectly still. Perfectly unchanging. Staring the man down, waiting for him to say he was kidding. Waiting for him to say literally anything else.

In the meantime, he took stock of his vitals, thinking perhaps he wasn’t actually conscious. But if he was, then his life was over. Because if they knew who he was, what he was, there was no chance that it was friendly. There was no chance he would let them have anything from him, or the people he knew, he would finally find a way to beat the hunger and end all of it. It felt too soon, to his surprise. He didn’t feel done.

But he let none of it show. The man didn’t continue speaking, he just crossed his arms and raised his brows like he thought the man before him would admit to being over a century old with such little prompting. But he was right. That was his description, a basic summary of a fraction of his life. One few knew.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ghost lowered his brows and cocked his head slightly in what he felt was convincing confusion. No one spoke. He forced a low laugh. “That would make me unable to stand in front of you at best, yeah?”

The man removed one of his folded hands and waved it. “That brings us back to the underground covert operation.”

Ghost frowned deeper, still feigning confusion. “Like something I learned in school? How would I know about an eighty year old covert operation?”

“You’re a part of some covert operation now, no?”

Ghost smiled then, cutting his eyes like he was trying to get them to admit it was a joke. “That’s classified.”

“And you are not the Simon Riley who was a part of the operation that took out possible Polish leaders of an elusive Fourth Reich.”

Again, no reaction from Ghost, but it felt like a hot poker in the center of his chest. That mission had killed Roach. He didn’t know if they knew anything about that, or about Gary. He figured it was likely they did, and it was how they hoped to prove his identity. By making him flinch. He didn’t, and he channeled the pain of the reminder into a display of frustration.

He stepped toward the man in the middle of the half-lit room, making his guards hand their guns. “I’m a thirty-six year old man who has been drugged and dragged around a strange city for god knows what, and I’d appreciate being unchained and sent on my way. I don’t know any Simon Riley, or any Fourth Reich.”

His captor looked frustrated now, a slight change in the angle of his eyes, but Ghost saw it, and he knew he had the upper hand.

“Whoever you’re looking for is dead. You sound crazy.” He spit on the ground for emphasis.

The man nodded to one of the guards behind him. Ghost watched him walk toward him and fought his instincts to take a defensive stance. They couldn’t know he was trained or that he would heal quicker than normal. He was lucky his lip was still crusted with blood, still swollen, so they couldn’t tell it looked better than it should.

The guard walked toward him quickly, ramming him in the stomach with the butt of his rifle. Ghost doubled over, mostly for show, but not for lack of pain, the handle narrowly missing where he’d been shot not a week prior. The man flipped the rifle and hit him across the back of the knees, knocking him to the ground. He let himself fall. Slowly, he looked up to where the bearded man came to stand over him.

“You can continue to lie, young man. We will find you out.” He squatted to look into Ghost’s eyes. “I’ve been directed to handle Simon Riley with kid gloves. No harm can come to him, not for now. That’s the only reason that you’ll walk out of here of your own accord.”

The same man that had knocked him to the ground bent and unlocked his handcuffs. Ghost stayed on his knees, taking a true, deep breath. His stomach would bruise, he ran a hand gingerly over it. The hand shook as he let it hang back by his side. No matter why, the fact that anyone knew his name, such specifics, anyone who mentioned that….covert operation, was terrifying to him.

He slowly got to his feet. His mouth was dry and he was still half clothed. He walked out through the door they’d left ajar for him, thinking he would poke around their location. It was a small warehouse, empty except for a few pallets and trash. The room he’d been in seemed to be the only space with a lockable door. There was one other door on the far side and he walked toward it. The fact that they barely pushed him around, that they left so easily meant one of two things. Either they were one hundred percent sure he was who they were looking for and they weren’t ready to imprison him for some reason, or they were doubtful of who he was so they found no use in pushing further.

The door opened to an empty broom closet. He shut it back and approached the outside door. They could be watching him now. They could follow him back to base. He would have to find another place to stay, leave when he was sure he was in the clear. He had to act like things were normal, he couldn’t run until he knew he wasn’t leaving a possible crisis behind him.

He slid out the side door and inspected his surroundings. He walked to the  nearest street as discreetly as he could. It was a familiar name. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. They hadn’t taken him more than a few blocks from where he’d been staying. He made his way back, avoiding people’s eyes. This kind of behavior was meant to scare him, to prove who he was by judging his reaction. By seeing if he hid. If he acted like a man who was an unfortunate victim of mistaken identity, then maybe it would become the truth.

He was surprised to find the bike in the same place he’d left it. He walked to the door of his room. It was unlocked, his things had been tossed about. The only other identifying item was lying next to his wallet. His ID. It listed his first and last name, a random address in London, a 1986 birthdate. It wouldn’t have been helpful to them.

He redressed, packed his things, went and paid, and found a café closer to the city center. Somewhere that he could blend in a little further, just by the sheer number of people around him. He felt more shaken than he wanted to. He didn’t run for the simple reason that it would make him look guilty. And because there was another person on earth that knew. That might look. He’d made a lot of mistakes in his life, but pulling Soap into this mess was one of the more regretful ones. If Simon ran, Johnny would look, he would wonder, and if he found something he shouldn’t then he would again be in the line of fire.

He’d almost lost Soap once before. Another memory he kept finding far too close to the surface. In Mexico, rain falling, and a bullet that should have been his. He’d realized then that the only version of family he’d ever really known had started with another orphaned soldier boy underground in Germany and would end with the team commanded by John Price. If he had to leave them, he would, to keep them safe. But it would hurt.

Simon had been forced into unwilling vulnerability too many times in too short a window. And now, he sat in a café, behind a VPN, searching the corners of society for any clue that a horror he thought he was free of had returned.

--

Soap was pacing the meeting room when Ghost walked in. He hadn’t been back on base in a couple of days and his presence brought a calm with it. Soap stopped walking and came to stand next to him to speak with Price. He smelled like the open air he’d ridden through to get to base. Soap scolded himself privately for even noticing. For being distracted.

Price pointedly went and closed the door, shutting them in.

Ghost had been meticulous in making sure he wasn’t followed. It had nearly made him late which was extremely out of character. He vowed to do nothing else to make it appear that he was completely rattled.

“We have a slight problem.” Price said on a sigh, taking a seat.

Both men held steady, listening.

“The men you killed in the woods weren’t affiliated with the Russian drop we were tracking. The drop happened. That’s a different issue, but we were contacted anonymously and told that the men you killed were assassins of some sort, and that since you lived, you’re still in danger.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Unsure what to say, Soap looked at Ghost. The man shifted on his feet, leaning forward as though he hadn’t heard correctly.

“Contacted anonymously? By assassins?”

“Look.” Price waved a hand nonchalantly. “This is typical of them, the Russians, to try and turn things into something they’re not. They failed to stop us, they want us scared. But,” he stood again, “I think it’s best if you stay put for a bit. Stay here.”

Soap felt settled when he said it. He’d rather have Ghost there, especially if there was danger. And mostly selfishly. But he cut his eyes to the Lieutenant when he spoke. Harshly.

“No.”

Price narrowed his eyes. “I can offer you a more permanent room. But, yes.”

Ghost didn’t move again, he didn’t even take a deep breath, he just stood like a statue as Price detailed where they would be headed next, a few weeks later. To try and stop the next drop, and track the location of the first before it was to be distributed. When Price dismissed them, he turned on his heel and left.

Soap went back to his room, he’d been out running before and he needed a shower. Maybe he would catch Simon later, or maybe he shouldn’t hope for things like that. Maybe the taste of him that he had gotten was one he’d have to make last.

Simon was on the verge of a panic he hadn’t felt in years. Decades, nearly. He’d spent the last day and a half digging again for the names of the people involved in the operation from the forties. Something he hadn’t done in a long time. There were new places to look now, new ways to gain access to information. He needed to visit a library and now he wouldn’t be able to. He needed a stiff fucking drink but he didn’t see that in his near future, either.

He hadn’t been followed there, maybe it was the safest place for him for a bit. Even if he had been, they wouldn’t be able to get to him on the inside without being caught.

But he had thought he was free of it. He’d told Soap just forty-eight hours earlier that he was safe from them. Told him that that part of his life was over. He hadn’t meant to lie.

This wasn’t expected, he didn’t know how to handle it and he would need to feed soon, unprepared to be stuck there. Meaning he’d have to sneak around and that wasn’t particularly something he wanted to do, either. Without giving it much thought, he grabbed clean clothes and made his way to the showers. He could drown out his thoughts long enough to reset.

But Soap was there. His things were in the locker room, and Simon’s heart sank at the fact that he recognized them as Soap’s things. He had wanted that moment with the other man more than anything. To finally be somewhere, anywhere, where he could relax for a few breaths. Close his eyes in safety.

He got in a shower, knowing he could stay inside until Soap was long gone. Against his better judgement, he stood under the hot water, hot enough to burn, and listened for the other man’s heartbeat. It was far, obstructed by other sounds, but he could hear it. Steady, regular. He closed his eyes and worked to match his to it until the water shut off and he heard Soap leave. He was tired and sore and he wanted to lie down and process. He didn’t know if he had time for that, but he knew he wouldn’t be much use until he did.

He didn’t keep track of how long he was there. His mind was beginning to flood with visions of dark rooms and basements and futuristic medical equipment and the little lies he’d told himself then to keep from fighting. To keep from being a coward. He needed those words again.

He shut off the water and got out, lost in those dark thoughts. There were other people nearby, so he would grab his things and go to the room Price had given him and lie down. He hadn’t been expecting that Soap would still be sitting there in the locker room. Maybe he hadn’t waited as long as he’d thought.

Soap had just pulled on his pants, his eyes were on the drawstring. “Sorry, sir.” There was a smile in his voice. “I’ll be out of your hair in one—”

His eyes lifted, and he caught a glimpse of Simon as he turned away. A glimpse of a growing bruise across his abdomen. He hesitated. He shouldn’t say anything, maybe it was from his previous injuries. But he’d just seen the man without his shirt two days ago and he would have noticed something like that.

Soap kept his tone light. “How’d you get that mark, LT? You wreck that bike of yours?”

Simon didn’t feel he even had the energy to try and hide. He just wanted to be left alone. “It’s nothing.”

Something in his voice triggered Soap. He’d heard defeat in him before and his voice had fallen from it’s usual place to somewhere more hollow. He hesitated again. Debated. There was a fine line between comfort and more hurt.

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” Soap said, far more serious. He slowly, unnecessarily folded his towel again.

“Can we not?” Simon sighed, embarrassing himself. There was no we.

Soap straightened. Stiffened. He should leave, give Simon some space, but he rarely did what was good for him and his curiosity was as thick as his concern. He walked to Simon where he faced the sink, well aware he was in nothing but a towel.

“Let me see.” He gripped Simon’s arm in a great move of insubordination and turned him.

Simon didn’t fight him. It was too late to hide it. He let his arm fall out of Soap’s grip as he leaned back against the sink. Soap looked at the fresh bruise without touching.

After a moment, Simon crossed his arms, hiding it. “Satisfied?”

Soap took a step back, looked up at his face. “I suppose but—"

He noticed Simon’s lip. Simon wished he’d remembered not to put it on display like that.

 “What the hell is that, huh?” Soap’s voice was quiet. “Who did that to you?”

Simon eyed Soap down his nose, beneath lowered lashes. He ran his tongue over the wound absentmindedly. There would likely be no more truth between them, but the taste of finally sharing the load was desperately hard for him to give up. Not so hard that he couldn’t let it go to protect the Sergeant. Keep him from digging too deep.

“I crossed someone outside the hostel I’ve been holed up in. Got a nice left hook and an elbow to the face before I could stop him. Didn’t want to scare him, you know.”

Soap frowned deeper and ran his thumb over Simon’s lip. It hurt and it felt like an electric shock. He refused to flinch away from him. “You want something for it?”

“All I want is some sleep, Johnny.”

Soap stepped back again, toward the door. “You sure you’re alright?”

His voice was quiet again, so deeply genuine.

Simon lied through his teeth so easily that they ached from it. “I’m fine, Soap. I can take care of myself.”

Chapter Text

When Simon was simply visiting the base on occasion, he found it easier to keep any wayward feelings at bay. But now, he’d had a bit of a situation come up and he couldn’t escape Soap to deal with it. Price had given him a larger, more permanent quarters as he had requested, but he was so on edge, he spent little time in it.

He had to get ahead of whatever the men that had captured him were doing. If they had let him be so easily, then maybe they were simply trying to find a foothold to restart what those scientists had abandoned all those years ago. But if they were far enough along to be looking for him specifically….he had told Soap he thought the rest of them were dead. If he was the only one left then he would be essential to whatever they were trying to do.

Simon was pacing outside the back door, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. He was getting ahead of himself. He had to get access to some information, he had to find a way to get to the bottom of how they knew his name, how they found him. He would start there and he wouldn’t let his fears drag him too far in any one direction. It had been two days and the bruise on his side was already healing, but it was still a bit sore. He had made a mistake letting Soap see that he was injured at all, even if it was minor. They had been avoiding each other. Or Simon told himself that, anyway. Really, he had been avoiding the piercing eyes of the Sergeant, knowing it was only a matter of time before Soap got to the point that he couldn’t let it go. Simon’s lie was a poor one, and they both knew it.

The door opened and he knew that particular jig was up. Soap walked out and stood in the grass, lighting his own cig. He didn’t say anything, he just looked out into the night. Into the sky. The stare reminded Simon of the night they’d set up camp in the Russian forest. A little bit of wonder. Until he turned to size up the Lieutenant who was staring directly at him as though he had no shame at all.

“Been looking for you, Ghost.”

Somehow, his use of the nickname seemed cold and it made Simon feel like he wanted to shrink. The thought forced him to realize that the acceptance of Johnny Mactavish was something he craved quite seriously. He didn’t give anything away to the man.

“Been here all day.” Simon motioned back toward the door Soap had exited.

Suddenly, Soap lost his nerve altogether. He’d wanted to approach Simon, confront him, really, and ask him what had happened in the city. He had imagined a lot of different possibilities, mugging, scuffle at a bar, but he couldn’t pinpoint why Simon would lie about any of those. And he knew a left hook hadn’t caused a bruise like the one on his stomach.

Something was off. Since they’d gotten back, too many strange things had been fed to Soap that he was expected to just believe. Maybe he would have, too, if they weren’t coming on the heels of the great revelations from his time stuck in the snow with Simon. The first was that science, as long ago as the 1940s, had found a way to stop death. And the second was that the feelings he had for his superior were very real and, at least on a physical level, reciprocated. Now he felt the need to question everything and he attempted to chalk his uncertainty up to that and that alone. He trusted Price, and he trusted Simon, and if he lost that he knew he’d begin looking for some kind of escape.

Soap looked down at his feet for a moment before walking closer to the taller man. “I want to know your thoughts on this Russian assassination bullshit from Price.”

Simon was tempted to scold the Sergeant for questioning his leadership. For calling what Price had told them bullshit. For speaking to his Lieutenant like an equal. But nearly shoulder to shoulder, knowing what they both knew, it was called for. Welcomed, even. Simon didn’t usually mind the loneliness of his high rank. He didn’t need the companionship of other tired, young men. Until now, he needed the companionship of the one beside him. He needed something to ground him and the warm, booted presence of Soap did that.

“I agree, I think it’s bullshit. But if he’s giving us bullshit, he must have a good reason.”

“Sure, but what are we supposed to do, sit on our hands?”

“If that’s what keeps you safe, then yes.”

Simon bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to single Soap out in the statement.

“You think you’re indestructible, then.”

“No.” He took a long drag. Soap thought he might not speak again. After a moment, he looked down and continued, toeing the dirt. “But I’m less destructible than you.”

Soap ignored the warmth that Simon’s protectiveness gave him, because deep down he knew it was suicidal and selfish. He relaxed his frown. That’s what protectiveness always came down to, wasn’t it? The want to keep them for yourself, or die trying.

“You going to tell me what really happened to your face?”

Simon waited a moment before answering, not debating, just knowing it wouldn’t be what the other man wanted to hear. “No.”

Soap nodded and said nothing else. Simon’s orbit no longer felt calm. Caught in it, Soap was worried, and infinitely curious. He felt Simon would be truthful if he knew more about what Price had told them. He trusted they were both in the dark. And with the injuries to his body and face, he wasn’t lying either, he just wasn’t willing to tell Soap what was going on. Because of all he had told Soap, it meant it must be something serious or dangerous or embarrassing. Soap was a patient man and for the time being he had nothing better to do than wait and see if Simon was willing to give him answers or not.

--

Three days passed. Simon had spent as much time as possible at the computer, searching for things. He hadn’t been completely unsuccessful, finding the names of two scientists that he believed had participated in the experiments before. But records were scarce. He needed someone with more clearance to help him. That would require telling someone with more clearance what he was looking for, and why.

That frustration and the hunger were putting him further and further on edge. He wanted to train but he shouldn’t be lifting with healing bullet wounds. He ran a lot, usually at night when no one could see and chide him for not resting. He was sick of resting. That must be why he couldn’t sleep, either. Sometimes, just on the verge of it, he would imagine the weight of Soap’s body, very alive, on top of him and it kept him up. It kept him confused. He knew he cared for Soap, he knew he was attractive and that he felt the same of Simon, but he had sworn off romantic feelings a long time ago. After Roba.

His lapse in judgement in Soap’s bedroom had proven to him that a part of himself he thought was broken might be whole again. It made him curious, it made him want to test it another time. A few more times. Maybe he would have if he wasn’t worried that his whole façade was about to fall apart.

Soap caught him that night, after he came in from a run. It was becoming less and less advisable for him to exercise so heavily when he knew his hunger was getting bad. He hadn’t properly fed since returning from the woods, planning to spend his two days off base hunting and fully recovering and finding those plans properly ruined.

He was standing in the kitchen, trying to fill his growing emptiness with glass after glass of water when he heard the Sergeant enter behind him and lean against the door frame. He pulled his mask back over his face before turning around and nodding to him as though he’d slip past without words. Soap straightened in the doorway, blocking him.

“I need to check your stitches. See if any need to come out.”

Simon stopped. They had begun to itch in places, he knew Soap was right. “Tomorrow.”

Soap stepped toward him. “I think we ought to do it now.”

He could sense something else in Simon. Something more urgent. Something he’d seen once before, in the dark circles under his eyes and his dejected behavior.

Simon eyed him silently for a moment. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to follow Soap back to his room and let him put his hands on his body. He was physically weak and he was mentally weak.

“Alright.”

Simon followed Johnny into the soft light of his room. The same chair was sitting in the same place as before. He knew he’d been sweating, from nerves, and the run, and he became self conscious of it in the clean space. Soap didn’t seem to notice as he pulled his t-shirt off over his head.

Soap elected not to speak, just to work. The wounds were healing well, and he’d been right, a few of the stitches could come out. He shook his head to himself from behind Simon’s back.

“You stepped in front of this bullet for me, didn’t you, LT?” His face heated, and he was glad to be hidden. He shouldn’t ask such things, he shouldn’t dig at things like feelings. Not when Simon seemed more volatile than usual.

Simon couldn’t see Johnny’s face, but the man didn’t know he could hear his heartbeat and it sped up noticeably. Nerves. However, sat in that chair again, Simon found his typically self-preserving lies hard to come by.

“That’s what I’m tasked with, Sergeant.” He answered as lightly as he could. It just sounded flat.

Soap decided not to push. He wanted to. He wanted to push and dig and scrounge until Simon revealed more of his secrets. Until he felt safe again.

“I’m going to pull some of these out.” Soap said, mostly to himself. Simon nodded. “You want a drink?”

Soap stood. Simon turned his head. “Drink?”

“Scotch.” That easy smile was in his voice again. Simon wished he had it in himself to look at it.

“Sure.” He said, low, after a short debate with himself.

He didn’t drink much, meaning his tolerance was fairly low. Especially when he was so empty. But he wanted the burn to distract him. From the physical pain he was about to feel, and from the physical desire already coursing through him just being reminded of the last time he was there.  

Soap opened his cabinet and pulled out a bottle and two glasses. The bottle was half empty. Simon watched him closely, his strong arms and steady hands. He deserved love, and all the good things he was put back on him. The selflessness and resilience and determination. Simon had been him, once. He remembered how it felt to need to prove yourself still, to desire a purpose, the thrill of fulfilling it. That young man had deserved love, too. And he’d gotten it. And he’d lost it. And he’d never wanted it again.

Simon looked up at Soap as he handed him his glass. Soap took a sip from his, his eyes widening slightly as he watched the Lieutenant raise the bottom of his mask and down the heavy pour in one drink.

He shook his head, setting his glass down and pulling what he needed. He removed a few of the stitches from the back of Simon’s shoulder and recovered the wound. He stood in front of him and did the same at the front of his shoulder. Simon’s skin was always cool to the touch. Soap would like it pressed against his entire overheated body.

He swallowed the thought with another sip of liquor, kneeling in front of Simon to look at the wound beneath his ribs. It was slower to heal, the edges more ruined and jagged from Soap having to dig at the bullet. He ran gentle fingers over his handiwork. He decided he should leave it. Before he stood, he noticed the bruise on the other side of his abdomen again. It didn’t look healed at the rate Soap had expected. He knew little about these things, but it gave him an excuse to speak.

“You’re hungry again, aren’t you.”

Simon shifted uncomfortably. He could have guessed the question was coming. “I am. I need to hunt.”

“But?”

“I’d have to sneak off base. Easier said than done.”

Soap frowned, still knelt in front of him. “There’s blood here. In the infirmary.”

“No, I wouldn’t take something that might be needed.” Simon didn’t even hesitate in his answer. Reserves weren’t an option.

Soap finished taping his bandage back on and looked up at him. “We aren’t in an active warzone, Simon. No one’s been in the infirmary for worse than a migraine or a sprained ankle since I got here.” He stood. “Take enough to get by. Don’t suffer.”

Simon shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“What do you want then?” Soap walked around, picking things up. “Raw meat? Rats or something? Or you’re going to hunt?”

“I can’t steal.” Simon put his shirt back on. “I’ll go and hunt.”

“Alright.” Soap crossed his arms. “Let me cover for you then.”

“Not necessary.” Simon smiled beneath his mask. It was kind. “I appreciate it.”

“Come on, I’m bored as hell.”

Simon looked him up and down and gave in. They slipped on shoes and jackets and met out the back door, like they were going for a smoke. And then they just kept walking. They walked all the way to the fence surrounding them. To a gate.

Soap chuckled. “Got no idea how you’re getting around this one, LT.”

“I’ll climb it.”

“Nah, fuck off.” Soap took a drag of the cigarette he’d lit on the way over.

“That’s a dangerous habit, Sergeant.” Simon took his gloves and pocketed them.

“What? Smoking?”

“Talking down to me.”

Before Soap could answer again, Simon scrambled over the chain link and barbed wire fence, leaving Soap staring behind him. He turned to see if they’d alerted anyone but all was quiet. He’d use his system access to deal with the cameras when they were back inside.

Simon landed on the other side nearly silently and stalked off into the night. He became, in those few steps, the creature he’d been cursed with carrying. Silent, fully alert. Those scary stories, the ones written about half-men like him, no doubt described in great detail the way he heard every footfall of every creature around him, and picked the largest and the nearest. He guessed, hoped, it was a deer. He could get his fill.

To think he was worthy of the kindness of any human at all, after turning, after Roach, after all the killing since. After being absolutely ruined and defiled at the hands of his captors. After all the empty, meaningless sex and lies he’d fed to so many before and after, looking for fulfillment, it was all wrong. He never felt dirtier than when his hands snapped the neck of some innocent creature, their instinct not fast enough to outrun his own. The dead taste on his tongue was familiar, and this time it felt sad to him. Cruel. The man waiting back at the gate had made him hungry for a taste of humanity and this was what he tasted instead.

Soap leaned against the small building next to the gate. It would remain manned in conflict but it was empty for the time being. He crossed his arms. Something was broken in Simon Riley. Something new. He’d been on the track back to very, very normal after they’d returned until the day he came back and was told to stay. He would have had to suffer through almost dying, revealing his secret, drinking from Soap. Soap knew that. But they had shared all that. An equal burden. This felt like something else and now that he’d noticed it, he wasn’t planning to let it go.

He planned to confront Simon about it when he returned, get him talking while he was feeling stronger, while they were in a place of connection. While he still trusted Soap at least this much. Soap knew how Simon saw himself. Completely outside the realm of human need and human want. He also knew he saw himself that way on purpose. As a measure of protection.

It was a shorter amount of time than Soap expected, but Simon returned, not a drop of blood on him. But he already stood a little straighter, his eyes glittering in the moonlight.

Soap stayed still. Simon looked him up and down. “What?”

“Now that you’re not suffering, I want to know what happened in Berlin. How you got those pretty lips split.”

Simon crossed his own arms then. It was self defense, but it made him appear menacing. “I haven’t kept it from you for fun, Johnny. And I don’t want to be asked about it again.”

“At least tell me why you lied in the first place.”

Simon motioned toward him with one hand. “So we wouldn’t have to do this.”

Soap blinked. They stood, staring at each other in the privacy of the late night.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” Soap asked, a lot of authority behind his voice.

Simon recognized that he respected Soap enough not to laugh him off. But he did chuckle a bit. “Soap, if I was in trouble, I’d have more than a split lip.”

“You did have more than a split lip.” He countered.

Simon dropped his arms and stepped closer. “I don’t need you to worry about this, alright? It’s nothing.”

Johnny mimicked his motion, bringing them within a few inches of each other. “Why do you insist on handling everything alone? Last time it nearly killed you.”

“That…” He trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. “That was much different than this, Johnny. And I’m sorry it ever happened.”

Soap wanted to touch him so badly that he shoved his hands in his pockets to stop himself. “I’m not sorry, Simon, but it means that I am going to notice and I am going to worry.”

“Maybe I should work a little harder to keep you busy, then.” Simon stepped even closer, breathing the same air as him.

“I like you, Lieutenant Riley,” Soap reached up and ran a thumb over the mask, over Simon's lips, “but you’re not going to fake flirt your way out of this.”

They locked eyes defiantly for several seconds, Simon unwilling to admit to his fear and Soap unwilling to let him walk away without revealing it.

“What’s the harm? I know you think I already know too much. Nothing you can say would faze me.” Soap’s voice had no begging in it, only reassurance.

“Fine.” Simon sighed and stepped back, running a nervous hand across his chest before pocketing it. “I was attacked in my hotel by someone looking for Simon Riley.”

All truth, nothing too revealing. He raised his brows, hoping Soap would shrug it off and walk them inside.

“Go on.” He demanded.

Simon nodded. No such luck. “They held me over night in some warehouse.” He shrugged.

“Simon. Why?”

He shook his head. “That’s it. Don’t know why.”

“How am I supposed to help you if you’re going to keep lying? You want me not to trust you?”

Simon straightened. “No. No, I don’t want that. What makes you think I’m lying?”

Soap laughed. “I know when you’re lying. You’re too easy, LT, it’s all over your face. Besides your story doesn’t make any sense.”

Simon stood, staring at him again, saying some emotion was obvious on his face like it wasn’t covered ninety percent of the time. “I need you to drop it, Soap.”

“It’s dangerous for me, then? More dangerous than what we do all the time? Than what we did in that Russian wilderness?”

Simon stepped toward him, this time in desperation. “Yes. Yes, Soap. More dangerous than that.”

Soap stepped toward him and fisted the front of his shirt. “Then you can bet your ass I’m not about to leave you alone in it.”

“I can’t. I can’t drag you in.”

Soap smiled again. “Too late for that, isn’t it?”

Simon roughly pulled Soap’s hand from the front of his clothes and paced a few steps. Soap watched him until he stopped. “I’ll tell you if you promise to leave it alone. Let me handle it.”

Soap crossed his arms again and cocked his head. “That depends, but I’ll do my damnedest.”

“They were looking for Simon Riley from a covert operation in the forties. They knew about the experiment, the program, they knew about Roach.” He shook his head quickly.

Soap just waited for him to go on. Roach must be the man he spoke of before. What strength the man before him must have for all he’d been through. It couldn’t be easy to simply open up at will. Soap felt he shouldn’t be so harsh, then. He should offer support, not a threat of distrust. He walked to Simon and gripped his arm, just above the elbow.

“Where are those men now?”

“They let me go, I acted like I didn’t know what they were talking about. But they must have been following me, I don’t know how they found me there.”

“Okay. You’re safe here, then.”

Simon’s voice fell quiet but Soap could hear the tension in it. “Soap, none of us are safe if they’re digging in that pile of shit again. Even at the surface of it, it’s more harmful than we can imagine.”

“Let me help you.”

“No. There’s no help.”

“You know who these people were?”

Simon pulled his arm out of Soap’s grip. “You said you’d leave it alone.”

“It’s just a question.”

“I’ve been looking into it. I haven’t found much.”

Soap nodded. “Alright then. Let’s go. I’ve got some clearance that might help us.”

“What if we find something?”

“Explosions?” Soap raised his eyebrows, teasing.

Simon wanted to shut him down, but he couldn’t. He liked that spark too much. He’d never darken it if he could help it.

“We can’t call attention to any of this. And not just for my benefit.”

“But we can stop them, perhaps, if we can find who and where they are.”

Simon’s breathing was fast, adrenaline coursing through him. Nerves, really. “Fine. Help me with this, and then you sit down and let me take care of it.”

Soap turned and walked back toward base. “Yes, sir.”

Chapter Text

Simon supposed the only way he knew how to ask for help was wait until someone finally saw him at his absolute worst and offered it of their own accord. He could count on one hand the memories he had of that place. Two of them now involved John Mactavish.

He'd gone through his things and handed Soap meticulous notes in perfect handwriting. Soap had sat himself at a terminal and gone to work, barely speaking, only to ask Simon to clarify things here and there.

He’d stuck with the military for his entire long life because, in spite of all the gray areas and difficult decisions, it was consistent. Straightforward. Find and kill the bad guys. Save the innocents. He was a machine, as they had intended, and he had survived and survived and survived, and for what? For this? For it to catch up to him in those rare moments where he finally began to relax? He watched Soap frown at a screen and read through a list of files. He was handsome that way, so serious. Smile lines hugged the corners of his eyes, even when they weren’t lit up. He wondered what he might find inside of himself to justify the indulgence of wanting him, of letting himself take in the sight of him.

Lost in thought, Soap turned quickly, catching Simon’s stare. He held it for a second, surprised, before speaking.

“There’s a building registered to the nephew of the man who’s name you gave me. Nikolaus Kaiser. Here."

He pointed to a location on the map. Simon stood beside him and bent to look closer.

“That’s near where I was staying…” He trailed off. “Are there photos?”

Soap clicked again, pulling up satellite images, views from the street. Simon straightened slowly, crossing his arms.

Soap turned to look at him again. “What?”

“That’s the warehouse they held me in.”

Soap shrugged. “Maybe it’s nothing then.” He clicked through other files, property information, before speaking again. “Says here there’s a basement.”

“Hmm.” Simon hadn’t moved. “I looked, there was nothing but the room I was in and some storage.”

“Door could be in the floor…” Soap murmured, pulling up blue prints. “Aye, see?” He pointed, and Simon bent over his shoulder again. The blueprint showed the door in the middle of the floor, down to a large cellar. “Could have been hidden.”

Simon took his seat again. “I don’t know if it’s worth going back there. I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

Soap spun in his chair to face him. “Might not hurt to check it out. Maybe they’re using it for something, maybe they’re not. Any proof you can get that they are involved with the program can help us.”

Simon lowered his chin but kept his eyes on Soap. He was getting too casual with using words like us. It put Simon in a difficult position because he wanted it to be them, he just knew it couldn’t be. Not this time.

He nodded. “I’ll go, then. Take another look.” He checked his watch. It was past two in the morning. “Later.”

Soap cleaned up his digging before standing with Simon. “Gonna climb the fence again?”

“Maybe.”

They walked out of the room and into the dark hall. “I’ll get Price to let me make a supply run.”

Simon’s heart sank. He didn’t want to have to fight Soap on this. “What for?”

“Supplies. And an excuse to leave base in a vehicle.”

“He’s not gonna let you, too many assassins waiting.” He tried to play it off.

“Simon.” Soap turned, stopping him. “If you go in there alone, and they get what they want from you, doesn’t that spell fucked for all of us?”

“I don’t think they’re there. They wouldn’t have given away that kind of location so easily.”

Soap turned and began walking again. “Then it sounds perfectly safe for me to go with you.”

Simon chuckled. “I disagree.”

Soap almost didn’t argue, the sound of Simon’s laugh too busy distracting him.

“We’ll talk about it again.”

“You’ve been giving out an awful lot of orders lately, Sergeant.”

“You haven’t stopped me yet, Lieutenant.”

Before turning down the hall to his own room, Simon reached out and grabbed Soap’s arm, stopping him. “This isn’t a game, Soap. It’s not a field trip.”

Soap turned serious again, pulling his arm away. “I know that, sir.”

Simon straightened for a moment before turning without a word and going to bed.

Soap crawled into his own with the heavy weight of knowing that if Simon believed he would bring the threat back to them, then he would run as far as he could and never look back.

--

The next day passed with Simon seeing almost no one else. He ate alone, he worked out alone, he sat in his room alone and drew out a plan for his evening. He’d go back into the city, back to the warehouse they’d located. He had one last conversation to have before leaving.

“I’m not on mission, you have no real authority to hold me here.” He sat across from Captain Price, a glass of liquor in his hand. He took a sip.

“You know, Simon, I only ordered you to stay for your own safety. The same reason I do everything.”

“You really worried about my safety?” He eyed Price with a slight smile. Slight enough to hide his teeth.

Price eyed him back, searching his uncovered face. “I suppose not, but there are those I do worry for and I can’t rightly keep them and let you roam about. Might raise suspicions.”

Simon looked at the brown liquid in his glass, slowly swirling it. “Suspicions?”

“Aye.” Simon looked back at Price, cautious. “Favoritism.”

His shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. “I think it’s too late for that.”

He stood, holding out his glass before draining it.

“Take a truck.” Price waved a hand dismissively. “You’ll still be back and forth, then? I’ll keep your room for you.”

Simon nodded, saluted, and walked out.

He already had his things packed. He was planning to do his recon, and then find a room back in the city to begin laying out the details. He had to be back the next morning but he could get his information straightened out in privacy.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and made his way to the truck Price designated for him quickly and in shadow, hoping to prevent questions for both him and the captain. He hadn’t told Soap he was leaving. They hadn’t spoken at all.

He supposed they hadn’t needed to since the man was leaning casually against the door of the truck. He didn’t move as Simon approached.

“You were really going to leave without saying anything.” He stated, immediately regretting the way it came off hurt instead of teasing.

“I don’t need you babysitting me now, Soap.” Simon tried not to sound angry. Because he wasn’t. He was just determined.

“I’ve thought it over and I can’t let you go alone.”

“Why’s that?” Simon tossed his bag into the toolbox in the bed of the truck.

“Because if something happens to you, I’m the only one who knows what’s actually going on.”

“That’s a weak reason.” Simon turned to face him.

Soap straightened. “The truth, then?”

“It’d be nice.”

Soap stepped closer to him and lowered his voice. “I’m afraid you’re looking for a way to leave.”

Soap’s accent always got a little heavier when he was trying to mask an emotion. Simon picked up on it immediately. “I’m not.”

Soap felt little comfort in the answer. “Then let me have your six, LT. Like always.”

“No, not like always, John.”

“Who has your back in this, then?”

“No one.”

“I can’t accept that.”

There was a long pause in which they both knew Soap wasn’t backing down. Simon couldn’t look at him. “Fine.”

He brushed past a satisfied Soap and pulled at the driver’s door. It would be easier and faster with someone beside him. And he desperately wanted the company. The feeling was unusual but his mind had been racing for days and he welcomed the distraction and the feel of another body beside him. Besides, Soap was right, he was the only person who knew anything about where he was headed and why. He’d made Soap his only way out if things went wrong. Something like fear gnawed at him, so unfamiliar that he easily swept it away.

In the frozen forest, he’d been worried on multiple occasions that he was going to lose Soap, or that Soap was going to run from him. He hadn’t spent a lot of time contemplating what might happen if neither of those came true. How exactly they would carry on.  

It was a shorter trip than he’d remembered and rain had started falling, keeping them silent for the entirety of the drive. Simon was working on keeping his focus and Soap was wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into. He’d follow Simon anywhere, he’d made that clear, he hoped, and that part of him wasn’t wavering. But some parts of him were, like the one that was excited by all this knowledge. When it was just Ghost as an immortal superhuman, that was one thing. But this, this could mean danger for all of them. He wasn’t afraid of danger, but he was afraid of things he didn’t understand, things he couldn’t predict the possible ends for. That was the feeling eating at him about his time with Ghost, too. Kissing, sex, that felt natural, and it wasn’t unusual for people in their positions to seek that type of companionship. But it was hardly companionship, with them so unmatched. It was something else, something he couldn’t predict, and he found himself constantly searching for assurance from the other man.

It was more than lust, though. Because it didn’t matter for one second if there were reciprocated feelings, he wouldn’t leave his fellow man uncovered.

They parked a short distance from the parking lot Simon had left through. He hadn’t told Soap how disoriented he’d felt, exiting like that. He wasn’t disoriented now. He’d found the focus he sought in the car and the two sets of booted feet pounding the pavement in the rain was comforting to him. He’d never admit he didn’t want to do this alone, and part of him needed a second witness, just to be sure his mind wasn’t finally shorting out.

His nightmares had been so severe since moving onto the base that he’d woken multiple times unsure which reality was his, often until he stood in the doorway or the hallway, sometimes down the hall and into the kitchen before he was reoriented. He had always hated that he couldn’t control them. Every other response, every other reaction, he had some say over. Even his hunger was going to kill him rather than control him. But not the nightmares.

This reminded him of them in a way, dark and cold, the wet on their faces trying to drown him by soaking the mask he wore. And the younger man, the one with a life still to live, in immeasurable danger in spite of his efforts.

He steadied his breath as Soap picked the lock. They’d been back, then. It didn’t surprise him, but it meant they may have cleaned out any evidence. Unless they believed that he wasn’t who they were looking for. But he couldn’t count on that.

Inside, they kept quiet, flashlights ahead of them as they searched the area Ghost had before. There were no cameras, no tech at all. Not that they could see, but they hadn’t come in with their faces covered for no reason. Clearing the room, they began looking for a door to the basement. Simon kicked himself for not checking for one before, although he was almost certain he would have run from it all the same.

It didn’t take long before they’d found a hatch. Soap knelt to push pallets and boxes out of the way. The lack of dust in the area was telltale, another detail Ghost had missed. Neither of them spoke.

The door led to a set of wooden steps. Simon let Soap lead, holding up the rear, listening for both of them, but he kept close enough to step in front of him quickly if he had to. There was a tunnel that stretched for an unknown distance before them. The smell, the hollow sounds, they made Simon uneasy.

“Smuggling tunnels.” Soap said, his near-whisper loud, bouncing off the damp walls.

Simon didn’t answer. The horrors of the city weren’t lost on him. The horror of hoping the box you’re buried in doesn’t become a tomb was all too familiar.

Simon counted his steps. They were far beyond the walls of the warehouse they’d entered when the hall split. To the right was a door down a short hall, but there was nothing behind it besides more wooden crates and boxes. Those were dusty, not recently handled. They kept going, and the hall opened up into a room. 

A room that they both stood for a second to take in. There were tables and papers strewn about, and a few computer screens, off. Simon walked up to one, looking at the papers lying around them. Some of them were yellowed, faded. Old documents, and most of them were in German which was not quickly readable to him.

Soap watched him, subconsciously guarding the door and trying not to think too long about how trapped they were, how far they were beneath the surface. All of it was becoming tangible for him very quickly and he was fighting the feeling of being overwhelmed. Unaware that he’d backed nearly all the way into the hall again, he was uncharacteristically, unequivocally caught off guard.

A man came from somewhere off to his right, in the darkness swinging a knife. Soap didn’t have time to make a sound, throwing his hands up in defense and dropping his flashlight. Simon had already turned and moved before it hit the ground. The man was larger than Soap and had the element of surprise. He pinned Soap to the wall, not without struggle, and the Sergeant had his hands up attempting to push the man’s knife away from his throat.

Simon grabbed the assailant by the back of his shirt and pulled him to the ground. The knife clattered out of his hand and Soap kicked it out of reach.

Simon stood over the man, one boot on his arm, his gun aimed at his throat.

“Are you alone?”

The man smiled. “Not for long.”

In one motion, Simon bent and grabbed the knife Soap had kicked away and buried it in the man’s heart, erasing any trace of Soap’s blood. Erasing the only trace of them besides their prints in the dust.

Soap watched him, in awe. He moved like the beast he believed himself to be. He turned.

“There’s no way we have long.” He motioned to the door.

They didn’t run, it would be too loud, but they made it to the closet they’d passed earlier before they heard anyone coming. Knowing the idea that it was an actually viable hiding place was a pipedream, Simon stopped as Soap passed it. He just wanted out, terribly, but he heard the steps behind him cease and turned.

He would follow Simon anywhere. He swallowed.

Simon stayed still as Soap approached him, faced him for a moment, and then opened the door again. They stepped inside quickly, Simon pushed Soap toward the back and closed the door. He faced it, listening.

Soap took a deep, dusty breath. A feeling of dread, far too familiar, began in the pit of his stomach and shook his hands. He gripped the front of his jeans with them, knowing he would find no reprieve there. He knew Simon could hear at least marginally better than most humans, and he was afraid of that, too. The darkness would help, he thought, it would hide the reality of their self-made prison. Truthfully, it did nothing but hide his wide eyes.

“We’re cornered.” He breathed, unaware the words were at the tip of his tongue, which he then bit to keep more sound from leaving him.

Boots were coming down the tunnel. Running. Blocking their only way out.

He heard Simon move. He couldn’t see him, but his low voice was pointed in Soap’s direction when he spoke. “Once they pass us, they’re cornered.”

Simon could hear Soap’s heart, and his effort to slow his breathing was pronounced. It was fast, unnaturally fast, pounding with adrenaline. He tensed. He hadn’t checked if Soap was injured before they fled. Surely he would have said—

The thought was cut off by the sound of voices just outside the door, but as quickly as they came, they were gone again. Soap stood straighter, waiting for Simon to open the door. He didn’t.

“What?” He whispered.

“I can hear one.” Simon replied under his breath.

“How?”

“Heart. Stay here.”

Simon exited silently, handgun held at his chest. Just around the corner, in the black hall, they’d left a soldier behind. The man’s heart was steady, he was waiting to ambush them. There must not be many of them, because they’d left him alone. Simon lowered his gun and pulled a knife from the sheath at his belt. He turned, hitting the man in the side of the head with the handle of the gun and slitting his throat as he fell.

Soap listened. He listened to Ghost kill again, and he bent forward, his hands on his knees, attempting to lower his heart rate. It was making him lightheaded, it was making his hands shake, but the idea that Simon could hear his uncontrollable fear was the most horrifying thing of all. His weakness was on display for the man he’d come to protect.

“Soap.” Simon said quietly, calling him out.

He straightened. They had to hurry. Even if there weren’t more coming, the ones that had passed them would likely be back soon.

This time, they ran, the sound of their feet enough to beat some sense back into him. He was okay, they both were, and they were nearly out.

Simon climbed the stairs slowly, listening to what was ahead of them. Soap climbed slowly at his heels, listening to what was behind them.

They exited through the trap door they had previously entered and stood, silent in the much lighter darkness of the warehouse. The outside door they’d entered was cracked open, Simon was hesitant to exit that way. It looked like a trap. He motioned for Soap to follow him to the other side, the only other door out. Soap followed him as quietly as he could, envying the way he seemed to float over the concrete.

As they neared the back door, Simon heard something Soap couldn’t. Voices, steps, coming from outside, nearing the door he’d planned to lead them out of.

They had two options. Run or hide. Unwilling to find out just how surrounded they were, Simon turned, grabbed Soap by the arm and jerked him into the broom closet just to his left.

Soap had no time to react until Simon had closed the door and a barely audible “no” left his mouth. Simon clapped a gloved hand over it, silencing him. He held his hand over Soap’s mouth and turned back to face the door. Soap contemplated pulling it away, sure he was going to suffocate. He stayed still and fought with the little dignity he had left to breathe through his nose.

Simon could hear the men come in and look around. Over it, he could hear Soap’s pounding heart. He knew what he was doing to him, pressing him into a dark corner. He might as well be burying him, and it hurt him to do it. Not quite as badly as facing burying his corpse. So they would stay. He turned back to the shorter man. The closet was smaller, they were nearly toe to toe.

“Quiet.” Simon whispered.

Soap nodded desperately against the hand of his punisher, the only one he knew could save him now. Simon freed Soap’s mouth and he swallowed several times to keep from covering them both in whatever he’d eaten that day. Simon debated turning him so he could see the door, but that would put him in their line of sight if they opened it so he stayed put.

They stood in silence for a moment. Soap was sure his pounding heart was shaking the walls. He was sure his weak knees were going to drag the whole building down. He was sure he was the end of them. They were both going to die. Or worse, Simon was going to die and leave him alone there.

Simon could see better than Soap, he knew that. His unnatural eyesight picked up on Soap’s large, glassy gaze. His eyes weren’t on Simon, they were on the door behind him, and his breathing was pained and lopsided, like he was finally failing to control it.

“Breathe, Soap.” Simon said, almost too quiet to hear, and laid his hand against Soap’s chest. It was wet, they both were, but it was also warmer than it should be. Then, over the sounds of the men milling about outside, he could smell Soap. His blood. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s okay.” Soap managed.

The man had nicked him with his knife, just below his collar bone. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything except for every single bone in his chest about to split apart and free his racing heart onto the ground at their feet, and he was sure it would sound like a war drum.

Simon felt an overwhelming urge of his own, a deep-seated need to take the glove against Soap’s chest and put it in his own mouth. Taste him again.

Before he gave into his compulsion, Soap’s hand clapped against the metal wall behind him in an attempt to brace himself, making a small sound. He looked suddenly at Simon, a new wave of fear washing over him almost perceptibly. Simon waited long enough to know they hadn’t been given away before he very gently gripped the same hand above the wrist and pulled it to his own chest, over his heart.

Soap was wrought with panic, and there wasn’t much he could do except free him. Not at the expense of their safety, so he gave him the best grounding line he could. His own calm.

Soap leaned into him, fighting for balance. Simon fought the urge to pull him closer, to let his shaking legs relax, but he didn’t want to enclose him further. He laid his hand over Soap’s.

Soap closed his eyes and focused on Simon’s steady heartbeat against his hand. He tried to remember to breathe. He tried to remember how to be the top tier fighter that he was. He tried to remember that he wasn’t a weak, bleeding child.

He came back into himself far enough for a tidal wave of shame to nearly knock him off his feet again.

“I’m sorry.” He said, so quietly he wasn’t sure even Simon Riley could hear him.

But he did. Simon leaned forward then, unable to leave him so unstable, and pressed against Soap. Instead of tensing, the man relaxed slightly, his hand still over Simon’s heart.

He hung his head so he could speak in Soap’s ear. “We’re almost done, right?”

Soap nodded.

“I didn’t want to do this without you. I needed you here.”

Soap nodded again, less sure. Simon had needed him and he was failing him in that moment.

“I’m so sorry, Johnny.”

Simon’s warm breath along the side of his neck was a sensation that gave him another grasp on reality.

Simon could hear the men outside. One of them told another that the side door was open, that the two men that had found them must have escaped.

“They think we left.”

He listened as the four of them went down the wooden steps. He listened until they were out of his earshot. He listened as Johnny’s heart jumped and ran, jumped and ran, his hand now a fist against Simon’s chest.

"I'm going to take you home.”

Chapter Text

Simon slowly pulled back from Soap who seemed to realize where he was and pull his hand from his chest. He was on his way down and it made him shakier. Nauseous.  And the shame….his face was hot, his clothes too tight, and Simon was too damn close.

Simon watched him still fighting for a deep breath. But he was standing on his own, and his eyes had lost that glassy distance. He turned back to the door and listened again. They were alone. He pushed it open and stepped back, Soap had a blank look on his face and he kept his eyes straight ahead as he slid past. Simon followed, indicating that they should take the back door out. Soap opened it this time and Simon’s hand tightened on his gun in case something caught them unprepared a third time.

Once out the door, Soap finally filled his lungs with fresh air. He stopped and bent forward, his hands on his knees. Simon walked a couple of steps past him and turned, watching. They had both been through this. They had both watched countless others deal with the same. He needed to sit and put his head between his knees and sip cold water and let it pass. And they didn’t have time for that.

“Soap.” He said quietly.

He meant to tell him he’d do anything for him, carry him if he needed to. To remind him he wasn’t alone. But Soap looked up at him coldly and straightened, saying nothing. Guilt settled heavy and icy in Simon’s middle. He’d dragged Soap down there knowing it wasn’t safe, and knowing it was a trigger. They kept walking, Simon leading but his ears were focused on the uneven steps of the man just behind him. His heart was slowing, at least, but it wasn’t settled. He had gotten to a point of trying to fight it.

Simon kept a close ear and eye on their shadowy path back to the truck. It was uncompromised, far enough way to be unsuspecting, but they shouldn’t wait around long anyway. His own nerves were fully on end, what he’d seen in that tunnel burned behind his eyes. He’d deal with that later. He’d deal with Soap now.

He followed him to the passenger side and stepped around him to open the door.

“Sit down.” He pointed to the step.

Soap glanced at him and shook his head. He meant to say they should just go, but he struggled with the words, too focused on trying to keep his breathing normal.

“Sit.” Simon said again, and Soap recognized that he should obey. So he sat. “Just put your head down and breathe for a second.”

Soap flinched at the softness in his tone. The concern. He’d wanted that before, he’d held on to every time he’d ever heard it, but now it felt like it was burning him. “We don’t have a second.”

“Yes we do.” Simon spread his arms, placing one hand against the truck and the other against the door. He looked down at where Soap perched on the step as he looked at the ground and contemplated what he should do.

Eventually, he dropped his head to his knees and hugged his arms beneath his thighs. Simon listened as finally, his heart rate evened out and his breathing was more natural, less controlled. When he felt they could get into the cab of the truck, another small space, without Soap bailing on him, he slowly knelt in front of him, letting the door swing the rest of the way open.

Soap looked up at Simon, his face no less blank, but with some life in it. In the light of some far off street lamp, Simon could see the wound that bled on him before. His own control had been tested then, but he felt confident in it now. It wasn’t alarming, but it was deep enough to have soaked through his shirt and jacket. It needed to be cleaned up and dressed.

He found himself struggling to take his eyes off of Soap’s face. This moment felt entirely different than those he had shared with him in the wilderness, the few one on one interactions since. This time he’d actually done it. He’d hurt him.

“We should go.” Soap said. Even his voice sounded tight, like he was afraid it was all going to slip out of his control again.

Simon pursed his lips and reached for the zipper of Soap’s coat. He wanted to take it off. Free him a bit. Get a better look at the injury. He looked up in surprise as Soap caught his hand before it reached him and pushed it away roughly. He stood, and Simon let him, rising to watch him walk just beyond the truck and unzip the coat himself. He shrugged out of it, gripping it tightly and bringing himself to a standstill. A solid one, Ghost observed.

He took a few long breaths of fresh air before turning back. His face was still emotionless save for a few lines of determination around his eyes.

“We should go.” He repeated. He stayed far from the door, though. He made no move to climb in.

“Johnny, it’s not your fault—”

“The hell it’s not.” He bit out. “Let’s fucking go. Please.”

He motioned for Simon to get out of the way. He did, walking to the driver’s side. This was the end of the road for them, doing this together. Bringing Soap with him, not fighting him, ordering him to stay behind was a mistake. It could have been so much worse. His own panic rose like bile in his throat. Now, if they’d been seen, compromised in any way, it was both of them. And he had known that going in. And he’d done it anyway.

By the time he entered, Soap had convinced himself to climb in. He didn’t shut his door until Simon did. The truck started, they backed out into the road.

“I know I said I’d take you home, but—” He cut himself off, looking over at Johnny. But what? He didn’t know.

He’d been worried that Johnny would feel trapped again in the small cab with him, but his hands were limp on the seat next to his legs. He didn’t look like he needed space, he looked like he needed someone to wrap him so tightly that his bones broke. Simon swallowed and looked back at the road. He was projecting.

Soap spoke before Simon could finish his thought. “We both know neither of us have homes out here, Simon.”

“I meant back to base.” Simon mumbled.

Soap sighed and laid his head back against the seat. “You were going to take me back tonight, aye?”

“We’ll have to sneak back in.” Simon sighed. He was lost. He’d not thought any of it through the way he should have.

“Not all it’s cracked up to be, huh.” Soap said quietly, closing his eyes.

The ride wasn’t long enough to bring up any other conversation. Simon kept his eyes on the road but he listened to Soap, making sure he was steady. He didn’t sleep but he kept his eyes closed, his body relaxed. It should have been a comfort, seeing him like that, but it wasn’t to Simon who was used to his alert blue eyes and constant rambling. He thought he would likely have to cut off whatever was beginning to blossom between them. There was nothing solid in him to build a foundation on, and even if Soap was willing to try, it was too goddamn dangerous now.

They parked the truck and both got out. Soap put his coat back on and zipped it up. He hadn’t been cleared to leave by Price, but Simon could handle that. As long as no one knew he’d been injured or why.

They walked into the base side by side, Soap not questioning why he followed. They made it all the way to Soap’s door. Then he questioned.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Simon, in spite of knowing he should leave, that he would eventually have to, didn’t plan to in that moment. He held his stance.

“We need to clean you up.”

“We don’t need to.” He didn’t make a move to enter, his hand still on the knob.

“Soap.” Simon’s voice held a warning, and a plea if Soap chose to hear it.

He wanted Simon to leave because he felt as soon as he was on the other side of the door he was going to have a proper meltdown. Get it out of his system. But beneath the embarrassment, he recognized that Simon wanted to make sure he was alright and damn it if he didn’t want to stay beside him for another minute. He could hold onto the calm a little longer. He said nothing, turning the handle and entering his room.

Simon gently closed the door behind them. Soap took the jacket off again, letting it fall to the floor. Simon stayed near the door as Soap entered his bathroom and splashed water on his face and drank two full glasses. He stared at himself in the mirror for a second. His hands shook again, this time from weariness and nerves.

When he stepped back into the room, he stopped and spoke again. “I don’t need this, Simon.”

Simon nodded. “I know that.”

“Then why are you here?” He kept his voice low lest it shake again.

“Maybe I need it.” He held Soap’s flat gaze with purpose. Until he backed down.

“Fine.”

Simon motioned to the bed before Soap had a chance to take to the chair. “Sit down.”

Soap hesitated for a second but obeyed, sitting on the edge, pulling his bloody t-shirt off over his head and dropping it on the ground with his coat. He looked down at the cut, shallow but long, as it ran jaggedly to the middle of his collar bone. He was lucky, a few inches higher and it would have been his throat.

He looked away from it to watch Simon move around his room. He went into the bathroom and let the water run warm, wetting a rag. When he came back out he stopped at Soap’s small cabinet and pulled out the bottle from the last time they’d been together there. He offered it to Soap who took it gladly, removing the lid and taking a long pull.

When he looked back at his Lieutenant, he was ordered to turn and lean against the headboard. He nodded, no will for fighting, pulling a pillow behind his back.

He watched in complete awe as Simon sat on the edge of the bed, one foot on the floor, and turned to face him. Again, he wished he were softer. Every action Simon had taken that night was for his safety or out of kindness. He was a cold, hard man. Intimidating and unquestionably dangerous. Even more than any of them had imagined. But he looked worried. And sorry.

Soap let the liquor sit heavy in his stomach and laid his head back against the wooden bedframe. “It’s just a scratch, LT.”

“I can see that, Johnny.” Simon gently cleaned dried blood away from the edges of the cut. It didn’t need stitches, just a little care.

“I’ve had worse.” He closed his eyes.

Unwillingly, Simon’s stare fell on the scar on Johnny’s upper arm. Gunshot wound. “This one was my fault.”

Soap’s eyes flew open but he looked straight ahead. “Hardly.”

Simon could hear the tiredness in his low voice. He hoped he’d sleep. “I shouldn’t have had you out there.”

“You make it sound like you dragged me.”

“Might as well have.”

“I don’t wanna argue about it.” He turned his face away. There was no point. He’d begged, and he’d wanted to go, and he didn’t regret it.

“I got you hurt.”

Soap closed his eyes again, knowing if he looked at Ghost, if his eyes matched the pain in his voice, he’d lose it early.

“I lost control, Simon, that’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s. It just happens.”

“You didn’t lose control. You managed just fine.” He spoke softly. That praising tone that Soap always craved, but it was bitter to him in the midst of his shame. Simon shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

Soap was afraid to ask what for. He felt a usual need to lighten the mood. “Next time someone you’re with gets claustrophobic, maybe don’t shove them into another closet on the way out.”

Simon could tell it was an attempt at sarcasm. He also knew it wasn’t as simple as claustrophobia. It was years of things no man deserved. No man like Soap, anyway.

“It was that or firefight.” He shrugged, taping across the cut on Soap’s chest to hold it closed.

“I can be calmed down, you know.”

Simon let him hold up the conversation. “Hm? How’s that?”

“Distraction, maybe. Grounding.”

He looked at Simon who met his eyes but didn’t answer.

“A bite from you would have calmed me down.” The look in his eyes was ornery, testing.

Simon let himself feel the pride he knew he harbored for trusting the man with such a thing. He could have it, just for a moment. He could play along.

“Not safe. It’s a rush, you were already having a rush. It could have stopped your heart.”

Soap chuckled and laid his head back again. He was satisfied with the banter, like it broke the barrier. “I would have died happy, at least.”

“Don’t say that, Johnny.” Simon all but whispered, his eyes intently on the work at hand.

Johnny was quiet for a moment, letting his humor slowly roll away. “A panic attack has never killed me, Simon.”

“Getting caught very well could have.” He finished taping gauze on Johnny’s shoulder but he held the items tightly in his hands, needing his own grounding.

“Don’t do this.” Soap said on a sigh, like he was nearly too tired to speak.

Simon loosened his death grip on the medical supplies and pulled off his mask. Soap opened his eyes at the sound, and slowly turned to look at him. “We already agreed to this.”

“We agreed I’d sit back, sure.” He offered. He knew whatever Simon was about to say encompassed much more than that.

Simon knew he knew. “We have to go back to normal.”

Soap chuckled. Simon watched him desperately, the way it shook his chest and lifted the corners of his mouth. “Is this because I sucked your cock?”

Simon frowned. “No.”

“Well, what else could you possibly mean, then?”

“It wasn’t safe before, Soap, but now? I’m a ticking bomb.”

“You always were, Simon. It never bothered me.”

“I always liked that about you.” He breathed, looking at the mask in his hands. “But I have to deal with this, and I can’t deal with you in the line of fire at the same time.”

Soap shook his head. “I have to ask then, again, who has your back? Who’s watching you?”

“No one. There never has been and I’ve survived a fucking long time.” He said it bitterly, which Soap noted with a pain in his chest. “This isn’t supposed to be about me. I put you in danger, you got hurt, I need to back away to keep that from happening again.”

The tension between them was fragile, Soap knew that. It had started with friendship, and trust, and become something else that neither of them cared to name. But he could name what he saw in Simon now, and he didn’t feel like losing him over it.

“It’s just guilt, Simon. Let it go.”

Simon kept his eyes averted. “I can let it go now, but not forever. Not if I get you hurt again, or worse. It’s not what you signed up for.”

“I feel it’s exactly what I signed up for. On my back in that hunting cabin.” He leaned forward slightly for emphasis. “I told you then where I’d follow you. And,” his darkened eyes narrowed, “there is no normal now. Not after what I’ve learned. Not after what we saw down there.”

Guilt was a hard emotion for Simon. It felt too close to anger.

“I will not bury you over this.” He said through his teeth.

Soap searched his eyes, seeking the heat in them and finding it just below the surface. A threat to his calm. “You will bury me though, won’t you? You’ll outlive me whether you force me away now or not.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“I’m overwhelmed Simon, okay? All of this is a lot. It’s all confusing.” He sought comfort in spite of himself. He wanted Simon back to being soft and pliable and gentle, but his eyes hardened instead.

“Let me make it very clear, then.” Simon stood. His uncovered face was clouded with an emotion Soap couldn’t place. “My duty is your protection. So sit down like we agreed, and do your job. Which is here, on base.”

Soap watched him walk out. If his legs weren’t shaking beneath the blankets, he would have followed. But he let him go. He knew they were struggling to process, he knew they were both horrible at it. He knew Simon Riley wasn’t handling this alone, even if it did kill him.

--

Simon left Soap’s room and walked outside. It was late, but not too late to find Price. But he needed the cold air first. It felt bad, horrible really, to push away the only person that knew him, but what was worse was knowing Soap wouldn’t obey. Knowing that it was too late now, he’d taken it too far.

He settled. His dynamic with his Sergeant wasn’t nearly as critical as what they’d learned. His pining, his dead, maggot infested heart could wait. The papers in that room at the end of the tunnel detailed formulas and equations, and were labeled with numbers and names he recognized. Someone, even if they didn’t have the capability to reproduce soldiers like him, had knowledge of it meaning it was only a matter of time until they found someone who did.

It had been a long day already but he steeled himself and went back inside.

Simon found Price inside his office, a glass in his hand. That was a relief, maybe it would lessen the blow. He looked up in slight surprise when Simon darkened the doorway.

“Come in.”

So he did. He took a seat across from the Captain. He removed his mask for a second time.

“Alright.” Price set down his glass. “You have my attention.”

Simon looked at the soft mask he turned over in his hands. “I need to know I can speak in confidence.”

Price glanced at the door Simon had already shut. “Of course.”

Simon cocked his head to the side. “I also need you to tell me what you know of my past.”

He looked up. Price met his gaze. The Captain contemplated lying but he could sense in the dark circles and distant ache of the man’s eyes that he shouldn’t. “I should ask why.”

Simon answered carefully. “Something from said past has come up again, as a possible threat.”

“I see.” He nodded. “Well, I know the documents you joined my force with were forged. The birth certificate, the passport.” Simon nodded, looking up at him tentatively. “I know you’ve never had a proper medical exam.”

He looked down again. “All true. I have more to disclose, but again…”

“In confidence, Simon. I’ll do my best with the information, but trust me, you can’t scare me.”

He sat back in his seat and gave his speech, one he had never given before a few weeks prior, again. “I was part of an experiment in the 1940s. Ten of us were paid hefty sums for our bodies and our loyalties. We left…different.”

Price nodded, listening intently.

“I require blood to survive. I drink from dead soldiers or animals, no human victims.” Price nodded again, his eyes leaving Simon’s to look over his body, but showing no fear. Or shock.

“And you don’t age.”

“Not at a normal pace, anyway.”

“I’ll say.” He mumbled.

“This role, Price, you have given me purpose. Anything you know of me after the eighties is true, and there was plenty more before it. If you can’t—”

“Oh no, you’re not going anywhere.” He shook his head. “Tell me about the threat.”

So he did. He showed him the documents he’d pocketed, he disclosed Soap’s involvement and how he’d been forced to reveal his secret in the forest. He left out that he’d fed from the man, or that they had turned it into something more physical, but he begged Price to watch out for him while he dug deeper. When he was done, Price wrote a few things down and promised to make some calls, to work on a path forward, to try and prevent a similar and likely worse outcome, and he blessed Simon’s wish to leave again and stay away for a bit. As long as he promised to check in here and there, and provide Price with any new or critical intel.

He agreed and then he left.

--

Soap slept fitfully, the sting in his chest both physical and emotional. Simon would be back the next morning, he hadn’t said he wouldn’t, and Soap would speak to him again. When they both weren’t so raw.

He knew Simon meant well. He knew Simon was hardened and heartbroken and fucked up, but he was good and he cared about the people around him. He saw himself as empty but he wasn’t. He was full of passion and fortitude and damnit if Soap was going to let that go so easily. He knew it wasn’t just about them. The shame they both found themselves wallowing in, the secrets they shared. It was huger, much more than Soap could comprehend.

They just needed to stick together. They had always come out better for it.

The next morning he checked his own bandage and chose to leave it, wearing a hoodie to keep it from being exposed to curious eyes. He entered the room for the briefing, something about the Russian assassins again. Something Simon was supposed to be there for.

But Soap was the only one continually watching the door, and Simon never appeared.

Chapter Text

Simon got a room in a more secure location that still allowed him to come and go unnoticed. He stayed in a different part of town, too, wanting to remain away from the group that knew of the program if he could. He texted Price the street he was on but nothing else. The one thing he was not going to do was put yet another person he cared about into a precarious position.

The first night, after pinning up the documents and photos he had on the wall, he sat on the bed staring at it for some time, but his mind was back on base with Johnny. He’d watched him go through something embarrassing and painful and had left him with shallow, harsh words. His need to protect him couldn’t seem to override his feelings, especially the feeling that he wanted to wrap him up and hold him and sleep next to him instead of biting an order to stay behind. And then abandoning him. That was a part of the curse he knew, to hurt them a little so he didn’t have to stay and watch them hurt a lot.

He shook his head. There was no them. Not hardly. There was Gary, who he’d loved because there was an understanding between them. Because they were two of a kind, there was no real need for acceptance, there was only sameness. And then there was Johnny. And they’d crossed a friendship line, they’d crossed a trustworthiness line, they’d crossed a physical line, and the truth was that whatever emotional line they stood at was absolutely terrifying to him. But lines were rarely crossed by one and not both people, even if it happened at different times. And he could see Johnny standing and staring at him from the other side, waiting.

John knew what he was, who he was, what he’d faced, and he still saw something worth caring for beneath it. His humanity saw the man Simon was. It was doomed from the beginning, from before Mexico, likely from the first moment they’d met, when he could feel that the younger man harbored no fear of him, no intimidation. Awe, at best. Simon hadn’t been flattered by it, he’d thought him inobservant and unintelligent for it. For not seeing the monster most people did. It didn’t take long to flip that narrative, Soap had proven himself a better soldier than most, quicker, smarter, quieter. Kinder.

A few days passed. Soap texted him a couple of times. Once to fill him in on some of the intel they’d gathered, using code words and basic acronyms to get the message across. Another time to ask for proof of life. He did it comically, but it struck Simon anyway and he’d replied immediately. He needed to be alone, he needed to leave Soap in safety, but he damn sure didn’t want him spending his time worrying. Simon wasn’t worth that. No one had worried after him in a long time, except for Price, but Price was much better at giving Simon space than Soap was. He thought that might bother him. He was wrong.

If he could go back to that night they sat up camp in the Russian forest and tell their companions that he would take first watch, if he could have taken those soldiers out before they put bullets in him and stranded them together, then he could have prevented all those lines from getting crossed. He could have saved Johnny, who he cared for, a lot of pain and a lot of trouble. He could have saved him the shock of his age and his history and kept them a simple soldier pair, good for the battlefield and nothing more.

But that hadn’t happened, and instead he’d done what he’d sworn to never do, and he’d done it with someone warm, and willing, and gentle in the cloud of his sickness and pain. And then he’d fallen asleep on him and then he’d kissed him like it was such an easy thing to do. But he’d been so undone by Johnny on the floor beneath him, looking up at him and reaching for him like he wasn’t doing exactly what a monster would. Or a demon. A beast. Whatever was the worst thing imaginable, that’s what Simon had been, laying over his Sergeant and drinking his life force to bolster his own.

Simon stood, feeling that familiar emptiness now, and knowing if his mind was going to stick to any one task for any viable amount of time, he was going to have to feed. He drove to the edge of the city and entered the woods, over someone’s fence. He supposed trespassing was the least of his sins.

He walked slowly, ears wide open, but his thoughts were with Soap again. What he really wanted was the man beside him. Selfishly, maybe, since being beside him tended to spell trouble for Soap. Maybe that’s what he was longing for, really, to have a safe place and a quiet moment to be together. Just the two of them. Without some element of danger or survival.

He decided he would call Johnny on his way back to his room. Tell him what he could, apologize for before. He’d been an adult for a century, the least he could do was offer the man an explanation. And he wanted to hear his voice, even if it was cold. Even if Soap was sick of him. He still had him, he should eat up every second of it that he could.

And the anxiety of this was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He thought he’d live out his days as a consequence of a great evil, he had been too stupid to do the work of making sure no one else ever had to. It was hard for him to admit, but Soap gave him some comfort, his warm solidity, his want to be near Simon, it gave him something to fight for. Something to relax in to. Simon needed his logic, his optimism, he’d seek it out once he was fed.

He stopped for a moment, a sound to his right catching his attention. It wasn’t quite right, not quite animal, and he moved closer to a tall tree nearby, standing in the even darker shadow of its trunk, his supernatural eyes seeking who was following him.

He never saw them. Instead, a sharp pain began in his neck, thanks to a dart of some kind. He pulled it out and looked at it, the colored feathers on the end a contrast to the way his vision darkened. Whatever they were drugging him with was strong and unique. There wasn’t much in the world that could knock him out so quickly. Fascinating. It fell from his hands as the ground came up to meet him.

--

Soap paced his room for a while. It had been four days since Simon told him off after caring for him. Such harsh words contrasted with such gentle hands. But Soap wasn’t stupid. He knew tension between them wouldn’t be something that would keep Simon from his duty.

And he knew what they’d seen in the smuggling tunnels under Berlin. He knew his little display of childish weakness had ruined their chance to go back for more, so maybe Simon had been back down there on his own.

Maybe, because of their bitter words before he left the last time, he didn’t want to inform Soap, or maybe Soap was an entitled little brat to think he deserved that.

Honestly, the why didn’t matter to him. Neither did the fact that Simon was afraid of burying him over this. The sentiment was nice, but it wasn’t a good enough reason for him to sit out.

All he really knew was that Simon was not there when he was supposed to be. On base. With him. And he was getting selfish and worried and overly annoyed at everyone else for acting like it wasn’t extremely out of the ordinary.

They’d texted back and forth a couple of times. Normal stuff. But he didn’t know if Simon would call for help if he needed it. He swallowed, running a hand over the back of his neck. He didn’t know if he could help Simon if he called for it.

He hadn’t lied when he said it was overwhelming. Confusing. Really fucking hopeless. The situation was, but Simon wasn’t, and Simon held the weight of the world on his shoulders because of this. And he would be holding it alone if he hadn’t almost died in that Russian wilderness because of a bullet meant for Soap. He believed he should be alone, handle it alone. But according to Soap, he wasn’t going to get a choice in that.  

He went to Price’s office. The man had been scarce, at least when Soap had been looking for him, and he’d also seemed unbothered that Simon had now missed two meetings. Soap knew the man knew something and damn his rank, he was going to find out what. This was so beyond rank, so beyond classified, and he knew if there was another person on earth that cared for Simon as deeply as he did, it was likely the Captain.

“Soap.” Price said without looking up from the map in his hand, as if he’d been expecting him.

“Captain.” He said quietly, shutting the door behind himself.

Price looked up as he approached the desk and helped himself to a seat. “What brings you down here today, Sergeant?”

The question was innocent enough. Soap had been working on how to frame the questions with concern without giving away any of Ghost’s secrets, or putting any kind of suspicion on him.

“I’ve been wondering about Ghost, sir. He hasn’t been attending the meetings.”

Price eyed him. “Two meetings, you mean.”

“Yes, sir, but we both know that’s a little uncharacteristic.”

“You have concerns?”

Soap leveled his gaze at Price. He had no idea what the man knew or didn’t, he just knew that Simon and Price had some special level of understanding.

“I do, and I’m unsure why I’m the only one.” He said it so seriously, so straightforward, although his frustration was begging to come out.

Price removed his glasses. Met one set of blue eyes with his own, nothing hiding them. “It’s come to my attention that you became informed of some details around Lieutenant Riley’s past. Informed by him, I assume.”

Soap nodded, unable to hide the heat that crept up his neck. He didn’t want Simon in trouble with Price, and he wasn’t keen on facing reprimand either.

Price went on. “I too, have gained some knowledge. More recently than you, I presume.” He leaned back in his seat, contemplating how much to say out loud. “Simon has sent me his location, a hotel in town. Not the same one from before. He’s doing some digging. He’s staying in touch. I’m hesitant to call attention to his absence until I know more.”

“No one else has asked?” That heat crept further. The others were afraid of Ghost, they were probably glad to get away from him for a bit.

“No one has quite the interest in him that you do, Sergeant.”

Soap set his mouth in a hard line. Scrutiny over their fraternizing wasn’t what he had come there to face. “After the last mission, I’m just worried, is all. Just wanted to know I wasn’t out of turn.”

Price took a deep breath. He spoke solemnly. “You’re not, Soap. Anything else aside, what Ghost has revealed to us is dangerous, and it runs deep. Rest assured I am doing what I can. He came to me to share his concerns, and I have begun appropriate conversations. And I am keeping tabs on Simon. Checking in. I don’t feel there’s any reason to worry.”

Soap stared at him for a moment, a look of understanding passing between them. Then he nodded and rose. “Thank you.”

Soap turned toward the door. Price’s voice stopped him. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Sergeant.”

Soap nodded again and left. He knew, without any hesitation whatsoever, that letting Simon push him aside would be a lifelong regret he wasn’t willing to accept. But he had to trust those two men. He had to be careful. It was too much unknown and he couldn’t go in strong and come out on his knees again if he hoped to be of any use.

He messaged Simon. Told him he’d spoken to Price. That he trusted he was safe but it wouldn’t hurt him to hear back. When he finally fell asleep, there had been no response.

--

Simon woke, feeling not unlike he had the last time he was caught off guard by the Coalition. That’s what the patch on the man’s uniform said where he knelt before him on the cold floor. The Coalition. The Program. The thing he needed to stop, but he was apparently powerless to. His best bet now was to try and stay alive, and hold to the fact he didn’t know what they were talking about or who he truly was.

“Good to see you’re awake, Simon.” The man said in an American accent, startling him. He certainly hadn’t guessed the operation might have reached beyond the original European founders. He swallowed dryly.

“Who?” He pushed past cracked lips, begging the question how long he’d been there. “Where am I?”

“Now, now, Simon, I think you can drop the games.” The man wasn’t just knelt in front of him, Simon realized, he was doing something. “But, if you choose to hold on to your little façade, we have our methods. We can prove you’re lying.”

He didn’t have the energy to answer. Besides, he was too distracted by what the man was doing. He’d placed a shunt in Simon’s bare arm, between his armpit and his elbow. They were going to bleed him out.

“What are you doing?” He asked, his voice more difficult to get out than he expected.

“Look, if you’re not the Simon Riley we seek, then I apologize. This won’t be fun for you. But if you are, we expect pretty quickly to see your healing or your thirst kick in. Whichever hits first.”

Simon simply stared at his own blood leaving his body via a tube and off behind him somewhere. He knew the feeling that was making him warm and numb. It was the feeling of the bite. Meant to subdue. This was worse, much, much worse than he’d originally thought.

“You do smell nice.” The American man mumbled. Simon frowned and slowly looked back his direction. “No one will mind if I speed the process along.”

Simon watched as if everything were in slow motion as the man moved behind him where his arms stretched backward, chained around a pole. He closed his eyes and hung his head as he felt what he knew was coming. The man bit him, just above the elbow and pulled harshly, drawing Simon’s blood into his mouth. He was afraid. He hoped he tasted dirty and bitter. Not enough, apparently, to keep him from moving up his shoulder and biting again. He could feel the blood trickle down his arm as the man pulled away and left.

Simon let his chin fall to his chest. Not only had he failed to stop them, he’d hung around long enough to become their asset. And now, they might kill him, or they might imprison him, and eventually Soap and Price would be looking for him. He knew the American man hadn’t been part of the original program which meant there were others like him already, and they had a mechanism by which to turn more.

He hadn’t been alone last time. He hadn’t been alone in a long time. And finally raising his eyes, he found he wasn’t alone then, either.

Familiar, bloody boots, stood before him, one toe tapping impatiently. He hadn’t realized he was so close to death, he supposed. He kept his eyes on those feet, refusing to look up at that perfect, ruined face.

“We have to stop meeting like this, Si.” There was humor in his gentle voice.

Simon simply shook his head one time, slowly.

“You’ve got yourself in a real mess, huh.” Roach sounded sad, he squatted in front of Simon, and he almost wanted to look.

“Appears so.” He said. It sounded final, he hoped it shut the man up. He didn’t want to talk to Gary. He wanted to talk to Johnny. He was supposed to. He was planning to call him. Set things right.

“Johnny? That’s the man that saved you in the cabin, huh?” Roach didn’t sound jealous, only curious.

Simon had forgotten there was no privacy between them. “Don’t say his name.” Simon looked at the first person he’d ever loved and spit in his bloody face. “Where were you then? You abandoned me there, I thought I was done with you for good.”

Gary looked unfazed by Simon’s anger. “You didn’t need me there, my love. You weren’t alone. And he wasn’t going to let you go.” He made a show of wiping Simon’s saliva off his face like his own brain matter wasn’t splattered across it. “He’s a lot like me in that way.”

“You did let me go.” His voice was as bitter as his fear.

Roach looked at the deeply bruised bites down Simon’s arm. “I wish I hadn’t, Si. Goddammit, I would have done anything to stay with you.”

“You weren’t going to get your countryside, Gary. I wasn’t going to take you out there. That was never going to happen for us.”

“I knew that. I knew that all along, and I still hoped for it. I still wanted it.”

“You were stupid for that.”

“Are you stupid for hoping for a quieter life? Weren’t you just walking around a countryside of your own thinking about lying next to Johnny in peace?”

For the second time in a matter of weeks, tears burned behind Simon’s eyes. He had hoped for that. And he was stupid for it.

“No, Simon. You weren’t stupid for it. It’s normal, and human to want to rest beside someone you love.”

“I only ever loved you, bug.” Simon felt a different level of defeat, all the way down to his soul.

“I’m not too stupid to know that isn’t true.”

The effects of Simon’s poison were wearing off. It didn’t fade Roach’s mirage, but it brought his mind some clarity. “Soap is just a man. He’ll age and die.”

Roach stood again. “And?”

“And by wanting him, I’ve already lost him.”

“Didn’t we say similar things back then? Two men in a relationship, special forces, weird experiments, we were dead men walking.” He began pacing.

“He deserves a hell of a lot better.”

“He deserves love from a heart like yours, Simon Riley.”

“Well I’ve lost that chance now, haven’t I? It’s over.” Tears ran down his face and he had no shame left with which to stop them

“I think that’s for you to decide.” Gary walked to the door and disappeared through it, leaving Simon alone again with his heavy heart.

Chapter Text

Simon decided that yes, it was over. Like Gary had told him to. Gary, who was no more than a scar Simon refused to close. A part of himself that he kept cutting open when he was afraid and alone because if he sewed it up properly, then Roach would be gone for real. Forever. By letting the delusion destroy him, he kept Gary alive. The only true ghost in the room was Simon Riley.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, he would have to destroy them from the inside. With Roach gone, he sat alone and contemplated the ways by which he might take them down. It would start with why they wanted him, and why they were draining his blood. He guessed it wasn’t to prove anything at all. He guessed it was already proven. He guessed they needed his DNA in large quantities for something. He wondered if they needed him alive, then. For the first time in his life, he hoped the hunger might save him once again.

 It was quiet, and he felt cold. He’d thought he’d be infiltrating, learning, destroying. He didn’t realize they’d be so far along already, that he was so far behind. His stomach turned at what he’d told Price. He’d made it seem like he was just doing recon, that they were just starting back up. If they stepped into it now…

And Soap, Soap would go to his own grave not knowing Simon’s heart. It didn’t matter really, the man would be so easily loved by someone else. Someone who wasn’t so haunted by their past. And they would see him for all that he was, like Simon had failed to.

His wallowing was interrupted by another worker in their Coalition uniform. Another with an American accent, but a gentler tone.

“How are you feeling today, Simon?”

Simon frowned. “Today? What day is it?”

“You’ve been with us for forty-eight hours, if that’s what you’re asking.”

A chill ran down Simon’s bare back. It had felt no more than a few hours. He didn’t reply.

“We’re going to move you. We have what we need now.”

Simon gave the man a look that he hoped conveyed just how he felt about all their bullshit. He’d settled on complacency. He had to follow along, stay alive long enough to make some kind of move. Long enough to keep them from going after the others.

The man knelt and stuck a needle in Simon’s arm. He didn’t even have the forethought to flinch away. Maybe, at some point in his long life, with his big, strong, indestructible body, he would stop finding himself at others’ mercy.

--

Soap was pacing again. He wouldn’t be surprised if he eventually wore a groove in the concrete floor. Price had pretty clearly told him not to worry. Not to bother.

But he was worried. Simon had never answered him. It had been four days since he’d left, two since he’d checked in with Soap specifically. It wasn’t the right time for him to think about whatever it was between them, to decide that maybe Simon was just tired of hearing from him. Best case scenario, Simon was simply through with him, and he could show up with egg on his face, have his lashing, and go back to dreaming. Or, Simon was busy. Undercover, maybe. Doing exactly what Price had said he was doing. Or, something was wrong. He was in trouble, or he’d run from them, or worse. Soap could deal with whatever the truth was, but he couldn’t deal with not knowing it.

He had enough caution left in him to wait until late, until the base was quiet, and he made his way back to the computer. The same one him and Simon had used before.

Simon was a force, a real beast of a man. But he was a man. His outer edges were weathered and sharp and treacherous, but he was soft at his core. He gave for what he believed in and he protected the people around him. Soap was more superstitious than most, but fate was a long stretch. Still, the moments they’d spent, the hours, days, the strange positions they’d found themselves in, together, it wasn’t something he could ignore. Simon had never been something he could ignore.

He must feel so desperate, so fucked up over it all. Soap knew that Simon would carry the responsibility for this, that he already did, because he had carried every other aspect of it alone. He’d had a few years with someone like him, someone he cared for, and he’d lost that, too. Permanence didn’t seem to be something he sought, and it was no surprise at all.

The thought hurt Soap, right in the middle of his chest, and the pain brought him back to the task at hand. He’d messaged Simon again. Once. He’d called him. Once. One thing he certainly wasn’t going to do was portray his panic again. Not after the indignity of his breakdown in that warehouse. Simon not answering out of spite felt unlikely, so Soap would assume there was some other reason he couldn’t reply.

He pulled up a site, and hesitated. Simon wouldn’t like Soap, or anyone, violating his privacy. Soap was stacking up punishments as the night wore on. After a moment, he found the last known location of Simon’s cell phone. It had pinged outside the city, on someone else’s property. There were no buildings nearby, he’d likely been hunting. The concept was still a little difficult, but not alarming. What was alarming was the time stamp. Over two days prior. He let his eyes run over the date and time a few more times. He scribbled it down, along with the coordinates as his heart worked its way up toward his throat.

Maybe it was nothing, maybe he’d been hunting, as Soap had presumed, and dropped his phone. Maybe he was back at his room right now, glad for the peace and quiet. Soap checked a few previous locations. Picked out a frequent one and made the assumption it was his hotel. He slipped the paper into his pocket and put the coordinates in his phone.

He sidled through the base and the garage, making it look like he had a full blown reason for being out there. He picked a truck, he went over various excuses in his mind for Price, and he left.

--

Simon woke in a different room with the same concrete floors and the same whitewashed walls and fluorescent lighting. Only it was even colder. It felt like a walk-in freezer. He could show a hell of a lot of strength but he couldn’t quell the chatter of his teeth. He bit his tongue to stop it, coming to enough to look around and realize that he wasn’t alone. The man from before, the quieter one, and a tall woman with long dark hair stood watching him. Discussing him. They were looking at clipboards and back at him as if they thought he couldn’t see them. He just stared longer. Eventually they came to stand in front of him.

“Simon, my name is Lena.” German accent. “I want to discuss a few things with you.”

Simon didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. His hands felt numb.

“We’ve been looking for you a long time.” The woman, Lena, put her hands behind her back and watched her colleague. “Since you left the program in 1941.”

Simon knit his brows slightly. There was no way they hadn’t found him before, then. No way they hadn’t known about Gary. No way they hadn’t been watching him.

The woman noted his confusion. “We observed you for some time. Watching for….side effects. We did so without other intentions.”

“Side effects?” Simon heard his voice but it sounded distant.

“Everyone else from your round of the program had side effects that presented a few months to a few years after leaving. Their bloodlust was out of control. A few of them killed themselves unintentionally, ripped their own limbs off or bit into arteries to drink their own blood. Others had to be…taken out. For killing humans in front of witnesses.”

“Not everyone else.” Simon heard his voice again, and this time he bit his tongue so hard he tasted his own blood. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

“Gary Sanderson, you mean. Your partner.”

The word struck a chord in him. A hollow one.

The woman nodded when she saw his thinly veiled reaction. “He was exhibiting signs, like the others. We made a decision to prevent more bloodshed.”

The words seemed to echo through the ice cold air for a moment. Gary hadn’t been exhibiting signs of anything, he’d been steady, perfect. He’d wanted to settle down, live even quieter. They’d hunted together, fed together, even from each other. No one had shown better control than Roach. Even when Simon lost his.

“You killed him.”

All those years, to Simon it had just been a part of the job. Gary had been a casualty of the war they’d both been born to fight. Simon had buried him with honor, a sacrifice that paid off, ended something. It hadn’t ended anything. It had simply continued what they’d been running from.

“You killed him!” He tried to stand, to leap at the woman, even though her fearful eyes proved she herself had nothing to do with it. Maybe he’d never been out of control by their standards but he felt out of control then. He’d gladly rip their limbs off. Bite into their arteries.

The restraints on his arms and legs kept him in his seat. They’d murdered his partner in cold blood and his mind was completely empty in trying to predict what they might say next. All he could think was how they would look with their own brain matter splattered across their faces.

 He fell back, letting his restraints go slack. His vision darkened around the edges. Shock, maybe. Or rage. Didn’t matter. Roach was gone and maybe it wasn’t his fault. They’d been after Gary specifically, they’d controlled his life down to the depths of his heart, maybe there was nothing he could have done.

“You were our only success, Simon. The perfect soldier.”

Simon laughed at them in spite of himself. A success only because he was in control of a need to drink human blood. He was an abomination, just as he’d told himself for years and years. A failure by basic definition.

“Now that we have you,” they ignored his antics, “we have what we need to successfully launch the program. We’ve had issues with every batch up until now. Your DNA is our last hope.”

He got it then. They wanted to use whatever formula he was to them to make an army of ‘perfect soldiers’. Something in him, some part he cursed with all the strength he had left, was something they desperately needed.

“You killed nine perfectly good soldiers in my time. How many since? And for what?”

“They were martyrs for this cause, really.” The man spoke, folding his hands behind his back like the woman. “And it’s no different than it was before. Creating perfect soldiers. Only now, the market is better.”

Market. So, they were for sale. He supposed, now that they had what they needed from him, he would be no different. He felt himself settle into it, numb. He’d be untraceable, if they did it correctly, he’d get away without anyone knowing where or why.

“Why did it take eighty years to get to this conclusion?” Curiosity burned at him now. A need to know that this, at least, was the truth. And to search for their weaknesses, some place they might slip up.

“We did lose sight of you for some time. The Coalition, they didn’t operate for a couple of decades, no money and no leadership. And then, your Captain Price kept record of you close to the chest. We didn’t have the resources to find you then, either. It wasn’t until Dmitri got on a run with you that we finally had an in.”

Simon lost all desire to be tough, to comply. Price’s ‘Russian assassins’, they were after him. Price had been protecting him, and there had to be a reason why, but his mind couldn’t grasp it.

“You wanted to kill me?” It didn’t fit their story.

The woman looked down. “No. We wanted to get you alone.”

All Simon heard was we wanted to kill Soap. He gave her a look that promised a long, slow death of her own. “You failed.”

“It told us what we needed to know, though. That your bloodlust was under control, even under duress.”

“And,” the man spoke up, “that the man with you was solid. A top tier soldier.”

No, no. No. Immediately, Simon knew where they were going. He willed his body to turn liquid, slide out of his chains. Let him get to Soap first.

“We need your DNA, sure. Your blood. But more importantly, we need your in. With a group like the 141, small, elite, it’s an excellent place for us to start. And with you as our poster boy, it should be an easy sell.”

Simon laughed again, dry and cold. “Are you serious?”

“We can always bring them in ourselves.” Any kindness in the man disappeared. “You have seven days. We want the one from the Russian mission, and then we’ll talk about the others. If you convince him to come in with you, of his own accord, it will make all of our lives easier.”

Yes, yes. Seven days was a long time. He could play along with that. Get out. Get to Soap first.

 “He’s smart. I can’t be followed.”

“We don’t need to follow you. We’ve proven we can find you.”

--

Soap went to the hotel room first, just to be sure. He wasn’t sure what room, but it took only a few bills to bum the number off the lad at the front desk. Simon hadn’t given his name but his stature, his blond hair, his distinctive scars and tattoos were a giveaway. He was hard to forget.

Soap approached the door, hoping the man had been right. He knocked, and gave it thirty painstaking seconds before he decided it was empty. He knelt quickly, picking the lock and slowly opening the door. The room was clean, but lived in. Simon’s things were on a chair near the unmade bed. Soap approached it. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He turned, jerking to a stop. He hadn’t been expecting Simon’s detailed wall of evidence. It was some of what they’d found together, and other things Soap hadn’t known about. He stared at it for a moment longer in tentative awe before checking the last dark corners of the room and deciding that if Simon wasn’t there, then Soap needed to find that phone.

He parked along the side of the road, hardly feeling the need for cover. He wasn’t far from town, but far enough to go unnoticed. He walked slowly along the gravel road, watching the blinking dot on his phone, pointing to the last known location of Simon’s. He went slow, he looked up at the sky. He enjoyed the fresh air. He was terrified of what he might find.

He approached the location and pulled out a flashlight. He’d debated using it at all, afraid of being caught but there was nothing nearby. Even if someone saw him, he’d have time to get away. He clicked it on. He was where the phone pinged from but there weren’t signs of a struggle. No blood, from what he could tell, no footprints, no broken branches. But there was a phone. And it was damp and dirty, it had been there for the two days since the timestamp he’d seen before. Nothing else. No Simon.

He'd go back to the city, then. Look for more clues to his whereabouts, or wait for him to return.

--

Simon was let out of his chains and given his clothes back. The bruised, oozing bites from the man bled onto his shirt. He didn’t care. He was handcuffed and blindfolded like a prisoner and driven to a location he couldn’t have determined if his life depended on it. They stood him on the sidewalk and let him go, driving in their unmarked van back into the night. He found a street sign. He was a few blocks from his hotel.

For a few minutes, he stood and watched, eyeing every shadow and dark window, letting people brush past him, making sure he wasn’t followed. He’d been drained, he was starving, and he could hear every heartbeat that walked along beside him. He had an emergency supply in his room, he needed to get to that and then figure out what to do. Starting with getting Johnny out of Germany.

He entered the building from the side door, pulling no one’s eyes. He trudged slowly down the hall, letting his tiredness weigh him down. He hadn’t felt so broken in a long time, even the hardest truths of his life were false, but he was no less alone in the grief of it. He paused before turning the corner to stand before the door of his room. He could hear a steady heartbeat nearby. Near his door. He stopped, silent, listening. The heart in his chest that he thought was now completely broken jumped haphazardly. The heartbeat he could hear belonged to Johnny. He braced himself against the wall.

“I can hear you, Simon.” Soap said, his voice low. He didn’t move from his post, but his heart sped up. He was nervous.

Simon pulled all of his strength into straightening to his full height and rounding the corner. He pulled the key that had been returned to him out of his pocket as he walked.

“What are you doing here, Soap?” He sounded weary and annoyed. He was proud of himself for that.

Soap pushed off the wall, a hand in his pocket. “Tracking you.”

Simon gave him a sideways glance as he stuck the key in the door. “That’s not your job.”

Soap wasn’t dumb. He could see that Simon’s hands shook as he turned the handle.

“I’m not here because of my job.” Soap pushed past Simon and walked ahead of him into the room. “I’m here because you worried me. And because your phone was in a field somewhere.”

Simon watched him, watched him walk to the middle of the room and stand facing away from him. He understood that, that he was hard to face. And his mission now, before going to Price, before finding a way to nip The Coalition in the bud, was to get that man to safety.

And he wasn’t safe there. Not until Simon had a drink.

“Soap.”

“Price told me you filled him in, he told me you were out here alone, and I know you think you have to be but if I can’t find you, and I can’t get ahold of you, I’m—”

“Soap.” Simon repeated, his hand going out to steady himself against the wall.

Soap heard it, and turned. “Ah, I knew it.” He was in front of Simon in a second, a few of his rapid heartbeats, and took him by the arm. He touched the wounded part with his gentle fingers, making him flinch. “What’s wrong?”

His voice had changed from borderline angry to quiet and concerned. He guided Simon into a chair in the tiny excuse for a kitchen by the door. He pushed it closed, locking them in.

“In the fridge. There’s a flask.”

No questions, Soap opened the door and found it easily, handing it over. Soap watched how he moved like he was stiff and sore, taking it and drinking from it. He made a promise to himself not to leave without answers, though he’d prefer to leave with the man beside him.

“Tell me what’s going on, Simon.” Soap crossed his arms, less out of demand and more out of self preservation. And because he knew Simon could hear Soap’s racing heart.

Simon shifted forward in his seat, like he was going to stand and changed his mind. He leaned forward like he was going to be serious, cold. He couldn’t do that either. His face changed enough times that Soap dropped his arms and stepped closer, confused.

“I was…taken. From the field where you found my phone.” He leaned forward again and hung his head, running his hands through his hair. He had no idea how to explain to Soap what he’d been told. When he looked back up, he was surprised to see the man standing over him.

Soap could see the stubble on Simon’s face and the overly dark circles under his eyes. “Take your coat off.”

“Soap—”

“You’re hurt, Simon. I can see that. Did they follow you here?” Soap looked like he was torn between being demanding and pulling Simon to his chest.

Simon unashamedly wished for the second. “They didn’t follow me, but—”

“Then we have a minute, yeah?” Soap cut him off again. “Take your coat off.”

Simon leaned forward slightly, slipping out of the heavy jacket. Soap helped him, and laid it on the floor. His wounds were few but they bled through the sleeves of his shirt. Soap didn’t speak as he helped Simon pull it off over his head.

“They’re back, much further along than we expected. They took,” he swallowed, suddenly choking on the guilt, “they took blood from me, they want to use it to create…others.”

Soap just nodded, his pretty lips pursed as he knelt to look at what were very clearly violent bite marks down the outside of Simon’s arm.

“They killed Roach, and they tried to kill me in the forest. One of the Russians was working with them.”

The information turned Soap’s stomach but he had moved to Simon’s other arm, looking at the incision above his elbow.

“They’ve given me seven days to bring you in.” Simon knew his words didn’t make sense. That he wasn’t being clear. He was so tired.

Soap didn’t understand anything but the notion that they were going to ruin Simon if it was the last thing they did. And it would be the last thing they did. He swore it then. And he understood they had at least one night to recover.

Simon searched for words, to explain, but he found none as Soap took his face in both hands and turned his head gently, kissing him beneath his right eye. He didn’t deserve that, that kind of tenderness. He deserved a grave he didn’t have to drag people into with him, and that was it.

“Seven days means you have enough time to rest.”

“No, Soap.” There was no worse panic than the one person in danger, the one he cared for most, not grasping the situation and the need for urgency.

“Yes, Simon. You look awful and we’re not going anywhere tonight, okay? Let’s get you cleaned up.” The warmth of him was enough to stop Simon’s arguments, at least for the moment.

Chapter Text

Soap pulled Simon to his feet and walked him into the small bathroom, sitting him on the edge of the tub. He noticed, not without some humor, that it was so small the showerhead would be at Simon’s chest. He was on the verge of saying they should just head back to base so he could get a proper bath when he met Simon’s eyes again, this time in the light. They were really beautiful. They held a depth that Soap wasn’t ever sure he would understand. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“Gather your thoughts, Simon. I need a little more detail on what you said before.” He knelt and eyed the cut in Simon’s arm, turning it slightly to see it better. “I need to understand.”

Simon watched as Soap dug around in the bathroom for what he needed. He wouldn’t find it, but he didn’t have time to speak before Soap realized it.

“I have to go to the truck.”

“Don’t.” Both of them were surprised by the statement. Soap gathered himself easily.

“You said they didn’t follow you.” He reached for Simon but hesitated, letting his fingers brush against the skin of his shoulder. “I’ll be quick.”

He took Simon’s phone and pressed it into his palm, making a show of holding his tight in his own and slipping out.

Simon chose to use the moment to get a grip. It was the best thing he could do to keep from absolutely losing his mind over Johnny stepping outside of his sight, even for a second. He needed to help the man understand the danger he was in, and they needed to move fast because he didn’t trust the Coalition at all. He knew almost nothing of them. And he’d need to talk to Price about it. He’d remove Johnny from the equation first.

He looked to the door. It had been maybe ninety seconds, and Johnny had walked far enough that Simon could no longer hear his heartbeat. Thirty more seconds and he stood, too quickly really, reminding him that the blood he’d drank from his flask was not enough to cover for all they’d taken. He pressed his hands over his eyes for a second, catching his balance. He walked out, to the door, and cracked it open. Then he could hear the Sergeant, his boots on gravel. He was calm, collected. It was opposite of how it should have been, there had never been a time when Simon wasn’t a step ahead, in control. He was the one to care for the others, to make the decisions, and now, twice, he’d forced Soap to take the role instead.

Soap found him at the door and raised his brows in question but didn’t chide him for it. And Simon didn’t answer, he just turned and returned to his seat. They didn’t speak at first, Soap focused on Simon’s wounds. Focused on keeping his cool as he inspected them. The busted lip and bruises from before were one thing, but these were violating, deeply personal.

“If I ever see who did this to you, I’ll kill them.” He mumbled from Simon’s side.

Simon’s heart was going to give out. He felt it. It wasn’t inside his body anymore, it was somewhere between the protective cage of his ribs and the seemingly safe home that was Johnny. In limbo.

“You won’t. You’re leaving.”

Soap’s hands faltered momentarily. He contemplated how to respond. “Leaving where?”

Simon swallowed, and nodded. He would explain it right. Make it clear. “The Coalition, that’s what they’re calling themselves, thinks they can make more soldiers like me using my DNA. Apparently, every experiment since mine has failed, and they killed all the men from my group because they believed them failures.”

Soap frowned. “Mhmm.”

“They have sent me, now, to recruit. They were in Russia, they saw that you survived, and so they want you. They want you first, and then they want the others.” Simon uttered the rehearsed words, keeping his emotion out of them.

Soap nodded.

“I have seven days to bring you in. So, we’re going to cross the border. Find you a safe place until this blows over.”

Soap straightened, satisfied with the coverings on Simon’s arms. He stood in front of him, forcing the Lieutenant to look up at him. The Sergeant smelled familiar and clean and safe, and Simon reached for him. Soap pulled him to his feet, turning out the light.

“I’m not leaving you.” He stated. Simon followed him to the bed. “Lie down.”

“Soap—”

“Shut up, Simon.”

His voice wasn’t harsh. It carried a line of desperation that made Simon comply. Sort of. He sat on the edge and watched as Soap checked the clip of his weapon in the dim light of the lamp. Soap turned back to him and chose to show no emotion although the state of Simon Riley in that moment pulled at the strings of his heart. He knelt in front of him and unlaced his boots, pulling them off. He knew Simon wanted to leave then, but he didn’t fight. Standing, he turned out the light and sat next to Simon, slipping out of his own shoes.

“Why don’t you go and stay a bit with your family?” Simon asked into the quiet room.

Soap shook his head. “Why don’t you lie down? I’ll keep first watch.”

Simon was coming down from whatever they’d given him and whatever terrified adrenaline had pushed him there. He didn’t like Soap’s aversion to the question. “Don’t ignore me.”

Soap stood so Simon could stretch out and then climbed over him to sit against the wall. Once settled, he spoke, his voice quiet. “I don’t want to take this to them. They don’t even know this version of me.”

Simon didn’t dig. He knew he was on the edge of hardening Soap and making him rebel against his wishes instead of granting them. He couldn’t push too hard. Besides, he had to swallow past the urge to say he should go anyway, in case it was his last chance. His hope was leaving with the fog in his mind.

“You’ll talk to Price, won’t you?” Soap asked.

“When I get back.”

Soap hesitated, opening his mouth to speak twice before finding the words. “Simon, I know they asked for me, but I’m not some child. I’m not fragile. I’m younger than you, but we came up the same way. Fighting. I don’t need to be hidden away, I need to fight alongside you on this.”

Simon lay still for a long time. Soap would have thought he had fallen asleep if not for the occasional flutter of his light colored lashes as he blinked at the ceiling. Simon wasn’t sure what to say. The real Simon, the man that related to Soap, the one that admired him, was afraid to go it alone. That Simon wanted the aid. But the rest of him couldn’t bear to take the risk.

“This isn’t a militia or a terrorist group, Soap.”

“I know.” Soap fiddled with the edge of the blanket. “Maybe they should just turn me, aye? Then I’ll be like you.”

Simon turned his face toward Soap’s silhouette. His powerful sight could just pick out his light colored eyes, even as they avoided him. “You don’t want to be like me, Johnny.” He waited, but Soap had no quick answer. “They killed everyone besides me. Everyone in my group, everyone since. They killed my Gary out from under me and claimed it was because he was showing signs of bloodlust, that he was at risk of exposing us. I was never away from him for more than a few hours, I know he was fine. He was more in control than I ever was. They see you—us as assets, but not worth enough to avoid eliminating if they sense some threat. They would sell you to the highest bidder. You’d never be free again.”

Soap’s heart sank. He felt Simon wasn’t going to budge on it. He felt that it might be their last quiet hours together. “You loved him.”

“Very much.”

“You would have sent him away.”

“I would have done anything to protect him. I did, really. It wasn’t enough.”

Soap was on a path of argument, to force Simon to make the point that they should stick it out. That sending him away wasn’t fair. But the pain in his voice stopped him.

“That wasn’t your fault, Simon.”

“It should have been me. And they followed me all the way to that Russian wilderness. It should have been me then, too. You should never have been in this danger.”

“Don’t ask me to say I regret saving you. I would never have left you. I didn’t want you to leave me. Do you not feel worthy of help?”

“Not in this. I signed my soul away for this life, Soap, I deserve whatever comes with it.”

“You’re pitying yourself.”

“It’s been a fuckin’ century of this, I deserve some pity.” Simon bit the words out harsher than he meant to.

He wanted so badly to have a night with Soap where they didn’t have to be on edge, they didn’t have to keep watch, they didn’t have to talk about Roach or make painful decisions. He opened up the floodgates of his shame, he wished he had never met the man. He had loved Roach so deeply, he thought he had no heart left after burying him. But Johnny was different. He’d awoken something in Simon that he had to hold the pillow over again. Smother it before it got to live at all.

Soap reached for his hand where it lay idle on the bed and grasped it, running his own rough fingers over every line and callus.

“You deserve more than that.”

“I can’t lose you.”

Soap stilled and looked at Simon’s eyes, where they were trained intently back on the plaster of the ceiling. That was it, he supposed. The way Simon would express that he felt more than a sexual release, more than a protective instinct for the Sergeant.

“Don’t you think I feel the same?” He asked, unable to hold it back or take off the edge of emotion.

“The difference, Johnny, is that you have an actual life ahead of you. Maybe you feel your family doesn’t know you right now, but they’re proud of you. They care about you. And someone will find you so irresistible and they’ll give you what you deserve without asking you to risk your life for it.” Simon took a deep breath and kept going, cutting off Soap’s retort. “Yes I do want you beside me, yes I do know you’re capable of handling this. But I also know what they’re capable of and to put it very simply, I can’t risk it.”

Soap took a few breaths, thinking. Deciding what demands he felt were worth making. “Fine. Hide me away until a plan is made. I’ll agree to it if you agree to keep me in the loop and to pull me in when a plan is in place.”

Simon nodded. Relief filled him. He could work with that. “Fine.”

He knew, then, that it might actually be their last night together. He just wanted to soak up some of the comfort. To indulge for a moment in the feeling of being beside another body.

 He took his hand where it rested in Soap’s lap and gripped his forearm, pulling him down beside him. Soap clutched his gun and laid it safely aside as he settled on his back.

“This is what I signed up for, sir. To do exactly this. You haven’t pulled me into anything. This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

The honorific punched him in the gut. It put Soap’s respect, his trust, on complete display. Simon closed his eyes, focusing on Soap’s heart. He believed his own words. He spoke his own truth.

“I’ve done this before.” He admitted. “I fuck up every relationship I dare to acknowledge.”

“I think that’s a lie. You and Price have done quite well.”

Simon huffed a laugh. “Until now.”

Soap was silent for a moment. If their time was short, he would take advantage of the dark and quiet. “How did I taste before, Simon?”

Simon swallowed audibly. It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting, but he supposed it was a fair curiosity. “You tasted unlike anything else, Soap. Nothing bitter, nothing bad. Warm and alive.”

“I wish I could make you feel what you made me feel that night. I know it’s a false peace but it was like floating. It was such a relief.”

Simon ignored the stab in his chest at the thought that Johnny needed that type of relief from anything in the first place. And he thought of Roach again. Honesty fell out of him. “I’ve felt it.”

True curiosity gripped Soap. “You have? You’re safe for drinking?”

Simon worked on relaxing. “I suppose I am.”

Soap quieted. “You and Gary.”

“We abused the sensation, I’m sure.” Soap was quiet. “I shouldn’t speak of him so much. He’s been gone a long time.”

“I’m jealous is all.” A smile snuck into his voice. Not the jealousy Simon felt he deserved, really. A warmer one. A gentle one. “I don’t mind if you speak of him. He’s a part of you.”

“I’m the only one that remembers him.”

“I’ll remember him with you, then.”

“Soap.”

Soap waited for Simon to go on, but he didn’t. “We have to go back to base in the morning. I have cash, my passport. I can’t just leave from here. And I know you’re not well. You need more than what was in that flask.”

Simon swallowed, his mouth drier than he thought. Dry enough to hurt. “Alright. We’ll go back first.”

“You think they’ll actually give you a week?” Soap’s voice was more normal. Simon worked to replicate it.

“I doubt it. Not sure I can trust anything at this point.”

“You can trust me, Simon.”

He felt drunk, like the room was spinning. He was high on that singular truth. “I know that, Johnny.”

Simon didn’t let Soap say anything else. He gripped his arm again and rolled on top of him, caging him beneath his body. Johnny took a deep breath, pressing their chests together. He knew Simon could hear his heartbeat but Johnny could feel his too, very human. He reached between them to lay his hand on the back of Simon’s neck. Simon took the invitation and lowered his face to the crook of Johnny’s shoulder. He turned and pressed his lips against it, breathing in the scent of him. It wasn’t sexual, just a need to be closer.

Soap laid a firm hand on his back, comforting, holding him. “It’s gonna be alright.”

Simon felt it was a lie, but he didn’t call it out. He laid his forehead on Johnny’s shoulder. “Johnny.”

Soap savored the warm press of the man on top of him. It reminded him of the cabin, how it felt beneath him. Soap wasn’t stupid. He knew Simon mentioned his family because he was afraid Soap might lose his chance at goodbye. He knew Simon wanted to drive him away so he wouldn’t have to witness his failure. But they had the night. They had the moment.

"Bite me, Simon."

Simon’s own heart rate raised at the demand. It was tempting. He knew how sweet he tasted. How he might want that peace now. The relief. How, even briefly, it connected them so purely. He knew he would never have this again. Soap wasn’t like Roach and no one on earth was like Soap. If Simon lived a thousand more years he would never find someone like the man breathing steadily beneath the heavy, heavy weight of him. And he was so, so thirsty.

With steady hands, he worked Soap’s shirt up over his chest and off his left arm, then his head, leaving it partially on but keeping it out of the way. He knew how to be gentle. He knew how to keep it from marking him, from drawing eyes. His own healing bites still stinging, he gripped Soap’s chin and turned his head to the side. For the first time that night, Soap’s heartbeat jumped. Simon found exactly where it pulsed along the side of his neck and he pressed his lips against it again. And then his tongue.

Soap closed his eyes as he felt the small, stinging prick of teeth against the soft skin beneath his jaw. It wasn’t painful, it was thrilling. Simon didn’t draw from him, he just locked his lips around the bite and let Soap’s blood trickle into his mouth, sped up by the exciting pounding of his heart.

He hadn’t expected Simon to give into him so easily. It scared him, really, worse than anything else he’d learned that night. The fear was masked by the ecstasy of being completely surrounded by him. But it was still there. It made Soap believe that Simon truly thought that his life was over. He could undress him right now, make him feel plenty alive. He swallowed the thought and the desire and tucked it away for later. For when it was all over.

It was bliss. Relief, like he had said. The soreness in his body, the tiredness, the tight muscles in his shoulders, the frown lines between his eyes, they all eased. They melted, like he did.

Because he didn’t force it, it took longer. Soap was completely relaxed, almost asleep when Simon finished, pressing his tongue over the bite, letting the pressure stop the flow. This time, Soap didn’t hesitate. He gripped the back of Simon’s neck again, fisting his hair and pulling him to his mouth.

He tasted himself. The distinct metallic taste of blood. Warm and alive, like Simon had described. Simon let him, Simon slipped his tongue into Soap’s mouth, Simon tasted Soap differently and just as warm, gentle and lazy. He left his mouth and kissed down the length of his neck to the bottom of his collar bone. He closed his lips and his teeth and sucked, marking him anyway. Hiding it away, but leaving a tender place, a bruise to remember him by.

They ended up entangled. Simon was so tired he didn’t even dream and Soap finally floated out of his high and kept his promise to keep watch. And Simon trusted him to do so. They woke safe and alone. Soap looked forward to sleeping on the drive. He’d contacted a former colleague who’d agreed to let him stay in a hunting cabin just over the Austrian border. It would be nearly a half day’s drive from base. Simon was glad for the distance. It was plenty far enough to determine and evade any followers. It was well hidden and easily defensible.

They left before dawn, somber. But close, they packed Simon’s things together, hands and shoulders brushing as they did. They didn’t lose sight of each other, they walked next to each other until they parted to climb in the truck, and Soap spread out on the seat so he could close the space between them.

Simon had plans for the trip. He wanted the time, alone with Soap, to find a way to tell him that he hoped for a future. The one he’d imagined the night before, where they were together out of desire and not necessity. He wanted to pick Soap’s brain about what they were facing, hear his thoughts and ideas, fill him in on every detail he could in case he didn’t make it and Soap was the only one left who could help Price take them out. And he wanted to hear Soap’s voice. A lot of it. Until it drowned out the others in his mind.

They didn’t speak though, in the beginning. Simon kept his eyes sharp, watching for any danger as they left town. In the countryside, on the small, two lane road toward the base, he relaxed a bit. He stole a look at Soap, who he knew was tired, and watched his shining eyes watch the road ahead of them. He’d seen Soap panic and worry and run off pure adrenaline, but this quiet version of him was sobering. It was acceptance.

They were both distracted, and Simon’s eyes were on Soap when the larger vehicle hit them. Simon looked away quick enough that he didn’t get to meet his gaze, even in shock. He wished he hadn’t. He wished that blue was the last thing he saw. Instead he saw the green of the grass and the black of the asphalt and the yellow of fire and red of blood and then nothing.

Chapter Text

Soap had closed his eyes on impact. He remembered the sound of it, the floating sensation, and then he opened his eyes to fluorescent light and white walls, confused. And alone. And very, very cold. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what led up to it. He’d been in the front seat of the truck he’d driven from base. Simon was driving that time. Simon.

He kept his eyes shut tight, knowing that if he opened them and saw how alone he was, that Simon wasn’t there, then he would have to face the reality of it. He knew where he was. It was the same facility Simon had described to him. Where he had been held the last time. Where they had ordered him to leave from and return with Soap.

The wreck was not minor. As Soap lay in the cold with his eyes closed, he could begin to feel the sting and ache of his injuries. He could feel bandages covering a few places on his right arm. It would have been by the window, so probably from broken glass or asphalt. Something was off about his shoulder and he had at least one broken rib. Possibly more. He felt another ache above his right eye and absentmindedly reached for it. His eyes flew open then to watch the restraints pull against his arms.

He looked around, knowing he was being watched and working to keep his shock at a minimum. Simon had put their plan simply, and he hadn’t had to go into detail for Soap to know it wouldn’t be a pleasant process. He pulled on the restraints again, noting similar ones on his ankles. They weren’t budging. He had to find Simon first. Anything else, whatever happened to him, it didn’t matter. He had to know Simon was okay. It crossed his mind that this was a plot by the Lieutenant to get him there, like they’d asked. His heart knew it wasn’t and truly it didn’t matter. He could accept if it was, as long as Simon was okay.

The man he laid beside the night he broke into his hotel room was so important to him. That version of him, no Ghost in sight, it felt so rare and valuable. And giving in to him, letting Simon bite him, letting him be himself without hiding, it was something he didn’t want to give up. He put himself back there, caged between Simon’s arms, their hearts pressed together, and tried to catch his breath. That was what the man deserved, a safe place to finally rest. The wreck was not minor. They were hit on Simon’s side. As old and inhumanly strong as he was, he wasn’t indestructible.

Soap didn’t fall back asleep, partially because of the cold, partially because he could hear his own racing heart on the monitor beeping beside his head. He wasn’t going to panic, not like he had in the closet. I’m going to take you home, Simon had said to him. He wanted that. To go home. To go with Simon. He didn’t know if he would ever see him again, or if he could fight his way out. He wouldn’t try, not yet. Not with how easily they had seemingly killed all of their other experiments.

He tried to determine how long he’d been there, and if he was drugged. He probably was, considering the IV in his arm. Maybe it was too late. Maybe he was already turned. He thought the prospect would thrill him, but it didn’t. It turned his stomach.

A man entered some time later, startling Soap. He was short, dark haired, a beard obscured most of his face but Soap concentrated his icy gaze on the man’s small, dark eyes.

“Good to have you with us, Mactavish.” He spoke with a German accent and Soap hated the way his family name sounded in his mouth. He never changed his face, acting almost as though the man hadn’t spoken at all.

He looked down at a clipboard and back at the shivering Sergeant. “We’re going to move you to another room. Something a little more comfortable.” Two other men entered. Soap didn’t bother looking at them. “We want to answer your questions.”

It seemed like an underhanded promise. It seemed like a recruiting exercise, which Soap knew it to be. He wondered just how valuable he was to them. He wondered if killing the two massive men that rolled his gurney down some poorly lit hall would get him shot in return. He resolved, as they neared an open door, to not commit any violence. Not until his question was answered. Singular.

A woman sat in the room, tapping the toe of her high heel. Soap felt humiliated, tied down in front of her. He swallowed it as she looked up at him expectantly.

He willed some strength into his voice, completely unaware of how it might sound. “Where’s Simon?”

To his relief, his voice was strong. It sounded menacing. The woman frowned at him slightly. “Who?”

“Simon.” He hardened his stare at her. “Riley.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “He was driving the truck, no?”

Her accent was German, too. Soap was getting very annoyed at the nonchalance, as if their entire operation wasn’t riding on Simon’s existence. The thought was both comforting and infuriating.

“Yes.”

She glanced at the clipboard again before laying it across her lap. “He didn’t survive the accident. I’m sorry.”

It had been a long time since Soap had been told someone he was close to wasn’t returning. It was the nature of fighting, but since joining the 141, they hadn’t lost anyone. He wasn’t unfamiliar to the situation however, the numbness that must come with the revelation. The steadiness. A plan for reacting later.

Simon had always had a distinct disregard for his own life. Soap had suspected this day was coming. He was surprised though, by his own reaction. She had spoken with zero discernable emotion and he simply didn’t believe her.

“You have proof, then.” He realized demanding anything from his current position was laughable, but he had to try.

“We burned the body. They don’t decay like the rest of us, we couldn’t leave any evidence.”

Soap wondered if whoever was in the vehicle that hit them had survived. He wondered how far they were willing to go to hide.

He lowered his voice and spoke slower, as if he thought they hadn’t understood. “You have proof, then.”

The woman looked up at the bearded man questioningly. He nodded once. “We have his tags, his wallet. His identifying items. We can let you see them.”

Soap’s mouth dried out. An emptiness was growing in him. He knew what would come next, drowning in things unsaid, replaying their last interaction and wondering how it would have changed if he’d known, grieving a man he’d begun to realize he couldn’t live without. Facing the others that cared about him.

He wouldn’t face any of that until he had proof. He didn’t know if Simon’s effects would convince him. He felt so unconvinced because his heart believed the earth would stop spinning if Simon’s soul wasn’t walking it. His heart loved Simon. He wasn’t sure he even deserved to feel it. He wasn’t sure he was worthy of it. But he had known they met for a reason, he had always felt the pull.

He didn’t know if it mattered. Even if Simon wasn’t dead, Soap all but was. That’s what he told himself, ignoring the part of him that believed existing in a world free of Simon Riley would feel like true hell, no matter what happened to him.

He’d been left alone again. The room was warmer, but no less dismal. He was skilled at compartmentalizing, it was a part of the job, but he’d always been presented with a chance to decompress. To face the truths he’d gathered. His chances weren’t looking great this time. He felt hopeless.

It took longer than he would have liked for them to return. An eerie air hung over everything around him, and in his mind, a feeling like it was all for show. He still didn’t know how long he’d been there, and he didn’t think there was much in the IV. His eyes and mind were clear, and his wounds ached.

This time he heard them coming. The man and woman reentered together and the man undid the restraints on one of Soap’s wrists. He felt a twinge of satisfaction that the smaller man seemed nervous to do so. But then he handed Soap a small carboard box. He sat it on his lap.

A mask was inside. It was a soft one, the paint wearing off. The one Simon had been wearing when they left the hotel together. He reached for the silver chain beyond it. The chain was cold in his hand and Simon’s tags hung at the end of them. They were undoubtedly his, worn in a way Soap recognized, in ways that would be difficult to replicate. They had barely spoken in the car. Why hadn’t they spoken? He’d had a million things to say, and another million to ask. Simon was gone and Soap would never truly know the depth of him. He’d only caught a glimpse of it. It wasn’t enough.

He stayed there for a moment, frozen. The metal in his hands had specks of blood on it, and while Simon often acted as though his identity was meaningless, as though the real Simon was dead, he respected his job and his role under Price and he wouldn’t have given them up willingly. Soap kept them in his hand and he pulled out the wallet and thumbed through it. There wasn’t much inside, unlike its owner. But it was his. Soap had seen it in his hands the last time they were together. They weren’t going to offer him any more comfort, any other proof. He thought to try and keep the tags, let them rest warm by his own heart, but the man came and took them from him rather forcefully.

He strapped Soap to the bed again. Soap didn’t fight it. He didn’t move at all. He barely even registered them returning him to the arctic conditions of his first cell. He wondered if they had shown him that to try and break him. He watched the man inject something into his IV line and thought that maybe they had succeeded.

Simon had been so worried for Soap that he’d tried to get him to return home and say goodbye to his family. Soap should have been worried about saying goodbye to him. His mind was only full of Simon’s golden eyes and gentle hands, even as tears ran down the side of his face and dripped on the perfectly sterile sheet beneath him. He supposed they had drugged him then, his body felt heavy. He was going to sleep. Simon’s voice seemed to drown out any other thought he might have. Any fight, or motivation was eaten up by it.

I can’t lose you.

--

Simon came to lying on his stomach, surrounded by the smell of smoke. He attempted to open his eyes, but blood had dripped down into one of them, making it sting. He wiped it away. He was pinned. There was an accident.

“Johnny.” He said out loud, coughing at the smoke that filled his lungs with the following breath.

Johnny.

He looked over his shoulder, finding his leg stuck beneath the frame of the vehicle. They’d rolled and he was halfway out the driver’s door. No one else was nearby, and indeed, the truck was partially on fire. He tugged at his leg which was painful, but he could wiggle his toes, feeling that it wasn’t broken. He turned to his side, wiping blood out of his eye again and bending his body forward to try and find some leverage.

The ground was soft and wet and he didn’t have to strain hard to give his leg enough room to wiggle free. He was on his feet immediately in spite of the sting. It was raining which was why he hadn’t burned up yet, and it washed blood from cuts in his arms and side and face.

“Johnny!” He called, realizing his face was uncovered. He reached for his tags. The bastards had taken them.

 They had probably thought he was as good as dead. He rounded the mangled truck. The passenger door was swung open. He looked for prints but found anything left had washed away. Soap wouldn’t have left on his own without trying to wake Simon, or free him from the burning vehicle. He knelt and looked inside. The window was broken and there was blood around the base of it as though it had dripped down from the broken glass, and on the seat. Not an alarming amount, except that any amount was alarming. Soap’s phone was lodged near the base of the seat. Simon pulled it out but the screen refused to light. He pocketed it anyway.

“Johnny.” He stated. It was the only word that meant anything to him.

He knew the guilt was eventually going to drown him but he could tread water until he found his Sergeant and got him to safety. Like he’d been trying to do now. And he’d failed again. The other vehicle was gone. It was larger, it hadn’t flipped. They’d likely driven off in it. He found his wallet and phone gone as well.

He stood in the cold, slow rain and looked around the crash site. No one had passed them. He wondered how long it would be before someone did. He was still a good distance from the base but he needed a phone. He began walking, the ache in his bruised, bloody leg grounding him. Keeping him focused. Otherwise, he’d be losing his mind. The events of the last few days were overwhelming him, but the previous night, connected to Soap, it had kept him from retreating. No one had exercised that power over him in a long time and Soap did it with such natural kindness. No one on earth was less deserving of what Soap faced now. He knew Johnny wasn’t fragile, that he was incredibly strong, unnaturally resilient and intelligent. Simon knew he had to find him.  Before anyone tried to break him of that.

He had walked for about a half hour when he met a low, stone fence. He knew that meant a house place was nearby. His German was rough and unpracticed, he hoped maybe they spoke English. Maybe they would help him.

He found the split in the fence and the long driveway. He looked a mess, muddy and bleeding from a wound at the start of his hairline. He lifted the damp hem of his shirt and attempted to wipe his face a little cleaner. It had been a long time since he’d needed to beg someone’s help. He knocked on the door. A small, dark haired lady in an apron cracked it, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Auto….” He said, trying to sound friendly and not knowing what he should say or not say. He didn’t want the authorities. “Entschuldigung.”

She stared back at him.

“Sprechen Sie Englisch?” He leaned forward to hear her quiet voice.

“Yeah.” Her accent was heavy, but he didn’t think she was lying.

“I’ve had some car trouble.” He spoke clearly, pointing to the road. “Can I use your phone?”

She looked at him like he might kill her if she refused. It made him feel cold and ugly. But she left the door cracked as she walked away and returned a moment later with a cordless landline receiver. His anxiety had taught him years ago to remember phone numbers and he punched in Price’s.

It rang twice before the man picked up. “Price.”

Simon nodded at the woman, she nodded back, and he stepped back out on to the porch to speak in private. “It’s me.”

It was quiet for a moment on the other end of the line. Simon knew he was also searching for somewhere more private.

“Go.” He sounded serious. Simon knew it was to hide his concern.

Suddenly he was unsure what to say. Admitting to his superior officer that he’d lost his Sergeant wasn’t something he wanted to do. It hurt him.

“It’s Soap.”

“I know he left last night. Tell me he’s with you.”

Simon’s chest tightened, so did his voice. “He’s not. And I need you to pick me up.”

“Are you compromised?” He heard Price stand.

“Not exactly.”

“But Soap is.”

“I believe so.”

“Tell me where.”

“Headed your way. Maybe a half hour south.”

“I’m on my way.”

Simon hung up the phone, he turned and handed it to the sweet old lady. She’d been watching him.

“Danke.” He said as gently as he could. She nodded with a slight smile, closing and locking the door.

He started walking again. Walking felt wrong. He should be running. There’s no way they were moving fast enough.

Price met him less than a half hour later. He stepped off the road and let the truck roll to a stop. He climbed in. Price looked him over for a second, judging his injuries. Simon pointed, motioning for him to keep going in the same direction.

“What happened?” The Captain asked.

Simon struggled with where to start. “I was driving the truck Soap took from base and we were hit. The offenders were definitely Coalition. I—” He swallowed, running a hand over tired eyes. “I was with them before. Soap and I were headed back to base to fill you in. He caught me.”

Price eyed him again, trying to decide what to ask about first. “He was worried about you. Like to drove me crazy.”

Simon stared straight ahead. He didn’t want to acknowledge Soap’s feelings. They certainly weren’t warranted. And currently not important. “They took him.”

“I need you to tell me everything.”

Simon started from the beginning, filled Price in on everything he’d found and on what he’d been told while in their captivity. He left out the part about Roach, but he told him that they’d asked for Soap specifically. And that he’d intended to move Soap to a safe location and then pull Price in. The man just nodded.

“I’ve been in contact with a few others in various organizations that have had their eye on something like this. None of them knew it started so long ago, but many of them were aware of the genetic experiments. They’re ready to move if we have the location.” They approached the crash site, the overturned vehicle still smoking. “I need you to swallow your feelings on this, Simon. I need you focused.”

He attempted to do just that. “I am focused, sir.”

“I know Soap is very important to you.”

He swallowed again. Harder. “He is.”

“But the big picture is…huge. Stopping them is more important than anything else.”

Simon stepped out of the car, welcoming the cool air again. He knew Price was right. He also knew he’d damn anything Price said to hell to make sure he got to Soap first. When he rounded the front of the truck, Price was peering in the shattered windows. He stood and turned back to Simon who looked like he’d seen a ghost. Who still had blood trickling down his forehead toward his eye.

“We’ll get him, Simon. I’m not gonna lose him.”

“We might be too late.” It was Ghost’s voice that sounded from his mouth.

Price heard it, too. “You know where they might be holding him.”

“Yes. And I won’t wait. I know what they’re doing to him.”

Price walked back to the driver’s door. “I realize that but you going in without a plan leaves me down two and without my proprietary knowledge.” They sat next to each other again. “I also realize this isn’t just about what’s going on between you two. It’s also your job as his superior. But that will have to be addressed at some point.”

Simon slipped back through, just for a moment. “I don’t care about any of that, as long as he’s safe and they are in the ground where they belong.”

Chapter Text

They drove the rest of the way back to the base in silence. Price mentioned that a couple of others would be meeting them, moving with them. One was Kate Laswell, an American he’d worked with before. The meeting was solemn. Simon tapped his foot impatiently, trying to keep from rising and leaving on his own. He knew where to go, he knew what he would have to do to get in. Or, he had. He’d thought himself an invaluable asset to them but he’d apparently served his purpose if they’d left him for dead. Unless…

“This may be a trap.” He spoke out loud, not waiting for an opening. The other eyes in the room turned to him. “They left me for dead, supposedly, after expressing how their entire operation won’t work without me. They’re expecting that I survived and that I’m bringing others.”

Price shrugged. “So they expect us. That doesn’t change the plan, really. We are operating under the impression that they don’t have a lot of firepower and that we can hit them at an unexpected time.”

Kate nodded to him. “They may be expecting you to come with backup, but they don’t know we’re coming.”

Simon didn’t believe that was going to save them but he didn’t feel the urge to waste more time by arguing. They were planning to go in that night. They had to. The Coalition would have to prepare Soap in order to turn him. The process, if they were doing it the same as before, required a few days. If he wasn’t gravely injured in the accident, then he was probably still fine. Physically. God knows what they were doing to him otherwise. And if they were preparing him for the turn, then Simon hoped they had come further in their sedation techniques. The preparation had been the most painful part for him. For all he had done to try and forget the experience, he hadn’t forgotten that.

Price motioned for him to step closer. “The entrance is here. We’ll start by looking for other ways in. Even if they’re taking precautions, they’ll need a backdoor.”

“We create a diversion, then?”

“Yeah. At the front door. We’ll send you in the back.”

“If there isn’t a back door?”

“We’ll just all go in the front, then.” Price was serious, and he didn’t meet Simon’s eyes.

Simon eyed the others again, just for a moment, before looking back at the blueprints. “We are playing with something none of you have experienced. They said they’ve killed off all of their experiments but they had one drinking from me when I was there a few days ago. They lie about everything.” He chose his words carefully. Anything he accused their manmade soldiers of, he accused himself of. “If they have an army of them waiting for us, it’s not worth the fight.”

Price straightened. He knew Simon wasn’t suggesting giving it up, or waiting. He wouldn’t leave Soap.

“Alright. What do we do then?”

“I’ll go.”

“Alone.” Price raised his brows.

“Yeah.” He stared the other man down.

There wasn’t a good argument against it. Everyone in the room knew they’d do what they could to keep that from being a necessity.

Simon went back to his room. His nerves were shot, but his adrenaline made it impossible to rest, even for a moment. All of them knew they really knew nothing. They weren’t truly aware of what they were walking into except for the information he himself had gathered but most of that had been wrong.

They shouldn’t have spent the night in that room. His self indulgence, once again, was at the cost of others. At the cost of someone he truly cared about. He bit the guilt in the bud. He could deal with that later. He needed to replace it with focus.

The wreck had been bad, but Soap was tough. Soap was tough. Soap wasn’t fragile and he’d come up fighting, just like he’d told Simon the night before. Soap trusted him, Soap was unafraid of him, Soap had to know he was coming. He only hoped he’d convinced him that becoming like him wasn’t a risk worth taking. He willed him to fight.

--

Soap was back in the frozen forest. Every time he looked down at his hands and feet, they were bare and turning red in the deep snow. He’d frost bite if he didn’t hurry up and get them covered, if he didn’t find somewhere warm. His head ached, his lungs ached, he couldn’t survive the climate much longer.

But he had somewhere to go. He wasn’t alone out there. He entered the tree line and immediately it was darker. He could still see his breath but there was little light otherwise.

There was enough, though, to see Simon leaned up against a tree across a clearing. Soap stopped. In the low light he could see rivers of red blood running down his chest and into the snow. He had a memory of this. Of thinking he was dead. Last time, Simon heard him and looked at him.

This time, he didn’t.

“Simon.” He stated. His voice sounded small and hollow. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “Simon.”

Simon didn’t move. His beautiful brown eyes stared ahead at nothing. He’d had his hands over the bullet wound in his stomach before, but they hung at his sides now, palms to the sky.

Soap walked toward him. It was taking too long to get there, his breath felt too tight in his chest, he tried running but he tired too quickly.

“Simon!”

He was sure, from meters away, that Simon was dead. He wasn’t moving, his body was stiff. Finally, Soap reached his side.

“No, no, no.” He dropped to his knees beside him. “You left me alone out here. How could you do that?” His raw throat barely made a sound.

He reached for him, pushing his mask up so he could see his face. The blood that had run from his mouth smeared over his unnaturally pale skin.

Soap’s heart broke. He didn’t deserve to look like that. He didn’t deserve any of this. He deserved some peace and warmth at the end of his life and Soap hadn’t been able to give that to him.

Soap’s hands were completely numb. He couldn’t even feel him. He just took his place beside the man and waited for his own death, knowing it couldn’t come quick enough.

--

Simon crept along an alley that he knew sat atop the underground facility where he himself had been held. He had to assume that Soap was down there somewhere, below his feet. The others were at the front. It was a simple plan. Knock on the front door. Ask dumb questions, set them on alert. Then, push their way in. The crimes The Coalition were committing had massive, global implications, but their only true goal was to save their man and gather evidence. More plans would come from that point, or so he’d been told. He was just a soldier, he just wanted to be a soldier. He would die to put it all behind him for good.

They’d dug through blueprints and satellite imagery and determined where Simon should focus his search. He’d already failed twice to locate an entrance.

“Still nothing.” He spoke into his mic.

“Understood.” Price responded.

He kept walking. There was a warehouse up ahead and he had the idea that they were using smuggling tunnels again. They were poorly mapped and many of them had fallen in, making them good candidates for clandestine travel.

He picked the lock and slipped through the door. It was mostly empty, the goods left were dusty and untouched. He opened door after door, finding nothing. So he checked the floor. Like the other warehouse, he found a trap door.

“Got a tunnel.” He said over his radio. “Going in.”

“Copy. Sending cover.” Two men would watch the door and keep Simon’s path out clear.

A ladder led to the floor. He wondered if his comms would work at all in the tunnel. He didn’t care. He trusted the others. Even if something happened to him, The Coalition wasn’t going to get away with it. Not now.

The tunnels were dirty and damp, like the other. He realized he hated being there alone. He realized he didn’t want to be alone anymore. Anywhere. If he managed to get away from this with Soap, if Soap still wanted anything to do with him, then he wasn’t going to send him away. He wasn’t going to hide him. He wasn’t going to be without him ever again.

There were no cameras or lights. He could only hear the sound of his feet and breathing and the occasional drip of water. Eventually, the tunnel turned crude. The walls weren’t concrete, they were stone. If he’d been exploring of his own accord, he’d turn back. Instead, he had a feeling he was getting close. Another ten steps and he came across a door. It was completely blank except for the handle. No lights, no locks.

“I found a door.”

Static. He wasn’t sure they could hear him. Thinking he might be alone, he started feeling along the door for weaknesses. He had explosives on him. He’d blow it open. But once he did they’d be given away.

“Copy. We’re moving in. Give us the go-ahead.”

It took him seconds. Despite the fact that his demolitions expert was on the other side of the door, Simon had a good idea of what he was doing. Placing it just beneath the handle of the door, he pulled his handgun.

“Thirty seconds.”

He backed into the hall and pressed himself against the cold wall in total focus. No room for feelings. He’d work to get them back out this door. In case Soap wasn’t able to move himself, Simon had to make sure they had a clear way out. He’d thought numerous times about what the underground tunnels had done to the Sergeant before. He didn’t want Soap to be afraid. It hurt him to consider it. But his fear was worth his life. It was an easy sacrifice to make.

The small explosion shook the ground where he stood. His cover was officially blown. He approached the door slowly. The blast had blown it free of the frame, as he’d expected and he pushed it open with one hand, staying put, gun raised. The other side was dark and opened to another long hall. The lack of guards made him uneasy. He moved almost silently through the hall until he reached another door. This one had a glass panel in it and a light on the other side.

Just as he was about to open it, two of the guards he’d been missing ran by. He stepped back into the shadows and let them pass. Price’s diversion must be working. That meant he didn’t have much time. He slipped through the door and headed in the direction the men had been running from. There were doors lining either side of the hall. All of the rooms were dark and empty but full of equipment. Awaiting more victims.

Only one had the lights on. Two guards stood outside. Simon’s heartrate quickened, he could guess who they were protecting. He holstered his gun across his chest and drew a knife. They’d always been more his speed. From where he stood, he buried one in the jugular of one of the guards. He dropped where he stood, blood pooling on the white floor. When the second guard turned to look for their assailant, one of Ghost’s knives hit him in the face. He fell backward, his gun clattering to the ground. Simon ran.

He made sure they were both dead and that there were no immediate backups, and then he pushed the door open. It was sealed, like a freezer, which made sense because the temperature in the small room was most likely subzero. Soap lay still, an IV in his arm. He had a few cuts and bruises but looked otherwise fine. Peaceful, even.

"I've got Soap." Simon said quietly, checking the IV bag before ripping the line out of Soap’s arm. It was sedation, nothing major. They’d gotten to him in time.

“I can buy you a few more minutes.” Price promised him.

It was freezing. Soap had on nothing but a black t-shirt and pair of matching pants and Simon wouldn’t be surprised if he was hypothermic. That’s how they managed the change, slowing blood flow by essentially freezing them first. Whatever it did to their human body was quickly healed by their new one. Soap would have to be healed otherwise.

“Johnny.”

Soap felt like he was swimming to the surface. The water was so cold that it was hard for him to move through. It might as well have been solid ice. But the surface was getting closer. A light, and a voice.

Maybe he was dying.

“Come on Johnny, wake up.” Simon kept his voice low, pulling off a glove and running a warm hand across Soap’s face and chest.

He blinked open his eyes and wide brown ones met them. They looked serious. Familiar.

He was dead, then. The only reason Simon would be there would be to carry him along to the afterlife. He settled into the idea. They could be together there, without any of these heavy responsibilities. He lay still for another second.

Simon watched his blue eyes open and adjust to the room. They didn’t have much light behind them. Simon didn’t drop his gaze as he gripped him by the forearm and pulled him into a sitting position.

“Come on, we have to go.” He said gently, pulling Soap so his feet were dangling off the bed.

“You look handsome like that.” Soap mumbled.

“Like what?” Simon humored him, sliding an arm under Soap’s and pulling him off the bed and to his feet.

“Worried.” Johnny shivered, hard enough to make his teeth chatter. He leaned forward, dizzy, but Simon held him steady. “You don’t have to worry now.”

“Is that so?” He murmured, pushing them toward the door.

He stopped them before entering the hallway and Soap’s knees buckled. Simon held him up. His whole body was shaking, making his slurred speech worse. “You’re dead, Simon.”

His eyes closed and Simon was worried he’d fall asleep standing up. Simon needed to get him warmed up.

“Stay awake, Soap.” His voice was commanding. It was an order.

His eyes popped open again and he looked confused but they didn’t have time to stop and talk about it. Simon could hear other voices above them and he knew they had little time. All but carrying Soap, he dragged them back down the hall and into the darker one he’d entered through. They exited the blown door.

Simon’s heart was racing. It seemed too easy. He walked them a few meters down the tunnel and sat Soap on the ground. He knelt in front of him.

“Don’t move, and don’t go to sleep, okay?” Soap just stared at him. “Johnny, answer me.”

He nodded. “Okay. I heard you.”

Simon didn’t trust him and he didn’t have time to care. He went back to the hall just before the door. He placed the rest of the small explosives he’d left in a bag along the sides of the tunnel. He picked Johnny up, his head resting against Simon’s shoulder, and he set them off. They closed the tunnel behind them.

Soap fell asleep again. Simon could hear his heart racing unevenly. He stopped once the walls to the tunnel went back to smooth concrete and sat him on the ground. His head lolled forward, but he woke up.

“Are you a ghost?” He whispered.

Simon shrugged out of his tactical vest. He stripped Soap’s shirt off of him. There was only one way to warm him up fast enough to stop any further damage.

“I’m not a ghost, Johnny.” He said gently. “Not anymore.”

He unzipped his coat and pulled off his shirt. He sat across from Johnny and pulled him closer, by his legs until their knees rested on either side of each other and their chests were nearly touching.

“Am I a ghost?” He asked so quietly, only Simon’s powerful ears could hear him.

Simon slung his coat behind Soap, wrapping it around his shoulders. He pulled the smaller man to his chest, pressing their bodies together. Skin to skin. “You’re not a ghost. You’re with me.”

A few minutes passed. Simon thought maybe he was quick enough. If they could get Soap some medical treatment once they were out, he’d likely get by without many lasting effects.

Johnny still shivered but he leaned into Simon’s warmth. “I wanted to tell you so many things. I should have said them. In the truck.”

“You can tell me, Soap. I’m here.”

Soap still felt like he was fighting to surface. The sound of Simon’s voice through his chest made him cry. It was unfair. “They had your tags. They said they burned your body.”

Simon could feel his tears. He hadn’t thought of that. That Soap would think no one was coming, that he thought Simon had died in that truck.

“They didn’t, Soap.” He ran his hands over the cold skin of his back. “I’m okay. I’m here.”

The shivering became less violent. Past Soap’s tears, Simon felt him finally take a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have agreed to leave you. I knew I couldn’t do it.”

Simon lowered his head to whisper in Soap’s ear. “I shouldn’t have asked you to leave.”

Simon’s radio sputtered. “Ghost? How copy?”

“Solid. We’ll be headed out soon.”

“Copy. Vehicle waiting.”

Simon took Soap’s wrists and pulled his ice cold hands to his chest, holding them between their bodies. “You feel like you can walk?”

Soap let his head rest against Simon’s collar bone for a second. “Yeah.”

Without standing, Simon pulled back and put Soap’s shirt back on him, and then re-wrapped him in his jacket. He slipped his own shirt back on and stood, reaching for his hand.

Tears still dripped down Soap’s cheeks. He fought for control of them. He felt like he’d been separated from his body and he was barely holding the two together. But his fearless leader kept an arm around him, his other hand wrapped steadily around the handle of his gun, and led him to the door.

The men Price had sent helped drag them out of the tunnel. They left to ready the truck. Simon and Soap stood for a second, making sure they were steady and that coast was clear. Knowing it was selfish, Simon pulled him close again. Soap let him.

“I didn’t panic this time, LT.” He said, his words muffled by Simon’s shirt.

“You did good, Sergeant.”

“Never scare me like that again.” He said, dropping his shoulders. Relaxing.

Simon chuckled. “Yes, sir.”

They walked out and climbed into the truck. Simon kept their bodies close, doing his best to keep his warmth from dissipating. Doing his best to make sure he knew they were both alive. Maybe it was over. Maybe it wasn’t. But they wouldn’t be facing any more of it alone.

Chapter Text

They met Price and Laswell just outside the city. That wasn’t what Simon had been expecting and he wrapped his hand around his weapon as he gently let Soap lay back against the seat and opened the door. He didn’t leave him.

“Ghost.” The man greeted him. “How is he?”

“He needs medical attention, Price, what are we doing out here?”

John Price swiped a hand over his mouth. “There was no one there, Simon. A few guards out front, the two with Soap. They’d taken nearly everything else and ran.”

“Ran where?” Simon said.

“Can’t be sure.” Kate spoke up. “But we’re moving to a safe house until we can be sure the base is clear.”

“Their guards weren’t trained. Not military, anyway. This is further underground than I expected.” Price nodded to Simon. “They’ll be looking for you. And they’ll expect the two of you to be together.” He motioned to the seat behind him.

Simon glanced over his shoulder at Soap. His eyes were closed, but he knew he was listening. “They’d be correct.”

Price just nodded. He’d expected the finality in his words. “Kate has a safe house ready. I’ll see you there.”

Without further explanation, he got back in the other car and Kate Laswell switched with the man in the passenger seat of their truck. She directed the driver but didn’t say much else. Nothing felt safe.

It wasn’t a long drive. Soap leaned on Ghost’s shoulder, still. Simon measured every one of his breaths. He counted every heartbeat, listening for any that seemed irregular.

Simon helped Soap out of the car although the man shook his hand free when they stepped out onto the ground. He gave Simon a grateful smile though. He hadn’t spoken. Simon needed to be alone with him, to figure out how far they’d gotten. To make sure he was going to be okay. To find a way to handle it if he wasn’t.

A man with medic on a patch on his chest met them. Soap went willingly. Simon moved to follow but Laswell caught his arm. He glanced down at her and pulled his arm free like he was going to follow them anyway. Letting Johnny out of his sight wasn’t exactly what he wanted in that moment. Or ever again.

“Let them go. I just need a minute.” He paused a second longer and then followed her into a dark room. She flipped on the light. “It appears the Berlin location was hardly an operation. It was mostly a cover, a means by which to get what they needed from you.” Simon nodded, frowning, letting her finish. “Price has gone to sort through the bit of intel we picked up and move everyone off the base. There’s a fear it’s been compromised.”

“Why did they leave Soap behind?”

“I was hoping you might be able to say.” She said, guarded. She thought they may have already turned him.

He nodded, understanding. “I should be able to tell.” He lowered his voice. “We’ll all be able to tell in a day or two.”

She pursed her lips. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“If not that, maybe they were hoping to trap us there. Maybe we actually caught them off guard.” He swallowed, sudden concern for his Captain rising in his throat. “Or the trap is laid somewhere else.”

She nodded. “We’re on the lookout.” She motioned back toward the door. “Go check on him.”

Despite feeling like he had no idea what was actually going on, stepping back out into the hall to find his way to Soap took a weight off of Simon’s shoulders. He already knew what he was going to do if they’d turned him. It would mean he had only a couple of days before bloodlust set in that was so strong it would kill him if he didn’t feed. They would leave together and Simon would get them what he needed. Nurse him through it.

Maybe, if they were lucky, that wasn’t the case. Maybe he was still in the preparation phase. Maybe they had been in time. It was hard to believe they’d caught them off guard but whatever they’d found had massive implications. Simon had been surprised the Coalition was operating on that scale just in Berlin. Now it seemed possible they were operating on a global scale already. All of it had been a ruse, to get to him. To get what they needed from him. Quite possibly to use his Johnny against him, and maybe they’d been lucky enough to stop them in their tracks.

The medic met him in the hall outside the room where he’d taken Soap. Simon was menacing in his gear and his mask, but he clasped his hands behind his back and stood still to listen.

“I’ve treated his feet and hands for frostbite. It’s not severe. He needs a lot of fluids and rest. We’ll watch him for a fever or cough but otherwise he looks good. You can go in.”

Simon nodded to him and he walked away. He braced himself for a second before entering. It didn’t matter what he found. It didn’t matter what happened next. In the tunnel, Soap had thought he was dead. He just wanted to make sure they established that they were both okay. And they were together.

The frostbite the medic had mentioned was a good sign. If he was very far into the turn, it would have healed itself before it was bad enough to leave physical signs.

Simon opened the door. Soap was laying on his side and staring into space. He looked toward the man blocking the light from the hall.

“I hoped you were comin.” He said, going to sit. His voice sounded sleepy.

“Stay down, Sergeant.” Simon said gently, taking a chair from across the room and pulling it to the bedside.

He sat, pulling his mask over his head and fiddling with it in his gloved hands. Soap stayed on his side. “They told me you were dead. They had your tags, Simon.”

“I know, Johnny. I’m sorry.” He shifted closer. “About everything.”

Soap smiled. “I know how guilty you’re gonna feel, Simon, but I have to tell you I only care that you’re here.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Simon recalled the boyish wonder he searched for on Soap’s face in the snowy woods. He hoped it wasn’t gone for good. He wished he could ignore the next bit. Let him recover in peace.

“What did they do to you, Soap?” He kept the question serious, emotion out of his voice.

Soap swallowed, not meeting Simon’s eyes with wide blue ones. “I can’t remember it all. They told me you’d been killed and then they drugged me, I guess. I was in and out after that. I know I got a transfusion of some kind, I could see it.”

Simon nodded, looking at the black cloth in his hands. That wasn’t what he’d hoped to hear. More importantly, he didn’t want Soap to see how deeply this was affecting him.

Soap saw it though, and he clearly saw that Simon was fighting it. He was just so glad to see him alive and unhurt that he felt he could withstand anything that came after. Even exile, torture, death. None of it mattered. His life didn’t feel like his anymore, it was in the hands of the man across from him.

“I know what you’re tryin to ask me, Si.” He said, no caution in his tone. No fear. “And I don’t know the answer.”

“Si.” Simon mouthed the word, unable to form a sound. It sounded so sweet from Johnny’s lips. A word he hadn’t heard in so long, it elicited a feeling he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt. Even back then. “I want to see your teeth.”

Johnny chuckled in spite of himself. It was a strange request. It was all so strange. “Of course.”

Simon stood. Soap finally pushed up into a sitting position, leaning against the headboard in the small bed where they’d placed him. A few of his fingers were in bandages but he ran a hand down Simon’s arm as he sat beside him anyway. Simon shuddered, the touch so foreign and so welcome. No one touched him quite like Soap. No one had touched him in any way in a long time.

Simon slipped off a glove and reached for his face. Soap grasped his wrist suddenly, stopping him.  

“What if you find what you’re looking for?” He nearly whispered.

Simon was always amazed by Soap’s lack of fear. Seeing it in him now was a cold jab. He didn’t lower his hand. “We’ll go somewhere together. We’ll figure it out.”

Soap shook his head. The only warmth he felt in his body was Simon’s skin beneath his fingers and the tears that threatened him again. “You’re not leaving this for me.”

“Soap.” Simon commanded, drawing his full attention. “I would do anything for you. Do you understand me?”

Those pretty blue eyes widened slightly, if for no reason but to take the man in even better. “Simon..”

He shook his head. Soap quieted, nodding. He dropped Simon’s wrist, opening his mouth.

Simon noted that nothing looked different as he ran his finger over Soap’s canine. It was blunt. Perfectly normal. He hadn’t been changed. He pulled his hand back.

“The blood they gave you was mine.” He said in near wonder. He shook his head. “They think it’s the only thing that works. Seems they never made it to the next step.”

“You’re saying I’m not like you?” Relief and a strange wave of disappointment made the unshed tears pool below the blue of Soap’s irises.

“Your teeth would be the first to change so you could feed as quickly as possible.” Simon stated.

“You’re saying your blood is in my veins.” Soap whispered.

Simon shot dark, tired eyes to him. In the low light, Soap couldn’t make out the color of them, just that they looked at him like he was the only person on earth. “I suppose so.”

Soap couldn’t touch him fast enough. Simon dropped his mask and his single glove on the floor as he buried a hand in Soap’s hair and kissed him. They needed each other. They needed this. Soap ran his hands over Simon’s face and neck, feeling for any exposed skin, proving to himself the man wasn’t a ghost at all. Soap slipped his tongue into Simon’s mouth and Simon let him, still cradling the back of his neck. He let his thumb run over Soap’s pulse. It still felt steady, only faster.

Soap ran his tongue over Simon’s canine. Simon didn’t flinch, he just pushed his own into Soap’s mouth to taste the pinprick of blood the needle-sharp tooth brought forth. He tasted as sweet as ever. He tasted alive.

Simon pulled back, kissing his cheek and down his jaw, pulling his body against his. “Johnny.”

Soap turned his head and breathed in the scent of him as he lowered his face and kissed his neck. “Yes, Simon.”

“I like you like this. Thank god they didn’t make you like me.”

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’d be glad to be like you.”

“I want you to have a life.” Simon breathed.

“As long as it includes you.” Soap said. Simon could hear the hesitance in it. The uncertainty.

“I can’t leave you.”

“We’re gonna fix this.” Soap said, letting out the breath he was holding. Simon slowly sat up, looking at him. “We.”

Simon nodded. “Speaking of. I need to go and speak to Laswell.” He stood. “You need to rest.”

“You’ll be back?” He asked.

Simon backed toward the door, sliding his mask back on. “Always.”

He found Kate in the front room, speaking low to one of the other men. When she saw him, she dismissed the man and offered him a seat.

“I think we’re all clear.” Simon said to her. “He just needs rest and to recover from the cold.”

She nodded. “When can we be sure?”

Simon checked his watch. “Give it forty eight hours. But unless something drastic has changed in their process, then I’m 90% sure I’m correct.”

“Alright.” She sat quietly for a moment, crossing her arms. “Price said they were being watched at the base, but he got everyone out. He’s on his way here.”

Relief washed over him. “Good.”

“Good.” She nodded. “Except, it means we don’t know where the fuck they are. Or how behind we are.”

Simon fiddled with his gloves again. “I should have looked into this sooner. I was the only one with the knowledge and I hid it, like a coward.”

She looked at him. “If half of what you’ve been through is true, Riley, I can guarantee you’re not a coward. This isn’t exactly something you reveal in a debrief. Even to someone like Price.” She stood, patting his arm. “You’re not alone in it now.”

He watched her leave and slowly rose. He really wanted to go back into the room with Soap but it was late, he didn’t want questions. And he hadn’t lied before, Soap needed to rest.

He stepped outside for a cigarette. While the fear remained, the feeling of having to shoulder his entire past on his own felt lighter somehow. It seemed likely that they were about to uncover something large, something they’d need to face down, but he felt for the first time in his life that he wouldn’t have to do it alone.

He’d known he cared for Soap, he’d learned, over time, that he’d do anything to protect him. The night before the wreck, he’d realized it was something more. More than he’d felt in years and years. An overwhelming amount of more. He didn’t deserve it but he couldn’t fight it.

It came with its own fear. Soap had escaped their grasp with his life, his normal, human life, which meant Simon would lose him. Even if it was years ahead. Decades, he hoped.

He let it settle in him. He’d make them count.

--

Simon stood outside until the smell of smoke on him wasn’t so obvious. He wandered back into the house. They were in the countryside. It reminded him of what he always imagined Gary would have liked. Simon had thought he wouldn’t want it. Perhaps he’d been wrong. A couple of men guarded the property but it was quiet. He didn’t know what safe felt like, but it was nice not to be bearing the weight of everyone else. He didn’t have to watch alone.

He couldn’t keep away from Soap any longer. He didn’t knock, figuring he might be asleep, he just slipped in.

“Finally.” Soap groaned, rolling over and leaving a space for him.

Simon had a sudden urge to laugh. No one waited on him. No one wanted him in their space. The complaint was sweet, knowing he was waiting was sweeter.

He slipped out of his shoes and his jeans and his mask and he took his place. Soap felt warm and relaxed. He was okay. He was going to be okay.

“What did Laswell tell you?” He asked. His voice vibrated against Simon’s chest as he slid an arm under his head and used the other to pull him closer.

“She said Price is on his way back. They got everyone away from the base.” He let himself have a breath. “She said I’m not alone this time.”

“So you listen to her, then.” Teasing.

Simon was silent a while before he formulated an answer. “I’m not going to die if I lose her.”

Soap was still, too, for a moment. “You won’t die if you lose me, either.”

He smiled. “Maybe not physically.”

Soap reached behind himself, placing a hand on Simon’s thigh where it pressed against his. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“Okay.” He whispered as he placed his hand on Soap’s chest, over his heart. “Rest.”

Soap couldn’t. He couldn’t rest knowing that Simon was so close and they should take advantage of the time since the universe seemed so hell bent on separating them again and again. He waited a long time in the soft darkness but he could tell Simon didn’t sleep because instead of his hand draped over Soap’s body, it was pressed against his chest. Like Simon was trying to hold him together.

“Isn’t skin to skin contact the best cure for this situation?” He said at the wall.

Simon chuckled. If the conversation went no further, Soap could be satisfied with that sound. “We did that already.”

“Hmm.” Soap hummed. The sound was warm against Simon’s hand. “I think I’d like to do it again.”

Simon didn’t move for a moment. He wanted that, too. He wanted to touch, to have nothing left between them. He slid his hand under the hem of Soap’s shirt and placed it back over his chest.

“Alright.”

Soap could hear a tenderness in Simon’s reply that struck him. They weren’t just men in the barracks using each other to get off. They weren’t skin to skin to seek release. They were seeking each other. Something deeper. He slid onto his back, letting Simon push his shirt up around his chest and look at him. He pulled the shirt the rest of the way off and Soap reached for his, pulling it over his head.

Soap put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him to lay on his back and then he slid beneath his arm and pressed his hand against Simon’s chest. He wanted to feel his heart. And his scars. He ran his hand gently over them, not having to look. He knew where they were.

“I just wanted to feel you, Simon. We don’t have to do anything else.”

“You’re hurt.” He said it like an excuse.

Soap swallowed. They hadn’t really approached the subject before. Not well. Soap had gotten on his knees for him once before but he’d picked up on Simon’s hesitation then, as he did now.

“You’re hurt. I know what they did to you. I know it’s not easy.”

Soap’s voice was soft and soothing. Simon closed his eyes and let it run over his skin like his bandaged hands. Sex without connection had been easy enough for him. He’d had needs and he’d found ways to have them met. But the emotion that came with this, with Johnny, it might be more than he could bear. It wasn’t something he’d had since before Roba. He didn’t know if he was good enough, if he could give Johnny what he needed. He’d never been concerned with giving. He didn’t know if he could make him feel as important as Simon knew he was.

“Tell me.” Soap whispered. The sound took down a wall. He ran his hand over Soap’s arm, letting his warmth seep into him in every place that they touched.

He struggled to start for a second. To put it into words that didn’t just make it some kind of distant nightmare fuel. “You don’t typically stab someone you care about. You don’t hang someone you want to build a life with by their arms and watch them suffocate.” He ran his free hand over his mouth. “There’s only one thing that’s done for torture where the victim is supposed to turn around and lie down and believe the same thing can also be done in love.”

Soap’s chest tightened but he refused to let his tears beat him again. Simon didn’t need pity. He reached his hand from where it had been playing along a jagged scar at Simon’s collarbone and cupped his flawless jaw. “I promise that everything I do to you will be in love. And I promise to wait until you’re ready.”

Simon rolled back onto his side, pinning Soap’s arm beneath him and pulling his face to his. Kissing him. Maybe he didn’t know how to feel love in bed, but he could learn to give it. He could find it in himself to do that.

“Simon.” Soap whispered, his breathing deepening in time with the kisses Simon placed along his jaw and his neck.

Simon kissed along his collar bone and down his chest. He reached, palming Soap through his pants.

“Simon.” He said again, a warning. Permission to stop before they couldn’t.

“Shut up.” Simon grumbled, sliding his hand under the waistband.

Soap tilted his chin up in a laugh, reaching for Simon’s soft blond hair as he trailed kisses down his stomach, across his navel. He lingered, opening his mouth and pressing his tongue flat against Johnny’s stomach, tasting his salty skin. He raised up and straddled him just below his hips.

Johnny’s light eyes followed him, his frost bitten hands running along his thighs. Simon swallowed. “I’m afraid of losing you.”

Johnny nodded once. “That’s alright. It could happen any time.”

Simon broke his gaze and ran his hand down his stomach again, over his perfectly formed muscles. “I want more time with you, Johnny.”

Soap watched him. He knew what he meant. More than the few nights they’d shared. More than the six years he’d had with his first love.

“All I can say is we ought to make the best of what we have.” He couldn’t lie. He couldn’t make empty promises of forever. That wasn’t the life they had.

Simon nodded and gripped Johnny’s pants by the waist, pulling them down. Simon put his hand on him immediately, squeezing lightly. He was big, beautiful. Really perfect. Even more so than Simon had imagined, more times than he cared to admit.

“You’re so warm.” He murmured, making Soap chuckle again.

He backed up, wrapping his hand around the end of Soap’s cock and running his tongue from the base to his own thumb. He slid his hand down and took Soap into his mouth. He didn’t really feel like he was giving. He felt like he was returning a favor.

Soap raised his head to watch him.

“Jesus.” He whispered.

The way the larger man looked bent over him was more exhilarating than he’d expected. Simon slid lower, opening his throat for him. He moaned against Soap’s skin, a low hum. Nearly silent.

“Jesus.” Soap said aloud, letting his head fall back again.

Johnny tasted good, like skin and sweat and life. Pulling those sounds from him felt like the easiest and most rewarding action in the world.

“God, Simon.” He said again.

Simon raised slowly, letting Soap’s shining cock slip out of his lips. “Quiet, Johnny. Don’t give away our position.”

He didn’t care if Johnny was loud or not. He didn’t care if the whole country knew what they were doing. Really, he just wanted to witness the heaving of his chest and the way he laid his own forearm over his mouth to silence himself.

He squirmed. Simon’s mouth was back on him in an instant. He let Soap fuck up into him. Into his throat. Then he gripped him at the base and picked up his pace until Soap tensed.

“Simon, I—” He breathed.

It was a poor warning, but Simon hadn’t been planning to let him go. Soap came with a groan and raised his head again to watch Simon hold him in his mouth and swallow, running his tongue along the tip to get every last drop.

“Bloody jesus.”

“Keep saying his name like that, I’ll think he’s in the room with us.”

Soap grasped at Simon’s shoulders, pulling him to his mouth again. Tasting himself on Simon’s tongue again. “It’s just us.”

Simon chuckled, lying back down, pressing his body along the length of Soap’s. He lowered his hand, gently pulling Soap’s pants back up over his hips.

“I’ve known a long time, Simon, that you would be a problem for me.”

“Oh?” Simon closed his eyes. He didn’t care what Soap said. Not really. He just wanted his voice.

“Since Las Almas, I think. In the streets, in the rain. I knew I’d follow you anywhere.”

Simon put his hand back over Johnny’s heart. “Even here?”

“Anywhere.” Soap pulled the blankets over them.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve better, most likely. But I’m not leaving.”

Simon fisted Soap’s mohawk, forcing him to turn his head so he could kiss him just above his bandaged brow. “Good.”

--

Simon sat in the kitchen the next morning, early. The sun just rising. Price sat across from him, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. The intel they’d gathered was sending them to the US. The rest of the 141 would meet them and they’d team up with Laswell’s men to seek out and take down the Coalition’s bases there. They’d be wheels up in the next few days but they’d have time once they landed to regroup.

Simon would be tasked with informing and teaching everyone involved what they were up against. There was a chance he’d have to separate and go and do the same for forces in other countries, as well. But they had a moment to rest. They wanted to make sure it was one hundred percent safe to move Soap.

“How’s the Sergeant?” Price asked.

“He’s better. He’s going to be fine.” Simon kept emotion out of his voice. Talking about Soap made him emotional.

“We have to address what I mentioned before.”

Simon lowered his eyes and nodded. He was old, independent, but he respected the ranks. He respected his Captain. “I know.”

“You’re his CO, Simon. This can’t happen. One of you will be let go.”

Simon nodded, not looking up. “Let me go, then.”

“I can hardly afford to.” He paused. “You want that?”

They met eyes then. “No, not particularly. But Soap doesn’t deserve to take the flack for this.”

“You’d do that for him.” Price stated, raising a brow.

Simon ignored the fact that it felt like a test. “I’d do anything for him.”

Price nodded. “There are options, you know. After we’re through. Maybe Soap gets a promotion. If you two can keep it quiet for this mission—”

“We can.” Simon said hopefully, speaking for Soap.

Price nodded. “Alright. I have bigger things to worry about than who’s shagging who.”

Simon chuckled at the term. They could live with that. “Yes, sir.”

Chapter Text

Howl - Florence and The Machine

Simon sat in the shade of a few trees, the quiet blue sky above him. He’d been sitting there for some time. He’d lost track. His legs were stretched out and crossed casually. It was the most comfortable place he had been. Besides the little house outside Glasgow, this felt like home to him.

A gravestone sat leisurely in front of him, as if he and whoever lay beneath it were having a nice afternoon picnic in the warm weather. It was weathered, it had been there a while, but the words were clear. The name carved in marble as well as his heart. It was pretty and strong like the man it belonged to.

He visited this place as often as possible, spending his free time in the company of someone he loved, even if he could no longer hear their voice.

It was a part of the curse, to watch the people he attached himself to fulfil their human destiny of aging and dying. He’d fought with Soap about it quite a bit, Soap saying he was like a pet for him to keep in that window of his life and Simon fighting to learn to love him like they would die in the same season.

He had decided so early that it was worth it. In Germany, before they set off to end the Coalition, he’d known he’d make whatever time they had count. It counted. They had been, so far, the best years of his life.

They’d succeeded together, alongside Price and Laswell, in seeking the Coalition’s hub and taking them out from their foundation. Truthfully, the Coalition had never succeeded in their goal beyond Simon and they had killed a sickening number of family-less soldiers in attempting to recreate it. Simon sat, still the only one of his kind.

The only one that got to feel love like this in multiple lifetimes. His loneliness had died in the tunnel where he’d held Soap skin to skin and it had yet to rise again. He was lucky.

He studied the gray marker before him for what must have been the millionth time. He had run his hands over it so many times, he could have read it without his eyes.

Beloved

“It’s a beautiful day.” He said quietly, to himself and to whoever else was listening.

“It is, isn’t it?” Soap dropped down onto the blanket beside him.

He had a bottle of wine in his hands. They’d left it in the car by mistake and he’d run to grab it. Simon took it and opened it, pouring it into the glass Soap held out for him.

The man smiled, looking at the same grave Simon had been studying.

Beloved

Gary Roach Sanderson

1916 – 1946

Simon just kept studying Soap. He was older, his back and knees ached, little flecks of gray showed in his hair, the mohawk of his wild twenties and thirties long gone. His blue eyes were just as blindingly bright, but wrinkles surrounded them, deepened by that constant smile.

He was the luckiest half-man alive, to have that smile, let alone the heart behind it.

Soap had kept his promise to remember Roach with him. To keep him from slipping into nothing. And through all the dark nights and close calls, Roach had never visited Simon again. He was finally at rest, and Simon had finally found the one to steal back his loneliness and bury it, too.

They weren’t retired. Not technically. Price had promoted Soap as he’d promised, and Simon hid dutifully behind the mask, not daring to reveal his lack of aging. But they didn’t haunt the night together anymore. Simon often worked with Price on strategy, and Soap still went to train recruits on a regular basis. They were like family. It kept them in a routine, kept giving them purpose.

After they finally got some free time, they’d found a place to live together. Terrifying, for both of them, but it had become so beautiful. One night they lay awake in bed talking, and Soap asked Simon if he knew where Roach’s body was.

The question was so hard on him. Of course he knew where it was. He’d never forget the look and smell and feel of the earth where he laid him. Even now, nearly a century later. He was afraid that revealing that he held it so close to his soul would make Soap jealous. It hadn’t.

“Good.” He’d said. “You’ll be buried next to me, but we should get a plot for him too. Move him up here somewhere. Get him a proper marker.”

Simon had almost said no. He didn’t even want to go near the place where he’d put what was left of Gary in the ground. It was crude, they’d be digging for his bones. He couldn’t see that.

Soap had caught the hitch in his breath and taken his hand. “We won’t do it ourselves, Si. I know people. All I need is for you to pick the spot and the stone.”

So he had. Simple and sturdy, like the man Gary Sanderson had been. Soap kept his promise, handing over the coordinates Simon had given him and letting someone else he trusted do the dirty work.

Soap’s family had been glad to see him settle down with someone. In spite of his strange, unchanging looks, they seemed to trust him as blindly as Soap had. He would always marvel at that. It always challenged his ideas of his horrific portrayal or his ruined soul.

He’d lived a long time, he’d had a lot of sweet years with the man beside him. He knew, not without some sorrow, that they had only a short time left. He hoped for Soap it seemed long, but he knew how it would feel to his ancient heart.

“We should marry.” He mused.

Soap looked over at him and frowned first, then laughed. “What?”

“I mean it.” He pointed his drink at Gary’s headstone. “Him and I wouldn’t have been able to, legally, and I shouldn’t miss my chance this time.”

Soap shook his head. “Simon Riley, the serial husband.”

Simon chuckled, looking down at his hands. “I thought there would be no one after him, until I met you. But I’m sure this time. You’re it.”

Soap took a long drink of his wine. He nodded. “Alright then. Name the time and place.”

“I’ll think about it.” Simon leaned back on his hands. “It has to be perfect.”

“I’m gonna take your name then. So you’re not the last.”

“No, I’ll be taking yours, so it can live forever.”

Soap nodded. “Bold. But unlikely.”

Simon glanced at him again. He wasn’t afraid of losing him anymore. He wasn’t afraid of losing at all. Sad, sorrowful, but aware that it made it all more beautiful in the end. It wasn’t really a loss, just a separation. A surrender.

“I love you, Soap.”

Soap laid his hand over Simon’s where it rested on their old quilt. “I love you, too.”

Chapter Text

Simon woke from yet another nightmare and rolled over, planting his feet on the floor.

“What is it?” Johnny said, his voice scratchy with sleep. Slowly, he rolled to face the man he slept beside. “What’s wrong?”

“Dreams.” Simon said, his voice nearly a whisper. “I’m sorry, Johnny, go back to sleep.”

But Johnny didn’t. He sat up, leaning against the headboard. “Tell me.”

Simon shook his head, unsure he should. Memories of Roach had turned sweet, with Simon laying his memory to rest, he’d visited him only in good memories and happy moments. But the horrors of what he’d faced alongside him still remained. The experiments, the hunger, the warfare.

“When I found you, Johnny, I remembered what it felt like, lying there and wondering what torture they’d bring for me next. Only I’d asked for it.”

Soap nodded. Simon kept saying his name, something he did when he was working to convince himself he was awake, in reality. That Soap was really there. Grounding himself.

“Simon.” Soap reached for his arm and pulled him back down. Of his own accord, Simon rolled over and laid his head in Soap’s lap.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I know.” Soap ran his hand through Simon’s wavy hair. “Tell me.”

Simon swallowed. “We had a choice. One night, we were put in a room and given the choice. I keep telling Gary we should leave. We have to go. He can never hear me. He never leaves. He just stands there, and they hurt him. He stands there and they kill him. And I don’t want you to know I’m dreaming of him again.”

Simon sat up and ran his hands over his face.

“Why not?”

“He’s not you.”

“But he’s a part of you, and I love all of you.”

“I couldn’t save him, and I almost lost you. It’s a matter of time.”

“That’s right. That’s life.”

Simon stayed quiet. A heart so big, so old, so capable of love. Soap was often overwhelmed by the fact he got to see it so bare.

“Tell me something nice about him.”

Simon chuckled. “He was a great cook.”

Soap scowled. “I resent that.”

“I am able to love you, Soap, even though I loved him before.”

“You’re the only one worried about that, Si. I’ve never doubted it.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“You should write your story, you know. Record it. People should know who you are and what you did.”

“I only care that you know, Johnny.”

Soap lay back down. “Then you have to keep telling me.”

Read the new story here: He dies in the end