Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Not likin' the feel of this one, LT," Soap whispers, fighting to keep his breaths even and quiet as he sneaks through the abandoned residential home, desecrated by warfare. He pokes his gun around a corner and peeks through the scope. What greets him is nothing but an empty hallway with stray bullet holes and cracks from nearby explosions scattered across the walls. 

"For once, I agree with you, Johnny," Ghost's voice comes from behind him. His presence lulls some of the anxiety thrumming through Soap's body. 

With light footsteps, Soap crosses the hallway carefully. His flashlight sweeps over the belongings left behind by the home's previous owners and casts heavy shadows on the walls. His breath stutters in his throat every time one shifts even the tiniest bit. Dust sits heavy in the air; it makes his flashlight beams seem that much brighter. It catches in his lungs and tightens around his chest. His uniform rustles with every slight movement he makes, and the floorboards creak and groan beneath him, weary from their hard life. The sounds are almost thunderous in the dead silence, and he wishes- for one of the first times in his life- that he could be entirely silent. 

Soap glances back at Ghost for only a second- long enough to remind himself that he isn't alone. 

Ghost gives him a slight nod, tightening the grip on his own weapon. He runs through a mental count of how many magazines and knives he's got. Even though his pockets are filled to the brim, it still doesn't feel like enough. it never does. 

Behind him are a dozen of the newest recruits of their ally and friend, Kate Laswell. 

Soap has to bite back a laugh at the sight of them. They're all scrunched together shoulder to shoulder and failing miserably to be quiet. Half of them are shaking, and the other half are tripping over their own feet. 

Ghost just shakes his head. He can't help but feel he and Soap are just babysitters- very heavily armed and deadly babysitters. It's the recruits' first mission, their first step into the field, but he can't help thinking that even on his first mission, he wasn't this stupid. 

Now, Soap on the other hand... he's a different story. 

He opens his mouth to say as much, for once wanting to be the one to fill the suffocating silence with some banter in hopes that Soap will return the conversation, but said man holds up a hand to cut him off. It startles Ghost how much their roles have reversed; fucken hell, he's been hanging out with the sergeant too much. 

Said sergeant freezes at the end of the hallway. Dread coils in his stomach as he assesses their situation. The hallway pitches right sharply, enough so that he can't see around the corner without sticking his head into unknown territory once more. 

Something about that squeezes his throat and makes it nearly impossible to breathe, and he doesn't know why. They've combed through seven abandoned houses already- not a single one had anything inside but rubble and grief. If it weren't for the extra-tight security on this particular house- nine-inch thick metal doors in all the doorways, three deadbolts on the front door, and tripwires set every other step- he would've thought their captain, John Price, made up the mission to get back at him for calling him old once. 

The mission itself sounds ridiculous and below his pay-grade. 

He, Ghost, and the twelve recruits are searching for a USB-drive supposedly full of Russian intel in a safehouse- except Laswell could only narrow down the location to a half-demolished neighborhood, leaving the soldiers to search every house on the block. The reason Soap finds the mission to be more of a punishment than anything is that Price and Laswell ordered them to not let the recruits out of their sights, so instead of splitting into search teams, Soap and Ghost are forced to drag all twelve recruits through each individual house of the ten on the block. 

Okay, maybe he called Price old more than once... and in more creative terms...

The recruits start to whisper to each other quietly, and Soap shakes himself out of his thoughts. He's idled at the corner for too long, trying to think. 

Not having much else of a choice, he grips his gun tighter, his finger teasing the trigger, and breaches the corner. The hallway continues for about three feet before spitting out into a kitchen. 

Soap breathes a sigh of relief- it's empty. 

Ghost follows, and the recruits bumble past him, wandering straight through the kitchen and into the connected living room without taking even the slightest second to double check that there are no hostiles. 

"Stay close. Keep a hand on your weapon and an eye on your buddy," Ghost barks, and Soap snorts at the order. It's common sense to him, but the recruits blink in surprise and scramble to find partners like middle schoolers working on a group project. They leave Ghost and Soap alone- too scared to approach them- and Soap finds a warm feeling building up in his chest at the prospect of being alone with- er, at getting away from those stupid recruits for a moment. 

"So much for being Laswell's 'boldest and brightest', yeah?" he teases, elbowing Ghost and grinning, pretending not to notice the way his body floods with warmth at the contact. He knows that underneath the mask, Ghost must be wearing an expression of sheer detestation based off of how his shoulders are drawn up, his head tilted up, so he can stare down at everyone around him, his arms crossed tighter than usual. He looks like he'd rather shoot himself in the foot than deal with these rookies for a second more. 

He shoots down another wave of warmth when Ghost's body relaxes slightly at the sound of his voice, his arms slackening slightly. When he looks down at Soap, he doesn't stare him down like he would with the recruits. Instead, he tilts his head, so they can meet eyes as equals. Soap follows his example despite the difference in their ranks. 

"If these are Laswell's best, I'm worried for the American army," Ghost quips back, drawing a laugh from Johnny's lips. 

Rummaging through every house with the recruits is so, so much worse than the mission initially sounded- and it already sounded so terrible that Soap was borderline considering quitting on the spot. He could've gone back to Scotland, bought a nice farm, and settled down, and instead, he's in enemy territory digging through a cabinet full of pots and pans looking for a USB drive almost as small as his will to live and watching the recruits forget their training. 

The only reason he didn't quit is standing here with him. 

Ghost's massive frame takes up a good portion of the small kitchen- the top of his mask nearly brushing the ceiling- and steals the oxygen from Johnny's lungs. 

He bends over to search through a cabinet, and Johnny finds it even harder to breathe as his eyes glue themselves to the lieutenant's ass. Damn, he didn't think he'd find all that cake in this sparse kitchen. He shifts on his feet, and something in his pants shifts, too. 

Before the silence can betray his sudden inability to breathe normally, Johnny says "You know what'd make this search go a lot faster?" His voice comes out slightly faster and more raspy than he wants it to, but if Ghost notices, he doesn't comment. 

Ghost stands and faces the man, and suddenly, Johnny can't breathe at all. His eyes linger on the black balaclava and trace the white hardshell skull attached to it. The memory of the one time he's seen Simon without his mask fills his mind. He's disappointed at how much time has faded and distorted the image. 

"What's your suggestion?" Ghost prods, waiting for him to finish the joke. He tries to keep his lips from quirking up into a grin as he gets the impending feeling Johnny is going to say something so ridiculously stupid that he will have no choice but to put him through a wall.

Johnny rips his focus off of the mask. He cheeses, pretending his intentions are entirely friendly and teasing- nothing more- when he says, "Takin' the mask off."

"Nice try, Johnny, but I can see just fine," Ghost argues back. The banter makes something in his chest feel lighter, and he lets the tension in his shoulders drop for just a second. 

"Then you must be able to see this." Soap holds up a middle finger, which he gladly returns, thankful for the mask hiding his smile. 

For all the hell they give each other, Simon trusts Johnny completely- more than any other one of his teammates, more than Price even. A small part of his heart, the part that isn't entirely cold and dead, is even happy that it's just him and Soap all alone. It happens more often than not on missions, and he can't deny that he prefers it this way. 

Less distractions is the excuse he tells himself. 

He pulls his eyes off of the shorter man, realizing he had been staring at the man for longer than he should've. He drops the smile that's snuck onto his lips and throws open a cabinet door to block Johnny from his sight. 

"Oi, LT, come look at this," Johnny says, breaking the minute-long silence between them. He's at the man's side in seconds. Humor in his voice, he points out, "They've got metal sporks! D'ya think Price'll let me keep these?" 

Ghost stares at him, fondness in his eyes, and has to bite his lip to keep a laugh from slipping out. 

He reaches out to clap the man on the back and-

A bullet tears through the air between them. 

Ghost knows the sound of a gun firing. The noise has been drilled into him both on the battlefield and off, and his body reacts immediately- even before his mind registers what's going on. 

He shoves Soap to the ground, the force of it nearly putting his own head through a cabinet door as he rushes to shield Soap's body with his own. His mind screams that the bullet was too close- way too close to Johnny. Ghost should be protecting him; he should've known better than to drop his guard in the field like that. 

But Soap has a habit of bringing out the real him, the one he tries so desperately to hide behind the mask, everywhere he goes. 

"No fuckin' way," Soap murmurs from beneath his body. His voice seems to echo in Ghost's chest as gunshots echo in his ears. It makes his pants tighten in a way that he prays Soap can't feel.

Ghost tenses, and despite the situation, he expects- almost hopes for- the man to grab his- 

"I've got it." Soap's hand presses into Ghost's, depositing the USB drive into the man's palm. Ghost's hand closes around it- and around Soap's fingers. It's subconscious, but he can't bring his fingers to let go, not when he just came so close to losing him. 

Soap doesn't comment, but his fingers tighten in Ghost's. 

His other hand blindly searches the bottom of the cabinet door until he discovers a little case glued to the wood. Ghost must've knocked it loose from its hiding spot. "Look at you finally using your head, LT." 

The raining bullets finally stop, and after a minute of silence broken by the men's heavy breathing- heavier than it probably should be- Ghost finally gets up. 

His hand never leaves Johnny's. 

"Kinda liked you on top of me," Soap protests as Ghost helps him to his feet. 

"Johnny, what the fuck?" Ghost punches him in the shoulder as penance for his retort, but he can't help the heat spreading across his cheeks... and to lower regions... Soap's words put a picture in his head, and it's one that he doesn't entirely hate. 

He's quick to block the thought, reminding himself of the consequences for fraternization. He could lose his job- or worse- if he indulged himself in his whims. 

Blinking himself back to reality, he glances down to find Soap's hand still in his. He jolts and drops it quickly. 

Soap looks away, blushing furiously, the red in his cheeks hidden by the poor lighting.

Remembering the newbies they were babysitting, Ghost finds a flashlight and turns it into the living room and- "Shit," he grumbles. Not a single one of Laswell's recruits survived. 

If it hadn't been for the half-wall separating the kitchen from the living room, he and Johnny would've had the same fate. 

"Uh, LT?" Soap squeaks out.

Ghost turns around slowly, mentally preparing himself to find his partner with the barrel of an enemy's gun pressed to his forehead. 

Except there isn't one. 

But as the silence between them grows, so does Soap's paleness until the man is practically a sheet, eyes locked onto Ghost's chest.

Ghost searches the sergeant up and down with his eyes. He begs the universe for Soap to be alright- the thought of him being hurt makes his heart clench. His mind is already running with a thousand different scenarios and their survival rates. A bullet wound to the leg would be catastrophic right now. An arm, they could manage. The chest would be the worst, but their vests should provide enough resistance that it wouldn't kill him- so long as he doesn't bleed out or the Russians don't come back to finish them off. 

His search is interrupted by a window shattering somewhere upstairs. The silence between him and Soap is so thick that he can hear each individual wood splinter hit the floor. 

"We have to go!" Ghost orders. Still, Soap only stares at him. His hand, the hand that Ghost had just held, reaches out, fingers trembling. "Dammit, MacTavish, now!" he barks. 

Ghost steps forward, and his legs fold. 

Oh , he thinks as his body slams into Soap's, his head colliding hard enough with the man's shoulder that he sees stars. Soap's arms snake around him to keep him upright just as pain finally begins to light his synapses on fire. He paws weakly at his chest only for it to come away painted with red. A barely-contained scream pushes through his clenched teeth.

"-down--- evac-" Ghost can hear Soap's voice shouting into his radio right next to his ear. The panic only makes his accent thicker. 

He blinks hard, and it finally hits him that MacTavish is hugging him; their bodies are pressed so closely together that every time Ghost breathes in- which he does with increasing frequency- he breathes in the comforting scent of smoke and brandy. He closes his eyes and inhales deeper than he needs to. 

No. 

He's supposed to be thinking of a plan. 

Johnny needs him. 

But all he can think about is Johnny's warm body pressed against his, the muscles in his arms rippling slightly as he holds him close and keeps him safe, the faint weight of his head resting on top of Ghost's. 

"'S nice, Johnny," Simon mumbles into the man's collarbone. 

"It'd be a lot nicer if you stayed alive." The words reverberate in Johnny's chest, echoing slightly in Ghost's ears, and the masked man finds he'd stay alive just for that feeling alone. 

The moment is ruined when Ghost catches a figure out of the corner of his eye. His vision is just as foggy as his mind, but he knows an enemy when he sees one. Letting his instincts take over, he lets his body become deadweight. Soap isn't prepared for the sudden shift in weight, and they both go toppling over just as a bullet zips through the space where their heads were just a moment before. 

Soap returns fire before the echo of the first gunshot can even fade. 

He takes out the soldier quickly, so quickly that Ghost can't help but be proud, but even his shooting skills won't save them for long if the Russians send in a full fleet. They need to get out of there fast, but judging by the way the world around him starts to tinge black and he can't feel his toes anymore, fast isn't an option. 

"Johnny," he says, the word coming out as more of a gasp than anything. He grabs the man's vest and pulls him close, close enough to see the tears the sergeant is furiously blinking away. "Johnny, leave- please." His words come out as a broken slur, but Soap understands. 

"Not without you, LT." His eyes are wild. They search everywhere in the room in hopes of finding some escape route previously hidden. His hands find his pockets, and he works the zipper open with shaking fingers. He pulls out the tiny first aid kit they're required to carry. 

"Johnny..." 

"Take off your vest. I need to- I need-" 

"You need to leave." Ghost puts a hand on his face, forcing the man to look at him, staining his face with his blood. "Get the-" He groans, his body contorting and trembling as it tries to escape the pain. "- get the USB to Price and win this fucking war. You have to leave me. You don't- you don't have a choice."

His hand hovering above Ghost's, Soap's eyes search his. They search deep into his soul, so deep that Simon wonders if he sees the part of his heart that's a little more than fond of him. 

It's strange. 

In this moment, pain overwhelms his senses to the point where all he can taste is metal and his skin burns with every slight movement, and yet, his heart is still swelling with love. Despite all the pain and the exhaustion and the threat of being left behind, he feels love . He stares at this blue-eyed, scarred man in front of him, and all he wants to do is kiss him until the pain fades. 

Ghost is a dying man. He was sentenced to death from the second he was born, and he's accepted his fate a thousand times over: at the hands of his father or his brother, at the feeling of a hook jammed through his ribs, at the weight of six feet of dirt above him. All those times, he thought he would die, so he fought. He fought and kicked and spit and cursed the world, and now that it's really happening, now that he's really dying, all he wants to do is hold Johnny close and let himself be loved for the first time in his life.

All he can think about is that he's glad his last moments will be spent with his favorite person, the only person he's ever fully trusted, the only person he's ever let himself truly love. He's glad to know that he made this choice for himself so that Soap can have a chance at surviving. The man he loves gets a chance to live another day. 

But Soap doesn't leave, not even as Ghost lays his head on his chest, letting himself finally give in to the feelings he's always worked so hard to keep tamped down. He's fully prepared to let his life slip away as he listens to the sound of Soap's heart beat and feels his chest rise and fall beneath his head. They both know this, but all Soap does is wrap his arms around Ghost once more, so tightly that the man's arms are straining, muscles twitching and fluttering against Simon's back. He holds him tight enough that it keeps what little consciousness he has left wrapped in a little bundle, safe from slipping away for a moment more. 

"There's always a choice." 

Ghost's vest is off before he even realizes it. 

He gasps at the sudden pain of the fabric stuck to his wound being ripped away and then winces as cold air hits his skin. Like he had guessed earlier, the bullet didn't lodge deep into his skin, but it did penetrate enough to make him bleed badly. 

Seconds later, there's a thick gauze covering his wound and surgical tape holding it down. Red blooms across the white bandages, but Soap's done all he could. There's a tearing sound, and Ghost picks his heavy head up to watch as Soap saws off the bottom of his pant legs with a knife, tying the fabric together into long strips and fashioning them into heavy-duty bandages. 

"Keep your blood in; you'll need every drop," Soap quotes as he straps the denim down over top of the bandages. It brings them both back to the mission not so long ago where they had pretty similar odds. 

Memories fill Ghost's head of him panicking and fleeing, leaving an injured Johnny behind to fend off dozens of armed, trained mercenaries. He hates himself for it, but something about seeing Johnny bleed- hearing the man in pain- made his heart squeeze so hard he couldn't breathe. His feet carried him away before he even realized what he was doing, and by the time he came to his senses, he was long gone and not even sure if Johnny was still alive. Those few minutes between him leaving and Johnny's radio transmission were the worst fucking minutes in his life. He'd never admit it to the man, but when he heard the Scot's voice- tense with pain but alive - he cried like a baby.

Even now, tears pool in his eyes at the memory. 

He tells himself it's delirium from the blood loss or the stress of the mission finally catching up with him- anything he can think of so he doesn't have to admit to himself the fact that he's scared. The thought of losing Johnny strangles him and sends bile rising up his throat. Even as he bleeds out in the man's arms, he's terrified. He can't protect the man like this, can't linger around behind him, ensuring their enemies don't live long enough to send any bullets raining down on his- on the sergeant. He can't plan their escape or ensure their surroundings are safe. He can't do anything.

Johnny's hands are gentle on his scarred skin. Much more gentle than he deserves. He eases Ghost back into his vest, murmuring apologies all the while. 

"Roles've reversed, Johnny." Ghost lets out a breathy, wet laugh. His chest spasms slightly at the movement, and the laugh ends in a whimper. 

Johnny holds him tight once more. "That they have." 

Johnny hates it. He'd give everything to be the injured one, so he didn't have to hear Ghost's little whimpers and groans of pain that the masked man is wasting all of his energy trying to hide from him. Each one breaks his heart a little more until it hurts so bad that he feels like he might as well have gotten shot, too. Not only that but they both know their chances of survival would be better if it were Soap and not Ghost that was slowly bleeding out. Ghost is the tactical, strategic one. He's the one who knows which risks to take, which battles to choose. 

Soap is cannon fodder at best; he isn't strong enough or smart enough to do this alone. 

He stops himself there.

Sitting here, whining about the situation they're in isn't going to do anything but lower their already significantly low odds of survival. He's just got to go for it. 

Ghost- 

Simon is counting on him. 

Chapter Text

Soap stands.

He wipes Simon's blood off his hands and onto the tattered remains of his jeans. The denim soaks the blood up quickly, and Soap has to bite his tongue to keep from throwing up as the warm liquid meets his skin, the warmth of Simon's body caressing his skin in a way he had never hoped for. God, he's never wearing jeans again.

He whispers one last apology, wraps his arms under Ghost's shoulders, and hikes him to his feet before the man can protest, supporting as much of his weight as he can. The masked man's world spins, and his knees threaten to give out, but he stays on his feet. 

It's a step- a small step- but it proves that escape is slightly more possible than it felt mere seconds ago. 

Soap slips his arm under Ghost's shoulder, pulling the man close to his side. 

Together, they stumble out of the kitchen and out into the street just as Russian fighters flood the house they were in. They only make it about halfway to the house across the street- or rather, the remains of it- before Ghost collapses. Soap helps him to the ground, leaning him against the burnt shell of a car to keep him upright. They both know the second Ghost lays down, it's over for him.

And suddenly, Simon finds he has a lot more to fight for. If Johnny isn't going to give up on him, then he can't give up on himself. 

His body doesn't get the memo, though. His breaths are coming in too quickly for his lungs to keep up, and it feels like his mask is suffocating him. He rips it off without a second thought as Johnny settles down next to him. 

"There's my pretty boy," Soap breathes, his heart stuttering in his chest as he sees the man's face for the second time ever. He soaks in every detail of Simon's face. His face is paler than he remembers- both from blood loss and wearing his mask more than he used to as their jobs demand more and more of their time. Little white scars cut across his skin, marring his perfect complexion.

Johnny cups the man's face in his hands, determined to memorize every single part of it so perfectly that time can never steal it away from him again.

He runs his fingers across his cheeks, tracing the way his high-cut cheekbones curve, feeling his clean-shaven jaw, skin blushing in his wake. Simon blossoms beneath his touch, leaning more and more into it with every passing second. His lips pull into a smile handcrafted for Johnny and Johnny alone, and it makes Soap's heart stop in his chest. 

God, he's handsome. 

"LT… Simon , I love you." The words fall out of his lips before he can stop them, all of the emotions he's worked so hard to push down for so long rushing out in one messy confession. His voice shakes. "I don't care if you want to ship me off to some base miles away from here or if you even want me dishonorably discharged, but I just need you to know that I love you. I love you more than I love myself, and if I had to pick between one of us to survive this mission and- and every mission after, it would be you every time." 

Simon stares at Johnny as the man falls apart. The confession warbles in and out of his ears, echoing in his heart only long enough to make his heartbeat stutter, before the fog in his mind erases them. 

"I-" Ghost groans, his body trembling at the pain lingering beneath the surface of his bandages. If not for the pain, if not for him dying, he doesn't think he'd ever find the strength to say, "I love you, too." 

Lips meet his. 

Simon's pretty sure he's died and gone to heaven.

The kiss is messy and desperate and selfish, both of them finally taking what they want because they don't know how much time they have left together. It lights his synapses on fire in an all new way he's never experienced before. Pure dopamine floods through his system, stronger than any drug he could ever put into his body. It flushes out all of his hurting- both mental and physical- and all of the tension in his body melts out. He slumps entirely against the other man, wanting to feel as much of him as possible.

God, he loves this man. 

When they finally pull away, gasping and panting but grinning ear to ear, Ghost lets his forehead knock against Johnny's gently. His eyes slip closed, but he focuses on the feeling of Johnny's warmth breath dancing across his still-tingling lips to keep himself grounded. 

Or at least he tries to. 

"I love you," Simon murmurs, using the last of his energy, "more than anything." 

"I love you, too." Johnny, giddy and love-drunk, gazes down at Simon's hands, the same ones he's dreamed of holding since he met Simon, the same ones he held for the first time today. He laces their fingers together. 

Simon's fingers don't tighten around his. 

"LT?" Soap whispers, like whispering the man's name into the world will be what takes him out of it. "Ghost?" He leans away from Ghost only for the man's body to follow his, slumping against his chest. "Hey, hey, Simon." He grabs Ghost by the shoulders and gives them a little shake. "SIMON!" He's shouting now, the sound echoing off the buildings nearby, echoing off the one he knows has Russians in it, searching for them. 

Not knowing what else to do, he slaps Ghost. Hard. 

Simon whines faintly.

Johnny sobs. 

"You- you fucker . You can't die on me yet- not now , not ever. I need you. You're my lieutenant- my- my partner. I can't live without you. I can't-" 

His radio crackles and cuts off his pleas. He tenses, waiting for a cacophony of Russian threats, the last voices he'll probably ever hear before the Russians open fire on him and Simon. 

"You broken?" 

Soap's breath hitches at the sound of Price's voice. Pulling Simon closer to him until the injured man is practically in his lap, he hides his tear-stained face in the man's shoulder. He bites his bottom lip until the skin breaks to keep it from wobbling and holds a trembling hand over his mouth to keep himself from crying. He's a goddamn soldier. He was trained for this kind of scenario; he isn't supposed to be crying on the battlefield. The most important thing he can do right now is keep himself calm and keep Price informed on the situation. 

But he can't bring himself to open his mouth because he knows that all of his sadness and panic will leak out, and Price will be stuck comforting him while Simon bleeds out in his arms. 

"Soap, status?" the older man tries again, sounding even more worried. "MacTavish?" 

Soap finally swallows the lump in his throat and answers, "Simon's down- unconscious." His voice shakes more than he wants it to. 

"Fuck..." Price breathes out slowly. "Dammit- is he- are you-?" 

"What's your ETA?" He doesn't need Price to ask him if he's okay because they both know that he isn't. 

"Five minutes out." If Soap focuses hard enough, he swears that he can hear the blades of the helicopter chopping through the air. "Johnny, can you please do somethin' for me? Take your glove off and feel if he's breathin'. Check his pulse, too, if your hands are steady enough." 

"Fuck," Soap mutters. He yanks a hand through his mohawk. for all his training, for everything that he's had pounded into him the second he decided to join the military, he's forgotten the most important, most basic step in a medical evacuation: make sure the person is fucking alive. He tears one of his gloves off with his teeth and holds his bare hand under Simon's nose, cursing himself that he didn't think to do this earlier. 

Simon could've died, and he wouldn't have even realized it. His stomach and heart lurch at the realization. 

Hot air tickles the back of his palm- a new wave of tears pool in his eyes. 

"Breathing- barely." 

Price lets out an audible sigh of relief that Soap echoes. 

"How's his pulse?" 

Soap stares at his shaking hands, one gloved and one not. Both are covered in Simon's blood. He makes a strangled noise. 

"I can- I can't." 

"Alright, that's alright, Johnny.  So long as he keeps breathin'. You're doin' good, MacTavish. ETA, two minutes. Can you do me another favor?" 

"Anything," he whispers. 

"Take a deep breath." Johnny nods to himself. "We'll be there in a minute, but for now, you've done all you could do. Just make sure he stays breathin', yeah? Oh, and one more thing- hug him tight for me, will you?" 

Above all else, Johnny is a soldier. Despite all the ways he's fucked up on this mission, he can never fuck up one thing, and that is following Price's orders. He holds Simon as tight as his exhausted muscles possibly can and prays under his breath to every god, deity, and saint he can think of that they don't take Simon away from him. He can hear Price's own prayers in the way the man asks for status updates every ten seconds as the roar of the helicopter gets louder. 

It's still not quite loud enough to drown out the sound of bullets being fired, though.

It's just Soap's luck that the second safety is within his grasp, fate rips it away once more. 

His exhausted limbs work completely on instinct; he throws his back against the car for protection and yanks Simon into his lap, shielding the injured man with his body. As the bullets tear through the rusted, burnt metal that's trying and failing to protect them, Johnny presses his face into Ghost's shoulder and lets his tears soak through the man's shirt. Each one that falls damns the world they live in that seems so dead-set on killing them.

"Contact! Building 'cross the street's got some Russian fuckers in it," Soap forces out, his voice croaking. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth- his whole body feels heavy. 

"On it." 

Hot air brushes across Soap's skin as the sound of an explosion tears through his eardrums. He glances over his shoulder for only a second to find the entire building he and Ghost were in earlier engulfed in flames. 

Fitting punishment for the bastards that hurt Simon to burn before they burn in hell forever. 

"The fire'll spread fast, so we'll have to be even faster," Price says. His voice sounds slightly different, less crackly- more real - Soap whips his head around to find Price standing in front of him, hand outstretched to help him up. Soap just blinks at him, his brain trying to process everything that's just happened in the last thirty seconds alone. 

In all the commotion, he had missed the helicopter dropping its ladder and Price descending it. 

The helo now sits a block away in a blown-to-bits park; it must've been the only place open enough for them to land. Two men adorned in bright red vests with white crosses- medics, Soap realizes a second later than he should- are only a few steps behind Price, a stretcher between them. 

As the medics take Ghost from Soap's arms, a small whine escapes Simon's lips. His hand twitches, searching out Johnny's. 

A similar whine threatens to slip free from Soap's lips, but he bites it back. Instead, he takes his captain's hand and stands slowly, stumbling back a bit as he does. 

"Soap, you broken?" Price asks. He throws his arm around the man's shoulders to keep him upright. "This your blood or Simon's?" 

Johnny's brows meet, and he frowns. He looks down to find a steadily growing stain of red blooming from his own chest. Oh . So this is how Simon had felt, so enraptured by the need to keep him safe that he couldn’t even feel his own pain until someone else pointed it out. His knees give out, hitting the tarmac hard.

"Right, let's get you to the helo, Johnny." Price hooks an arm under Johnny's shoulder to lift him, but the injured man slips out from his grip and pushes him away weakly. "MacTavish," Price warns. 

"Simon-" he slurs, pain fogging his brain over until he can't remember that Simon is already safe- "Simon first." 

"You let the medics worry about Ghost, yeah? I'll take care of you, MacTavish." 

Soap doesn't argue anymore. He doesn't think he could if he wanted to, considering how his tongue feels like it's stuck to the roof of his mouth, his ears are ringing, and the white spots across his vision just keep growing. All of the warmth in his body surges to his chest and leaks out of him much faster than it should, leaving him shivering even as his blood scorches his skin. He takes one more step, and his knees nearly give out.

"Stay on your feet, Johnny," Price coaxes, shouldering more of his weight. "Keep fightin'." 

Without warning, blistering hot air kisses his skin once more, the force of it nearly knocking him and Price over. The explosion thunders in his ears a second later, but it isn't until Price lets loose the most creative string of curse words he's ever heard that he realizes they are royally and entirely fucked.

He peels his heavy eyelids open- not entirely sure when they closed- until he can barely peek through his eyelashes. What he sees finally sends him to his knees: the Russians got revenge. 

The helicopter burns half a block from them. 

It fills the air with thick, sticky black smoke and the acrid scent of melting metal. The smell strangles Soap, his eyes watering as his spasming lungs beg for air. The world around him burns orange and yellow. A few yards away lay the medics, knocked on their asses but recovering slowly. 

Between them is Ghost. 

His body is splayed out on the ground, the red of the stretcher still beneath him marrying with the red of his blood pooling around him. 

He isn't moving.

A guttural scream breaks free from Johnny's lips, and he starts crawling to the man on shaking arms and legs, his own heart refusing to beat until he knows Simon's is. His entire body is exhausted and burned, his chest still bleeding, but none of that matters to him. 

He just needs to know if Simon is okay. 

Just before he can reach the fallen soldier, someone grabs him by his vest. 

"NO!" he shouts, all of his frustration and desperation surging so strongly through his body that he can feel his nerves burning. He's fought too hard for too long- being beaten down over and over again only to be dragged back up on his feet and beaten down once more. No, no, no," he repeats as tears burn tracks down his cheeks. his cries echo off the buildings around him, their walls soaking up grief once more. The hand around his vest moves to squeeze his shoulder hard enough to ground him. 

"MacTavish, breathe." 

An order- Soap can follow orders. 

Sucking in as deep of a breath as he can, his chest expands until it tugs at the skin of his wound and his lungs threaten to burst. His throat closes, refusing to relinquish the air. He feels like he's going to explode- black spots dance across his vision. 

"Breathe out." 

Soap blinks as the world suddenly comes into focus once more, details filling his eyes as if he just put glasses on for the first time. He winces as sound fills his ears once more: the crackling of the fires, shouting from the medics, a radio buzzing. 

"There you go." Price gestures to the medics, who are finally off the ground and crowding Ghost. They give Price a thumbs up. 

Ghost is still alive. 

Relief floods his body, so much so that he goes limp at the feeling, slumping against the rough concrete and sobbing as his heart sews itself back together. 

"Up you come, soldier," Price says before pulling Soap back into an upright position. His chest screams at the movement, and it takes all his willpower not to whimper in pain. The world darkens dangerously for a second, but with a few more deep breaths, it fades until all that lingers is black rims around his vision. 

"Good. Now, listen to me, mate." Price kneels in front of him. He pulls a med-kit out of his pocket and gets to work, the same way Soap had done to Ghost. "We've got to get you to cover until we can get another med-evac here. You and I both know they won't send another one until they know the Russians are taken care of." 

Soap shrugs out of his vest with a wince. He sucks air in through his teeth as Price pulls the fabric of his shirt- melded to his skin with both fresh and dried blood- away from the wound. 

Watching the captain work only serves to make Johnny realize how shoddy of a job his bandaging was on Ghost; god, Simon deserved better. 

"Macmillan's already lost a helo on this trip as well as a dozen men. A few more, especially ones that don't always listen to orders or get along with his other lapdogs, means nothin' to him." Their commanding officer, Macmillan, isn't an evil man or a coward, but he is a realist. He won't sacrifice the lives of many for the lives of few. 

"What 'bout-" Soap grunts as Price finishes off the bandages- "What 'bout the USB? The info?" His hands find the pocket with the USB in it, but his trembling fingers are too stiff to work the zipper. "Fuck," he murmurs. He can feel his life slipping away, his clock ticking down to mere seconds. 

Price knows it, too. 

He's seen thousands of men die- has killed damn near thousands himself. He knows the signs, and his mind can't help but notice them, crossing them off like some sadistic game of bingo as his friend bleeds out. 

The odds are that Soap and Ghost, even bandaged, are more than likely going to die out here while Macmillan sits back and waits to pry the USB out of their cold, dead fingers. 

Hell, they'll probably all die out here in the open once the Russian reinforcements arrive. 

"S' alright, soldier. I've got it." He takes the USB out of Soap's pocket and examines it for a second before tucking it into his own for safekeeping. That's the final nail in the coffin- the moment Soap knows he's dying out here. 

"Pleasure to work with you, sir." Soap starts his goodbyes. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, tripping over the words and mixing the letters together. Price gives him a disapproving frown and opens his mouth to stop the man, but Soap continues anyway. He's never been one to stop even when ordered to. "Tell Ghost that I..." God, how can he sum up everything he wants to say to the man in a few short words? He could spend hours describing all of the reasons he loves him, making all sorts of promises and apologies, dreaming of the life they'll never get to share together. "Tell him I love him." 

The words catch Price off guard, but understanding settles in his eyes seconds later. He's seen the way they glance at each other, the way their touches linger a second longer than they probably should. 

Price opens his mouth, but for the first time since Soap's known him, no words come out. He knows as their commanding officer, he should comment on the fraternization, but he can't deny a dying man his rank or his love. 

Soap's breath catches in his throat. God, why did he tell Price that?

"Calm down, soldier," Price orders. "You're going to tell him that yourself. We've still got a chance, and we've both had worse odds." It's a lie, but it's one Soap forces himself to believe. "You can't give up yet- for Simon..." Price adds after a second's hesitation, but that's the part that rallies Soap's strength the most. 

The captain stands and holds an arm out to the injured man. It's an offer: a choice for Soap to make. He can either take the help and have a chance at living, or he can roll over and accept his fate. 

Soap takes his hand, wincing as he's pulled to his feet. 

"That's my boy." Price nods at him. 

They hobble towards the building Soap and Ghost had been aiming for earlier. Soap's feet step with every drag; he doesn't have enough strength to pull his boots fully off the ground lest he end up laying on it. The building is a bombed out residential home that threatens to tip over any second, but it's four walls and most of a roof, and that's all Soap needs right now.

The second they make it inside is the second the Russian reinforcements finally arrive. 

From the sounds of it, there are four vehicles, their engines loud enough to make the fragile walls surrounding Soap shake and groan. It doesn't take long for the bullets to start. 

Safe for now, Price lowers him to the ground slowly. They both wince- Johnny from the pain and Price from having to be the cause of it. 

Whatever strength Soap had managed to summon for the walk has left- he's more exhausted than he's been in his entire life. His eyelids, scratchy like sandpaper every time he blinks, are getting harder and harder to keep open.

"Stay here- stay quiet. If they find you, you play dead." Price orders. He'd ask Soap to give them hell, but he doesn't know if the man- for all the fight he's got in him- has any hell left to give. Plus, with the amount of blood soaking through his tactical vest, Soap would play a better corpse than a hero at this point. 

Soap nods as much as his neck will let him before letting his head thump back down against the rubble. Rocks poke at his scalp, his short-shaved mohawk providing little protection, but he can't find the strength to move. 

The captain takes one last look at the dying man, resting a hand on his shoulder. It's selfish, and John Price knows it, but with all the sacrifices he's made in his life, he thinks he deserves to be selfish now. It isn't just for him, though. It's also for Simon. Knowing what he knows now, he knows that Simon will accept nothing short of every detail of Johnny's final moments, specific enough for him to picture it since he couldn't be there. 

His eyes memorize the features of his friend: his usually bronze skin now pale, his face screwed up in a rare-to-see frown, that stupid but familiar mohawk slicked down to his head with sweat and blood.

"Cap'n?" Soap drawls, his eyebrows meeting in confusion at Price's lingering presence. 

"Stay alive, Johnny." 

With that, Price drops his hand from the man's shoulders and pushes to his feet. 

A whine breaks free from the injured man's lips before he can stop it. Soap blinks and realizes that his hand is reaching for Price like a child begging for their father. He drops his hand quickly, letting it fall uselessly to his side. 

Price's eyes soften at the noise, and he kneels in front of Johnny, sighing. He meets the injured man's eyes. "MacTavish." His voice is more serious this time, the voice he uses when he needs the boys to listen, but still gentle and comforting. "I need to make sure Ghost and the medics are safe. I also need to clear the route, so we can convince them to send another med-evac. I can't be everywhere at once, but I promise you if there was any other way, I wouldn't be leavin' you here alone. You've got your gun and your radio, and you've got cover, and that's all I can give you right now, sergeant. Keep breathing; I promise I'll be back soon."

Johnny listens to the man's footsteps getting further and further away from him, unable to brush past the sinking feeling that this is the last time he'll ever see Price. 

As he sits in the house, eyes following the cracks and chasing the shadows cast by the fires still burning outside, he can't help but think of all the regrets he has. What is there for a dying man to do but ponder his own failures? He should've told Price he appreciated him more often- same goes with every other member of his team and even Laswell, too. Lord knows the woman gets more shit than she deserves. 

His heart clenches when he realizes that he's never going to see any of them again.

God, he's never going to joke around with Gaz again, pushing the man around and pulling pranks on other people with him. He's never going to try- and fail- to outdrink Price or share cigarettes when neither of them can sleep, haunted by their pasts. He won't verbally spar with Laswell ever again- him being part of the reason she gets so much shit.

He's never going to kiss Simon again. 

The realization makes his body jolt, one last shot of adrenaline pushing through his veins, making him shudder and his breath catch in his throat. 

It's enough to let him move his arms- paralyzed and cold from blood loss- to brush his fingers over his lips where the echo of their kiss lies. Chasing the faint taste of Simon's lips, he wishes with all of his heart that he had a chance to redo it all, to tell him he loves him sooner, to take him out on a date, fraternization charges be damned. 

Now it'll never happen. 

"I love you," he whispers into the night as if that'll make any difference. 

It feels good to say it one last time even if Ghost isn't there to hear it. A small smile drifts onto his face as he drifts away. He uses the last of his energy to picture the face he had worked so hard to memorize only half an hour earlier: every scar, the shape of his cheekbones, his blue eyes, and perfect lips. 

There's a clatter as his gun finally slips from his fingers. It's enough to startle him, but it's not enough to pull him back from the fog slowly overwhelming him. The fog is almost sweet, though, like coming home. It's like sleeping in his own bed for the first time again after being away for months- or seeing Simon again after they've gone a stretch without a mission together. 

A small part of him whispers that he's dying, that this is what dying feels like, and oh, god, why can't he fight to live a little longer? 

But the rest of him is content to slip into oblivion, his love's picture in his head, the ghost of a kiss on his lips. 

The last thing he hears before slipping into darkness is the door swinging open.

Chapter Text

The first thing Simon feels when he finally pulls himself up out of the darkness he had spent so long in is pain. His entire body is stiff like he hasn't moved in forever. Even worse, it aches in a way it never has before- even his heart for reasons unbeknownst to him. He lets out a long groan that encapsulates all his pain and, like a bear's growl, warns everyone around him that he's in too much pain to be fucked with right now.

After a few minutes of trying to collect himself mentally- which is like trying to grab water with his hands- he finally opens his eyes to deal with whatever bullshit the world is going to present to him today.

He opens his eyes and blinks until the lights don't hurt anymore. His eyes are so dry that they burn every time he blinks, and his throat cuts itself in protest every time he swallows dryly.

Now that the world is mostly in focus, slightly trapped behind a haze of pain and medications, and his brain is at least partially functioning, he discovers he's in a hospital room.

Terrible.

Even worse, he's surrounded by people.

Laswell sits in the chair next to his bed, reading over files. She doesn't even look up at him. Gaz paces in front of the hospital door; he has his gun in hand, fiddling with the safety. Price sits in another chair that he very obviously dragged in from another room- maybe even a cafeteria considering how different it looks from Laswell's. He sits backwards on the chair, hunched over it with his forehead resting on the foot of Ghost's bed. Because of the silence of the room, it's easy to pick up on his soft snores.

Curiously, Alejandro and Rodolfo are there, too. They sit on the tile flooring, cards spread between them, a testament to how long Ghost has been out.

Having not seen the vaqueros since Las Almas, their presence is the first hint that something is wrong.

"He's up," Gaz says suddenly, cutting through the silence of the room as gently as a brick through a window. Alejandro and Rodolfo glance up from their game. Laswell jumps and nearly drops her papers. Price startles awake, pulling a gun from god knows where before he puts together that everything is fine. 

Better than fine now that Simon is awake. 

All five pairs of eyes on him, Ghost curses Gaz for ratting him out so soon. He'd have been fine waiting another five- ten minutes- or forever before he had to face the realities of the world once more. 

Wait...

Five pairs of eyes?

He glances around, eyes squinting. Disappointment curdles in his stomach, and it ruins his mood further once he discovers who's missing.

Johnny.

Maybe someone heard about their kiss and got him discharged for fraternization. Even worse, maybe he'd changed his mind, the kiss they shared ruining the feelings Soap thought he had for him.

"Where's Johnny?" is the first question Ghost asks, his voice gravelly from days of disuse and tight with barely-concealed panic.

Gaz's eyes move to examine the gun in his hand; he fiddles with the mag, clicking it in and out. Laswell's attention is back on the files in her hands. She pretends to not notice what's going on, but he can see by the way she's slowly leaning in that she's paying full attention to the bomb about to drop. Rudy and Alejandro glance at each other, having a conversation with their eyes. 

Price is the only one who can look at him. 

Simon's stomach churns at the amount of grief in the older man's eyes.

"Simon," he says slowly, filling Simon's head with one word over and over again: Don't . His entire being screams the word, begging Price to not take away the last person in this godforsaken world worth living for. His entire body freezes, the blood pumping through his veins coming to a crashing halt, his breath catching in his throat. His mind is empty except for one word: don't .

"Don't. Please ," Simon begs as the words slip out of their mental prison and into his physical one.

"He wants you to know he loves you."

"No." Ghost shakes his head; he doesn't want to know whatever Price is about to tell him. He doesn't need him to confirm what he already knows. Johnny is gone. Forever. Hearing his captain confirm that won't do anything but tear him apart further. "No, no, no-"

"He's not dead." It's a feeble promise, one that even Price himself doesn't believe. The fact is that none of them know Soap's status because they haven't received a single threat or demand from the bastards that took him.

The words scare Simon. Nothing short of hell on earth would keep Johnny from him, especially if he's injured. 

"Where is he?"

~*~

ONE WEEK EARLIER

Something cold flows through his veins, making him shudder.

Hands grab him- too roughly, and he groans, trying to shove them away. The fingers only latch on harder until fingernails dig into his bruised skin and draw a whine from his chapped lips.

His head pounds, echoing his too-fast heartbeat. He tries to bring his hands up to press on his temples, but he meets resistance. He grumbles and pulls harder only for pain to shoot through his wrists as the skin is stabbed by cold metal. It isn't enough pain to draw him out of the haze he's in, but it is enough to force another whine from his lips, one that earns him a stinging slap to the cheek. 

The hands on him leave, and his body slumps forward without the support. There isn't enough give for him to lay fully down- a fact that he bemoans- but it's enough that his back doesn't protest at being upright any longer. 

Rumbling fills his ears and the ground beneath him quakes slightly before jolting forward. His back slams against metal, setting his nerves on fire. He's in... a truck?

"Si? Simon?" he asks, the words cutting his throat because of how dry it is. 

Whispers surround him, but he can't catch a single word. He blindly searches for the source of the sound, but his shaking hands catch nothing but metal. 

"Simon," he calls as his panic grows. His eyelids are too heavy to open, and he can't move anything but his hands. His chest is starting to ache for reasons his mind has locked behind the haze. Tears burn his eyes, gluing them shut further as he begs for Simon. 

"Stop," a voice demands- too harsh and not deep enough to be Simon. The voice sends him into a frenzy, his mind echoing with the thought that something's wrong- where's Simon- where is he- where-

Something pricks his skin- cold flows through his veins once more. The haze grows, and he drifts, not fully asleep but nowhere near lucid. He's docile, complacent, like they extinguished his spitfire until it was little more than the flame of a match. 

His head dips back against the side of the truck, and he's gone. 

~*~

Price unloads one last round of bullets into the Russian stragglers. He drops each one on the first try. "Good shit," he mutters to himself before turning on his radio. "Clear for med-evac. Medics, what's Ghost's status?"

"Breathing slow but present, heart rate slow but stable. ETA six minutes out on the secondary helo. Odds are looking good." Price can't help but sigh in relief, letting the tension finally drop from his shoulders. It wasn't very often that Ghost got injured out on the field, and it was even more rare for him to request a med-evac instead of pushing through the pain to finish the mission. Partnering that with the fact that Soap was the one to call it in, not Ghost, Price was convinced the man was going to die.

But Simon is a stubborn bastard, and if he had lived this long, he'd definitely pull through even with the added delay.

"Good to hear. Soap, sit-rep?"

His radio crackles for a second- just long enough to give Price the illusion that Soap is going to answer. Then, the crackle dies, plunging him into silence once more, save for the crackling of the fires still burning around him and the beginning whispers of the approaching helicopter.

Even though Price knows better, he can't help but draw some hope from the sound even though it isn't a real answer. It means that MacTavish is conscious enough to press the call button- even if he doesn't have the strength to talk, it's still something. He's still alive. For how much longer, Price doesn't know.

His boots beat against the ground as he takes off running towards the building he left the sergeant in. He crosses the neighborhood in record time, his lungs and legs screaming at the overuse.

As the broken down house looms over him, he comes to a screeching halt. The door, which he had left closed as one last safety measure for the injured man, is busted off its hinges, lying on the ground.

"MacTavish, status?" Price's feet hesitate to carry him inside and confirm what he already knows. The radio remains silent, not even granting him a crackle of a response.

He sets his shoulders and tightens his hand on his gun as he enters the door slowly, sweeping the room through the scope.

It's empty- Soap is gone.

The only proof that he was ever there is a pool of blood right where Price had left him.

"John," he calls over his radio only to hear his own voice echo back at him through the silence. Even though he's been in this scenario a thousand times over, and it's never ended well, he can't help the foolish hope rising in his chest.

Maybe Soap is still alive. Maybe his head finally cleared enough to realize that a door doesn't provide as much cover as hiding in a room deeper in the house would.

That is until he realizes the radio sounds too close to be in another room.

He continues to broadcast, repeatedly calling Soap by every name he could think of- not caring that the medics can hear every single one- until he finally tracks down where the radio is.

Hastily buried in a pile of rubble is Soap's communicator, obviously stepped on but not destroyed enough to stop transmitting.

It confirms something even worse than the man being dead.

Johnny was captured by Russians.

"Fuck."

~*~

"Where is Johnny?" Simon growls, his eyes holding knives to the throats of everyone in the room. Tension weighs heavy on his chest- making it that much harder for his lungs to expand to get enough air in. Black spots tease the edge of his vision.

For them to be that scared of telling him, it must be something big- much bigger than a dishonorable discharge because of fraternization.

"The bloody Russians got him," Gaz cuts in, surprising them all with the anger in his voice.

"When?" All five pairs of eyes avoid him once more. He slams his fist down on the side of his bed hard enough to make the plastic crack, demanding their attention. The heart monitor speeds up dangerously, threatening to cut their conversation short. The black spots grow. His vision tunnels, his entire mind focused on the thought of Johnny, his Johnny, being in danger. "When? Fucking when ?" he seethes.

"Hermano, tranqui-" Alejandro starts, but a glare from Ghost shuts him up quickly. Even without the mask, the man is still terrifying- maybe even moreso because now all of his anger is clearly displayed, not hidden behind cloth like it usually is. Alejandro, known as el hombre sin miedo to his soldiers, backs down quickly.

"Someone better start fucking talking."

"While you were down..." Price starts, and Ghost shuts up immediately. His eyes, like a rabid animal, turn on the captain and make him falter for only a second before he continues, "While you were down, John got shot in the same place you did." Simon gingerly touches the bandages. The thought of it happening to Johnny sends a bullet tearing through his chest all over again, nicking his heart and making it bleed out. "The med-evac helo got taken out, and we were forced to take cover from enemy fire until another one could arrive. I bandaged him and brought him to cover... and I... I left him." His eyes drop from Simon's, fiddling with his fingers as he admits his failure. 

"So it's your fault," Ghost spits. He doesn't care that he isn't being fair or that Price probably did all that he could like he always does or even that the mission is supposed to come first above all else. He just needs to push the blame threatening to drown him- screaming that it's his own fault- on someone else.

The man he loves is in the hands of the men who hate him.

If he's lucky, he's dead.

If he's not...

He won't be himself anymore.

"It is my fault." Price takes the poisonous words and lets them soak in until he can feel them cutting through his body like shards of glass in his veins. "I thought he would be safe where I left him, and I was wrong. I should've been there to protect him- hell, I shouldn't have left him alone in the first place. There are a lot of things I would do differently if I could do it again, but I can't."

"Blaming people won't get us anywhere," Gaz interjects. He must not agree that it's Price's fault. "We need to focus on rescuing him."

Ghost nods. Nothing is as important as Johnny right now. "What's on the USB?" He needs to know what he almost died for and what Soap gave his life for.

Finally, Laswell looks up. "We've been working on that for the last week."

Hopelessness takes over Ghost's body. He falls back against his bed as all the fight leaves his body. All that, all those sacrifices, just to not even be able to use it. Johnny's been gone for at least a week, and they don't have shit on how to save him.

Price is quick to comfort him. "Son, it doesn't mean the USB is useless; it just means we need a bit more time to figure it out."

"Johnny doesn't have time!" His anger explodes out of him, a poor echo of Johnny's spitfire temper. "Every second we're sitting here doing nothing is another second they're doing something to him." He can't even bring himself to imagine the horrors the man he loves is going through- has been going through for the last fucking week.

Simon knows torture. 

He knows the feeling of pain being so constant it's almost forgotten, like hunger pains left unanswered, until a new way to inflict pain is discovered and overused. He knows the way it breaks down even the strongest, most stubborn men- left husks of who they used to be, flinching at every touch, waking up screaming their throats raw, living life as ticking time bombs. 

Soap is so full of life, so full of fire that it's hard to imagine a world where he isn't, where he can't even touch Johnny without the man tensing and expecting to be hurt, where the only sound that comes out of his mouth is screams from the echoes of pain that never fully fade. 

Simon's hand rubs his side, where the worst of his scars lies. Every scar on his body aches at the thought of Johnny having matching ones. 

Price and Alejandro give him a knowing look; like Simon, they've been on both sides themselves. 

"Lo vamos a salvar," Alejandro promises, patting Simon on the shoulder. "We will save him."

The question of if he'll still be him when they do sits on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it down. He can't torture himself like that; he forces himself to believe his friend. It's either that or give up and let himself wither away in this hospital bed while Johnny dies slowly.

No. 

If Johnny didn't give up on Simon when he was literally bleeding out, Simon can't give up on Johnny now.

Laswell and Gaz can do nothing but watch the scene, knowing they're all missing something but not knowing what. Rodolfo and Alejandro seem to have an understanding of the situation- it's an understanding that stems from Rudy's hand in Alejandro's. The sight makes Simon's skin burn, the faint memory of Johnny's hand in his tormenting him. Price is the only one who knows the full situation. He twists the ring on his finger, and Simon knows that he's putting himself in his situation, imagining what would happen if it was his husband in the enemy's hand. 

Laswell is the first to inject herself back into the situation. She pushes through the stiff silence and drops a pile of files on Simon's lap. "Let's get to work, boys," she orders. 

~*~

Bright white lights burn Johnny's eyes when he peels them open. His head is pounding, and his mouth is cotton dry. Pain licks at his nerves like his body is on fire, drawing a groan from his lips.

He lifts his head, full of lead, to glance around. His lips dip down into a frown as his mind tries and fails to figure out where he is and what happened.

Beeping rings in his ears, speeding up when he raises his head. A heart monitor, he realizes later than he should. Curtains, stained and torn up, wall off his bed from the rest of the room. He can hear people shuffling around and conversing outside.

Is this some sort of pseudo-hospital?

He goes to sit up but quickly finds that he can't. Panic clenching his heart- oh, god what if the bullet had paralyzed him?- he looks down to find a thick leather strap holding his chest down. Cold metal burns his wrists, leeching the heat from them and leaving angry red marks as he tries to yank himself free. His ankles are tied down with the same thick, leather as his chest, leaving him completely immobile.

Fear strangles his throat; it makes it impossible to talk and even more impossible to breathe.

The heart monitor beeps louder, angrier.

The curtain starts to open slowly, and all Soap can do is watch, eyes wide and breathing erratic. He doesn't think he could move even if he wasn't strapped down.

Through the navy fabric walks a dead man.

"Ahh, Sergeant MacTavish," a heavily-accented voice says, and his heart nearly stops.

"Barkov?" Johnny had heard enough about the mission to kill Barkov from Price and Gaz that it was easy to recognize the man, despite his new knife and burn scars, courtesy of Farah. It was Gaz's favorite story to tell once he had one too many pints, the reason he always poured a celebratory shot out on the floor of the bar.

Now Gaz's victory is Soap's damnation.

Chapter Text

Simon loathes hospitals. 

His childhood was spent living in shared custody between his house and a hospital room thanks to his father and the demons that followed him everywhere he went. Demons that still linger in the sickly sweet scent of disinfectant threatening to choke him and peek around the corners of the generic room, not a single object in it marking it as Simon’s. His father’s voice still echoes in the silence, hiding in the beeps of the heart monitor and the hum of the machines. 

He knows he shouldn’t whine- he isn’t the one being tortured. He’s just sitting here in a cushy hospital bed, being borderline spoon-fed by nurses, surrounded by his teammates constantly. 

But as a child raised by fists and yelling that grew into a soldier nurtured by bullets and bombs, the comfort is completely foreign to him. He doesn’t deserve this- any of this- not when he couldn’t protect Johnny. He doesn’t deserve the sweets Gaz and smiles Gaz brings him every time he visits. He doesn’t deserve the presence of Laswell and Price, who haven’t left his side for more than ten minutes in the past week he’s been bed-bound. 

Even now, they sit with him, both slumped down in the uncomfortable, plastic hospital chairs with a hurricane of papers spread between them. 

“We need to look at this from a new angle,” Laswell breaks the silence, unaware of Simon’s inner turmoil. She massages her temples with her palms and pinches her eyes closed, sighing. The bluelight from her computer scorches her retinas and builds pressure up behind her temples until her head is pounding. She casts a glance towards her coat, which is in a heap near the door, eyeing the pocket that houses her cigarette carton. God, she could use a smoke right now. Her fingers find her wedding ring instead and twist the golden band. “We’re missing something.” 

Even though he knows she doesn’t deserve it, Simon can’t help but snort and roll his eyes at her statement of the obvious. 

“Missing someone ,” he corrects, not sparing her even the slightest glance. Instead, his eyes stay glued to the papers spread across his bed, like he might be able to uncover some new secret from the printed letters he’s read a thousand times, like the ink itself might solve all of their problems. His body is strung tight like a rope holding too much weight. Any longer, and the frayed strings keeping him together are going to snap. The need to do something- anything- makes his muscles ache. 

He shifts in his bed. 

Price’s eyes are on him in an instant, eagle sharp and stern. 

“Stay in bed, son,” he warns, and Simon huffs. 

Wordlessly, he settles back down, ruing the day the nurses finally clear him from bed rest. One more week and then another one after that for observation before he can be released. That’s all Simon has to suffer through. 

“This isn’t Makarov’s work,” Laswell decides. “He would be quick to take credit- or to pin the blame on someone else-- and he wouldn’t leave any assets behind for us to find.” She messes with the USB drive between her fingers, rubbing its smooth side with her thumb. 

“Someone new?” Price asks, and Kate blows out a slow breath and nods. Her grip tightens on the USB, squeezing it tighter and digging her thumb deeper into its side until the finger turns white. 

Simon’s mood drops further, his frown deepening. The idea of dealing with another enemy- an entirely new one they have no information about- while Makarov is still an issue sends white hot anger searing through him. Evil is a constant in the world they live in. He knows that; like it or not, he’s come to terms with it. But they’re trying their hardest to stop it, and it’s almost like fate doesn’t want them to. If they’re going to be dealt every bad card possible, why can’t fate deal them in manageable amounts? Why can’t they be rewarded for the good they do with even a tiny break? 

There’s a quiet click from the USB, the first stroke of luck they’ve had. 

Laswell grins. 

“I guess we’re about to find out.” 

~*~

The door to Soap's hell opens.

He lifts his heavy head from where it fell against his chest- he must've fallen asleep. His neck cracks at the movements, his stiff muscles protesting, and he swallows dryly. It feels like every bit of water in his entire body evaporated. He doesn't even have a shirt on- god knows when that happened- but he still feels way too hot. His entire body, spattered with random bruises, is covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

Footsteps echo like gunshots as someone enters his cell.

His chair faces away from the door, but he doesn't care enough to waste the energy it would take to turn his head and look who came in. All he knows is he doesn't recognize the footsteps. They're too heavy, too slow, and too deliberate to be his teammates; each foot is placed down with the full confidence that this man owns the room and everything within it, including Soap.

"Oh, what have we here?" comes a voice so thick and gravelly that it feels like someone poured concrete into his ears. Soap just wishes the metaphorical concrete would harden, so he couldn't hear the insults and threats he knows he's going to be peppered with.

The Russian- even more of a mountain of a man than Ghost- looms over the chair Soap has been tied to for what feels like forever. His face is a marred, burned mess, and one of his eyes is a stark white. Every inch of visible skin is scarred.

He stares at the man, schooling his expression into one of boredom in spite of his racing heart.

"I hear you like masks, no?" the man asks before pulling a black balaclava from his pocket. Soap only stares at the mask, horror growing, tightening the invisible rope squeezing his chest. He shakes his head slightly- the first emotion he's shown. There's a quiet rustling as the man pulls the mask on, and the black fabric reveals a pattern that was hidden by the way it was folded: a white skull. It's a poor imitation, looking hastily drawn rather than carefully handcrafted, but it's close enough to the real thing to draw a quiet, pleading no from Soap's lips.

The mask moves in a way that Soap has come to recognize as the person beneath the cloth grinning.

The sight sends Soap's carefully crafted walls crashing down. His mind explodes with thoughts of Simon, and he can't box them up fast enough to stop them from bringing stinging tears to his eyes. His vision blurs until he can see nothing but the white skull of the mask, further cementing the illusion that it's Simon come to rescue him.

But this isn't the mask of his lover- this is the mask of his executioner.

The distinction is made clear as the masked man approaches him once more, a knife in his hand.

Soap trembles.

It isn't the first time the Russians have gotten physical- it isn't even the first time they've brandished a knife against him, teasing the sharp metal against and even into his skin until he screamed- but he can't stop the way he shakes, the metallic taste of fear in his mouth making his stomach churn.

In the week- has it been a week?- since Soap was taken, he's worked so hard to keep himself composed under torture. Not betraying a single emotion aside from the warranted physical reactions to the pain he's subjected to, not letting slip even the tiniest morsel of information that could be used against his team, following his training so closely that he can almost hear his commanding officer barking the words at him.

And yet, all it takes is a shitty recreation of Ghost's mask to break him to the whims of his torturer.

"What bothers you, little Scot? Do I remind you of someone?"

Looking anywhere but the Russian, Soap bores holes into the damp brick walls that surround him with his eyes. Old blood stains the bricks an angry reddish-brown: echoes of old torture, hints of what's to come for Johnny.

A hand grabs his face, cupping his chin with the same kind of desperation as Ghost when he had been shot, forcing his mind back to their first and only kiss. Johnny closes his eyes and pretends the touch is Ghost- the man came to rescue him and is desperate to make sure he's okay and-

His daydream shatters seconds later when the grip on his chin tightens until nails press into his skin nearly hard enough to break it.

Even desperate, Ghost would never hurt him.

"Boy kisser," the Russian spits, venomous curiosity in his voice like a wolf circling its target before it decides to attack.

"What of it?" Soap bites back before cursing himself and his inability to hold his tongue; he can't help but feel he's just handed his torturer a loaded gun.

The Russian's other hand loses itself in Soap's hair, teasing through his mohawk, before using it to yank his head upwards. His neck is stretched as far as the rigid muscles will go and then some, drawing a groan from his throat.

Chapped lips press against his.

The coarse fabric of a mask brushes against his cheeks, and suddenly it's Simon kissing him once more, his mask hiked just above his nose, his skin bared for Johnny and Johnny alone. 

But Simon's lips aren't chapped and don't burn with the taste of vodka...

Stubble brushes against his skin- Johnny lurches away from the touch, his eyes snapping open. It isn't Simon kissing him like his brain so desperately wants him to believe- it's the Russian. Johnny fights but between the hands on his head and the handcuffs strapping him down, he can't escape the unwanted advance.

He pulls as far back as he can, the Russian following his movements, before knocking his head forward against the other man's. Stars explode across his vision, and his head pounds with the promise of a goose egg to form, but he succeeds in breaking off the kiss.

The Russian spits, wipes his mouth, and grins.

"Feisty. I like that."

Johnny can feel eyes on his face, scraping across every inch, examining him like they're looking for his weakness.

"Look at me," orders the Russian with his hand in Soap's hair once more, dragging his head up to face his. Soap fights to keep his eyes on the ground, but a punch hard enough to his face to make his ears ring convinces him to listen. He glares up at the evil man. "Good boy." The man traces around Soap's eyes gently with his free hand. Soap tries not to tremble beneath the touch. "Such pretty eyes. It is a sadness that you are going to die. Maybe I have them framed for my office."

Soap flinches at the words as the Russian steps back to examine him again. This time, his eyes drag down Soap's body, leaving grubby trails that make Johnny wish he could scrub his body down with scalding water. He doesn't even want to know what the man is planning now.

"You answer questions for me, boy kisser- I don't do anything. You don't? I have fun." The way the Russian nearly purrs the word makes Soap's skin crawl.

God, he wishes that bullet had killed him.

~*~

Ghost’s body is on fire. 

Smoke rises from his skin. 

He glances around the meeting room, expecting the eyes of his team members to be on him, staring at him as he slowly burns, but all of their eyes are on the papers in front of them- where his should be, too. 

But all he can focus on is the way that he feels like a wildfire only contained because it has already consumed everything around it. Panic lights his nerves like matches with a fuse, turning his entire body into a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at any second. He breathes out slowly in an attempt to release some of the pressure building in his chest and squeezing his lungs. Smoke curls up from his lips as if he had a cigarette bit between his teeth. 

“We did have a breakthrough with the USB,” Laswell says. Her voice cuts through the smoky haze in his head, and even though Simon was there when it happened, he still stiffens at the words. He doesn’t even dare to breathe in fear of not hearing something important despite already having memorized all the information the USB had to offer days before this meeting. Laswell takes a deep breath and continues, “Barkov is alive, and we have reason to believe he’s the one who has Sergeant MacTavish.” 

The words lodge into Simon’s brain like a bullet. He’s heard from Farah the horrors Barkov commits against his captives, and for him to have Johnny… the thought pours gasoline onto the fire consuming him, making it impossible to do anything, even breathe. 

“We…” Laswell pauses and glances at him; she knows this is going to break him. “We have yet to receive proof of life.” 

Ghost knows this. 

He knows this- he’s heard this a thousand times, thought of all the possibilities, tortured himself with every possible outcome.

So then why is it so hard to breathe?

Ghost nearly falls from his chair, tumbling to the floor and sprinting for the door just as the fire reaches his heart. 

The door thunders shut behind him, and he doubles over, gasping in pain and retching at the feeling of his chest smoldering, the skin blistering with heat. He yanks off his tactical gear with shaking fingers- the metal buckles tear at the soft flesh of his hands, marking them with angry, weeping red lines. He tugs his mask above his nose, far enough for him to breathe but not enough to bare his whole face to the world. 

His knees break beneath him, crashing into the ground. His forehead meets hard concrete. He lies there, gasping and sobbing, letting the asphalt muffle his cries and dry his tears. This is the kind of comfort he deserves- pain to distract him, to outweigh the pain of his heart ripping in half. 

Hugging his discarded gear to his chest in hopes of it protecting him like it does on the battlefield, he begs and pleads with the world to take his life instead of Johnny’s. 

A door creaks open. 

Before he even registers the situation, Ghost is in a fighting stance: a knife in his hands and tears still soaking into his mask. 

“Easy,” Gaz says, blinking at him, eyes on the knife pointed at his throat. 

There isn’t an ounce of fear in them. 

Just concern.

Concern that Simon doesn’t deserve. 

He isn’t the one thousands of miles away, surrounded by enemies, either dying slowly or wishing he was. 

“Fucken hell, Gaz.” Ghost drops the knife and his exhausted body down against the cement. He slumps against the brick wall, not caring as the rough brick digs and pricks into his back. All of the fight drains from his body; the forest fire is extinguished- nothing but ashes remain. “Don’t… don’t tell Price. Please .” His voice cracks, and he lets out a shaky breath, cursing his weakness. His hands find his temples, and he presses his palms into the plastic of his mask until it digs into his skin in an attempt to make the tears stop. He hates feeling this vulnerable, this scene. He’s the Ghost for fuck’s sake. 

Gaz stands above him like a god on judgment day. His eyes search over every aspect of Simon’s body, taking in his abandoned tactical gear, his bloodshot eyes, his facepaint smeared by tears. 

Ghost stares back, silently begging the man to say something, to damn or pardon his soul. 

“If you’ve come to make fun of me, just do it.”

Gaz’s eyes soften. He drops next to him and settles into the concrete cradle with much more ease and comfort than Ghost, sighing as his weight is taken off of his weary feet. “You know…” he starts, “if we’re passing blame around, I s’pose some of it belongs to me.” 

Ghost glances at him out of the corner of his eyes- surprise overtakes him. 

Gaz continues, drumming his fingers against his thighs. “I thought we killed Barkov. Farah stabbed him and dropped him out of the bloody sky, and then we dropped a metric shit ton of explosives on him. Somehow, the bastard’s still breathing.” He gives a small, exasperated chuckle. “I wasted so much alcohol.” 

Ghost snorts. 

Of all the things for Gaz to mourn, of all the regrets that come with a failed mission, he hadn’t expected the younger man to focus on the shots he poured out instead of the shots he fired. 

“Woah, did I just make the Ghost snort? Seen you laughin’ and cryin’ today, lieutenant. Now that deserves a medal.” 

“Chest candy,” Ghost shoots back, and his mind fills with thoughts of Johnny once more. He would sell his very soul just to hear the Scottish man’s voice, let alone know that he’s okay. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

Ghost’s brows meet beneath his mask, and his lips dip into a slight frown. What is he going to ask? He knows just as much about the mission as the rest of them, and he doesn’t have any special insight on Johnny… except the look of determination in his eyes that assured Simon that he wouldn’t leave him to die alone even with all of the odds stacked against him and the way his eyes shine so… so blue when the sun hits them just right and the taste of his perfect lips and- 

He wouldn’t have any information about Barkov or the Russians. Nothing important for Kyle to know. 

“What’s goin’ on between you and Soap?” Gaz sits up straighter when he asks. His legs adjust beneath him, like he’s prepared to run if his question hits a sore spot. Smart fellow. 

“Nothing that’ll affect the mission, sergeant.” Except they both know it’s a lie coming out of his mouth- a blatantly obvious, poorly-told one at that. Sure, everyone in the Taskforce would go to the edge of hell for each other, but none of them would go brazenly marching through it. They all have their lines drawn where their personal safety matters more than the life of another person, even if it is a teammate that’s been through everything with them. 

For Simon, there is no line when it comes to Johnny. It’s stupid and damn-near suicidal, but he would march through hell and back a million times if it meant the man got to breathe even one more breath. God knows what horrors he would withstand to see the man smile. 

And when it comes to this mission, he isn’t going to let anything stop him from getting Johnny back. 

Gaz frowns at this answer. 

“What about something that’ll affect a man’s mates? Does he get to know then?” 

Ghost hesitates, only further confirming what Gaz already knows. “Off the books? You won’t breathe a word of this to anyone?”

“On my life.” Gaz promises solemnly. 

“I don’t care how much shit we’ve been through together, Garrick- I find out you told someone about this, I will kill you,” Ghost growls out as if Gaz had already broken his promise. 

“Simon, I promise.” 

Simon sighs and lets his head drop back against the uncomfortable brick. He stares up at the sky, not wanting to look at Gaz, not wanting to accidentally meet the eyes that he knows are studying him, looking for hints to the secret he’s about to share. His voice hardly above a whisper, he admits his secret for the first time to someone other than Johnny. 

“I’m stupidly, hopelessly in love with him.” 

The words condemn him, binding his soul to Johnny’s, sealing his fate. 

“We kissed… after I got shot.” His cheeks blush at the admission; he’s never been more thankful for the mask covering his face. 

“Oh, okay,” Gaz says. 

“Okay?” The reaction is not at all what Ghost had been expecting. “That’s it?” 

The other man, grinning, shrugs. “It’s not much of a surprise- actually, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.” 

“Oh.” Ghost prides himself on being a good sniper, being able to read situations and make split-second decisions without a second’s hesitation, but Soap’s confession had completely blindsided him. For a man who knew everything about Johnny- down to his favorite sleeping position for reasons he’d rather not explain- he had never considered even once that he wasn’t alone in his feelings. He’d always just assumed the sergeant was out of reach, someone to want but never to have. Was the truth really that obvious? 

“Can I claim best man yet?” Gaz asks cheekily, elbowing Ghost out of his thoughts. Ghost barks out a surprised laugh that startles the both of them. He’s been nothing but a tangle of nerves since the mission, and it feels good to laugh, especially since Gaz’s humor echoes Soap’s so much. It’s like the man is here with him again just for a moment. 

Well, almost at least. 

It’s close enough that the grief of missing him, the gaping hole in his heart, gets a little bit smaller just long enough for him to take a deep breath for the first time in days. 

“Maybe.” Kyle pumps his fist in celebration, and Ghost can’t help but chuckle, knowing he’s going to regret that in a couple years. Then- a guarantee of life- reality hits once more, and the inescapable grief sets in. 

A hand on his shoulder startles him slightly- it’s Gaz. 

“We’re going to get him back.”

Simon has heard dozens of promises from people that they’ll get Johnny back, but Kyle is the first one he actually believes. The man sounds so confident that it’s hard to believe anything else. He sighs and stands, brushing his pants off and offering a hand to help Simon up. 

“You’re not like what I thought you were,” the younger man admits. 

Ghost accepts the help and lets himself be tugged to his feet. Once he’s standing, he throws his arms around Gaz, enveloping him in a bear hug. 

“You aren’t either.”

Chapter Text

“Who has the USB?” the Russian asks for the hundredth time. 

Soap can’t stop shaking. 

His chest shudders and heaves with every too short, too fast breath he takes, and his lungs beg for oxygen, white spots dancing across his vision. 

Each movement, each tiny shifting of his body, each fucking breath tugs and pulls on his wound, on the torn muscles crudely stitched back together, in a way that makes him bite his lip until it bleeds. 

He flinches at the sound of the Russian’s voice, muffled by the black fabric that’s become all too familiar, replacing his memories of Simon’s mask with something so, so much worse. 

Saliva pools in his mouth as footsteps approach his chair, and he swallows, desperate to keep what little food he’s been given in his stomach. A hand touches his shoulder- bile rises in his throat. The hand tightens until nails dig into his skin. His stomach lurches. The battle ends. 

The Russian jumps backwards, cursing in his mother tongue, as Johnny heaves, disgust curling on his lips as he watches the man pitifully spit up stomach acid, whimpering all the while.

“You are filthy little thing,” the Russian complains as if it isn’t his own fault Johnny’s covered in dried blood, dirt, and tears. Once Johnny’s head drops back down to his chest, exhausted from throwing up and the pain that follows, he takes a step closer once more. He lifts up the man’s head by the chin and watches in amusement as his body quivers beneath his touch. “Maybe I will give you a bath. Playing with dirty toys is no fun.” 

“Away ‘n bile yer heid,” Soap spits the Scottish euphemism for ‘go fuck yourself.’ His voice, raspy and raw, quivers more than he wants it to. 

The Russian laughs at the foreign words, the sounds grating against Soap’s ears and making him wish for nothing more than the cold unforgiving metal of a bullet through his temple. If only his hands were free, so he could use them to cover his ears and block out the horrible noise. It’s a hopeless wish- even if his hands were free, he would be too weak to raise them to his head, much less hold them there long enough to block out all of the chatty man’s words.

Said man moves closer, close enough for his breath to trudge across Johnny’s skin, hot and sticky and stinking of vodka. “You want a bath, little Scot?” 

Soap’s brain bawls close, too close, and his body, worn and weary, jolts against his cuffs to escape. A scream pushes through his gritted teeth. 

The Russian laughs and pats his head. 

“I give you a bath.” 

~*~

Simon stares at his hands.

He can’t tell if his hands are shaking or if his eyes, blurred from a lack of sleep, are playing tricks on him.

He sits down hard at his desk, dragging in a shaky breath, trying to quell the anxiety tightening around his neck like a noose. Breathe- he needs to breathe.

A clock ticks, the sound damn-near deafening in the silence. His eyes drag up towards the source of the sound, and he counts the ticks as the little black hands do their never-ending dance. Everyone else in the compound is sleeping- like he should be- yet he sits here in his office, stubbornly awake.

He should go to bed; he can almost hear Price telling him off. “You need to rest- Johnny would want you to take care of yourself. You won’t be any good to him dead,” the older man would say before corralling Simon to his room like a child and locking him in until he gets a decent amount of sleep. It’s a good thing Price is gone, off on some short, intel-gathering mission with his husband, Nikolai.

It’s a good thing he’s with Nikolai.

It’s a good thing they get to be happy before fate rips it all away from them once more.

He should go to bed.

He doesn’t move.

He should at least shower. Peel the black, fabric mask off of his face. It must be some sort of record, how long he hasn’t taken his mask off. His eye black is proof of that, smudged to shit and almost entirely faded, lines missing from where his tears washed it away. God knows what his hair looks like, curls most likely crushed by the constrictive fabric of his mask, laying limp against his head with grease and sweat.

The thought of warm water cascading down his skin, freeing him from all of the grime caked onto his body, is tantalizing.

Maybe if he turns the water hot enough, he can wash away his sins.

He should shower.

He doesn’t move.

The clock is the only witness to his paralysis. Time stubbornly moves on as he sits in absolute silence, the only sounds besides its ticks being his own heart beating and harsh breathing.

“Thought I might find you here,” a familiar voice calls, and Simon jumps, his gun in his hand instantly.

Price stands in front of him, glancing down at the gun pointed at him in disapproval. He takes it from Simon’s trembling hands- Simon doesn’t put up a fight- and places it gently down on his desk. The second the weapon is out of his grasp, his hands drop back to his side. His body slumps into his office chair, deflating into the leather.

“Awfully early for you to be up, son, don’t you think?” Price asks although they both know he never went to sleep in the first place. The older man’s brow furrows in concern.

"I'm fine," Simon barks, his voice defensive, rough. He crosses his arms across his chest and raises his chin to stare down at Price, daring him to say otherwise. 

"Listen, Simon..." Price sighs, his tone grim. This is when he's going to tell Simon off and force him to bed- or even worse, bench him from the mission- The older man must see his desperation because when he opens his mouth, whatever he was planning to say doesn't come out. He lifts a hand to his forehead and smooths over the worry lines he's collected over the years. Finally, he continues, “Nik, Gaz, and I were going to leave base and go out for breakfast if you wanted to come. Figured we could all use a breather- not that Soap isn’t our top priority right now… It’s just good to step away sometimes is all.” 

Simon startles at the question; of all the things he expected Price to say, that was not one of them. He glances towards his computer and the hurricane of papers on his desk, a ‘no’ right on the tip of his tongue, stubbornly stuck there as if it was glued down. Why can’t he say no? 

Price sighs again. Guilt floods Simon’s veins. 

“When’s the last time you ate?”

Simon blanches once more before hesitating. He doesn’t know. His stomach, awakened by the reminder, rumbles loudly, answering for him.

It’s Simon’s turn to sigh. “Laswell's still working on it?” he finally asks, his resolve weakening. He hates himself for even considering. He should stay here and read through all of the information they have again- maybe they missed something. That something could be the key to finding Johnny…

Price nods, a grin splitting his face as Simon actually considers his request; he figured he would be shut down immediately. “She’ll call if she finds anything.”

Simon’s resolve finally breaks. Surely, one break couldn’t hurt. After all, he did stay up all night reading through files until his eyes burned and the words blurred beyond recognition. Plus, Price looks so hopeful…

“Okay.”

“Good. I’m going to go see if Alejandro and Rodolfo want to come. Take a quick shower, soldier,” Price orders gently but firmly. 

Embarrassment colors his cheeks pink. He shouldn’t need to be ordered to take care of himself like a child, and yet, here they are. Price pats him on the back before giving him a gentle shove towards the door.

Simon does as ordered, floating back towards his room, his feet moving on their own accord.

If Johnny were here, he would give him so much shit for not showering or eating. "Really missed me that much, LT? Have I finally wormed my way into that cold heart of yours?" he'd ask cheekily, and Simon would begrudgingly admit to it, causing Johnny to tease him even more in spite of the blush growing on both of their faces. 

If Johnny were here, Simon would quip right back, giving him shit for letting himself get taken. Johnny would throw his head back and laugh, and Simon would silently admire the sight. Johnny would give him shit for that, too, but Simon wouldn't care. 

If Johnny were here...

Hot water stings his skin, and he jerks backwards at the feeling. He blinks back to reality. The sound of water hitting the floor finally hits his ears, and the cold metal of the shower handle in his hand finally registers. He peeks through his shower curtain to find his clothes neatly folded on the counter and his mask and dog tags atop the pile, not remembering anything that happened since he left his office.

The feeling of finally showering is heaven. Dirt, dried blood, and eye black make the water run a dirty black as it swirls down the drain. He scrubs his entire body down twice with soap until his skin is raw and pink. Then he closes his eyes and tips his head backwards to soak all of his curls, drowning them in shampoo, lathering the leather-scented soap until there are more suds on his head than there is hair. 

Out of the shower steps a new man. 

Simon doesn't recognize himself in his fogged-up mirror. Washing away all of the eye black he rarely sees himself without is an experience in itself, and the lack of eye black revealing just how bad his eye bags are is an even worse experience. 

Having not shaved for a while, his jawline is startling to become stubbly. He picks up his razor, and deciding whether it's worth it to shave, he runs a hand over the scruff. 

The razor slips from his hands, clattering against the counter. 

He runs his hand over his jaw once more, letting his fingers delicately run through the growing hair. His eyes, burning, pinch closed, and suddenly, it's Johnny's jaw he's cupping in his hand, Johnny's scruff his fingers are brushing over, Johnny's scent in his nose. Johnny's hands on his hips, Johnny's head on his shoulder, Johnny's lips pressed to his neck. 

His chest heaves, and a strangled sob falls from his lips. The noise echoes in the heavy silence. 

He opens his eyes, and Johnny is gone once more. 

Yanking his clothes on fast enough to anger his still-raw skin, he stumbles out of the bathroom, chased by guilt and haunted by memories. He crosses his room, the echo of Johnny's voice in his ears, Johnny's laughter teasing him, Johnny's- 

He throws his door open and tumbles out. 

He collides with someone, sending them both tumbling to the floor in a mess of limbs and profanity, mostly from Simon's mouth. 

It's Gaz. "Of fucking course," Simon grumbles beneath his breath. Gaz stands, brushing himself off before offering Simon a hand off the floor. Price must've heard about their little heart to heart and sent him to collect Simon for breakfast. 

Shit. Breakfast. 

Simon can't go. He can't sit there while Price and Nik eat and talk quietly to each other, sharing jokes and food and laughs and all the other little things he and Soap should get to do- things they'll never do. He just can't. 

Gaz, just as Simon thought, starts, "Price sent me to-" 

"Tell Price I'm not fucking going." Simon doesn't take the hand offered to him. Instead, he pushes up off the ground and shoulders past Gaz hard enough to send the man stumbling backwards a bit. It's a bully tactic, but he doesn't care. He hopes it's enough to scare the younger man off from talking to him; he should've never talked to him in the first place. He should've known better. He turns back towards his room, cursing himself for his own stupidity. 

As he goes to slam the door shut, Gaz's hand stops it. 

Ghost whirls around to glare at him and opens his mouth to spit an insult, an order, something to get the young soldier to leave and leave running, but Gaz cuts him off. 

"They found something." 

~*~

Johnny's skin is clean. 

He, on the other hand, has never felt dirtier. 

He can still feel the Russian's grimy hands searching to know his body in a way he has no right to, Johnny's weak attempts at stopping him easily ignored. He should've fought harder. He should've kicked and screamed and bit and punched and- 

He's too tired to fight anymore. 

His head, suddenly too heavy for his neck, slumps forward. Forgetting for a second, he tries to bring his arms up to cradle his head, to keep the muscles in his neck from burning and cramping in protest, but the clanging of metal on metal reminds him he can't. He doesn't get that luxury. He hangs his head, defeated and hurting. 

There are no escape routes. 

His mind is too foggy to form cohesive thoughts, much less think of a plan and execute it. Should he miraculously be freed of these stupid handcuffs, he doesn't think he could even stand without assistance, and crawling would just be pathetic and pointless. It’d upset his stitches and his captor and do little else. 

No rescue missions. 

He thought he meant something to the team, to the 141 and los vaqueros. He thought he was an important member, one worth fighting for, one worth the risk to save. He thought of them like family. He thought they were his brothers. 

He thought he meant something to Simon. He thought- 

Who the fuck is he kidding? 

He knows he's annoying- he can't ever shut up. He doesn't listen to orders. He's outright reckless. He's stubborn. At best, he's a danger to the team. At worst? A danger to society. 

And thinking Simon loves him? It's so fucking naive. Why the hell would a lieutenant- a man like Simon Riley ever love him? 

His family- his team isn't coming. 

They're going to leave him to rot here. 

Simon is going to leave him to rot here. 

If they're not going to save him, and he can't save himself, what's the point of holding on anymore? 

Johnny knows what it means to break under torture; he's seen the second the split happens in other people. The light dying in their eyes as they let go of themselves. 

He thought he was better than that. 

He tried so hard not to give up, to be invincible. To get up from every wound no matter how deadly, to never let anyone's words hurt him no matter how close they got to his insecurities or failures, to force a joke and a smile at anyone's concern until they believed he was invincible, unable to be destroyed by man or metal alike. Until he himself believed he was invincible. 

He knows better now. 

The slightest touch threatens to unravel him- the thought alone of seeing his torturer again, which he knows he will, makes his empty stomach churn and bile rise in his throat. His eyes sting with the empty threat of tears, but he knows none will come. He's cried them all already. 

There is nothing left of the invincible Soap MacTavish. 

God, what would Simon think of him now?

~*~

Ghost stares. 

“What am I looking at? Because to me, it looks like a bunch of fucking trees,” he growls, throwing a hand towards the picture projected on the screen. This picture was one of three in the dozens of documents they found. He knew it must’ve been important, but after pouring over it enough to burn it into his eyelids, he deemed it to be a red herring, a fake clue meant to throw them off. It’s impossible that he could’ve missed anything, much less something important enough to call a meeting with not only the remaining members of the 141 but Nikolai and the two vaqueros they’ve befriended as well. 

Yet, here they are, assembled around the meeting table, an empty space where Soap always sits. 

Ghost ignores their eyes on him and glares at the picture. 

When he let Gaz drag him here with the promise of a lead, he was hoping for a location, maybe even proof that Johnny was still alive, not a goddamn forest. 

“ Lieutenant ,” Price reprimands, disappointed but not surprised by Ghost’s outburst. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. Turning his attention to Laswell, he asks, “What is it, Kate?”

“A bunch of fucking trees,” she deadpans. 

Ghost scoffs and steps towards the door, ready to leave if they’re just going to waste his time. He could be rereading the files, searching through the pictures on his own, or doing literally anything other than this. 

Kate continues, “Until you zoom in and…” 

There’s a road. 

It’s hidden, barely peeking through the leafy canopy of trees. 

“Holy shit…” How could he have missed that? He’s read through all of the files enough times to quote them from memory and looked through every picture enough to still see them when he blinks, enough times to see them in his dreams. How could he have missed something that fucking important?

What else is he missing? 

He crosses the meeting room and drops into the only other open seat aside from Soap’s, putting him between Price and Alejandro. He’s finally ready to listen to what Laswell’s got to say. 

Laswell grins, both at having finally caught Ghost’s attention and at finally having another lead in finding MacTavish. “Following it leads to-” 

“A base- that’s a base,” Simon cuts in, his heart beating fast in his chest. They’ve got something- they have a location, a building. Soap could be there- they might find him. They could get him back. Hope burns like a wildfire through his body. He looks to Kate, silently begging her to confirm what his heart is begging to hear. 

“We’ve got a small surveillance team focused on the base and several individual agents scattered along the route. What we’ve gathered so far is that it’s an old prison converted into a base, and it’s heavily guarded- more than any other base we’ve seen so far. Whatever they have here, they won’t give up easily,” Laswell explains. “We’re assuming they’re hiding a high-ranking official or holding a high-profile prisoner.” 

Despite knowing better, knowing how dangerous hope is, Ghost can’t help but believe Johnny is there. 

He has to be. 

He doesn’t think his heart could take it if he isn’t. His heart, already burning, would set ablaze and burn him to the ground where he stands, leaving behind nothing but his boots and his dog tags. Or, maybe less metaphorically, they would come across heavy enemy fire, and he wouldn’t work to dodge the bullets raining like hellfire upon them. He’d let them tear his body up before his heart could get the chance. 

It’s this feeling of certainty that if they don’t find Johnny now, they’ll lose Simon, too, that sends him to his feet before any of the other soldiers in the room. 

“Let’s go get him.” 

Chapter Text

Johnny stares. 

His eyes focus and unfocus on the blood stains on the floor- new and old- tracing the dark pools, watching them swallow up the weathered cement. 

Hands ghost across his skin. The Russian has long since gone, but the echo of his touch remains, sending shocks through Soap’s nerves and shudders through his body. Each one brings him closer to the brink of puking or passing out- he can’t tell which. His chest aches more than it has in a long time, agitated by the scalding water used to clean him. The crude stitching is throbbing and hot, probably infected. The hot flashes tearing through him only further prove that. If there was any water left in his body, he’s pretty sure he’d be soaked in his own sweat.

His vision swims- pushing him towards the latter. 

In his peripheral, hazy figures form. Hallucinations. Johnny knows they’re not real, brought on by his mind tearing itself apart and the fever forming, and he knows he should ignore them, but his exhausted brain can’t control his heart. 

His body scrounges up just enough water to well his eyes up with the promise of tears. 

Ale and Rudy stand just out of reach, just far enough outside of Soap’s focus that he can’t make out their faces. Their voices ring out muted and distorted, teasing and telling him to pull free of his cuffs and join them. He sobs, wishing he could. He misses them so much it hurts- not just because he’s a captive and thousands of miles away from the nearest friendly but because he hasn’t seen them in forever. Not since Las Almas. 

The reminder brings a not so welcome hallucination. 

Graves. 

The blond man grins at him, his face so much clearer than the vaqueros because of how many times it’s been featured in Soap’s nightmares. Where the Mexican Special Forces members were confined to the edges of his vision, Graves’s hallucination is not. 

Lucky Johnny. 

“Oh how the mighty have fallen, Soap,” Graves declares, waltzing up to his hunched form. The traitor’s hand drops onto Soap’s shoulder, and Soap breathes a sigh of relief when no actual pressure follows the movement. He’s not here- he’s dead. “Remember when I told you to go home? You really shoulda listened, pal. Would’ve saved you a world of hurt.” 

“You’re not real,” Soap slurs, dragging his eyes up to meet Graves’s defiantly. 

His eyes, stark blue, are so clear and detailed that Soap flinches away from him, a poorly-contained hiss following. 

“That’s where you’re wrong, hermano. I’m as real as you.” The Shadow’s grip tightens until it digs into the barely healed scar on his shoulder, a parting gift from another Shadow long since dead. Soap’s body spasms at the feeling, his handcuffs rattling and digging into his already-raw wrists. "You shoulda tried harder to kill me, shoulda made sure I was dead." Graves grins and pushes deeper, enjoying watching Soap squirm in an effort to get away from him. He pushes until the scar splits, until blood drips down his arm. 

The door to his cell slams open, and the Shadow is dead once more. 

Johnny sucks in a sharp breath and breathes out slowly, trying to calm himself down. It's a losing battle as he watches blood drip from a wound that shouldn't exist. 

The door doesn’t shut immediately, like it usually would, allowing voices speaking Russian to pour in. Some are panicked, some angry. Hurried footsteps cut through the hallway. Things and people are moving much faster than they should. Something’s different- something’s off. 

Johnny doesn’t get the chance to find out. 

A needle lodges in his neck. 

The world goes black. 

~*~

Nerves strangle him. 

Simon’s foot taps against a steady rhythm against the floor, all of his muscles tensed and ready to move. His heart races in his chest. 

By his feet sits the backpack he’ll carry with him through the base. It’s stuffed to the brim, the seams straining, with medical supplies- anything and everything he might possibly need when they find Johnny for whatever condition he’s in. 

Simon watches, hardly breathing, as the base grows closer on the horizon. He had a picture in his mind when Laswell said it was an old prison, but the words did nothing to prepare him for what that meant. A thick cement wall surrounds the entire building, topped with barbed wire and guard posts. Within it is a cement yard that used to be used for the prisoners’ outside time but is now home to an array of army vehicles, supply boxes, and enemy soldiers. The prison itself is a beast, standing two stories tall and bigger than a football field. 

The closer the helicopter gets to the base, the less convinced Simon is that Johnny is here. The feeling sits like a rock in his chest, making it hard to think about anything else. The worst part is Simon can’t tell if he should force himself to ignore the feeling and have hope or prepare himself for disappointment. 

“We’ll get him, yeah?” Gaz says from where he sits next to him, knocking their shoulders together and giving him a wide grin. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles back even though he doesn’t believe it. 

The helicopter falls back into silence after that, everyone too nervous to talk. Half of the team stares at him like he’s a wounded dog about to snap and bite back, and the other half has the decency to at least pretend they aren’t staring. Although, when they think he isn’t looking, they glance at him with eyes full of pity like he’s a kicked puppy. 

This helicopter can’t land soon enough. 

Simon goes back to staring out the window, ignoring the many pairs of eyes on him. The closer they get, the more soldiers he can see- way more than he originally anticipated. It’s like an anthill. Surrounding each one of the dozen or so vehicles is at least two soldiers, and multiple soldiers move between the crates, carrying weapons and boxes. They’ve got more guns in one place than Simon’s ever seen before- a wasps’ nest might be more accurate. 

“Positive ID on Barkov,” Price cuts through the silence. Finding his scope, it doesn’t take much for Simon to find him, too. He stands among a concentrated group of soldiers right at the entrance of the prison. 

“This is as close as I can take you,” Nikolai calls from the front. They’re still a good couple miles away from the base, but it’s the closest the helicopter can get without being spotted and their cover being blown before they even get a chance to attack.

Simon nods to himself, takes a steadying breath, and pushes to his feet, the rest of his teammates following suit. He hooks himself onto the first rope available and starts his descent towards the forest ground. Wind whips around him, making him shiver and his rope sway, but he lands seconds later without much trouble. His teammates follow one by one. 

Waiting for them is one of their surveillance agents with a large, camo-painted vehicle to take them the last leg to the base. 

Simon recognizes the driver. He’s not quite sure where from until Alejandro calls, “Private Lopez!” He grins at the sight of the vaquero, shaking his hand and pulling him into a short hug. “Good to see you in one piece.” 

“Colonel, tú tambíen,” the vaquero responds, smiling. He turns his attention on Ghost, easily recognizing the man because of his unmistakable mask. “Ghost, ¿cómo has estado, mi hermano?”

“Estoy sobreviviendo,” he answers shortly, unsmiling. Lopez frowns and glances to Alejandro. The man shakes his head in response. 

“Claro, no?” 

WIthout another word, Ghost crawls into the back of the truck. He sits on one of the two benches in the furthest corner and stares straight ahead. All he can think about is that they need to get to base as fast as possible. 

The rest of the team loads in just as quickly. Alejandro and Rodolfo pile in the front to catch up with their vaquero in quiet conversation, but aside from them, the ride is silent. Price and Gaz sit across from Simon, but neither of them dare say a word. 

The ride to the base takes longer than Simon wants it to. They move rather slowly through the forest, creeping along the path and constantly surveilling for enemies. At one point, they stop entirely for a good ten minutes, and he genuinely considers getting out and running. He’s sure he’d arrive before the truck. 

After a painfully long twenty minutes, the truck finally crawls to a stop. 

Not wanting to waste another minute, Simon is out of the truck before anyone else. He’d be halfway up the cement fence, too, if not for Price calling him back. 

“Simon! We do this as a team, or you don’t do this at all,” he orders, his voice firm and unwavering. Ghost huffs but obeys; he returns to the team practically dragging his feet behind him. Everything inside of him screams that they’re wasting time. Price gives him a stern look. “You’ll be with me and Garrick; we’ll work on clearing the prison cells. If we find the sergeant-” Simon hates the use of the word if - “we’ll call Nik back for evac, but then, we need to refocus on finding Barkov. Rodolfo and Alejandro, you two will work on locating Barkov. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. Simon, Kyle, and I will rendezvous with you and assist in the takedown. Remember, this is capture or kill.” 

They make easy work of scaling the wall and taking out the guards; it’s preschool compared to everything else that’s about to happen. 

Their first stroke of luck comes when they find a metal ladder that leads directly from one of the guard posts into the lower level of the prison. It means that not only do they not have to fight through the yard and waste bullets, but they’re also less likely to run the risk of alerting the enemy and having Barkov moved. Fate seems to finally be on Simon Riley’s side. 

At the bottom of the guard post, the group splits, Ale and Rudy off to work their way through the building to locate Barkov while Gaz, Price, and Ghost begin the search for Johnny. 

His heart burns in his chest with every step they take. 

This is it. 

Either they find Johnny, or they lose Simon. 

What takes the longest surprisingly isn’t locating the cells but clearing out enemies to advance. They’re like moths to a flame. Everywhere he turns, there’s another one with a gun on him, and for every one that he drops with a headshot or a shot to the heart, another five seem to take their place. Even so, Ghost clears them out, firing without hesitation, without mercy, without wasting time, until he finally drops the last enemy. 

“Solid shooting, Simon,” Price comments, clapping him on the back. The man shrugs off the touch and the compliment and presses forward through the pile of bodies. There is not a thought in his mind aside from his sergeant, Johnny MacTavish. 

An empty cell block greets him, a forest of rusted out and broken bars. This can’t be right; there’s no way they could keep a prisoner in any of these destroyed cells. 

Johnny’s not here. 

Ghost growls in frustration.

Another door sits at the end of the long passageway, and he sprints for it, Gaz and Price not far behind, not wasting another second. He smashes through the door with his shoulder only to find a corridor made up of several metal doors all with tiny windows at eye-level. A solitary confinement unit of sorts. 

Ghost makes his way through the corridor, peeking through the windows of each one. Most of them are empty, but a few of them hold ghastly looking prisoners staring back at him. Gaz and Price work to open the locks and set them free while Ghost keeps searching. 

None of them are Johnny. 

Finally, he reaches the last door at the very end of the corridor. It has the smallest window and the biggest lock. At one point, it was meant for the worst of the worst prisoner in the entire prison, but now, if he had to guess, it’s meant for their most important captive.

It has to be Johnny. 

Ghost stares through the little window on the cell door, his erratic breathing fogging up the pane quickly. 

With a curse, he shoots the lock off and shoulders through the door. Gaz moves to follow, but Price stops him with a hand on his shoulder and a shake of his head. 

“Fuck!” Ghost shouts, his voice reverberating off of the tiny walls. 

The cell is empty.

Johnny’s not here. 

But maybe he never was…

It’s a stupid thing to hope, but he can’t help it. There’s nothing in this cell that claims Johnny was the prisoner kept here. Maybe it was another high-profile prisoner, one who couldn’t withstand the torture or was relocated in light of their siege. 

“He’s not here,” he whispers, daring fate. “He never was.” 

The only thing in the entire cell is a metal chair in the middle of it, standing within a pool of blood still fresh enough to fill the air with the tangy, metallic scent Simon’s become way too familiar with. A pair of bloodied handcuffs lay abandoned on the seat. 

In the far corner sits a pair of boots. He crosses the room- wary to step around the blood and not through it. He kneels down, picking one up. The boot is torn to shreds, not much surviving of it besides the thick, rubber sole and metal-plated toe. It can’t be Johnny’s. His couldn’t possibly be this torn up- plus, what interest would a torturer have in destroying shoes? 

“They’re not his- they can’t be,” he whispers to himself, hope building like a blood clot in his veins. It’s only a matter of time before it reaches his heart and stops it from beating. 

A hand finds his shoulder, and he jumps. 

Price stands above him, looking like he aged ten years since they stepped foot in this godforsaken prison. 

“He’s gone, son.”

“No- no! These aren’t his boots. Why would a torturer tear up his boots? It’s a waste of time and energy, and torture requires as much as possible of both. And Johnny isn’t emotionally attached to his boots, so tearing them apart wouldn’t mean anything. It wouldn’t make sense. They can’t be his,” Simon rambles, pleading with Price to agree with him. “Price, they’re not his .” 

Price seems to age another ten years then and there. He sighs and drops to his knees next to the breaking man. He takes the boot from his hand, flips it over, and searches for something, running his hand over the rubber. 

His face drops. 

His eyes leave the boot but can’t meet Simon’s. 

Making his smoker’s voice as gentle as it can be, he starts, “Remember in Chicago when John got shot in the boot? The bullet didn’t hit him because it got lodged in the rubber. He never took it out because he swore up and down it was lucky. It made that godawful scraping sound every time he dragged his feet.” 

“What’s that have to do with…” Simon blanches at the realization, his skin going pale and bile pooling dangerously in his throat. He yanks the boot from Price’s hands and runs his finger over the rubber. His thumb hits cold metal- the bottom of a bullet. 

“No,” he whispers. “No, no, no.” 

He stumbles to his feet, knocking into the wall in his effort to get away. Sucking in desperate gasps of air, he turns and throws the boot as hard as he can against the wall on the other side of the cell. The offending bullet makes a scraping sound as it hits the wall that pisses him off even more. Yanking the other boot off the floor, he throws that one, too, watching it drop to the floor with cold satisfaction. 

Something metallic spills out of the boot and onto the pockmarked, bloodstained cement. 

Simon is across the room in seconds like a shark descending upon blood-infested waters. He curses every god and commanding officer he can think of, damning them all to rot forever. 

Scooping up the metal into his shaking hands- god, he can feel it burning holes into his gloves- he takes a closer look. 

It’s Johnny’s dog tags. 

He’s gone. 

~*~

Price knows death. 

It seems to follow him around everywhere. From England to Urzikstan to Mexico, he can never seem to escape it. Some of it is of his own volition, lives taken by his own hands; he’s got a kill count higher than most thanks to his extensive history as a scout sniper and even more extensive history in the military in general.

But most of it isn’t his choice. John Price has found fate to have a cruel sense of humor. He’s watched on helplessly as teammates and friends of his alike fell to bullets and knives and all sorts of brutal methods. 

He never thought Sergeant MacTavish would join that list. 

The man seemed so indestructible, walking off bullet wounds in Las Almas, bouncing right back after almost being thrown from a window in Chicago, not letting any injuries hold him down for more than a day or two. He never missed a day of training even if it meant working through a twisted ankle, a more than common lack of sleep, or a hangover. 

But now, as he watches Ghost throw the dog tags onto the ground, cursing the world, and storm out, he sees how wrong he was. 

With a heavy heart and a deep sigh, Price pulls off his gloves and gathers the dog tags in his hands. The cold metal- cold like a corpse- sends a shudder down his spine. 

This is his fault.

Price has been a leader for a long time- even before he was a captain, people always found their way to him for guidance. He’s seen many of his men die under his orders, but thanks to protocol, cigarettes, and a slightly less than lethal amount of bourbon, he’s mostly escaped the blame from both his higher-ups and his conscience. 

But not this time. 

This is so undeniably his fault that no amount of drilled-in lessons or nicotine or even alcohol could save him. 

John MacTavish is dead. 

Soap is dead, and if he hadn’t left him alone in that godforsaken building, bleeding out and begging him not to go, he would be alive. He’d be standing right next to him, bantering with Ghost and telling stupid jokes so bad that Price would threaten to make him run laps once they get back to base. 

Price slips the dog tags into the pocket that rests just above his heart. They feel heavier than they should, heavy with the weight of his guilt. 

Pushing to his feet, he leaves Johnny behind, alone, for the second time. For the last time. 

Gaz stands outside the cell. A naive amount of hope in his eyes, he silently begs his captain for good news, news that Price cannot deliver. He shakes his head, unable to form words, and for the second time that day, Price witnesses the death of one of his sergeants. He knows this isn’t the first time Gaz has lost someone in the field- hell, the first time they’d met, Gaz had just lost his whole platoon- but he also knows this team has been tighter-knit than anything Gaz has ever experienced before. 

Price should’ve known better than letting them get that close; he should’ve known men like them never have happy endings. 

“This is fucking bullshit,” Gaz growls to himself, “fucking bullshit.” 

His hands clench into fists, and the small part of John's brain that isn't consumed by guilt and grief absentmindedly wonders who he intends to fight. There are no enemies here to kill for revenge, no one to place the blame on. 

No one except for him. 

There's no honor in beating the shit out of a superior, no reprieve from the despair threatening to drown them both, but Price would let the younger man hit him if that's what he needed. He'd take the anger and the punches and the insults without faltering- he'd deserve it, too. It'd be penance for his sins. 

Kyle is a better man than him. Even as he desperately searches for an outlet for his all-consuming rage, he not once considers ever putting a hand on his captain, not even as muscles and mind and even John himself plead for the violence. 

“It’s not fair- it’s- it’s-” 

“I know, Kyle. I know.” If it were any soldier but Soap, if it was anyone’s fault but his own, Price would give him a firm but gentle reminder that this is how the world works, how their job goes, but he can’t bring himself to do that. 

Instead, he gives Gaz time. 

He knows they need to continue. Even if they lost their sergeant, there’s still a mission to complete, but Price can’t bring himself to. Garrick deserves time. 

The sergeant’s eyes and fists finally find a target. He swings, but Price catches his fist before it can collide with the wall. He tugs the man forward into a hesitant hug. 

Gaz hugs back almost violently. He puts all the strength his anger begs him to use into the hug. He squeezes Price until it’s difficult for both men to breathe, Price from the pressure and Gaz from the lump quickly forming in his throat. 

Price hugs back just as tight. As the younger man fights his emotions, Price tries to gather his own feelings up, so he can stuff them down to deal with later over paperwork and alcohol. He breathes out slowly and radios, “Watcher-1, MacTavish is KIA.” Gaz flinches at the words, and the older man holds him impossibly closer. With a deep sigh, he continues, “Refocusing on Barkov.” 

“Copy."

Chapter Text

Garrick nods to himself and steps away from Price. He sets his jaw, swallows his feelings down just like his superior, and grabs his gun from its holster. Cold determination sets in: he’s going to avenge his fallen brother, no matter the cost. 

“On me,” Price orders, and he follows the man out of the cell block. 

It isn’t hard finding Ghost’s trail- the man left behind bodies everywhere he went, single-handedly turning the prison into a graveyard. Blood coats the floor, making Gaz shudder with every step. This is an amount of violence he’s never seen before, one he never thought someone on his team would be capable of, but he understands Ghost’s drive more than he’d like to admit. He finds himself craving this kind of violence for himself for the first time in his life. 

And, for the first time in his life, he considers himself lucky when they run into a large group of enemy soldiers. 

“Contact!” Price shouts as bullets begin to fly. He throws himself behind the nearest corner for cover, and Gaz mirrors him across the hallway. They both fire shot after shot, but for every enemy they drop, more show up, drawn by the sound of gunfire. Knowing they’re running out of time before Barkov is moved- if he hasn’t been already- Price tries his hardest to advance whenever possible, but no matter how much he does, he keeps Garrick within his peripheral vision, keeping an eye on him as the man fights soldier after soldier. 

To call Gaz reckless is an understatement. 

Price has never seen him like this. He’s ruthless, gunning down people without hesitation, putting more bullets in bodies than necessary, but he’s also careless, not ducking behind cover as often as he should. 

Losing sight of him is the worst minute of Price’s life. 

“Garrick!” he shouts, his hoarse voice echoing among the gunshots. The images of an open door, a smashed radio, and Soap’s blood soaking into his gloves, staining his hands, fills his brain. A second later, the image changes. He sees Kyle. A bullet striking through his chest. Blood pooling beneath him. Fear in his eyes. His stomach churns at the thought, and his mind screams: not him, too. Not Kyle. His heart remains stubbornly unbeating in his chest with the knowledge that Gaz’s death would be on his hands as well; he’d be losing two of his teammates in one day. He searches harder. “Kyle!” 

A grenade explosion pulls him out of his head just in time for him to watch Gaz get thrown into a wall, his body rag-dolling against the brick. 

Spitting curses, Price throws all the stopping power he has at the wall of enemies separating them. Grenades, smoke bombs, and flash bangs only add to the chaos, but it doesn’t completely stop the heavy gunfire aimed in his direction. 

“Price, sit-rep?” Ghost barks over coms, distracting Price just long enough for him to earn a bullet in the arm. 

“Fuck,” he hisses as red blooms from his forearm. He drops behind the remains of what once was a brick wall, a shaking hand hovering above the wound. He doesn’t have time for this- he needs to get to Gaz. Panting, he responds to his lieutenant. “Stuck on the first floor, taking heavy fire- grenade took Gaz down.” He pushes to his feet- he needs to get to him- and starts weaving through the battlefield once more, dodging bullets and bodies alike, pointedly ignoring the pain radiating from his arm. “Fall back and rendezvous at the door; we’re RTB,” he orders. They’ve lost enough today; there’s no sense in getting everyone killed. 

His knees hit the debris next to the sergeant just as the younger man starts to come to, knocked unconscious momentarily by the blast. The wind knocked out of him, he coughs and then grunts as pain flares through his body from the movement. 

“Kyle, you broken?” 

“Still breathin’,” Kyle responds with a wince. He takes another shuddering breath and chokes on the dust swirling in the air. Price leans him forward, patting him on the back until his lungs calm. “Maybe not.” He gives the older man a weak grin.

Price can’t bring himself to laugh, not when the picture of Kyle dead is still so clear in his head, so instead he offers him a hand. “Let’s get you out of here.” 

“But Barkov- I can still hold a gun, captain.” Gaz takes his hand, stumbling to his feet. The world around him spins, and his body threatens to give out on him, proving Price’s point. Said man throws his good arm around him to keep him up. 

“I lost a good man today; I’m not losing another.” 

With his captain’s help, Garrick hobbles through the hallway full of bodies they just dropped. He’s used to seeing bodies, but knowing this level of violence was all him makes him hold onto Price a little tighter than he needs to. With the older man talking about losing soldiers, Gaz’s mind can’t help but drift to the soldiers he killed. He wonders if they thought they were good, if they had friends that would mourn them, if they had family waiting back home for them. 

Gaz has never been happier at the prospect of leaving a mission, even though they’re leaving it unfinished. He could care less if they capture or kill Barkov. All he wants to do right now is sleep. Sleep until it doesn’t feel like his body’s falling apart. Sleep until he forgets that Soap, his best friend, his brother, is dead. 

By some form of luck, they push through the front doors of the prison and spill outside. Gaz’s feet give out the second they reach the grass. He rolls onto his back, staring up at the sky- still blue, the sun shining so bright it burns his eyes- and laughs. He laughs and laughs until tears stroll down his cheeks and his lungs protest. They’re alive- they’re alive even after fate threw everything it had at them. 

Price joins him on the ground, splaying out next to him in the greenery. “You solid, sergeant?” he asks, his face pinching in concern at the sound of the younger man’s laughter. 

“Never better,” the man responds, grinning wide. Soap’s death momentarily forgotten, Gaz celebrates the fact that a literal grenade went off in front of him, and he walked it off. He rolls over to face Price, and the grin drops from his face. “Captain, you’re bleeding.” 

Price’s good hand is putting pressure on the wound, but red is still stubbornly pushing through between his fingers. 

“Bastards got lucky. I’ve had worse,” he reassures even as he pulls a face at his throbbing arm. He switches radio channels and calls, “Watcher-1, this is Bravo-6 requesting evac. We’re getting overrun here, Kate, and Gaz met the business end of a grenade.” 

Noticing the lack of mention of his own injury, blood still streaming down his arm, Gaz squints at him and frowns. Price shakes his head back. He doesn’t want to worry Laswell or Nik about something this small. Plus, their panic would only freak Simon, Ale, and Rudy out, and the men are still inside, working their way out of the hornet’s nest. They can’t be distracted. The younger man nods. He doesn’t really understand Price, but he trusts him. 

“Copy,” Laswell answers back, “Nik’s on his way.” They’re getting out of there. The tension drops from Kyle’s body, adrenaline leaving in a flood that leaves him feeling nothing but empty and exhausted. As if Kate can sense this, she asks, “Kyle, you okay?” 

Gaz cracks a smile at the concern. “Got all my limbs yet, so I can’t complain.” He sits up, ignoring the way the world spins at the movement, and searches through his pockets for his little med-kit. Just because Price wants to ignore his injury doesn’t mean he has to, too. 

“Good to hear; you still owe me a race,” Kate shoots back, and the three of them laugh. 

“I’d win any day.” He finally finds his kit and tugs out his tourniquet, some bandages, and disinfectant from his little bag. 

“I started cross country in seventh grade and haven’t stopped running since,” Laswell argues back, and Gaz can tell from the tone of her voice that she’s smiling at the banter. 

Price sighs heavily. “ Year 8 , Laswell, and as much as I hate to interrupt this lovely bonding, what’s the ETA on that helo?” 

“Ten minutes out, and it’s seventh grade, captain.” 

“Agree to disagree.” Gaz snorts before tugging the tourniquet tight around Price’s arm just above the wound- the man winces at the feeling. 

“John, you okay?” The joy in Kate’s voice is gone, replaced with concern quick enough to give them both whiplash. 

“Bullet got a little close is all,” Price responds, watching Gaz patch him up. The pain coursing through his body does nothing to drown out his pride. He could never put into words how proud his boys make him. He does his best, but he’s never been one to share feelings. But after Soap- after everything that’s happened, maybe he should.

“Oh, it got pretty close alright,” Gaz cuts in. “It’s in his arm.” 

Price rescinds his earlier thought. He stares at the sergeant with a look that promises he’ll be running laps when he gets back to base. Lots of laps. 

“John! You didn’t think to mention that?” Laswell scolds. God, these men are going to be the death of her. “How bad is it?”

“‘M not dying, Kate. Just a little blood- fuck ,” he hisses, white hot pain burning through his body. Price stares at Gaz and the empty bottle of disinfectant in his hand like the man personally betrayed him.

So many fucking laps. 

“Kyle?” 

“Yeah, he’ll be alright.” Gaz finishes bandaging the wound, tying it off tight enough to keep it from bleeding again. The bullet’s still in, but there’s not much he can do about that right now. Besides, they’ll get evac-ced pretty soon, and then the bullet can be dealt with by professionals in a sterile environment. “ETA?”

“Five minutes. Where are Simon, Alejandro, and Rodolfo?” Kate asks, and Price’s heart drops when he realizes how much time has passed since he gave the order to stand down. 

“Fuck, Simon,” he curses quietly. He knows exactly what the man is doing: trying to take down Barkov. He’s probably drowning in enemies right now, and the worst part of it is that he’s dragging the vaqueros down with him. “Lieutenant, where-” 

“Ale’s down!”

~*~

Simon’s gone. 

He might’ve been the one to enter the cell, but Ghost is the one to exit. 

Throwing the dog tags on the floor, he leaves Johnny behind- just like Las Almas, but this time, for good. If he could feel anything but this all-consuming numbness, he’d probably be nauseous enough to puke at the thought. Instead, he feels like a robot- he moves like one, too, as he marches out of the cell. He shoulders past Gaz hard enough to knock the younger man against a cell door and continues down the hallway, the biggest gun he’s got in his hands. 

He doesn’t wait for Gaz or Price to follow as he leaves, searching for violence. He needs to feel something, and maybe putting a couple bullets into someone will do that for him. Stepping through the carnage he left earlier, the sight only propels him forward, itching to create more of it.

Following the sound of gunfire like a shark following the scent of blood, he steps into one of the most outmatched gunfights he’s ever seen. The two vaqueros are hunkered down behind a short cinder block wall while gunfire rains down on them. They look worse for wear, covered in sweat and grime and blood, both fresh and dried. Ale has a nasty cut on his cheek that sends rivulets of blood dripping down his face, and Rudy’s got a gash spanning nearly four inches across his ankle. They’re both absolutely wrecked, exhausted and weary, and Ghost can tell because their shots are getting less accurate and more desperate by the second. 

Soldiers just keep coming. They’re already outmatched by at least thirty people- that number nearly doubles in less than a minute. 

Beneath his mask, Ghost grins. 

Rudy slips up- it happens so fast that neither Ghost nor Alejandro can react. A soldier that managed to get closer to the wall than he ever should’ve been allowed to grabs Rudy, pressing a knife to his throat. He holds the shorter man at an awkward angle close to his chest and screams at Ale to lift his gun in surrender. The vaquero does so without hesitation. 

Ghost doesn’t. He shoots with deadly accuracy close enough to Rudy’s face that the bullet skips across his cheek before planting itself in the enemy’s skull. 

Rudy falls to the ground, taking gasping breaths and searching wildly for whoever fired. His first thought is that an enemy managed to get behind them, behind their cover, and was aiming for Rudy, not the knife-wielding bastard. 

Ale pulls the shaking man to his knees, tugging him into a hug, ready to cover his body with his own if need be as he searches for the enemy as well. 

His eyes land on Ghost, and he breaks into a wide smile. 

“Holy mother of god, I’m glad you’re here, hermano.” 

Ghost says nothing as he joins them behind their cover. He takes up position without hesitation and starts sending bullets flying. His bullets fly solo, and he glances to the vaqueros in confusion only to find both of them staring at him. 

“¿Lo encuentras? You find him?” Ale asks, hopeful. 

He only glares back. 

Alejandro, el hombre sin miedo, falters beneath his gaze. 

A bullet strikes the cinder block two inches from his face, and he’s drawn back into the fight once more. Ale and Rudy have a silent conversation with their eyes before joining in, too. No one speaks another word; the only sounds are gunshots and the screams of pain that follow. 

Much later than he should, Ghost realizes the captain and the sergeant are MIA. It’d been a good hour since he left them in the cell; they should be here by now. Growling in annoyance, he barks over the radio, “Price, sit-rep?”

“Stuck on the first floor, taking heavy fire- grenade took Gaz down. Fall back and rendezvous at the door; we’re RTB,” Price orders. The radio cuts, and Price is gone once more. The tiny part of Simon that’s still living dies at the thought of Kyle, his other brother in arms, going down, but the emotions are quickly buried with the disgust that rolls through his body at the idea of giving up. How could they give up? Barkov is so close, and they’ve already made more sacrifices than they should’ve had to. 

Alejandro and Rodolfo look to Ghost, waiting to see the man’s call. 

Ghost glares back at them for even considering leaving. 

“Push through without them,” he orders. He’s never been one to stop even when ordered to. 

“Pero- the captain said-” Rudy starts, glancing to Alejandro.

“I don’t fucking care what Price said. Push forward.” He stands, throwing a smoke bomb out into the throng of enemy soldiers. “Come with me or leave; I don’t give a shit.” 

“I hope you’re making the right call, hermano,” Alejandro mutters. The three of them fire a few final shots and throw some stopping power before hopping the short cinder block wall and sprinting through the hallway now littered with fallen enemies. 

They only make it halfway to the room Barkov is hunkered down in before all hell breaks loose. 

Bullets come flying in from all sides, the remaining enemies now recovered from the grenades, smoke bombs, flash bangs, and what-not. They have no choice but to continue forward through the gunfire, running as fast as they can. Ghost fires from the hip as he runs, his bullets only adding to the chaos. Ale and Rudy follow his example; they occasionally toss a grenade or smoke bomb at any particularly large crowds that form. Rudy spits curses with every step on his left ankle, his gash aggravated by the movement. It doesn’t help that every so often, a soldier will come after them with nothing but a knife in their hands and desperation for glory in their eyes.

One such soldier gets close enough to knick Ghost’s shoulder with his knife. Ghost shoots him down quickly and sprints forward with renewed vigor as adrenaline floods his veins. They need to get to cover; they need to get to Barkov. 

He reaches the end of the hallway by some stroke of luck. He turns around, panting, to find Alejandro a few steps behind him.

Rudy is nowhere in sight. 

A second later, Ale realizes it, too. 

A scream rings out that sounds suspiciously like the shorter man. 

"Rudy?" Alejandro calls, whirling around to find the source of the sound. The other vaquero is gone, separated from them by a wall for firearms and the soldiers wielding them. Desperate to find his love, he turns in circles, ready to push through anyone in his way to get to Rudy. 

He throws a grenade in hopes of clearing the field enough to catch sight of the man, but before he can, Ghost grabs him by his tactical vest and drags him forward, not caring a bit how much the vaquero fights him and spits curses at him.

“We can’t do anything for him now,” he growls, shoving him towards the door. “We take out Barkov first and go back for Rudy after.” 

Alejandro glares at him, condemning him to death with his eyes. “You’ve changed. If this was Soap-” 

“But it isn’t. He’s gone.” He knows it isn’t fair to leave Rudy all behind by himself, especially since the man is injured and exhausted, but it’s in Ghost’s nature. He’s used to working alone. 

“I always keep my eyes on the gringos,” the vaquero grumbles. As much as every bone in his body screams to turn around and find Rudy, he knows the man can hold his own, and this mission, this chance to stop Barkov, is vital to their fight to avenge Soap. It may not be what they came here for, but if they’re not leaving with Soap, then they’re leaving with Barkov in a body bag. 

The room has no exits- no windows, no doors aside from the one they’re entering through. Barkov backed himself into a corner when he chose to take cover here, and now, he’s hiding behind the big desk in the middle of the room, leaving a handful of guards to save him.

Ghost makes quick work of them. 

He rounds the desk and grabs Barkov by the arm, yanking him out of his hiding hole and throwing him into the center of the room. 

Barkov kneels at Alejandro’s feet.

There is no sign of the man that tortured hundreds of Urzikstan citizens and ordered the deaths of thousands more. His weapons and allies stripped from him, all that’s left of the supreme military leader is a coward. He kneels with his forehead pressed to the ground like a sinner begging at the feet of God for forgiveness he will not be given, mercy he will not be shown. He shakes and trembles with sobs barely muffled by the hardwood floor beneath him. It’s goddamn pathetic.

Ale jams his pistol into the back of Barkov’s head forcefully; he grins at the way the man whimpers and wilts beneath the cold metal. 

“This is for Soap, cabrón.” 

A gunshot rings out. 

Fate gives no forgiveness; it shows no mercy.

Chapter Text

Alejandro stumbles back, red blooming from his thigh; he folds, collapsing to the ground before Simon can even blink.

Barkov, still on the ground, holds a smoking gun in his hands. He pushes to his feet and looms above the injured man, aiming his gun at his forehead. 

“You think you could kill me?” he shouts. He smashes the cold metal against Alejandro’s skull, drawing a hoarse cry from the man’s lips. “You think I’m really that weak? I’m a god! A god!” 

Another shot echoes. 

Barkov opens his mouth once more, but all that comes out is a gurgle. His eyes widen, and his brow furrows. The gun slips from his hands, hitting the hardwood floor with a resounding thump. His hands claw at his throat as red comes pouring from it. 

Ghost takes no satisfaction in the kill, no relief flooding his veins that Barkov- the man who hurt so many people and played a part in taking Johnny from him- is finally dead. Just cold acceptance. 

He’s by Alejandro’s side before the Russian’s body even hits the ground. 

“Lieutenant, where-” 

“Ale’s down!” he barks over his radio, cutting Price off, as the man’s blood covers his hands. A cacophony of swears answer him- the most notable one being Rodolfo- still alive- who curses the world and everything in it in rapid Spanish. With only a second’s hesitation, he switches his radio to a different channel from everyone else’s. He needs to focus, and with everyone screaming in his ears, it’s damn near impossible. 

Shoving to his feet, his eyes scan the room for anything he can use. His duffel bag full of medical supplies that were meant for Johnny, torn up by bullets, sits discarded by the door, right where he left it.

“Ghost? Ghost?” Ale croaks, growing paler by the second as more and more of his blood flows from the wound. He reaches wildly for Simon; his hands and eyes both blindly search for him. 

Ghost returns, duffel in hand. He tosses the bag down next to Alejandro and tears through it, searching for a tourniquet. 

“Rudy?”

Ghost pulls the tourniquet around Ale’s thigh, just above the gunshot wound, and tugs it tight, drawing a whimper from the man’s lips. "He's not here," he reminds the man. Guilt sits heavy like a stone in his gut. It’s his fault Rudy’s not here.

Alejandro’s body relaxes slightly at the physical reminder that someone is still there- he’s not alone- even if it pains him. His hand finally finds Simon’s arm, and he clasps onto him, knuckles white. His blurry eyes finally focus on Simon’s, searching his blue eyes for something. Despite what his heart wants and his body language says, he begs, “Leave me- leave me. Save Rudy- save Soap. That’s what- it’s what we came here for, si? Lo vamos… lo vamos a salvar, si?” In his pain-induced haze, he forgets that Soap is dead. Ghost can’t bring himself to remind him. He remembers the promise Alejandro made to him in the hospital room- god, that feels like a lifetime ago. 

It would be so easy for Ghost to walk away. To wipe his blood off of his hands before staining them once more with the blood of his enemies. 

But he can’t. 

He can’t do that to Alejandro. He’s betrayed him enough. 

He can’t do that to Rodolfo, who is still begging in broken Spanish over Ale’s radio so loudly that even Simon can hear it, pleading with Simon and Alejandro and fate itself to not let Alejandro die. 

He can almost picture the look in Rodolfo’s eyes as his world implodes slowly- or rather, bleeds to death- so blurred with tears that he can’t even aim his gun to shoot, the life draining from them just as the life drains from Alejandro’s. 

He would kill himself. 

The realization startles Ghost, but it’s true: Rodolfo wouldn’t let death itself separate him from Alejandro. 

Ghost can’t lose another teammate- let alone two. Their deaths would be so undeniably his fault; the only reason Rudy and Ale went on this godforsaken mission was to reunite him with Johnny. The mission meant to reunite is going to tear apart instead. He doesn’t miss the irony, although he wishes he could. Under his breath, he curses fate and its cruel sense of humor. 

“I’m not leaving you,” he spits gruffly as if Alejandro is stupid for even considering it. As if he wasn’t considering it himself seconds ago. 

Ale sighs in relief, his hand releasing him and dropping back to his side, as if he truly thought Ghost would ditch him in his dying moments. 

Just like he did with Johnny in Las Almas…

Ghost shoves the memory away as it threatens to curdle the blood in his veins with guilt. Instead, he focuses on stopping the bleeding. He knows the chances of Alejandro’s survival are dwindling- getting smaller every second he fails to stop the bleeding. 

Alejandro’s shaking hand grabs him once more, drawing Ghost’s eyes to meet his. Ghost startles at the fear in his eyes. In all the time he’s known him, he’s never seen Alejandro afraid. 

“Si voy a morir, dile- dile que lo amo. Lo amo más que el mundo, el cielo, el sol- más que respirar, más que-” 

Even though Simon can’t translate the words- panicked and broken and spoken too fast for him to understand- he knows what they mean. 

“You’re not going to die. You’re going to make it back to Rudy and tell him yourself.” Ghost knows a thing or two about the rule that promises shouldn’t be made unless they can be kept, but he doesn’t care. He’s going to keep this one even if it kills him in the process. 

After leaving Rodolfo behind and leading Alejandro to his death, it’s the least he could do. 

Alejandro nods before letting his head drop back against the hardwood. His bleeding finally slows- but so does his breathing. His eyes slip closed.

“No, no, wake up! Alejandro!” Ghost shouts, his heart thumping painfully fast in his chest. He shakes the man until his eyelids open. Ale’s face twists, and he groans in pain, letting himself drift away once more. “Dammit, colonel.” He searches through all of his pockets and tears through the first aid kit he found. His hands close around the familiar box of a stim pack, and he stabs it into Alejandro’s uninjured thigh. 

The man jolts upwards, gasping and coughing as adrenaline rushes through his body. He grabs Ghost’s shoulder, his hand clenching down to keep him upright. 

“Jesucristo, hermano. That- that fucking sucked .” 

Ghost snorts and finishes his bandages. It isn’t his best work, but it's good enough that Ale won’t bleed out in the immediate future, and that’s all that really matters. He wipes the blood on his hands off onto the last clean cloth they have and clicks his radio back to the right channel. 

“Barkov’s KIA. Alejandro’s solid,” he says over the comms, and his team lets out a collective sigh of relief. 

“Te voy a follar muy duro por esto,” Rodolfo grumbles, his comment directed towards Alejandro. The man barks out a laugh, smiling and blushing at the words of his boyfriend. 

“I’m counting on it, mi amado.”

“Watcher here. We’re not out of the woods yet, boys,” Laswell cuts in. “Exfil’s on its way." It's the best news Ghost has heard all day. 

Price adds, "Garrick and I are at the entrance. Ghost, Alejandro, Rodolfo, can you make it here?”

Ale stands on adrenaline alone, but that’s as far as the drug takes him. He goes to take a step forward and nearly crumples. If not for Ghost grabbing him, he would’ve hit the floor. 

“No- no puedo-” Ale starts, but Ghost cuts him off. 

“I’ve got him.” He picks the man up in a fireman’s carry, carrying the man across his shoulders. Ale groans slightly but doesn’t complain; he knows it’s the only way. “Gonna need back-up, at the very least cover-fire if possible.” 

“Already on the way,” Rudy says, a promise that nothing will stand between him and Ale. 

Ghost has no doubt that he’s been fighting his way across this wasp nest of a base ever since they left him; there must be a lot more hostiles in this building than they originally thought for it to have taken this long. This whole mission was a mistake, a fucking waste. 

Knowing Ale’s time is running out, he leaves the office and Barkov’s body behind. He moves as fast as he can with the added deadweight of Ale’s body. 

They make it about halfway to the entrance when they finally stumble upon a group of enemy soldiers. The group spots them immediately, and Simon has no choice but to throw himself- and Alejandro by extension- through the nearest door. 

They land in a room full of cubicles and filing cabinets- the first stroke of luck they’ve had on this whole mission. Ghost ducks beneath the one furthest from the door, tugging Ale underneath the desk with him. 

The man whines, his hands moving down to hold his thigh. His eyes are entirely unfocused; they dance between Ghost, the bottom of the desk, and outside of their little safe haven. A layer of sweat covers his body, sticking his hair to his forehead. He looks like absolute shit. 

Booted footsteps approach them, and Ghost’s breath catches in his throat. He silently begs Alejandro to not make any noises. Fate must finally have their back because the man stays silent- eerily silent. Ghost reaches out slowly, his heart slamming against his ribcage, careful to not let his clothing rustle too loudly, to feel for signs of breathing. 

Ale’s breath warms the fabric of his glove. It’s weak, but it’s there. 

Ghost slumps against the back wall of the cubicle, sighing deeply. 

Somewhere nearby, a door slams. The room plunges into a heavy silence, so heavy that it squeezes his throat and crushes his lungs. He draws in a ragged breath. 

He counts. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

Silence. 

Poking his head out like a bunny from its burrow, he scans for signs of danger. The soldiers have gone, moved on to other prey. He can hear their war cries and bullets growing more and more distant as they head towards Price’s team. 

He slips out of the cubicle and turns to examine Alejandro. The man’s head is slumped to the side, and his body is entirely limp. He doesn’t want to think about what it means. 

He’s still breathing. Everything is fine. 

He props the man up against the wall of the cubicle. Ale opens his eyes and blinks up at him through half-lidded eyelids. His lips tug into a tiny frown when Ghost steps away, but resignation takes over his features, his tired mind drawing the conclusion that the lieutenant has finally decided to break his promise and leave him to die. 

“The entrance is thirty meters away or less- I’ve got to clear the hallway because I can’t carry you and shoot at the same time.” Ghost’s stomach lurches at the thought of leaving Alejandro alone, but he knows he has no other choice. God, this must’ve been what Price felt like leaving Soap… He swallows down the warm saliva pooling in his mouth and promises, “I’ll be back. Don’t move, but for the love of god, don’t die, hermano.” He gives the man one last pat on the shoulder- both to wake him up and to comfort him- and sprints back out into the hallway, narrowly remembering to shut the door behind him, before he can change his mind. 

Ghost knows how to kill. He knows how to snipe and stab and shoot, and so clearing the hallway takes less than ten minutes. 

The second the last enemy in sight drops, he’s running back down the hallway to Alejandro. He bursts into the room- weird, he thought he left the door shut- and sprints through the cubicle maze to the back corner, gun in hand. 

Just as he’s about to turn around the final corner separating him from Ale, a voice stops him in his tracks. The thick Russian accent grates against his ears. 

“They leave you alone, too, little lion?” 

A lone Russian stands above Ale. the man- terrifyingly built and taller than him- looms over Alejandro, the injured man looking like a child in comparison. 

Ghost hides before either man can see him; he needs to get closer and get more information before charging in. This man could be the man that has- had Johnny, and as selfish as it is, he’d rather risk Ale’s already-diminishing life than risk losing their last chance at finding out what happened to Johnny. He needs to know what happened to him- he deserves to be selfish just this once. He’ll pay for his sins later. 

Alejandro is awake and trembling from both blood loss and terror. Gripped between both of his hands is a gun, the barrel of it drooping towards the floor every few seconds as if there were a magnet in the barrel dragging it down. Every time he drags it back up, it comes up lower and lower. 

If he were to fire, he would miss, and both he and the Russian know it. 

The Russian kneels down in front of him and smirks.

“You going to shoot?” Like a cat toying with its prey, he’s amused by the situation. He knows he’s already won, and he’s in no hurry to rush his victory. “Come on- I even give you help. This gun…” Alejandro, el hombre sin miedo, the unbreakable man, finally breaks. He whimpers when the Russian’s hands meet his; he can’t help the scared sob that forces from his lips when the man pries the gun out of his trembling hands with very little effort. The colonel’s distressed noises feel like a knife to Ghost’s gut. He needs to step in- he needs to stop this- but he can’t bring himself to move. “This gun is worth very little. It will take something much stronger for you to kill me. Here.” He presses a much larger, heavier gun into Ale’s hands only for it to slip from his grip seconds later. His fingers have gone cold and stiff, and Ghost knows the rest of him will follow shortly. 

He needs to do something. He needs to neutralize the threat before Ale is put in any further danger. He needs to- 

The Russian laughs and kicks both of the guns away from Alejandro. 

Ale traces them with his eyes- do something, Ghost- but can’t move his body to follow. He lets his head slip back against the wall and pinches his eyes closed. 

“Si me vas a matar- do it.”

 The finality in his voice makes Ghost want to puke. 

He can end this- he should end this. He should- 

But this man knows something about Johnny. He can feel it; he’s not going to risk that. 

“Oh, no, little lion. I am not killing you- I am saving you. I am taking you home to be with your little Scottish friend. I hope you are harder to break than him.” Ghost’s blood turns to poison in his veins, pushing him closer to death with every beat. His grip tightens on his gun. 

Alejandro, brain muddled by blood loss and adrenaline, pinches his eyebrows together. "Él- él vive?"

Johnny’s alive. 

Relief threatens to send Simon to his knees. He drops back against the wall providing him cover and takes short, shaking breaths. The world tunnels around him until he can’t see anything but black, and he can’t hear anything but ringing. 

“He’s alive,” Simon whispers to himself. “He’s alive- he’s alive,” he forces the words out of his mouth like a mantra. 

The Russian continues, smiling. “I hope you are harder to break than him.” 

The dizzying, all-encompassing relief flowing through Simon’s body turns to nausea. Johnny is alive- he’s alive, and this is the man who has him. This is the man responsible for everything- for his kidnapping, the torture- everything. 

He’s going to kill him. 

As Simon’s heart breaks in his chest, Ghost’s heart sets on fire. Blood screams in his ears, his vision going red, as he runs at the Russian, tackling him from behind and beating him across the skull with his gun. 

Ale lets out a surprised grunt- too weak to many any other noises- and the sound only eggs Ghost on further. He beats the man to a bloody mess. He hits him over and over again even after a sickening crunch resounds through the room- a broken noise- and bone gives way under metal- fracturing part of his skull. 

“Detente,” calls Alejandro, hardly louder than the Russian’s pained grunts and the sound of metal on bone over and over again. “We need..." His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, too heavy to move. His words run together until they're barely intelligible. "Need 'im." 

Ghost, breathing heavy, pulls himself out of his blind, murderous rage. He stares down at the man beneath him. The man, an absolute goliath, cowers beneath him like a tamed mutt. Simon hates that he knows exactly what that feeling is like, and he hates even more that he’s the reason for it- he hates that Alejandro, who is literally actively bleeding out, is the one who had to talk him down- But this man deserves it. This man deserves to be beaten and bloodied until not even his own family could recognize him. He deserves a fate a thousand times worse than death.

Simon leans close enough to the man to feel his shaky breath against the hard plastic of his mask. 

“You’re going to tell me where the fuck he is, or I am going to rip you limb from limb, piece from piece, particle from goddamn particle, until you’re nothing. Fucking nothing ,” he seethes, pressing his gun into the man’s forehead. 

“You are a fighter.”

The Russian, not as broken as he thought, lifts his head to stare up at Ghost. He grins defiantly, showing off his teeth stained red by his own blood. 

“Your boyfriend was, too.” 

Chapter Text

Rodolfo chases after Alejandro and Simon. 

He watches their figures slowly grow further and further away, his feet beating against the ground in an effort to keep up. 

His ankle screams with every step as the skin on his gash pulls away from itself. Blood pours in a steady stream down into his boot, and with each step, his sock squelches as though his boot is full of water. The feeling brings him to the brink of throwing up, his stomach lurching dangerously every time his foot pounds against the ground. His sides scream as he fights for air- he's never been a runner- and the world around him starts to tinge black around the edges. 

Colliding with something- or someone- Rudy hits the ground hard enough that his head bounces off the cement with the impact. Stars explode across his vision, and a headache slams into him like a sledgehammer brought down on his skull. He chokes on the next breath he takes. There's a sudden weight on his body, slamming his head back into the cement once more, making it impossible to pull another breath in. Blindly throwing his arms up to protect himself, he catches the knife that was aimed for his neck purely coincidentally. 

The soldier on top of him hisses and fights with renewed vigor, like it's his life's purpose to bury the blade in his neck. 

Rudy spits curses as he wrestles with him. 

Head pounding, he can hardly see the soldier on top of him thanks to his vision fuzzing over and the lights above blinding him. 

His already exhausted limbs shake with effort as he struggles to keep the blade from spilling his blood out onto the cement below them, but he doesn't have much fight left in him. Not even the adrenaline burning through his veins could save him now. 

He needs to free himself. 

If he could, he could reach his gun wherever it felt, and sink some metal of his own into the man's body. 

Then, he could get back to Alejandro. 

He needs to get back to Alejandro. 

As much as he needs the oxygen in his lungs and the blood in his veins, he needs to protect his love. He needs to ensure that not a single bullet or blade or enemy hand touches him, that no one hurts him. 

They protect each other. 

They're supposed to protect each other. 

So where is he?

Where is he now that Rodolfo is trapped beneath an enemy soldier, a blade barely kept at bay?

Where is- 

Metal sinks into his shoulder. 

A scream tears through his throat. 

He begs for Alejandro. 

His attack grins, egged on by the noise. He leans close enough that Rudy can feel his wild breath on his face and snarls, "He's not coming." He pulls another knife from god knows where and- 

He's wrong- they're both wrong. 

Alejandro is his saving grace. 

As always. 

A grenade thrown by the vaquero goes off close enough to Rudy that his vision blacks out momentarily, his ears ringing, heat kissing his skin. 

When he finally manages to gather himself up again, he discovers the man that was on top of him just seconds ago now lays a few feet away, dying, having landed on his own blade by the luck of god. 

Rudy, splayed out across the ground, laughs breathlessly at the irony. 

He goes to push himself up to his feet, and a scream echoes through the hallway once more. It's agony - like someone filled his veins with gasoline and set his arm on fire. It's dizzying, all-encompassing, so strong he can't focus on anything else. 

"Chingada- pinche perra-" he spits so many curses that Alejandro, the dirty-mouthed man, would be proud. If he was here to hear him, that is. He needs to get back to him, so they can finish this godforsaken mission and go home. He wants nothing more than to crawl into Alejandro's bed. Curling up in the man's arms. Breathing in his familiar and comforting scent. Forgetting all of their problems. 

He yearns for it, for his touch, so bad that his heart burns. 

"Fuck," he adds weakly. 

He glares down at the knife protruding from him; it's buried down to the hilt right beneath where the bones of his shoulder meet. His good hand closes around the blade, and bracing himself on the wall, he gives it a small experimental tug.

Teeth clenched, he barely bites back a scream. 

Fuck it; the blade is staying in the sheath it's made for itself in his flesh.

It's probably for the best anyway. Blood is dripping down his arm- he can only imagine how much worse it'd be if he removed the blade. 

Favoring his bad arm, Rudy shoves to his feet. 

The world and his stomach spin dangerously, and he has to blindly grab onto the wall to keep from falling over once more. If he did, he'd probably never get up again. 

"Ale, ¿que está pasando? ¿Donde estas?" 

The radio is silent. 

Rudy curses, wishing he knew what was going on. 

"Anyone, sit-rep? Location?" 

No response. 

His hand comes up to his earpiece- worried that maybe the channel got switched- only to find his earpiece missing entirely. 

Pushing off the wall and taking wobbly steps, he searches the rubble. With his good foot, he kicks rocks out of his way. When his search comes up empty, he kicks one of the larger pieces of debris, and it stops with a soft thud against the body of the man who tried to kill him. 

"Perdóname Díos," he whispers. 

The man's hand is curled up, even in death, around something. 

Rudy whispers another prayer for forgiveness and uncurls the stiff, cold fingers to reveal his earpiece in the dead man's hand. He must've had it in his grasp and ripped it out when he was thrown by the explosion's blast. 

"Gracias a Díos," he mumbles, hesitating for only a second before taking it back. He shoves the little piece of equipment back into its rightful place in his ear, overwhelming himself once more with the sound of voices. Friendly voices. The sound makes his eyes water. "Sit-" 

A shot rings out, striking the cement inches from his feet, and more follow, whizzing past this body and embedding in the walls and floor around him. 

Fuck, they found him. 

A gunshot wound, paired with the knife sticking out of his shoulder, would be the end of him. 

Not even Alejandro could save him then. 

He takes off, half-running, half-stumbling, without another thought. 

He doesn't stop until he hits a dead end. Not any fight left in his body, he leans against the wall, the cement leeching some of the unbearable heat from his body. His shaking legs give out, and he hits the ground with a grunt choked off by heaving as he tries to catch his breath. The veins throughout his whole body, especially around his shoulder and in his head, ache and throb, and he can feel his heart beating, slamming against his ribs and thundering in his ears. There are no soldiers here aside from the fallen ones. 

Fuck- he went the wrong way. 

“Lieutenant,” Price’s voice starts through his radio, making Rudy jump. The man sounds pissed , and it sends Rudy fighting for his breath once more. God forgive the man who ends up on the captain’s bad side. It isn’t until he remembers that he’s only a sergeant major that he can breathe. “Where-”

“Ale’s down!” Ghost responds, and Rudy’s breath is gone again. His lungs spasm and fight against his suddenly too-tight chest, yet he can’t draw in another breath. He hugs himself with his good arm as his heart refuses to beat. His mouth moves of its own accord; breathlessly, he begs, “Por favor, no lo dejes morir- por favor.” He’s not even sure who he’s begging. Simon? Fate?

Alejandro is down- he’s dying.

His love is dying.

God, this must be what Ghost felt like- suddenly, the vaquero can understand exactly why he wanted to kill Barkov and every soldier standing between them. Anger floods his body so aggressively that his heart is shocked back into beating once more, adrenaline wiping away his pain for the time being.

He’s going to find the man that hurt Alejandro, and he’s going to fucking gut him.

He snarls swears and damns the world and everything in it to death as angry tears burn his eyes. He stubbornly blinks them away. He fights to his feet once more and stumbles through the halls, death in his eyes and a gun in his hand.

“Ghost?” Alejandro’s voice echoes in his ears as he begs for the lieutenant. “Ghost?”

The man doesn’t respond, and Rudy growls. If he left him, after he kills everyone in this building, he’s killing Ghost. He doesn’t care about the legends of Simon Riley being invincible, immortal, unkillable. He’s going to make god bleed- he’s going to make the man beg for his life.

“Rudy?” The word, broken and warbled from pain, hits Rudy like a punch to the gut, knocking the anger right out of him, dropping him to his knees once more. “Si voy a morir, dile- dile que lo amo. Lo amo más que el mundo, el cielo, el sol- más que respirar, más que-”

Alejandro, the man who’s always struggled to say “I love you” suddenly can’t stop the words from rolling off his tongue.

Rudy repeats each word, memorizing them and the way they sound coming from Ale’s mouth.

Then, there’s silence once more.

He’s on his feet and halfway across the hall before his mind can register it. He sprints through the winding corridors of the base, damning every hallway and every body he leaves behind. He takes out hostile after hostile with deadly accuracy, sets off as many explosions as he possibly can without taking the entire building down, and plants charges on damn near every single wall. The second Alejandro is out, he is going to blow the whole building sky-fucking-high.

He isn’t really sure where he is, only where he’s been thanks to the pile of debris and bodies he leaves like bread crumbs.

With every step and every second of silence from his radio, he curses fate and its cruel sense of humor.

“Jesucristo, hermano,” Alejandro cuts in, and Rudy breaks into an uncontrollable smile at the sound of his voice. He’s still alive- and he sounds better than he has since Ghost delivered the godawful news. “That- that fucking sucked .” Rudy laughs wetly.

“Barkov’s KIA. Alejandro’s solid.” Ghost’s voice finally comes across the coms- he didn’t leave Alejandro. Regret floods Rudy’s body for thinking so little of the lieutenant and for plotting his murder without so much as a second thought.

“Te voy a follar muy duro por esto,” Rudy responds to Alejandro, glad- not for the first time- that the rest of the team’s Spanish is very limited. The man laughs, and Rudy bites back a sob at the sound. He thought he’d never hear it again.

“I’m counting on it, mi cielo.”

Laswell cuts off their flirting, her voice serious. “Watcher here. We’re not out of the woods yet, boys. Exfil’s on its way.” Rudy rubs the tears from his eyes and nods to himself, biting his tongue until his eyes dry. There will be time later to cry, when Alejandro is in his arms again, and death doesn’t linger over both of them.

“Garrick and I are outside of the entrance,” Price adds, the first mention anyone’s heard of the young sergeant in a long while. It takes a weight off of Rudy’s shoulders that he didn’t even know he was holding. “Ghost, Alejandro, Rodolfo, can you make it here?”

“No- no puedo-” Ale starts, but he’s cut off quickly by the lieutenant.

“I’ve got him,” Ghost promises, and the guilt returns. Ghost might not be able to read his thoughts to know what he was thinking, but it doesn’t change the fact that Rudy thought it. He owes him a massive apology. “Gonna need back-up, at the very least cover-fire if possible.”

“Already on the way,” Rudy says, a promise that nothing will stand between him and Ale. He starts running once more, working through the remaining stragglers, cutting them down without hesitation. The radio is silent; the only sounds are his heavy breathing and whatever sounds come from the men he kills.

He’s so close- so close- when a sob rips through the radio.

He’s only ever heard Alejandro cry once, and yet, he has his sob memorized.

The sound guts him, makes him sloppy in his fighting, makes his running turn to stumbling.

“¿Qué pasa?” he shouts, wishing not for the first time that he was there with Alejandro. “¿Qué pasa?”

The only answer he gets is another sob, one even more terrified than the last, and then-

“Si me vas a matar- do it.”

Rudy screams. He screams as though his heart is tearing in two in his chest- because it is. He screams so loud that it echoes through the building- he’s sure Price and Gaz can hear it outside.

The silence that follows is deafening.

“Por favor- por favor,” he begs, his voice raw. The world around him darkens dangerously as blood pours from his shoulder. He can feel himself fading, but he holds on. For Alejandro.

"Él- él vive?" Ale’s voice comes through once more, and Rudy sobs. He has no idea who Ale’s talking about, but the message confirms that Ale’s alive, and that’s all he cares about. God, he wishes he was there, more than anything. Ale grunts in surprise, and after a torturously long minute of silence, he calls, his voice weak, “Detente- we need… need ‘im.”

He sounds awful. God, he sounds like he’s dying.

But then again, so is Rudy.

Rudy pushes forward and finally finds the door Ghost described. He slams through it and darts through the cubicles to find two bloodied men and a third with both of their blood on his hands.

Rudy drops next to Alejandro's side, all of his wounds and aches forgotten as he cups his lover’s pale face in his hands.

"Rudy?" the man rasps, managing to peel his eyelids open just far enough to glance through his lashes. His eyes land on Rudy after searching for a second longer than they should've, and a dopey grin breaks across his tearstained face. He lifts his hand- shaking, Rudy realizes, his hands are shaking awfully- and pats Rudy's cheek. "Te amo, mi amor," he slurs slightly, sounding almost drunk.

"Te amo tambien," Rudy promises, his voice thick with unshed tears, brushing his hand through Alejandro's hair, straightening the black strands with a gentleness rarely seen on battlefields. There is no sign of the man who just killed twenty people all the while being injured; this is Rudy, Alejandro's boyfriend, not Rudy, the soldier.

Ale melts at the touch, leaning into it with the desperation of a man who was certain he would never feel it again. Rudy matches it, equally as desperate.

"Te- te amo," he whispers again, slightly more desperate this time. His eyelids grow more stubborn, fighting against him every time he tries to reopen them. His head is pounding, and warm saliva threatens to pool in his mouth- side effects of the blood loss. The worst side effect is death, which he can feel looming over the horizon, bearing down on him, scarier and more undefeatable than any of the other enemies he's faced. He tries to warn Rudy or at least to tell him he loves him one last night, but his tongue sits stubbornly still in his mouth. His hands, which were brushing over Rudy's face, fall back to his side, and he finds he can't lift them again.

"Ale?" Rudy's heart drops in his chest, and his gentle hand on the man becomes reckless in its attempt to wake the man up. "Alejandro!"

"We need to get him out of here," Ghost cuts in, and Rudy nearly screams at the voice- he forgot Ghost was there- and then nearly screams at him anyways because isn't it fucking obvious they need to get him out of there?

“Sí, sí…”

He staggers to his feet, hand on his shoulder, steadying the blade as he moves and-

The world tinges black, his ears ringing. His entire body floods hot, and if it weren't for the pain radiating from his ankle or the throbbing coming from sore muscles across his body, his first guess would be that someone poisoned him. He tries to breathe through it as best as he can, breathe through the dizziness and the pain tearing through his body, but it's a losing fight.

"Rudy? Rudy!" His eyes pinch shut as his body shuts down. Arms are on him, catching him before he can hit the ground. "Jesus, is that a knife?"

He pulls in a gasping breath and grunts as sights and sounds and pain assault him once more.

"Estoy- estoy bíen," he mutters moreso to himself than anyone. He blinks and takes careful breaths until the world stops spinning. When he can finally see his surroundings again, he realizes it’s Ghost’s hands on him- he knew it would be, but in his panicked state, he had forgotten Alejandro was injured, and he had hoped it was him who had caught him. Disappointment curdles his veins.

Ghost stares down at him, his eyes glued to the knife and the blood it coaxes out.

Rudy ignores it and ignores him. He shoves out of his hands with his good arm.

"Necesitamos salir."

He takes one step towards Ale, and his feet fail once more.

This time, Ghost is more prepared to catch him. He secures a strong arm around his waist, another on his good shoulder, and hauls him to his feet, pulling all of his weight against him.

“We need to get you out of here.”

Rudy, sweating and shaking and seeing double, couldn’t agree more.

The door swings open, and Rudy and Ghost curse their luck. The both of them tense, expecting gunshots.

“Hello, my brothers!” booms a familiar voice.

Nikolai.

Kate Laswell, back in the field, follows not too far behind.

“Thought you boys could use some backup.”

Rudy sobs at the sight of the friendly faces, collapsing back against Ghost.

“You thought right,” Ghost says, feeling every bit as relieved as Rudy. “We’ve gotta get these two out as fast as we can.”

Without wasting another second, Nikolai scoops Ale up in his arms. The man grunts, eyebrows pinching in confusion, but he’s too far gone to question anything. If they weren’t both on the verge of death, Rudy would find the sight of Alejandro practically being cradled by the older man hilarious.

“And what about him?” Kate cuts in, drawing Rudy’s attention to the other man with them, the one that Ghost beat within an inch of his life. His face is covered in blood, cuts, and freshly-forming bruises. His chest rises and falls sporadically and rattles with every breath. If not for that, Rudy would think he's dead.

“He’s coming with us,” Ghost orders, and Rudy squints. As fucked up as the man’s face is, there’s no mistaking the fact that this isn’t Barkov.

“¿Quién..?

“He has Johnny.”

Chapter Text

He shivers. 

Excruciating cold trudges through his veins, pushing through the blood vessels forcefully enough that he’s afraid they might burst. Whatever it is, it fogs his head over and adds weights to his eyelids until he couldn’t even dream of opening them. It saps the feverish heat ravaging his body, so much so that he almost misses his precariously high fever. The thin sheen of sweat, a parting gift, works in tandem to pull the heat from his body. 

Limbs spread across frigid metal, he realizes much later than he should that he’s laying down. 

Where is he?

Is this what being dead feels like?

The ground beneath him hums a familiar tune, and as the humming turns to a growl, the ground- and his body by extension- lurch forward. 

Begrudgingly, he peels his too-heavy eyelids open to find himself in a truck once more. 

He’s not dead. 

Unfortunately. 

Straining his ears, he listens for voices or footsteps or even breathing. 

Nothing. 

He’s alone. 

It’s just him and the hum of the truck. 

Just him and-

A gunshot. 

It’s far away, separated from him by the walls of the armored vehicle he’s in, but even the thick metal can’t block out the returning shots and war cries that follow.

Some in Russian. 

Some in English. 

Some in… Spanish?

Hope floods through his body so strongly that his breath hitches. 

They’re coming for him- the Task Force and Los Vaqueros are coming to save him.

His arms scream as he pushes himself up. 

The world darkens, and his back drops against the wall of the truck. He fights for air, embarrassed by how winded the simple movement has left him. 

He’s weak, dangerously weak. 

It doesn’t matter. 

He needs to get out of this truck, and he needs to find his friends. 

He needs to find Simon. 

Gathering all of his strength, he shoves to his feet and rams his shoulder into the door. 

The door slams open- in their haste to leave, the Russians must not have latched it properly- and the sergeant spills out. 

He hits the ground, his body twisting over itself as inertia carries him forward unforgivingly. 

When he finally stops, he’s face down in inch-thick mud, the wet earth smothering him. With a groan, he pushes himself out of the dirt and collapses onto his back, his broken body splayed out across the forest floor. 

Deep, gasping breaths fill his lungs with fresh air that doesn’t smell musty or metallic. It smells of wood and earth, and he finds himself taking deep breaths even after he catches his breath in hopes of memorizing the scent. The sun shines gently, warming and caressing his bruised and bloodied skin lovingly. He stares up at the blue sky, as blue as Simon’s eyes, and watches clouds amble lazily across it.

His lips quirk up into a smile. He’s alive. He’s free. 

~*~

Simon doesn’t know how to feel. 

He thought Johnny was dead for two hours. Two hours, and he went into a murderous rage, almost single-handedly wiping out an entire base stuffed to the brim with enemy soldiers. Two hours, and he stained his hands with more blood than he ever has in the past- both literally and figuratively. Two hours, and he almost killed the last tiny bit of humanity left in him, the last surviving bit of Simon Riley. Two hours. 

But Johnny’s alive, and they have the greatest lead they could ever ask for: his captor. 

But Simon Riley’s alive, and he can’t decide if that makes him want to scream and sob and curl up into a ball. He’s so relieved that he can physically feel it in his veins, pushing through his body with every heartbeat. But he’s also so terrified that he can hardly breathe. 

He’s terrified to know what Johnny went through. 

He’s seen men tortured, and he’s been tortured, and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle it. If he can handle seeing what little remains of Johnny MacTavish. 

And he’s angry, too. 

He’s so angry that he wants to punch a wall- or a person- and scream himself hoarse, an echo of his father’s anger.

He’s angry that Johnny was gone for so long, that they failed him for so long and are still failing him yet. That Johnny ever got taken in the first place, that Price left him alone to die in that building and instead doomed him to a fate that’s so, so much worse. 

He’s pissed that so many of his friends got hurt, that Ale, Rudy, and Gaz are all bed-bound, and Price’s arm is in a sling, and no one will even look him in the eye. Everyone blames him. He knows because he blames himself, too. 

He’s seething that he’s sitting here in Price’s office, sitting across from the captain, dragged here as soon as the both of them got cleared from medical. Furious that he knows exactly what the man has to say. Livid that he knows he’s going to hate him for it even though he’s right. 

Price watches him, expression unreadable. 

Still wearing his combat gear- with the addition of a thick bandage around his forearm- he digs into his pocket and pulls something out, dropping it onto the desk. 

Johnny’s dog tags. 

Simon stares at them. Grief, anger, relief swirl through his body at dizzying speeds. He takes a breath that cuts off short, before it can turn into a sob or a growl. 

“What you did out there was stupid. Reckless. You directly disobeyed my orders, put your team in danger, and got everyone hurt,” Price says shortly. Silence grows between them like a disease. He leans forward, dropping his elbows onto his desk, watching Simon’s reaction closely. 

He’s been stripped of his mask. He’s not sure if he left it in the base or in medical or if he lost it somewhere along the way, but all that matters is that he can’t hide behind the fabric any longer. Every emotion of his is broadcasted across his face for the world to see. 

He can’t look at Price, can’t face the disappointment and anger in the older man’s face.

Hell, he can’t even drag his eyes off of the dog tags. 

“Kyle has a bad concussion, a few burns, a few fractures,” Price starts, his words carefully picked. “He had a seizure in the helicopter and passed out, and I couldn’t get him to wake up again. When we brought him to medical, I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again.” He takes a shuddering breath before continuing, “He’ll live, but they put him on bedrest for the next two days.” 

Simon cringes at the words. He never bothered to check on the younger man, barely even remembered that he got injured in the fight. Not once did he ask over comms how he was, nor did he when the sergeant was sprawled out next to him in the helicopter or when he was carried to medical on a stretcher. 

Price continues, “Rudy’s shoulder is in rough condition, and he’s lost enough blood to keep him in bed for weeks. They’ve already given him two transfusions, but he still hasn’t woken up yet.”

Simon watched Laswell help the vaquero, soaked in his own blood, stumble through the bloodstained hallways of the enemy base. Watched him collapse just as they reached the front entrance. Watched the medics swarm his body when the helo landed. He never asked how he was- if he even lived. Relief and guilt battle through his body, threatening to tear him in half. 

As Price recounts his sins, Simon sinks further into his chair, weighed down by his guilt. 

This is his fault. 

“Alejandro-” 

Simon sucks in a sharp breath and bites his lip before it can morph into something else- a sob or a wince, he doesn’t know. 

The last he saw of the other vaquero, he was being rolled into medical on a gurney, someone giving him CPR as he was whisked off to surgery. Whatever condition he’s in now, it’s got to be bad. 

Price hesitates, as if giving him a few more seconds to prepare himself, but nothing could ever prepare him for what the captain says. 

“Tell me,” he rasps.

“He died, Simon.” 

Simon freezes.

Everything in him freezes. The breath in his lungs. The blood in his veins. His breathing. 

The entire world around him freezes, plunging them into suffocating silence, save for his ragged breathing and the blood screaming in his ears. 

“What?” 

“He flatlined during surgery,” Price explains, eyes never leaving Simon’s even as they well up with tears. “Twice. He died.” 

Simon breaks. He’s been through torture, been through hell, lost everyone and everything he’s ever loved- this is what finally breaks him. 

“No. No- he didn’t die- he can’t-” he rambles. He feels vulnerable in his grief, his mask- his crutch- gone. His hands tear into his hair, grabbing handfuls of the curls, pulling them until his scalp screams its disapproval. He shoves his chair back and staggers to his feet, his knees almost giving out beneath him. “We got him out- we got him to a medic. He was alive when I left. He was- he was-” 

Cold metal burns his hands. Chains twist around his fingers, turning them numb and cold, and he distantly wonders if Alejandro’s hands are cold yet.

If Rudy got to hold them one last time. 

If Rudy even knows he’s dead. 

“Simon.” 

A chair scrapes against the floor, and hands are on his in seconds, unwinding whatever he’s wrapped around his fingers. The second they’re free, he’s tugged into the shorter man’s arms, shocking him into breathing like a defibrillator shocks a heart into beating. His arms are stuck, pressed between his chest and Price’s, saving him from himself. Johnny’s dog tags are cradled between his hands, between their chests, between their beating hearts. 

Hoarsely, he pleads with Price like the man is a god capable of changing fate. 

“He was alive.” 

“And he still is.” 

“What..?” 

“He flatlined twice- he died, but they got him back. He’s out, and he will be for a while, but he’s still alive. Still breathing.” 

Simon opens his mouth, but no words come out. Instead, he sobs, a noise neither of them expected. He drops his head into the shorter man’s shoulder to muffle the pitiful sounds falling from his lips, fighting for control over his heart as it breaks in half and stitches itself together all at once. 

Price’s arms tighten around him even more, the sutures in his arm be damned. 

“He’s alright, Simon,” he promises. “We’re all alright.” 

~*~

"He doesn't love you, Soap."

Soap startles awake, not really sure when he fell asleep in the first place. The sun has started to set, and darkness is slowly descending upon the forest, making it harder with every passing second to see anything. The sinking sun has turned the air chilly, and even with the poor lighting, he can still see his breath coming in short, panicked puffs. 

"What?" he croaks. Eyes dancing unfocused over his surroundings, he searches wildly for the source of the voice. 

He finds it and immediately wishes he didn't. 

Graves is hunched over next to him, his mouth close enough to Soap's ear that he can feel the warmth of his breath; he can hear the man breathing. He shouldn't be breathing- he isn't real. He's dead, blown up in a tank in Mexico, left nothing more than ash. 

Yet, here he is, breathing in Soap's ear.

He's dead- he's dead- he's-

Johnny is dying.

It doesn’t matter if the man in front of him is real or not, alive or dead, because he’s dying.

 His mouth is so dry that everything hurts: speaking, swallowing, breathing, and his eyes burn from the lack of water, like his tears have all dried up. His lips have chapped past the point of redemption, a fact he's sure Simon would mourn if he was here. His stomach growls damn-near constantly, so achingly empty he's pretty sure it's trying to eat itself at this point. His head feels like someone took a hammer to it, throbbing every time his heart beats. 

His chest isn't in much better condition. Not even the low light could disguise the angry red streaks stretching from the wound, a tell-tale sign of the infection he prayed he didn't have, but by some miracle, his stitches are still mostly intact. His body aches at being tortured and falling out of a moving truck, but even worse than that, it aches at being so still for so long. 

Any little movements he can manage with his arms or legs hurt even worse, so he remains still. Deathly still. Corpse-like. 

Worst of all, his heart aches for Simon.

The man’s gentle caress against his skin, their foreheads pressed together, hands intertwined. His voice reverberating through Johnny’s chest, his breath dancing across Johnny’s skin. The smile he’s reserved for him and him alone, the jokes only he gets to hear. The way his tongue cradles Johnny’s name every time he speaks it almost reverently, savoring the taste. The sound of “I love you” following his name like it was meant to be there.

"He doesn't love you." The words come slower, in that taunting tone that Soap's unfortunately so familiar with. It's the same one he heard in the streets of Las Almas, mingled with the screams of the people Graves executed as well as his own pained whimpers. The sounds echo in the silence of the forest. 

Soap flinches and swallows down bile. 

"You understand that, soldier, or do I have to dumb it down for you? He's not going to look for you; he's letting you die out here." 

Johnny sobs. 

He knows they're true. 

Simon doesn't love him- he doesn't love him enough to save him. 

Simon doesn't love him, and he's going to die out in the wilderness, hopelessly alone and tormented by the past and begging pathetically to be saved. 

The worst part is he isn't even going out in a blaze of glory like he'd always hoped. The thought had always given him the push he needed to get things done. It got him out of bed in the morning when nothing else could, and it gave him the strength he needed to pull himself back up no matter the injury. It led him to walk into El Sin Nombre's base, weaponless and without an actual plan. Hell, it made him jump out of that stupid fucking truck into the goddamn wilderness, leaving him lost and half-dead and celebrating his victory like a dumbass.

Whatever little sense of freedom jumping brought him is long gone, replaced with the inescapable knowledge that he's going to die out here, in enemy territory, but not even in their base. It won't be at their hands, either. It'll be at the hands of his own body, his own weakness, with no one to witness but the figments of his imagination that haunt him.

How pathetic is that?

There are only a few deaths he could think of as being worse than feeling his body slowly give out on itself: being betrayed and shot in the chest by a supposed-teammate, being burned alive, or being shot close-range in the head and only dying because he didn’t wear proper headgear.

But at least all of those contain some sort of climax, one last hurrah before it’s lights out forever.

This death is slow. 

Painful. 

Nonviolent. 

It's the last way he'd ever want to die, and yet, here he is. 

It fucking sucks- death fucking sucks. 

"I thought you were smarter than this, Johnny." Graves kneels next to him, his knees in the mud the sergeant is half-buried in. 

"Away 'n- away 'n..." Soap peels his eyes open, not really sure when they fell shut. They feel impossibly heavy, heavier than they ever have. 

"You chose the wrong path, son." There's almost a hint of kindness in the Shadow's voice, an echo of softness in his eyes like he wishes he could change how things played out. Soap can't tell if he wants to sob or puke. Then, all too soon and somehow not soon enough, the kindness is gone once more. Graves pushes to his feet and circles his body, like a shark circling its prey. "You chose wrong in Las Almas, and you chose wrong in that house, and now you're going to die for it." 

"Kill me then," he slurs. "Kill me." 

"Oh, I won't kill you." Graves laughs from somewhere off to his right. Soap remembers a time, however brief, where his laugh was a good thing. Where it was followed by a fist-bump or a clap on the back that left Soap grinning. Now, it just grates against his ears. 

Graves saunters in front of him and crosses his arms. He stares down at Soap with that stupid grin on his face, the one Soap thought he blew off with C4. 

"But I will watch you die." 

"Why?" 

"Why?" Graves mirrors the bewildered look on Johnny's face. "Why am I doing this? I'm confused- did you or did you not try to blow me up in Las Almas?" 

"You betrayed us." The words barely manage to push off his tongue. 

" Don't . Don't say that. I was following my fucking orders. I even gave you an out, and you chose not to take it. That's not on me. And as for blowing me up?" The man clicks his tongue and purses his lips together, standing taller, looming above the injured man. "Well, I wasn't in that tank." 

"You fuck-" His voice gives out, and the insult dies before it can hit its target. Like a dud explosive, it drops to the floor, useless. 

"Let's take count here, sergeant." Graves paces circles above him, counting off on his fingers. "You have no allies, no friends, no rescue team. No one, not even your little boyfriend, is coming to rescue you, and you're in the middle of the goddamn forest because you had the brilliant idea to try to escape." He returns to Soap's side once more, taking his hair in his fist and hauling him into a sitting position. "And to top it all off, you've got an infected chest wound, and would you look at that? You even managed to snap your stitches."

With the last bit of sunlight remaining, he examines the wound. 

His vision doubles, making him see twice as many stitches, but they're all exactly where they were put. None of them have snapped. "No..?" 

"Really? cause to me-" Graves kneels down, pressing a blade to the first stitch- "it looks like you have." 

He whimpers and wilts beneath the metal. If he could gather the energy, he'd beg the man not to hurt him, but he's too tired and in too much pain already. 

As each stitch snaps beneath the blade, it resounds within his body, making him shudder. In turn, each shudder tears the wound open slightly more. It draws more and more blood from it; the blood burns a path down his chest and pools in his lap. He cries out as the last stitch, the last thing holding him together, snaps.

Something in his spine seems to snap, too, and he drops back into the mud, a shoddy grave. 

Try as he might, he can't sit up again. 

"Thought you weren't gon' kill me." 

Soap's voice echoes in the silence, and for the first time in probably the man's whole life, Graves doesn't answer. No witty remarks, no insults, no swears, not even footsteps. Soap frowns, his eyebrows pinching together. 

With the last of his strength, he picks his head up. The sun is too far gone to see much, and his vision is fuzzy enough that he wouldn't be able to see anything anyways, but there's no mistaking the fact that his stitches are fine and the Shadow is gone. 

Johnny lets his head drop. 

He's gone again.

Chapter Text

“Why’d you tell me he was dead?” 

Simon sits in the chair across from Price’s, his knees to his chest and his arms hugged around him. For a man of his size and stature, the sight would be almost comical if not for the tears still dripping down his cheeks and the lump in his throat making all of his words come out hoarse. 

Price sits across from him, leaning on his desk like he doesn’t have the strength to hold himself up anymore. He rubs a hand across his face and wipes away the tears gathering in his eyes before they can fall. He clears his throat and answers carefully, “I needed you to understand your actions have consequences. You might not care about what happens to anyone, not even yourself, but you should. I know I shouldn’t have done what I did, but if I didn’t, you wouldn’t realize that until someone did die.” 

Simon can’t even bring himself to get mad like he usually would. Like he probably should. 

Price lied to him. He made him think one of his closest friends was dead and made him think it was his fault, and he can’t even be mad because the man isn’t wrong. If Alejandro did die, it would be entirely his fault. 

He’s been reckless and uncaring, and it’s hurting the people closest to him. 

It’s hurting the only family he has left.

“I don’t want anyone to die,” he whispers. “This team is all I have.” 

The realization rips through him like a knife, gutting him and spilling his insides- all of his biggest fears, all the emotions he’s tried to bury, all that remains of Simon Riley- onto the floor of Price’s office. 

He wraps his arms tighter around himself, trying to hold himself together, until his sore muscles burn. His head burrows into his knees, and he takes a shallow, shuddering breath.

A hand finds his shoulder, and it takes everything inside of him to not tense at the touch. 

“I put you in danger- I hurt you,” he mumbles breathlessly, and all of a sudden, he’s seven years old again and staring down at the boy he shoved over in the playground, confused why the boy is crying and not shoving him back. The other children stare at him like he’s a monster. The teacher stares at him like he’s his father’s son. He doesn’t know which one’s worse. 

The grip on his shoulder squeezes comfortingly, and he lifts his head. His red-rimmed eyes search out Price’s, half-expecting to see the same fear in them. 

There isn’t. 

What he does find is concern. 

So much of it that he almost feels queasy. 

He’s only ever known love through violence, and he’s so used to being alone, so used to not having anyone give a shit about him. He doesn’t know how to be soft or gentle. He doesn’t know how to let people care about him. He doesn’t know how to do any of this. 

“This team is all that any of us have, Simon,” Price admits quietly, and Simon stalls at the honesty. The older man has never been this vulnerable with him before. He knows nothing of the captain’s history or family beyond Nik, and for the first time since he met the man, he wonders if there’s a reason for that. Even quieter, Price confesses, “I couldn’t stand to lose a single one of you boys.” 

The words make Simon’s chest hurt. 

He knew Price cared. He could see it in the way he always put himself in front of them in the line of fire, always made sure they were armored up before him, always kept them supplied with weaponry. Even at base, he kept his eye on them, ensuring they took care of themselves. 

Hell, the man showed up in Las Almas with a fucking helicopter and no back-up besides Kyle. 

It was always obvious that he cared, but Simon never realized how much. 

As if he needs more proof, Price continues, “I’m not pulling you from the mission, not even after what you did today. I know how much you need to do this.” 

Simon takes the first deep breath he has in a while. “Thank you.” 

Price nods and gives his shoulder one last squeeze. “Just… just try to be more careful, son. Think a little harder about your decisions. We’re family; we're supposed to take care of each other.” 

“I will.” 

~*~

To say Gaz feels like shit would be the understatement of the century. 

He grunts and peels his heavy eyelids open- and pinches them shut once more immediately. The lights, fluorescent and angry, burn like a bitch and bring back the headache lingering around the edges of his brain full force, making him groan. 

The lights flip off seconds later, and he rasps his thanks. 

It takes a long time for him to open his eyes after that, mainly because he’s fighting to get the pain in his head under control, and when he finally does, the world around him darkens dangerously and rocks like he’s on a ship. His stomach protests the sight, twisting itself in knots and sending bile up his throat. He takes careful breaths because he doesn’t want to push himself over the edge and puke- and because anything deeper than that feels like someone lit his lungs on fire. 

Once the world stills to a manageable level, Gaz takes count of his surroundings. 

He’s in a white bed with a shitty white sheet tangled around him. Bandages are strung around his forearms, and an IV is poked into his arm. 

“The fuck ‘m I?” he mutters, half-slurring his words. He goes to rub his eyes and finds the movement takes so much more effort than it should. His muscles whine, and his skin itself feels stiff beneath the wraps. 

“Medical,” a gravelly voice supplies, cutting through the ringing in his ears. It takes all of the energy he has left to lift his eyes to find the source of the voice. In front of him stands a blond man, thick arms crossed over his chest, a sandwich bag dangling from his right hand. Gaz stares at him for a long time; his eyebrows pinch in confusion. “You passed out on the helo, and your dads carried you here.” 

He recognizes the voice before the face: Ghost, maskless. 

“Dads?” His throat cuts itself on the word, and his eyes water as he tries not to cough. 

“Price and Nikolai,” Ghost supplies teasingly, and it takes longer than it should for his brain to make sense of the sounds assaulting his ears- and even longer to put faces to the names. Long enough that Ghost’s face pulls into concern. “You still with me, Garrick?”

Gaz hums after a second, but it’s a second too late for the other man’s liking. He’s silent for a second, lost deep in thought, before he asks, “Do I need to get a medic?” 

The sergeant shakes his head and immediately regrets it. A hiss slips through his lips as the world spins once more and his stomach lurches dangerously. His dormant body finally fully wakes up, reminding him not so kindly that he was literally almost blown up by a grenade.

Ghost takes one more glance at the hallway, like he might go grab a medic anyways, but he stays put. He leans against the wall behind him and asks, “How are you feeling?” 

“Shit.” 

“You have a way with words, sergeant.” 

Gaz snorts. Wasting energy he really shouldn’t, he adds, “Gettin’ blown up fucken sucks.” 

“Pretty sure that’s the general consensus, yeah.” A teasing grin plays on Simon’s lips, and Gaz returns it easily in spite of everything. 

“Shut up, asshat. You gon’ stand there like a dumbass or sit down?” he asks, using up the last of the energy he has left. His eyes drop closed once more, but he fights to keep himself from slipping away.

Simon laughs, the noise echoing in the quietness, drawing a dopey smile onto Gaz’s face. 

Something drops into his lap, and Kyle’s eyes pull open to find a paper bag on his lap. Simon took his invitation in stride, having dragged the plastic guest chair right up next to his bed and flipped it around to sit on it backwards. He leans over the top of the chair, propping his head up with one arm. 

He stares at the bag in his lap; his mind refuses to compute what it could be. 

“Figured you’d like this more than hospital food,” Simon explains and leans over and tips the bag upside down. Out falls a sandwich wrapped in white deli paper. The smell is heavenly. “You’re probably too nauseous to eat, but you should.” 

He unwraps the sandwich with stiff fingers and can’t help the grin that breaks across his face.

“Is this Greggs?” 

Simon nods. “Your favorite.” 

“You are a saint among men,” he praises. Nausea be damned, he eats like he hasn’t had a meal in days. About halfway through, though, it catches up with him, and he has to tuck the sandwich bag into the bag before the sight of it makes him lose what little food he just ate. Sandwiches from Gregg’s are godly, but he doesn’t think they’d taste too good the second time. 

Food- even just half of a sandwich- does wonders for him. The tiredness lingering finally dissipates enough that he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out at any second, and it finally kicks his mind into gear to really process what’s going on. 

“What happened?” he asks, his memories still foggy. 

“Mission went south for a minute there.” 

Gaz hums, sure that it’s the biggest understatement he’s ever heard. He vaguely remembers anger stronger than he’s ever felt it, making him reckless and vicious. He remembers being thrown against a wall and waking up to Price above him, the man looking more worried than he’s ever seen him.

Everything after that is a blur. 

Simon fills in the blanks, telling him what he managed to gather from Price and Laswell. 

As the man talks, his memories come back. 

He and Price fighting their way out of the base, collapsing into the grass just outside. Bandaging Price up, the helicopter landing, and thanks to his adrenaline wearing off, being all but carried onto the helicopter by Laswell and Nikolai. The last thing that comes clearly to him is being propped up into one of the helicopter seats, Price’s voice fading as he tries to ask him questions and keep him awake. 

“You scared the shit out of Price- ‘bout gave the man a heart attack,” Simon tries to joke, but there’s no humor in his words. His eyes drop from Gaz’s, and he stares at the bed, smoothing the white sheet out repeatedly with his hand. Carefully, he explains, “You had a seizure and passed out.” 

Gaz grunts in confusion and looks at Simon, expecting the man to be pulling a very fucked up prank, but he isn’t. 

“A seizure? Why?” 

“Nasty concussion you’ve got,” Simon reminds him as if the man could ever forget thanks to the pounding headache still lingering. “Price didn’t know if you’d pull through, but you’re a fighter.” 

Being that close to death and not even knowing it is sobering. 

He can’t even begin to imagine how terrified Price was- how terrified he probably still is that he’s going to lose him. 

Just like he lost Soap.

The thought catches him off guard, and he almost throws up when he realizes that he completely forgot they lost the sergeant- they lost him for good. No rescue mission will ever bring him back; there is nothing he can do to bring him back. There’s nothing anyone can do. 

Grief hurts him more than any grenade ever could. 

He pinches his eyes shut as they start to burn with tears. 

“Gaz, you broken?” The amount of panic in Simon’s voice breaks him into shambles. The man just lost the love of his life, and here Gaz is, just putting him through more hell. 

“Sorry- sorry. Just can’t believe he’s dead,” he mumbles, his words more slurred than ever. 

“Who?” Panic turned to confusion, Simon’s eyebrows furrow. “Who’s dead?” 

It’s Gaz’s turn to be confused. “Soap?”

Simon stares at him for a long time. It’s almost as if the man is trying to see inside of his mind, to see what he’s thinking, before he finally answers, “This you or the concussion talking, sergeant?” 

“Me,” he responds even though he’s not really sure.

Realization crosses Simon’s features, and he takes a shaky breath, tears gathering in his own eyes. “He’s not dead.” 

“What..?” 

“You must’ve passed out before we got there- and I guess no one told you anything- but Johnny’s not dead. We’ve got the man who took him in custody. Price, Nik, and Laswell are working right now to get a location out of him. We’re going to get him back.” 

Relief makes Gaz sob, and sobbing sets his body on fire with pain, making him cry even more.

“He’s not dead,” he whispers, smiling through his tears. He knew Soap was too stubborn of a bastard to die. He voices as much, and Simon laughs wetly. 

“He’s not dead,” Simon echoes. 

~*~

Johnny wishes he was dead. 

When he peels his eyes open again to find the sun has risen once more, he considers giving in to the darkness hanging over him like a cloud. Giving up. Rolling over and dying. 

But he can’t. 

For once, God showed him favor, and instead of nightmares or hallucinations, his night was full of dreams of Simon. Dreams of the man holding him and kissing him and doing all the things they never got to do- things he doesn’t think they’ll ever get to do. 

But maybe if he keeps fighting and holds on for a little longer, they could. 

The mud on and around him has dried, making it harder than it should be to peel himself out of the earth. It sticks to his clothes and tempts him to lay back down, but he gets up anyway. He’s shaky on his feet, but at least he’s on his feet. That’s got to count for something. 

Since he refuses to die, he decides he might as well try to live. 

Soap isn’t a stupid man. He’s a sergeant, and he’s got at least some sense of self-preservation, though he might not act like it most of the time, so he has a vague idea of what he needs to do. Plus, for once, those stupid survival seminars Price puts them through sometimes are going to come in handy. 

Water is the most important thing. He needs to find clean water before he becomes too dehydrated, and after that, he needs a source of food that won’t kill him. Then, he needs to find civilization- and by extension, a hospital. After that, it’ll be a breeze, contacting Price with the emergency number he’s got memorized, and he can finally go home. Easy peasy. 

Finding water takes longer than it should, mostly because every step he takes threatens to send him back to the ground. 

About five minutes and thirty feet later, he decides crawling would be faster. There is no dignity in it, but luckily for him, there are no witnesses as he shuffles awkwardly forward on his hands and knees. He could only imagine the shit Gaz and Simon would give him. If- When he gets back to them, he already knows he’s going to leave out this part of the story.

It takes ten minutes of this, ten minutes of aching muscles threatening to give out with every movement, but he eventually stumbles upon a creek. 

Vaguely, he recalls some lesson on making sure water is safe to drink first, but any patience he has is quickly wiped out as he watches the clear water flow daintily downstream. 

His dignity already gone, he has no qualms about burying his mouth in the water and drinking straight from the stream. He drinks and drinks until his throat is no longer dry and his head doesn’t pound, and he doesn’t stop until his stomach starts to hurt. Then, he drinks some more anyway. 

Dropping into the grass next to the stream, he finds himself staring up at the sky once more, blue like Simon’s eyes, the man the only thing he can think of as his hands card listlessly through the blades of grass. 

He’s not going to die of dehydration. 

He’s not going to die. 

Chapter Text

Simon sticks around for a long time. 

He's settled into his chair by the sergeant's side with ease, now entirely unbothered by the too-white, unsentimental walls or the stench of lemon-scented disinfectant or the sight of sergeant bandaged up and exhausted. 

"Are you sure you don't want to rest?" he asks for the fifth time. 

Alright, maybe he's not entirely okay with the latter bit. 

"Rather talk," Gaz, half-asleep, replies. A yawn betrays him, but he clings to consciousness like a dog with a bone. "Tell me about the mission," he requests. Simon can't tell if he's genuinely curious or looking for a fucked-up bedtime story to fall asleep to. 

Simon obliges. He retells the entire mission from start to finish- even the parts that Gaz knows- but when it comes to meeting up the vaqueros, he stutters, his voice failing him. 

"What happened?" Kyle manages to peel his eyes open, searching his maskless face for clues. 

In a hushed voice, he admits his sins. 

He tells of how he left Rodolfo behind and dragged Alejandro forward without him, leading him to his death without so much as a second thought. He tells of how he almost considered leaving Alejandro once the man was shot, and how that thought didn’t go away once even as he fought his way through the entrance, the injured man in tow. How he almost let Alejandro get taken just to get information on Johnny. How he didn’t care to ask about him once until Price told him what had happened- how he still hasn’t visited the vaqueros.

 He expects Kyle, however exhausted he may be, to get pissed. He expects to be chewed out or even thrown out of his hospital room, the younger man's sense of right and wrong so much more sure and unwavering than his own. 

But all Kyle says is, “Simon.”

He sounds so disappointed that Simon almost wishes he would just yell at him. Anger is easier to bear than disappointment; he can shield himself from anger, shut it out. But disappointment always slips in through the cracks of his shield and freezes him from the inside out. It feels like someone turned the AC on- like he was shoved outside on a wintry night without so much as a warning or a coat. A shudder runs through his body, and when he breathes out shakily, he almost expects his breath to form clouds in the air. 

"I fucked up. I know," he whispers, his voice small and pleading. Arms hugging around himself, he wishes, not for the first time, that he had his mask back, so he could hide from this all. He's a good soldier, a damn good lieutenant, but he's a horrible man and a worse friend. 

When it comes to shit like this, he's useless. 

There's nothing he can do to save himself, no excuses or apologies good enough to fix what he did. He tries anyways, babbling aimlessly about how he didn't mean for this to happen. 

Kyle cuts him off, but instead of chewing him out like Simon expects- or maybe even hopes- he says, "You should visit them." 

Panic lances through him, originating from the still-pink scar on his chest and spreading through his aching body like poison. 

"I can't." He hugs his arms tighter around himself, eyes on the too-white floor. "They're going to hate me." 

"The longer you wait, the worse it's gonna be," Kyle argues back. He can't promise the vaqueros won't hate him because they both know it would be a lie. They're both damn-well familiar with Alejandro's exponentially growing anger- hell, the man still shit-talks Graves, the long-dead Shadow, for his betrayal, and what he did is preschool compared to what Simon did. 

There is nothing he can do to fix this. 

But with Kyle staring at him expectantly, his will bends. He mumbles a frail promise that he'll visit them soon. 

The sergeant, not quite satisfied but too tired to argue anymore, drops his head back down against his pillow. 

"They'll forgive you," he murmurs, his eyes lingering shut longer and longer every time he blinks. 

Simon hums, although he doesn't really believe him. 

~*~

Food.

Food is the next step in the equation of not dying.

Soap hasn’t eaten a real meal in months, but worse than that, he hasn’t eaten anything at all in a few days. He’s thinner than he ever has been, his body having used up all of its reserves during captivity. It doesn’t help that he lost a ton of muscle while being strapped to a chair for an eternity, leaving his entire body shaking with exertion at the simplest movements.

Getting some food in his body should help with that a little at least, giving him enough strength to keep moving instead of giving in to the darkness that lingers over him.

He shoves forward, half-stumbling, half-crawling to find food, careful to never lose sight of the river.

Thanks to Price’s survival courses, he mostly knows what sorts of plants he’s looking for, although the thought of eating plants alone makes his stomach rumble in protest.

He’d murder for a fucking cheeseburger.

Graves, before his betrayal, had offered to bring them back to America to see the Shadows’ base. He’d offhandedly mentioned a burger shop that promised the best burgers in America. Johnny doubted they’d really be any good: ridiculously drenched in grease, piled too high with toppings to even fit in his mouth, and paired with fries so salty that they’d clog his arteries on the spot. His mouth waters. He searches faster.

He blames the hallucination that’s been bothering him for the last few days.

Graves’s presence drags up all sorts of memories he thought he’d forgotten, especially the few good memories he’d thought were long-buried. He doesn’t know if they’re a blessing or a curse because every time his mind wanders to them, he can’t help the smile ghosting his face that doesn’t go away until his hazy mind reminds him Graves is a traitor.

Honestly, without the betrayal, he thinks they would’ve been friends.

And he hates that he even thinks that.

Even more, he hates that he almost misses the blond man. He hates the comfort the hallucinated version of him brings.

It’s fucked. It’s something he can hardly admit to himself, much less to the vaqueros or even to Simon. It’s something that will die with him.

Graves betrayed them, tried and decimated not only the vaqueros’ base but the surrounding village as well. He killed innocents, burned houses, and killed a lot of Alejandro’s soldiers. He even tried to kill Johnny himself.

And yet, his muddled mind can’t stop thinking of him as a friend. An ally. A brother in arms.

“You look like shit.”

Speak of the devil.

Graves walks beside his crawling form, watching him pathetically drag himself forward in search of food.

“I mean, honestly, this is just pathetic.”

“Don’t.”

What was meant as a growl comes out as a whimper instead, and Soap misses the next hand he puts down, face-planting into the grass, only further proving the Shadow’s point. He lays down and rolls onto his back, ignoring the twinge in his chest that follows.

Graves plops down next to him and watches him with an almost bored expression.

Soap ignores the weight of his eyes and instead focuses his attention upwards. It doesn’t seem so bad to lay here, green grass cushioning his body, the gentle trickling of the stream not too far away, miles and miles of open sky above him. It’s not a bad place to die at all.

Maybe he will.

Maybe he’ll finally stop fighting so hard and just rest.

He has people waiting for him: his mom, old military buddies, his childhood dog.

Maybe even Phillip.

“You’re really giving up that easily?” bites the latter, his words lacking their usual poisonous tone. “Thought you were better than that.”

“Thought you were better, too,” Soap argues back, no venom in the words. There should be, he should be pissed, cursing out the Shadow, but he can’t bring himself to scare off the only company he has, even though the company is the hallucination of a dead enemy. “Both disappointed.” His eyes slip closed, a hand coming up to rest over the wound in his chest. Warmth pools beneath his palm. He doesn’t even need to lift his hand to know what it is. Blood.

“Keep fighting, Soap,” Graves pushes.

Exhaustion brings tears to his eyes, real tears now that he’s not dangerously dehydrated. A sob wracks through his body.

“‘M tired. Cannae fight ‘nymore.”

He’s dying.

This is what he wanted, but now that it’s happening, he can’t help the terror squeezing him.

“I wan’ Si,” he pleads, babbling and begging like the Shadow might magically summon his love.

A low whistle cuts through his cries, followed by a disgustingly familiar voice, one thought he blew up in a tank, one whose echo has been his company for days.

“Goddamn Soap MacTavish.”

Footsteps approach his broken body. Twigs and grass blades are crushed beneath heavy boots.

A figure stands before him. The sun blocked out, Johnny shudders at the sudden coldness.

“You look like shit, sergeant.”

A hand finds Johnny’s shoulder, shaking him, drawing a whimper from his lips.

“Rise and fucking shine, MacTavish,” comes the order, the words purred.

Even dying, Johnny knows how to follow orders.

Looming above him, blond head haloed by the sun, is another man he thought long dead.

Graves, alive and in the flesh.

Johnny wails. 

~*~

Phillip Graves is dead. 

At least, that's what his records say. What his enemies believe. 

The thought is enough to make him laugh every time he remembers it. 

It was his own idea, one he takes full credit for, the perfect solution to ending the Las Almas conflict without having to choose between surrendering or being entirely wiped out. 

And even beyond that, it's brought about quite a few perks never could've anticipated. 

First off, Kate Laswell and her European lap dogs haven't so much as sniffed his way since the tank explosion, leaving him to do whatever needs to be done without interference. Their lack of interest in his affairs has given him the chance to entirely reinvent the Shadow Company, to turn them into a well-oiled mercenary team with no room for weakness or doubt, finally achieving the perfect unit. 

Not only that, but it's brought in twice as many recruits as he's ever had in the past, all drawn in by the glory tale that Las Almas became- the official, released version anyways. They had to cut some things, like the house fires and some of the casualties, his Shadows having gone a little wild, but once the story was edited, his team became national heroes. And him, a man willing to sacrifice himself for what he believed in, a god. 

He's addicted to the awe in his recruits' eyes when they learn he's alive, having supposedly barely survived the tank explosion and chosen to stay hidden ever since to avoid the 'hard-hitting enemies' he made in Las Almas that 'threaten to destroy everything he was willing to sacrifice his life for.' 

And, best of all, since General Shepard shit the bed in Las Almas and- even before that- let unauthorized American missiles get taken, he hasn't had the power to pull in any other teams besides the Shadows nor the power to disband the paid military company. Graves and his team get twice as many missions now, doubling their winning streak and growing the Shadows' legend. 

Who knew that you had to die to live the best life possible?

His fight with the Konni, Russian ultranationalists with no regard for human life, has spread far past the borders of Al Mazrah. He finally got permission to take it straight to the source, landing him and his team in the Russian wilderness at a nondescript base swarming with Konni soldiers. 

"That's what I'm fucking talking about!" Graves shouts, dropping another Konni. Using more bullets and explosives than necessary, his men easily dwindle their ranks until there are hardly any left. A wild smirk pulls onto his face, pride for his soldiers flowing through his body and making him fight that much harder. "Let's finish this up, Shadows!" 

"Yup-yup," comes the chorus of replies, music to Phillip's ears. 

The fight doesn't last much longer.

His force is unbeatable, so much stronger than they were in Las Almas. 

If only the Task Force 141 and Los Vaqueros could see him now. 

He shoots, hitting his target with ease, and the last Konni falls. Whoops and cheers echo across the battlefield, his boys and him overjoyed at the victory, giddy that it comes so much easier than it used to. 

"Back to base, boys, and then drinks on me." 

If they were rowdy before, they're ten times louder at the prospect of alcohol, especially free alcohol. They all but run to the trucks, loading in with a speed they've never managed before. Graves snorts at the sight but loads in just as quickly. He can't wait to get back to base, take this heavy gear off, and shoot a couple shots back with his boys. 

Halfway to their air transportation's rendezvous point, he spots it. 

Or rather, he spots them. 

A body, splayed out near the creek, blood soaking grass. 

Graves frowns. They're miles away from the battlefield; there's no reason for a body to be all the way out here, much less a half-dead and bleeding out body. 

A wail echoes out, loud enough to be heard through the armored walls of the truck, and he stops the promenade without a second thought. His first thought is this being a trap, the supposedly-dying man bait for an ambush, so he sends all of the vehicles but his own on ahead without him. They oblige, much too concerned with celebrating to care about anything else. 

Phillip orders his men to stay inside and to drive like hell if shooting breaks out. He hops out, a chorus of yup-yups following him as he drops from the armored vehicle and jogs the short distance to the body. 

The person is muddy, dirtied past the point of recognition- or rather, they would be if not for the unmistakable mohawk. Graves only knows one man with a mohawk dumb enough to end up dying alone in the Russian wilderness. He closes the space between them, standing above the man to examine him. He's seen better days, his muscles atrophied and bruised, wrists and ankles raw and red, blood pouring from a weeping, infected wound on his chest. Worst of all, he's sobbing and whimpering and babbling something unintelligible. He's pathetic. 

Getting closer, Graves lets out a low whistle at the state of him. 

"Goddamn Soap MacTavish," he murmurs, almost unable to believe the man in front of him is the same one that survived a bullet to the shoulder and came back twice as angry. He stands above him, arms crossed. "You look like shit, sergeant." 

When the only answer is more babbling and crying, he sighs and drops to his knees in the bloodied grass. His hand finds Johnny's shoulder, and he shakes him until the Scot whimpers. 

"Rise and fucking shine, MacTavish," he orders. 

There are a lot of responses he expected- maybe angry shouting or bewildered silence. Being cursed out or spat at. 

What he doesn't expect is for the sergeant to wail, high and loud like a dying animal. 

in all the time he knew him, which albeit wasn't long, he had not once heard the sergeant let out a pained noise, much less seen him cry. Even on the other end of his gun, odds hopelessly stacked against him and bleeding out from his shoulder, the sergeant still didn't shed a single tear. 

And yet, here he is now, sobbing and wailing so loudly that it startles the birds in the trees and sends the small, remaining troop of Shadows running to Graves's aide. 

The sound tugs on the last bit of humanity Graves has. The last bit of brotherhood left from when they fought side by side, not each other. 

Even on opposing sides, he could never fully hate the man, not when he was a damn good soldier and an even better man. He was serious about his offer for the Scottish man to join the Shadows, and he regretted every day that he let the man walk away. 

Maybe this is his second chance. 

A chance to prove the Shadows are worth joining, a better team than the Task Force 141, who have seemingly abandoned the sergeant to die alone in the wilderness. 

"Load him up in the truck and prep medical," he orders, and the Shadows nod, not hesitating to grab the broken man. Treating him like one of their own, they carefully carry him to the truck and lay him out on the floor. Phillip climbs in, kneels next to Soap, and calls to the front, "Get to the heli in five minutes or less, and you'll get one hell of a bonus."

The Shadow eagerly accepts the challenge, despite them still being ten minutes out, and floors it.

The truck lurches forward. 

~*~

Johnny whimpers, his chest spasming. 

He doesn't know where he is or who the voices swirling around him belong to, only that agony is flooding through his body stronger than it ever has in his entire life, and he wants nothing more than to give in to it. He just wants the pain to stop. 

Hands find his chest, shoving him down hard enough that his ribs groan at the pressure, ripping screams from his throat. His arms and legs jolt and jerk entirely on instinct, trying to search for relief. 

"Sergeant, stop!" comes the biting order, and Johnny howls as his body stills, far past his control. Even dying, Johnny follows orders. 

"Hurts- hurts ," he cries, praying to any god out there, praying to the hands on his chest, to make it stop. He's experienced nothing but pain for months, and he's just so tired of it. He just wants it to stop. "Jus'- jus' stop- please ." 

He wants Simon; he wants the blond's hands on him, holding him together, kissing him until the pain goes away. 

He wants Price; he wants the captain to tell him everything's going to be alright. He wants to believe him. 

He wants Gaz; he wants the younger man to make some stupid joke, to make him laugh even if it hurts, to share the burden on his shoulder. 

He wants Nik, and he wants Laswell, and he wants Rodolfo and Alejandro and-

He wants his family. 

"You're alright, sergeant," promises a voice from somewhere above him. It sounds far away, farther than a few feet, and he nods, his vision wavering. He feels like he's floating, like he's slipping. "C'mon, MacTavish, stay with us." 

Johnny would like to, he really would, but he's not strong enough. 

"Dammit, Tav, I-- medical-- faster--"

Chapter Text

The door stands before him. 

Impenetrable, unrelenting, indestructible. 

It’s the worst enemy Simon Riley has ever faced, and it can’t even hold a fucking gun. 

His hand is frozen an inch above the wood, unable to knock, because if he knocks, someone will answer. If someone answers, that means he’ll have to go inside, and if he goes inside, that means he finally has to face the wrath of the vaqueros. 

He’s been busy for the last two- almost three days since they captured the Russian. He’s been scrounging for details, something to break the man, all the while begging Price to let him get in on the torture. The man refused every single time, telling him the best Simon could do right now is rest and find some leverage over their unnamed captive. On top of that, he’s been pouring over files with Laswell every available second, checking for anything the woman might’ve missed, filling in her missing details on what happened in the base. Even his lunch breaks have been put to use; he spends his half hour in Gaz’s room, bringing him food so he doesn’t have to deal with the shitty hospital food or the boredom incurred by being stuck on bedrest. 

And he just… 

The vaqueros needed time to rest, to recuperate, and Simon…

There’s no sugar-coating, no honorable way to say it. He’s been avoiding them. Even with Gaz and Price’s encouragement, he still can’t face the consequences of his decision to keep going when Price ordered them not to. He can’t look at his two friends in hospital beds, knowing he put them there, knowing he almost got them killed. 

It doesn’t help that there’s still some tiny part of him whispering that he did get Alejandro killed, and Price only told him he was alive to shut him up. 

He glances down the hall. If he pulls his mask back on and walks away, no one would know, and he could go back to burying himself alive in papers and worry. He could keep pretending nothing’s wrong. He could…

Before he can talk himself out of it again, he knocks. 

“Entra,” comes the quiet command. 

Simon follows the order, and he really, really wishes he hadn’t. 

The two vaqueros' beds are pushed together, and they’re cuddled up in the middle. Alejandro is alive but asleep, his good leg tossed haphazardly across Rudy’s, his arm underneath his head. The smaller man is turned to press entirely into Ale’s side, his bandaged arm- not caring how much it hurts or how much effort it took to move it there- loosely around his waist and his face burrowed in his neck. 

He lifts his head when Simon enters. 

He stares at him for a long while, silence growing between them like a chasm forming. His expression remains unreadable. 

Simon has half the mind to take a step back towards the door. “Sorry if I-” 

Alejandro mumbles in his sleep, and Simon cringes. He put them there, and he can’t even let them fucking rest. The colonel’s muscles tense, a frown pulled onto his face. He shifts closer to Rudy and turns his head towards the shorter man, protecting him even in his dreams.

“Detente- stay,” Rudy murmurs, eyes not leaving Alejandro’s sleeping form. 

As Simon settles awkwardly into a chair near their bed, Rudy hums a quiet tune and runs his hand over Ale’s chest, soothing him, protecting him even as he sleeps. 

The movement is jerky and makes Rudy’s face screw up in pain, and yet, he does it anyways. He waits until Ale calms, his breathing evening out and his muscles relaxing, before he lets his arm still once more. There’s silence once more.

“Did I wake you?” Simon has half the mind to ask. It’s a cop-out, an easy start to a conversation that will turn difficult much too soon. 

“Would you care if you did?” Rudy answers back, turning the conversation difficult much earlier than Simon had hoped. His voice carries the weight of many sleepless nights- even before the mission put him in that bed- and many more worries that don’t leave just because he’s out of commission. 

Simon flinches at the words. 

Alejandro’s anger, he’s used to. He’s seen it countless times on the battlefield. Hell, he even saw it on the field right before the man was shot. It’s explosive, volatile, uncaring in who or what it consumes. It’s a forest fire. 

Rudy’s anger is much more rare, much more controlled, and it hurts so much worse. 

“I’m sorry,” he offers. The smell of antiseptic burns his nose; his head and chest ache at the much-too familiar scent. 

“Are you?” Rudy counters back. He opens his mouth to add something else but bites his tongue. Even when he has every right to lash out, he still has better control over his anger than Simon. 

“I never meant for this to happen.” 

Rudy doesn’t answer for a long time, long enough for Simon to wonder if he fell back asleep or at the very least is too tired to continue the conversation. Guilt builds once more, so Simon pushes to his feet to leave. As he does, though, Rudy speaks, “He died twice… His heart stopped beating twice.” His voice, hardly above a whisper, echoes like a gunshot in the quiet room. He turns to meet Simon’s eyes, and Simon feels like he’s been shot when he sees how absolutely wrecked the vaquero looks. His chest aches, and not just because of the mostly healed laceration on it. 

“I know,” Simon answers back weakly. He can’t bring himself to explain how Price told him, how easily he believed his captain’s lie.

Rudy’s eyes are back on Ale, studying the man, memorizing the way he looks. “He hasn’t fully woken up, not even once. His eyes open, maybe he smiles, but that’s it. I just miss him; I want him back, awake and happy and not in pain.” The dam breaks. Rudy’s tears start streaming down his face. He shifts to gently lean his forehead against Alejandro’s, mingling their breaths together, proof that they’re both still alive.

“I know.”

Rudy pulls away and moves, with a wince, to cup Ale’s face with his hand. He runs his fingers over his cheek and through the stubble on his chin.

“I want to be angry at you. I want to scream at you until you leave this room and never come back.” Rudy finally looks at him once more. Simon expects anger, but there isn’t any, at least not any he can find. As if he wants to be punished, he searches every inch of the vaquero’s face for it. Anger- he knows anger; he deserves anger. He was raised with it, born of it, and lives with it. Rudy continues, “But I can’t.” 

Simon’s breath stutters at the words, bringing tears to his own eyes. 

“Why?” he asks breathlessly. 

Rudy sighs. “Because if Alejandro was taken like that, I’d do the same thing.” He watches Ale’s chest rise and fall with slow, even breaths, greedily drinking in the image like a drowning man. “Cristo, he was taken by Graves for barely a day, and I still tore them apart for it with the same anger you have. I can’t even imagine it being weeks.” 

“Months,” he cuts in, his voice gravelly. “It’s been three months.” 

The reminder threatens to snap his heart in half. Three months without Johnny- a whole season, a whole chapter of their lives apart in which they’ve both become entirely different people for vastly different reasons. 

God, would Johnny even recognize the person he’s become?

Would he recognize Johnny?

“Lo siento, hermano.” Rudy gently draws him from his thoughts, his voice low and sympathetic. “I can’t even imagine…” 

“You should be mad.” The words spill out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he’s not sure if it’s Simon Riley, the lieutenant and member of the 141, looking for a change of subject or Simon Riley, the kid terrified of going home because his dad was waiting for him, begging for what’s familiar. “You said you weren’t mad- you said you couldn’t be- but you should be. I’m the reason you’re here- the reason Alejandro almost died.” 

Rudy almost seems surprised by him. “I blame you for what you did and where it led us, but I can’t condemn you for it, not when I’d make the same choices you did.”

Simon barely manages to stop himself from pleading with the man to yell at him until Rudy does finally get pissed off. His dad is dead- has been for years- and he’s not a child anymore. Insead, he says, “If it was Ale, I’d be right by your side, just like Las Almas. I’d help you tear the world apart to find him.” 

“I know.” 

Simon finds he can breathe a little easier now, the smell of antiseptic be damned and the craving to be on the receiving end of anger gone. 

“Any word of Soap?” 

He shakes his head. “None that Price will tell me.”

“We’ll find him, hermano.” 

Tears well up in his eyes once more- not because of Rudy’s promise. He’s heard the words from a dozen different people, and they’ve lost all their meaning. It’s not even because Rudy’s comforting him while he himself lies in a hospital bed. 

It’s because Rudy called him hermano. He didn’t think he’d ever get that, get the privilege of being called his brother again. 

“Thanks.” 

Rudy hums, and they fall into a much more comfortable silence, one full of the quiet beepings of heart monitors and soft, even breaths. 

“He’s going to be pissed, you know,” Rudy says eventually. It’s meant to be light, teasing, but it rings close enough to the truth that it’s Simon’s turn to wince. 

“Yeah, I know.” He looks at Ale, really looks at him for the first time since he entered the room, finally studying the man instead of avoiding him. He looks like shit, pale and bruised and exhausted, his hair stuck to his forehead with dried sweat and grease. Guilt eats at Simon. 

“But he will forgive you.” Rudy offers him a smile. “Eventually.”

Simon gives him a weak smile in return. 

Ale stirs in his sleep as if he knows they’re talking about him, and Simon freezes, but the man just pulls Rudy closer and settles once more. Rudy turns and presses a gentle kiss to the man’s forehead, and the last bit of stubborn tension in Ale’s body finally leaves. 

Simon watches them, trying in vain to not give into the jealousy welling up in his heart. He shifts to stand, to walk off the negative feelings starting to build, but Rudy stops him. 

“Queda, you can stay. Relax a little,” he offers, knowing the man needs rest and relaxation as much as any of them. The vaquero doubts he’s given himself so much as a minute to do so in months, even long before Johnny was taken. 

The taller man glances to Ale’s sleeping form. “I don’t want to interrupt.” 

“Interrupt what?” Rudy laughs softly. “He’s sleeping, and I’m bored.”

Simon remembers his own hospital stay not that long ago. It felt like an eternity, unbearably long. If not for the constant company of Price and Laswell as well as visits from Gaz and the vaqueros, he would’ve lost his mind. 

At the very least, he owes Rudy this. He stays. 

Rudy smiles. 

Simon returns it with ease. He never thought he’d see that again either. 

They talk quietly, Rudy’s whispers louder than Simon’s because he knows Ale can sleep through pretty much anything. 

Simon can’t help worrying about what’ll happen when they run out of things to talk about, but that never happens. They’ve got a lot to catch up on, considering it’s been months since he last saw them, and after he’s caught Rudy up on the 141’s business, Rudy talks about the vaqueros. He doesn’t mention much about any of their fights, more focused on the soldiers’ personal lives. The vaqueros share in each others’ small victories just as much as their big ones. 

As they talk, Rudy settles closer and closer to Ale. Little yawns keep sneaking in around his words, but he seems determined to stay awake. 

Eventually, once a yawn cuts him off mid-sentence, Simon comments, “You should get some sleep.” 

“I’ve been sleeping for two days,” Rudy counters lightheartedly. “I prefer this.” 

Simon doesn’t blame him. Once he woke up, he only slept when Price or Laswell forced him to or a nurse intervened, threatening to kick both of them out if he didn’t sleep. 

He mentions as much, and Rudy chuckles. “Maybe you’re the one who should sleep.” 

The offer is much more tempting than Simon thought it’d be. Rudy catches this and, with kindness Simon doesn’t deserve, offers, “You can sleep if you want.” 

Simon hums and sprawls his lanky body across the chair. His legs dangle over the armrest, the toes of his shoes barely touching the floor. He props his head up in one hand and lets the other one drop across his torso lazily. 

“The vaqueros took bets, you know,” Rudy mumbles, his head lulling until it rests against Ale’s. His lips quirk up in a small smile at the memory. 

“Hmm?” Simon blinks his eyes open and lifts his head to look at the half-asleep vaquero. 

“We took bets,” he repeats teasingly, “on how long it’d take you two to realize you loved each other.” 

Simon blushes furiously, dropping his head into his hands. “Was it really that obvious?” 

“They’ve seen it before,” Rudy reminds him, grinning from where he rests, nestled into Alejandro’s side. Grinning wider, he asks, “Have you kissed yet?” Simon’s cheeks grow redder; it’s all the confirmation the vaquero needs. “Private Lopez owes me three hundred pesos. Have you-”

Simon cuts him off with a groan, his cheeks flaming. “Go to sleep, Rudy.”

The man snorts a laugh. “Tú también, hermano. Sleep well.”

For the first time in a long time, Simon does. 

Hours later, when he manages to pull himself into the waking world once more, he finds a thin sheet thrown over his sprawled out body, brought in by a medic at some point. His back aches at the odd position he slept in, and when he sits up, his spine pops with a wince. He stretches out, groaning. 

The room is quiet, and morning light is barely peeking through the curtains.

He must’ve slept for at least ten hours- more than he’s slept in years- and it leaves him groggy. Sleep still tempts him, and he’s caught off guard by how much he just wants to curl up and let himself slip away once more. As a man plagued by nightmares his whole life, he doesn’t ever remember feeling this way. 

Alejandro is still asleep, and Rodolfo has finally joined him, quiet snores slipping from his lips. He’s curled impossibly closer to him, his face buried in the man’s chest. Ale’s migrated closer, too, his body turned as much as it can be towards the smaller man without aggravating either of their injuries. 

God, he wishes that was him and Johnny. 

But at least they have a lead now, meaning soon, it very well could be him and Johnny in bed, cuddling and kissing and holding each other. Simon closes his eyes, the ghost of a smile on his face as he pictures Johnny in his arms. The man would tease him endlessly for being such a sap, but Simon wouldn’t care a bit as he stares into those beautiful baby blue eyes and presses kisses all over him. 

Shoving to his feet, Simon breaks himself out of his reverie with a long exhale. 

The vaqueros need rest, and he needs to catch up with Price to see if the man found out anything. Plus, he should probably pop in to see how Gaz is doing, considering the man is supposed to be getting discharged today- and it wouldn’t hurt to check in with Laswell and Nikolai. He hasn’t heard from either of them since the mission. And a meal wouldn’t sound too bad, either. 

His stomach growls loud enough that he’s surprised it doesn’t wake up Ale or Rudy. 

Scratch that: food first.

He grabs the blanket he was using, and with a sniper’s precision, carefully drapes it over the sleeping men without making either one of them so much as stir in their sleep. 

Finding himself at the door, he gives one last glance at the vaqueros, letting himself memorize the image, reminding himself that they’re alive and healing and together. They’ll be okay. And so will he. 

It’s much harder to leave than it should be. 

He’d give anything to sit back down in that hospital chair, however uncomfortable, and enjoy the ambience. He could leave his mask off for a little longer and let himself just be. Maybe he’d sleep. Maybe he’d watch over the vaqueros, protecting them from nightmares so for once they don’t have to protect each other. Maybe he’d exist, as their friend, not as their lieutenant. Not as Ghost, one of the most feared soldiers in the world, one whose reputation precedes him everywhere he goes, one who puts his friends in danger without a second thought. Not as Simon Riley either, a broken man that leaves claw marks wherever he goes because he can never love gently. 

No, he’d just be a man visiting his friends. 

But men like him don’t get that choice. 

Despite what his heart begs for, his body and mind alike plead for him to move, to do something that doesn’t involve sitting or god forbid sleeping, to do something to find Johnny. 

And so, he grabs the handle of the door and turns it quietly. 

Waiting on the other side of the door is John Price himself, his fist hanging in the air as though he were about to knock. 

“Ale and Rudy are-” 

Price cuts him off with a tackling hug; he throws his arms around him so fiercely that it almost takes both men down. The older man laughs breathlessly and squeezes the younger one close. 

“We found him." 

Chapter Text

Johnny startles awake, adrenaline dragging his body up into a sitting position. His hand comes up to clutch at his racing heart, sending flares through his veins with every too-fast beat. He claws at his skin, like he might be able to maul through it to grab the organ and stop it from slamming against his ribs. 

Something beeps angrily off to his side, and he hisses as the noise hits him like an elbow to the temple. 

His other hand, the one not leaving scratches on his skin, comes up to tear through his still-too long hair, gathering it into a fist and pulling it taut against his scalp. 

“Come on, MacTavish,” he growls to himself, voice tight with panic. “Come on.” 

He shoves oxygen into his lungs and tugs even tighter at his hair until the panic finally subsides enough that his vision is no longer tunneling and his chest no longer hurts. Drawing in another ragged breath, he checks his surroundings like he’s been trained to. 

As far as he can tell, he’s in some sort of hospital or medical room, and it’s a hell of a lot nicer than the last one he woke up in. Gone are the ugly, stained and tattered curtains, instead replaced by boring and impersonal beige walls and… a window?

He studies the glass. It’s huge, taking up almost the entirety of the wall to his right. It must be a fake, a screen or something, meant to get his hopes up only to be destroyed once more. 

The sun shines outside; its rays dance lazily into his room. 

A screen. It’s got to be a screen. 

He lifts his arm, the appendage trembling with effort, and shoves it into where the light appears to be. 

The rays bend around him, caressing his cold, stiff skin gently, like someone brushing their fingers over his skin. His fingers close wildly, like he might be able to grab a hold of the light and feel it like a hand in his. 

He misses Simon. 

His eyes well up, and whatever little strength he had left leaves. 

He collapses back onto the hospital bed he’s been laid in- it’s a real hospital bed, one with fresh, white sheets that smell faintly of lavender detergent and lemony antiseptic. Someone even took the time to tuck him beneath the thin blanket, and there are even pillows beneath his head, a comfort he’d long forgotten existed. 

Further examining the room, he finds a desk with a chair in the far corner, papers curiously spread across it, the only hints he can find that he’s had any visitors. Another table, this one on tiny wheels, is pushed up against the wall to the left of his bed. A black tray sits on it, waking Soap’s stomach up with the promise of food. God, he hasn’t eaten anything in far too long.

The only thing keeping him sustained is the saline IV hooked into his arm

Its stand, as well as a dozen other machines, crowd the space between the mobile table and his bed. The beeping finally starts to slow: a heart monitor. This one beeps so much more gently, softer and steadier than the other one he was hooked up to. 

On the other side of his bed is a chair meant for guests, bathed in sunlight. It’s one of those plastic ones that are easy to clean but impossible to get comfortable in. Must be a universal thing to have terrible guest chairs. Soap would know; he’s spent more than his fair share of time in them.

Wherever he is, it’s definitely not with the Russians. 

“Damn good to see you up, Soap,” calls a familiar voice, one that belongs to a certain blond man. He stands in the doorway to his room, but it isn’t the blond man Johnny wants to see. In fact, Johnny thinks he’d rather take the Konni. 

He regrets waking up. He should’ve died in that forest. He should’ve died in that cell. 

He should’ve died in that fucking house. 

Johnny turns his head away from him and pinches his eyes shut. “You’re not real,” he whispers. “You’re not real. You’re not-” 

“Not happy to see me, Tav? And here I thought we were friends.” 

His eyes snap open to find Phillip Graves now sitting in the chair next to his bed- too close- too close - 

Graves huffs and barely manages to not roll his eyes. “Calm down- that’s an order. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack- or go into cardiac arrest again . ‘Sides, I brought you a peace offering.” He crosses the room- the distance finally allowing Soap to breathe easier- and pulls the wheeled table over, setting it up before him. He tugs the lid off of the tray to reveal a steaming bowl of soup. “Actual food. Looks like you could use some.” 

He stares at him. Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to eat it. It’s probably poisoned or drugged or-

The American grumbles a quiet curse. He nudges the table a little closer and leans over- Soap flinching- to stir the soup. The scent fills the room. His mouth waters, and Johnny finds he could cry. 

Poisoned or not, he doesn’t care anymore. 

Fighting his stiff muscles, he snatches the spoon from the blond and shoves it into his mouth. 

Cry he does. 

Tasting food, good food, brings tears to his eyes. The soup, albeit a bit bland and too thin for his taste, is the best thing he’s ever eaten. Forgoing the spoon, he brings the bowl itself to his lips and drains it in under a minute, not caring at the way his stomach- not used to food- cramps at the intrusion.

Graves talks as he eats, not that Soap listens. He drones on and on about his Shadows and some mission in Russia that he could care less about. 

Johnny sets down the bowl. His head a little bit clearer now that he’s got food in him, he cuts through Graves’s story. Bluntly, he asks, “How are you alive?” 

Phillip smiles, and once again, Johnny can’t help but remember a time where that was a good thing. He bites down the warm feeling that threatens to form in his chest. They’re not friends; Graves saving him means nothing compared to what he did to the vaqueros and their home. 

“Well, I wasn’t in that tank.” 

He wasn’t in that tank-

He wasn’t-

He sucks in a deep breath, catching a hint of something woodsy, and suddenly, he’s back in that goddamn forest, bleeding out as Graves stands above him, mocking him and cutting his stitches. His chest aches. His hand flies to hold the wound, half-expecting blood to pool beneath his fingers. The soup that was comfortingly filling only seconds ago turns unbearably stuffing, threatening to tear him apart at the seams. The bland taste in his mouth turns bitter, all of it threatening to come back up. He can’t breathe.

“-geant! Mac- Tav !”

Hands find his body, palms pressed to his chest and fingernails digging into his collarbones, and he goes deathly still. His muscles tense, body begging to escape, but he can’t move. A whimper falls from his lips. 

The hands migrate from his chest to his shoulders, squeezing them tight enough to ground him. 

“What the actual fuck, son? What the fuck happened to you?” 

“Don’t- don’t want to talk about it,” he rasps, his voice thick with tears. 

“That’s… okay,” Graves mumbles, eyes on him like he expects Johnny to go off again at any second, a ticking time bomb. “That’s- Jesus, that’s fine.” 

Johnny tries to collect himself. 

Graves tries to figure out how to respond. 

Eventually, he clears his throat and offers another peace offering: a subject change that is more than welcome. “I brought you some things- just some clothes. Figured you could use some new ones.” 

The clothes he’s got on are tattered to shit, so he accepts the bag Graves drops into his lap without much of a fight. He digs through it to find two pairs of sweatpants- not jeans, thankfully- boxers, and socks. Buried at the bottom are two shirts, both with the Shadow insignia on them. Everything except for the shirts still have the tags on them. 

“Didn’t really know your size, so if anything doesn’t fit, I can get it fixed for you.” 

“Thanks,” Soap mumbles, fingers running over the new, clean fabrics. The kindness was unexpected- all of this was unexpected. He never could’ve even guessed that Graves is alive, much less that he of all people would save him. Hell, he even brought him to a hospital instead of locking him up in a cell, and now, he’s giving him things. 

There’s got to be a catch. 

The Shadow settles deeper into his chair, leaning back and propping his feet up on Johnny’s bed, making himself entirely comfortable. He pulls a TV remote out of its holder on the side of his bed and starts clicking through the channels absent-mindedly. Not a single news channel comes through; they’re all dramas, kids’ cartoons, or telenovelas.

Eventually, he settles on some show Soap’s never seen before, one about a dog gaining the ability to talk after eating alphabet soup, and the two fall quiet.

Johnny can feel starting to fall asleep, and as much as he doesn’t want to sleep in front of the man who betrayed him, it’s a losing battle.

Just before he slips away entirely, Graves speaks up again, “Medics have you on bedrest for the next week at minimum, and then they wanna keep you for another week, maybe a week and a half, for observation.”

Too tired to control himself, a subconscious whine pulls from his throat.

“I want to go home,” he timidly requests.

“You will,” Graves responds with a shrug, his eyes never leaving the TV. “Just not for a while. I have to hash some things out with your captain first. My help doesn’t come for free.”

There’s the catch.

Whatever little bit of Soap was left dies.

He thought he was free, having escaped the Russians, but now, he’s a captive of the Shadows. They burned houses and murdered innocents in Las Almas; he can’t even imagine what they’ll do to him.

Graves cuts off his thoughts. “You’re not a prisoner here. Just an asset.”

“A bargaining chip,” he argues weakly around the lump in his throat.

“If that’s how you want to think of it.” The American shrugs, not able to deny what the Scot says. He is a bargaining chip, the one thing Phillip needs to get what he wants from the Task Force. “We won’t hurt you, though,” he adds after a minute, remembering the terror in the younger man’s eyes, the wail ripped from his lips when Graves found him. “You’re a guest here.”

“A guest that can’t leave,” he grumbles, his tone sour.

“That depends on Price.”

“What do you want from him?” He hates to ask, but he needs to know what his team is going to have to give up to get him back. He needs to know if he’s worth it, if they’ll agree. If he’ll ever go home again.

“Not your business,” Graves says, standing and stretching. He shoots a glance outside at the sun, still high in the sky, and clicks his tongue in his mouth. Turning back to Soap, he adds, “Your only concern is healing up.”

With that, the Shadow leaves Johnny alone.

~*~

“Miss me?” 

A voice Gaz never thought he’d hear again fills the room, and a face follows as the screen projected onto the wall finally comes into focus, revealing someone he thought they’d blown to bits in Las Almas. 

Graves.

Nikolai whispers a curse in Russian, and Laswell echoes it in English. 

“What the fuck?” Price grumbles beneath his breath, eyes wide like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. 

“Not quite the warm welcome I’d expected, boys. Where’s the party?” Graves pouts. His eyes glance over the four of them, counting each one like he’s striking their name off of a mental list. When he comes up two members short, he leans closer to the screen. “Simon and Johnny off keeping each other busy?” he suggests with a wolfish grin. 

“You should’ve stayed dead,” Gaz growls. He moves in his chair, the only one of the four seated at the meeting table thanks to his concussion. He was well enough to be released from medical all of twenty minutes ago, but now, he almost regrets pushing so hard to leave so early. He can hardly stay upright- hell, the four minute walk from medical to the meeting room would’ve landed him right back on bedrest if he hadn’t run into Nikolai and all but collapsed into the man’s arms. Now, he’s entirely dependent on the chair he’s in, an arm propped up onto the armrest working to keep his head up. 

He shifts to sit more upright, drawing a low warning from Price. The older man studies him, eyebrows raised with the promise that if he moves from that chair, he’ll be escorted out of the meeting and straight to his room. 

Gaz sinks back down, accepting the warning like a scolded child. He hates the relief that comes with the movement, hates how dependent he’s become on the piece of furniture, hates how his head doesn’t spin as much and his breaths come easier in this position. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. 

A hand finds his shoulder: Nikolai’s. 

He leans into the touch, needing it more than he should be to stay sat up, and Nik gives him a soft smile in return.

“Feeling a bit weak, Kyle?” Graves asks, cold curiosity in his voice. 

“Go to hell, Graves.”

“Oh, see that’s no way to talk to an old friend, brother.” His grin widens, stretching across his face, and Gaz finds he would love to wipe it off with more C4, considering it didn’t work the first time. 

“Don’t call me that!” Warnings- both from Price and his own body- be damned, he shoots forward onto his feet. He stumbles forward, the transition from sitting to standing that fast too extreme for his body. He sucks in a ragged breath, anger choking him and turning his sight black. 

Arms slink under his shoulders, hauling him to his feet and pressing him against someone’s chest before his knees can even hit the ground. 

Graves laughs, and Gaz tries to launch at his image on the screen once more, only for the arms around him to hold him back. 

“You don’t get to call me that, you mother- ” 

“Garrick,” Price cuts in, at his side in seconds. He drops a hand onto the younger man’s chest, his hand resting just inches above Nikolai’s strong arms. “Contain yourself, sergeant,” he orders only to be met with a barely-contained huff. Part of him wants to reach out and join his husband in hugging the younger man, to calm his anger and his worries, but the more logical part of him knows they’ve made enough of a show for Graves already. They can’t display any more weakness in front of the Shadow, lest he figure out Johnny is MIA and the rest of the team isn’t in fighting condition. God knows what he’d do with that information. 

He glances up to his husband, a silent conversation passing between them, and Nikolai nods back. 

“Come on, my brother.” His arms tighten, like he knows the sergeant is going to fight back. “Back to your room to rest, da?” 

And fight back he does. 

He squirms in Nikolai’s grip, wanting to escape, so he can keep spitting insults at Graves until his voice goes hoarse, to threaten him until the Shadow takes his threats seriously. He manages to sneak another look at the stupid American’s arrogant face still plastered across the screen, and anger flares through him so strongly that he wants to tell Price and Nik he’s not going anywhere. 

But he isn’t strong enough to break free, and he doesn’t have enough strength to keep fighting. 

He drops back against Nikolai, defeated. 

“Okay,” he agrees quietly. He lets the older man lead him away: out of the room, away from Graves, and towards his bedroom. 

Price watches the retreating forms of his friend and his husband with a heavy sigh. 

“What do you want, Graves?” It’s hard to keep his exhaustion from slinking into his voice. He wants nothing more than to be done with this. To have Johnny back safe and sound and mostly alright. To put down the guilt he carries, not only because of what happened with Soap but because of all of the thousand other ways he’s failed his boys. Letting Kyle get hurt, not doing more for Simon, ordering them to work with Graves in Las Almas despite his gut feeling saying the man wasn’t on their side. 

“Oh, it’s not what I want that concerns me- not yet at least. Figured we’d catch up first.” Graves loops his hands around the top of his tactical vest, squeezing the fabric between gloved fingers. There’s something in his expression Price can’t read but doesn’t like. “Where’s that other sergeant of yours?”

“Preoccupied,” Laswell is quick to answer. 

“I’d say.” There’s humor in the Shadow’s voice, warning signs of a laugh forming. 

“What does that mean?” 

The laugh finally comes, long and drawn out, leaving Graves pink in the face and wiping tears from his eyes. 

Anger drowns out Price’s exhaustion, sending him marching forward, closer to the screen. His hands itch to strangle the American, to wrap around his neck and squeeze until the life drains from his eyes. 

“What the fuck does that mean?”

"It means I've got something you want, and you've got something I want."

“Graves.” 

“How long has your sergeant been missing exactly?” Graves’s eyes dance between him and Laswell, the only two people left in the room, but neither of them can meet his eyes, much less answer him. “Oh, I found him, by the way. Dying in the Russian wilderness alone. An infected gash in his chest with some of the shittiest stitching I’ve ever seen, body bruised to shit. He was begging for death.” He leans forward onto the desk, getting even closer to the camera, close enough that Price can see the scar left when a bullet grazed his cheek and took a bit of his ear with it. “Kinda curious how your body ended up all the way out here. I’d like it if you filled me in.” 

“You have him?” Kate cuts in, desperation in her voice. 

“Maybe,” Graves responds. “Depends on what you’ve got to say.” 

Price rubs a hand over his face. “He was taken by Konni on an intel retrieval mission three months ago. Do you have him?”

“What was the intel?” 

“Classified.”

“Alright, if you’re going to waste my time…” Graves leans forward once again, like he’s going for the ‘end-call’ button. 

Kate blurts out, “A Konni base location.” 

“Kate.” Price stares at her, but she won’t look at him, her eyes glued to the Shadow. 

“We already took it down, but the files are yours if we can have the sergeant back. There’s more information on them, but we only concerned ourselves with the information we could use in the search for MacTavish.” 

“Mmm, tempting offer, but no.” 

“Give him back,” Price growls. His gun is up in seconds, pointed at the camera like he might be able to shoot Graves through it. Both he and Laswell wish he could. 

Graves sucks in a breath, clicks his tongue quietly, and presses his lips together into a thin line. “I don’t want the files. I want something else.” He drums his fingers on the desk before him, the noise echoing weirdly over the audio system and making Price jump. “I need help taking down a target. He’s buried deep in one of the largest Konni cells I’ve ever seen. My troops are larger, better than the last time you saw them, but this one is too big even for us. I need whatever man-power you can get me, your friends in Las Almas, Urzikstan.” 

“Who’s the target?” Price asks, hating how quickly he considers working with him again.

“Makarov.”

“That we can agree on: Makarov needs to be stopped,” Laswell says, trying her best to bridge between the two leaders. In all honesty, it wouldn’t be a terrible arrangement in her opinion. Yes, the Shadows betrayed them in the past, and yes, they have questionable morals, but they have men. 

And they have Johnny. 

And they don’t seem too keen to give him back without something in return. Better to fulfill this offer than for something with a higher price to be put on the table; she can only imagine what else Graves might try to ask for if they don’t give him this. 

“Kate.” 

“It’s mutually beneficial, John. We get our sergeant back, and we get reinforcements to take Makarov down.” 

“Fine.” 

Graves smirks, and John wants to call off the deal then and there. “Glad to be working with you again, captain.” He mockingly salutes. 

“Betray us again, and I will kill you.” 

Yeah, yeah. You tried that before. Didn’t work out too well.” The Shadow waves off the threat. “I’ll be in contact.” He moves to end the call. 

Kate stops him. “What about the sergeant?” 

“I’ll be in contact,” he repeats, and then, the screen goes blank. 

The agreement was the best possible outcome, their best opportunity to get the sergeant back without giving up anything beside their help. 

But then why does it feel like they just lost? 

“We’re getting him back,” he reminds himself half-heartedly, and Kate nods, shoulders drooping as all the tension is let out of them. She repeats the words, just as unconvinced as Price that the Shadow will hold up his end of the bargain. 

He stares at the black screen, losing himself in the darkness and in his own thoughts. If Graves doesn’t fulfill their arrangement, then at least they know the sergeant is alive and in better hands than the Russians. He wouldn’t kill Soap, not when he’s the best bargaining chip the blond could ever ask for, so the sergeant is safe- safer than he was. There's still a chance to save him. 

Price takes a deep, steadying breath and nods to himself. 

They’ll save him even if it means they have to kill Graves- especially if it means they have to kill Graves.

A smile breaks across his face at the thought.

“I’ll tell Simon.” 

Chapter Text

Simon is crying. 

He’s crying- bawling - and he can’t stop, and it’s fucking pathetic. 

Hands clenching the fabric of his captain’s shirt, he presses closer to Price. He’s clutched onto him like the older man is his lifeline, the only thing keeping him on his feet as a dozen different emotions and a thousand different thoughts ravage his body.

“He’s alive,” Price repeats for the third time, squeezing him until his ribs protest. His hands begin to work circles into the man’s tensed back, trying to relax the stiff muscles. “He’s alive.” 

He barely manages to choke down a wail at the words. Instead, a pathetic whimper escapes. 

More stern- some of that battlefield gruffness that Simon’s heard so many times in his voice- he says, “Simon. He’s okay. We’re getting him back.” 

Simon nods and draws in a ragged, hiccupping breath. 

“He’s alright,” he warbles. Bringing a hand up to his face, he scrubs his tears away. “I’m gonna fucking kill Graves. Gonna rip his goddamn spine out and beat him with it.” 

“I’d fucken pay to see that.” Price laughs wetly, and the noise startles him. Sure enough, there are tears welling up in the captain’s eyes, his breaths coming just as shaky as Simon’s. “You’ll get your chance.” He grins cheekily and adds, “We’re going to America.”

“To Johnny,” Simon breathes. His knees buckle, and he sinks to the floor. Price follows him and tugs him even closer, holding him until his muscles shake with the effort. A sob wracks his body. He’s trembling, his entire body shaking, tears burning paths down his cheeks once more. He inhales, lungs spasming, and croaks out, “I never thought I’d see him again. Thought he was gon’ die- thought he was already dead.” 

“He’s alive,” Price promises, willing to repeat the words as many times as he needs to for Simon to believe him. 

Simon nods jerkily. He takes a moment to steady himself before asking, “When do we leave?” 

The older man laughs again, a deep noise that makes the weight on the younger man’s chest easier to bear. “Tomorrow. Some business I’ve got to attend to first.” 

Simon wipes his eyes and laughs breathlessly. 

“I’m getting him back.” 

~*~

Farah sits on the edge of her roof, feet dangling over the edge.

A cigar, Price’s favorite brand, sits between her curled fingers, unlit. 

The beautiful night sky above her is the reminder she needs of her freedom and her victories. A pleasant breeze carries air free of lethal chemicals or the acrid scent of burning metal to her; it smells of food cooking and the flowers growing in pots around her. It’s quiet, the only noise being Alex’s quiet movements in the room just below her and the occasional bark of laughter that slips free from the people in the street below. 

She finds herself up here, alone with her thoughts, almost every night. 

It’s peaceful. 

Almost. 

Her phone, a tiny brick with an even tinier screen and fat, well-worn number keys, rings, breaking the night’s silence with a consistent and high-pitched beeping. 

On the second ring, she answers, “Price.” 

“Farah.” 

“You need me to fight,” she says, almost wishing she was wrong, but there aren’t many other reasons Price would call. As much as he likes to check in on her, he’s also a busy man. Not only that, but he wants to let her live her life as uninterrupted as possible, meaning this call is most likely a call of duty. 

“Only if you want to,” Price responds, his voice heavy. He sounds older, more tired than the last time she heard him. 

Farah sounds older, too, equally as tired. “There is no more war in Urzikstan. Many of my soldiers have retired and moved on with their lives. I cannot ask them to pick up their weapons again for a war that does not affect them. We have seen enough in our lifetimes.” She thinks of her sisters and brothers in arms, many of whom are finally starting families, no longer worried they will be torn apart by violence like hers was. Just today, one of her friends had come to her, eyes glowing, a hand draped across her belly and a wide smile on her face. 

Urzikstan is finally healing. They’re finally healing. 

She can’t let another war destroy that. 

“I understand,” comes Price’s response. He’s nothing but proud of her. She’s doing what’s best for her soldiers, finally giving them reprieve from the constant conflict and tension they’ve dealt with their whole lives. “I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t one of Graves’s demands.” 

Farah sighs. “I am sorry for your sergeant, but I cannot offer you my aid.” 

“Wasn’t expecting you to,” comes his cheeky response, easing the weight of the guilt she feels at saying no. “This is more of a formality than anything, so I can say I asked.” 

A small laugh bubbles out, one that Price echoes. She takes a deep breath, savoring the fresh air. 

“I cannot offer you my soldiers, but Alex and I can-” 

“No,” Price cuts her off immediately. “You and Keller stay. You’ve already helped us more than we could ever ask.” 

“I owe you my life,” she argues, and she does. A thousand times over. He saved her from Barkov and then helped her save her people, and that’s a debt she could never repay. But she could give him this. 

“Then best not waste it wielding a gun, yeah? If you need anything, you know how to find me. Stay on the high ground.” 

“You, too, captain.” 

The call ends, leaving her alone in the quiet night once more.

“You look tired,” notes a familiar voice, one that makes her smile. Alex settles onto the edge of the roof next to her, one foot and a prosthetic dangling over the edge. He gently tugs the cigar from her fingers and lights it for her, offering it back. 

“Price called me.” She takes back the cigar and pulls in a long drag. 

“Another fight?”

She shakes her head. “Not for us.” 

“Then why do you look so disappointed?” 

“You read me too well,” she murmurs, shifting closer to him. Alex catches her message and slips an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his side. Her head drops onto his shoulder, and Alex takes her hand in his. “The sergeant, MacTavish, was taken by the American mercenaries. Their demand is our aid.” 

“And if we don’t give it?” 

“I don’t know.” She draws in another smoky breath before passing the cigar back to Alex. “Our fight is over; our soldiers have laid down their weapons and moved on.” 

“But you can’t?” Alex guesses, eyes studying her gently. He memorizes the curves of her cheekbones, the color of her eyes as they reflect the stars, the way her lips part as she blows out smoke. 

Nodding, she stares out into the night sky. Her knees draw up to her chest, and she leans more heavily into him. “I have spent my whole life searching for peace, but now that it’s within reach… I can’t have it. I am always waiting for the call to fight again.”

“And you just got it.” 

“This is not our fight, Alex.” 

The argument is weak even to her own ears; it’s never stopped them before. 

But Alex backs off anyways. 

“Alright. Whatever you want to do, I’m with you. If you want to fight, you already know I’m right there with you.” He pulls in a deep drag from the cigar and puffs out smoke into the sky. His eyes slip over to her face once more. “But if you want to try and live a simple life, I’m there, too.” 

The words “I love you” sit unspoken between them. 

“Thank you, Alex.” They sit in silence after that, watching more and more stars slowly blink into existence, a cigar shared between them. Whereas Alex breathes easily into the inky sky, each one of Farah’s breaths come out as heavy sighs, like the weight of the deep navy is too much for her. She leans even further into Alex. He holds her tighter. “You and I cannot be soldiers our whole lives.” 

“I’d do it if you asked.” 

“I know.” Another deep sigh. 

Alex’s hand squeezes hers one, two, three times, a pattern she echoes right back. 

“I want to try to live in peace. I want to try this.” She gestures between them. Her feelings for Alex terrify her more than any enemy ever could. There wasn’t time for love growing up, leaving her hopelessly unsure of how any of this works. She doesn’t understand why he hasn’t given up on her yet, why he stayed and fought when he could’ve gone back to America and lived an easier life. Alex is a beautiful man, but even more than that, he’s a good man. He could’ve easily found a less-fucked up person to love, but he didn’t. He chose her. He chose to stay. 

And if he hasn’t given up on her, then she won’t give up on them. 

“Yes ma’am,” comes Alex’s hushed reply, a soft smile pulled onto his lips, reminding Farah of just how beautiful he is. He gazes at her, his eyes so full of love that it makes her heart pound. He leans down just far enough to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. 

She leans up to press a kiss to his lips. 

~*~

Alejandro kisses Rudy’s hair with a gentleness reserved for him and him alone. 

“Mi amado, mi cielo,” he whispers, a soft smile on his face. His boyfriend is asleep in his arms, curled up and snoring quietly into his chest, the warmth from their bodies mingling sweetly. Alejandro has run hot his whole life and Rudy cold, meaning even sleeping, he seeks out Alejandro, searching for his touch. 

Alejandro loves it.

He loves him.

Injuries and hospital food brushed aside, he’s loved the last few days. 

Their job never entails breaks, not unless one of them is in medical and too roughed up to work any more, and sometimes, that doesn’t even stop them. They rarely get time to be together and just be. To share smiles and laughs and inside jokes. To cuddle together until they fall asleep. To wake up late in the morning still in each other’s arms. 

He wants more of this. 

He wants more soft and sleepy days with Rodolfo where they don’t get out of bed until noon, and it doesn’t matter in the slightest because there is nothing for them to do anyways, nothing to worry about. There won’t be any tears aside from happy ones, and there won’t be violence and betrayal and near-death experiences waiting for them around every corner. They won’t be a colonel and his sergeant major. 

Rodolfo can finally start the garden he’s been dreaming of for years, and Alejandro can just be by his side like he’s been dreaming of for years. The two of them will smile so wide their cheeks hurt, laugh so hard they can hardly breathe, and love so strongly that nothing could break it. 

They will just be Alejandro and Rodolfo. 

Alejandro and Rodolfo Vargas-Parra. 

A ring hides in the bottom drawer of his desk back home, a beautiful silver band passed down to him from his abuelo. He used to wear it every day until the day that he kissed Rodolfo for the first time, and then, his ring made a home for itself in his desk, wrapped gently in a bandana he’d snuck away from him at some point to keep it safe from any more scratches. 

It’s hid there ever since, waiting for the day that Alejandro would take it out again, polish it with gentle hands, and present it to Rudy with the hopes that he would wear it every day like he used to, that he would wear it and his last name and his love so brazenly that everyone could see it.

He wants to marry him. 

“Mi sol,” he calls, surging forward to press another kiss to Rudy’s hair. One kiss turns into pressing kisses wherever he can reach, his arms using all the energy he has to pull the smaller man even closer. 

“Jandro,” Rodolfo murmurs sleepily. Alejandro presses a long kiss to his forehead, brushing his fingers through his hair, making him laugh softly. He finally peels his eyes open, giving up on sleeping because he knows Alejandro won’t leave him alone until he wakes up. He wipes the sleep from his eyes and bats away Ale’s hands from his messy, tousled hair. 

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Alejandro replies cheekily. He goes to press his lips to Rudy’s forehead again, but Rudy catches his face, holding it in his hands, running his thumbs over the smooth skin and poky stubble. Ale leans into the touch. 

They share a long kiss, this one on the lips, until they both pull away, rosy and panting and love-drunk. 

Gazing at Rodolfo, he takes in the love in the man’s eyes, the love he knows is reflected in his own. His smile widens, and his heart grows. 

“Rodolfo, will you-”

The door swinging open interrupts him, and Alejandro finds himself being betrayed by the 141 once again. 

“Alejandro! Rodolfo!” John Price calls, unaware of the moment he’s disrupting as he strides into the room, a pep in his step that’s been missing for months- three to be exact. He wears that signature smile of his, the one with a mischievous glint in his eye, the one that makes Alejandro feel as though everything he says is an inside joke only they will understand. 

“Captain,” Ale responds curtly, trying to keep the sourness out of his tone at his ruined proposal. “Espero que esto sea importante,” he grumbles beneath his breath. Rodolfo shoots him a confused look. 

It is important. 

It’s huge, life-changing, salient. 

Almost as important as his proposal. 

“We found him.”

The relief in the room is tangible, so thick that Alejandro can almost feel it against his skin- or maybe it’s just Rodolfo’s body leaning more heavily into him as he finally lets go of the weight of his anxiety. Alejandro slips his arm around him, pulling him into his side and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. 

“We’re flying out tomorrow to bring him home.” 

“He’s coming home,” Rodolfo whispers. A smile splits his own face, one that Alejandro mirrors. His heart feels full at the news of their hermano finally being saved, but his joy is also found in Rudy’s, just happy that he’s happy, content to study the twinkle in his eyes and the quirk in his lips and the way his body finally fully relaxes into Ale’s. 

“You two are more than welcome to come if you’re up for it,” Price offers. It’s meant kindly, but his eyes go suspiciously avoidant, bringing Alejandro to question his motives. Price continues, “I already cleared it with-”

“Where is he?” Alejandro cuts in. They’re in no condition to fight, and he can’t help but assume that’s what Price wants: soldiers. 

The man blows out a deep breath, confirming the vaquero’s suspicions. He works his fingers together and crosses them over each other in different patterns. His eyes still look anywhere but the vaqueros. “He’s in America.” 

“America?” Alejandro’s brow furrows, and he studies the captain, searching for some hint that this is an ill-timed joke. “Why would he be in America?” 

“Graves is…” Price pauses. He scrubs a hand over his face. “He’s alive, and he has Johnny. He’s made some requests in return for his release. He wants soldiers.” 

“Vaqueros?” Alejandro shoots up, anger nearly carrying him to his feet before Rodolfo slips an arm around him and pulls him back to lay down again. “He wants soldiers- my soldiers? After what he did?”

“Requested them by name.” 

“No.” 

“Amado,” comes Rudy’s placating voice. 

“No,” he repeats, sterner, even as Rudy’s hand comes up to brush through his hair, his other hand cupping Alejandro’s face. 

“What does he want them for?” Rudy asks. His eyes never leave Alejandro’s.

“Taking down Makarov.” 

Alejandro tenses at the mention of the ultranationalist. He may not know much of him, but what he does know is that the man is dangerous. He’s charismatic, having found the perfect balance of fear and respect to easily gain power. He’s garnered more supplies and soldiers than any of them could ever dream of, and worst of all, he’s psychotic. Stories have been passed around of him murdering his own soldiers to make a point. Rumor has it he killed his family, and if he did that to his own family, Alejandro can’t even imagine what he would do to his, to the Vaqueros and the 141.

“No,” el hombre sin miedo spits. He won’t send his soldiers marching to their death for Graves. 

“I understand,” comes Price’s soothing response, his voice as gentle as its gruffness allows it to be. “You’ve given more than enough for us; I couldn’t expect you to give any more.” 

Alejandro relaxes. “Good.” 

“Amor, it’s for Soap,” Rodolfo dissents once more. Alejandro’s head whips to him, confused. He hates Graves even more than Alejandro does, which is not only nearly impossible but also surprising considering how hard it is to get on the man’s bad side. “Stopping Makarov will prevent bloodshed.” 

“Not working with Graves will also prevent bloodshed,” Alejandro argues, “because if I have to work with him, I will slaughter every single one of his Shadows.”

“Can’t blame you,” Price shoves into their argument before it can spiral into something worse. “I wouldn’t mind putting a few bullets of my own into them, but they have Johnny, so I figured I’d try. Let me know if you change your mind.” He and Alejandro both know damn well that he won’t. The captain takes one last long glance at the two, curled up into each other’s arms. His finger finds his wedding band and runs over the scratched metal. “Thank you for everything.”

"Soap es nuestro hermano, our brother. He helped us; we would do anything to help him," Rudy replies, nudging Alejandro, but the stubborn man doesn't change his mind.

Price nods. “I’d do anything for him, too.” His eyes move to stare over their heads, staring at something none of them can see. Alejandro knows he’s thinking of the mission that he lost Johnny on, suffocating in the guilt it brings. He clears his throat and nods once more to himself. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

“Gracias, captain. You rest, too.”

“No rest for the wicked, Rodolfo.” Price grins in spite of the exhaustion evident in his eyes and tosses a wave over his shoulder. He leaves the two vaqueros alone together again.

“Jandro, we need-”

Lips to his cut him off, and Rodolfo melts into the kiss in spite of the situation.

They pull apart, Rudy panting, and Alejandro starts talking before he can, “Te amo mas que las estrellas, but do not ask me to order my soldiers to fight for that… that pinche cabron. I do not want to argue with you, but I will not change my mind.”

Rudy exhales, long and deep.

“Fine,” he relents. Alejandro grins and surges forward to press a kiss to his lips. Graves quickly forgotten, his lips trail down the man’s neck, drawing a breathless laugh from Rudy’s lips, the noise addictive.

“I want to marry you, mi vida.”

Chapter Text

Seeing Graves’s ugly mug filling his computer screen and seeing him alive and in the flesh are two very different things. 

One, he’s uglier in person- and somehow impossibly cockier, too. 

A smirk tugs at his lips, so wide his cheeks must hurt with the effort of holding it, but nothing short of C4 could drop that smug grin from his face. His eyes chase eye contact anywhere he can get it, daring anyone who’s willing to meet his eyes and hold his intense gaze. He’s dressed to the nines in the best gear he’s got- and not a bit of it has any wear or tear, so pristine that John has to wonder if he took the tags off of it that morning. 

Chest puffed out, he all but struts across the tarmac to meet them. 

Two, it’s much harder for any of them to withhold their anger now that there isn’t any distance between them. 

Even with his hardshell mask on and what little skin it bares coated extensively in eye black, it’s clear Simon wants to make good on his promise, fingers itching to rip Graves’s spine out and beat him with it. Kyle must be having similar thoughts if the murder in his eyes and the hand on the gun holstered to his hip have anything to say about it. 

Hell, even John himself, with all the training he has to stay level-headed, wants to take that stupid hand outstretched for him to shake and curl his fingers back until they snap. 

Then, he wants to give the same treatment to the rest of the bones in his body, too. 

But Graves has Johnny. 

If they want to get him back, they have to play nice- no matter how hard Graves makes it, and apparently, he’s bloody hell-bent on making it pretty damn hard. 

Graves claps his hands together, entirely unfazed that not one of them shook the hand he offered. If anything, it only adds fuel to his prideful flame. His stupid grin widens, and he meets each of their eyes before greeting, “Good to see you boys.” 

God, John wants to wipe it off his face, preferably slowly and permanently. 

Maybe with a blowtorch or jumper cables or- 

“Wish we could say the same about you,” Kyle cuts in venomously, reminding John he can’t get too lost in his murderous fantasies, lest his boys follow his example. 

But, god, does he want to let them. 

Emboldened by his lack of response, Kyle takes a step towards Graves, fingers curling a little tighter around his gun. 

With a huffed sigh, John reluctantly drops a hand onto his chest to keep him put before he turns his attention back to Graves and the half-circle of Shadows that stand behind him. He drags his eyes over each one of them, studying them so intensely that the well-trained soldiers break, squirming and glancing to each other nervously. 

A frown curls his lips downward. Uneasiness curls in his gut, and dread settles like a stone next to it. 

For all the men he has with him, there’s not a single sign of Johnny among them. 

“Where’s the sergeant?” he asks gruffly. 

“Oh, Tav?” Graves asks. Sickly sweet innocence drips from his voice. 

John shifts on his feet, checking his surroundings and counting just how many Shadows they’re surrounded by- which, frankly, is a ridiculous amount. Graves must have half his army doing menial tasks across the tarmac and in the grassy field next to it, a prideful display of arms. 

If this is a trap, then they’ve waltzed into it damn-near eagerly. 

“Don’t fucking call him that,” Kyle snaps, baring his teeth in a snarl and pushing against the hand John has on his chest, begging for the chance to attack. 

John has half the mind to let him, but Laswell drilled it into them that they had to be cordial and play nice if they wanted Johnny back in one piece- assuming this isn’t a trap- and if they didn’t, Graves would either raise his price or hurt Johnny- or, he’d turn his guns on them, considering how densely gridlocked they are by Shadows. 

It’s just so much harder to remember that with the man within arm’s and harm’s reach; it’d be so easy to let Kyle and Simon descend upon him like a pair of wild dogs, let them tear him limb from fucking limb with nothing but their teeth until there’s nothing left. 

Instead, John pushes Kyle a half step back and hisses, “Garrick, behave.” 

Graves’s smirk deepens. He croons, “There’s a good boy.” 

Kyle shoves back against John’s hand, blatantly ignoring his order to stand down. “I’m not the attack dog here,” he shoots back. “You still get your bones from Shepherd?” 

Graves raises his hands in mock-surrender, but his Shadows don’t get the memo. They all take a step forward, hands reaching for the ridiculous number of guns they’ve got strapped to their bodies. 

“If this is about Las Almas-” 

“No fucking shit,” Simon finally cuts in, daring John to stop him as he approaches the Shadow. He doesn’t reach for his gun or one of the dozens of knives on his body; no, he’s planning to kill him with his bare hands. 

John suddenly wishes he brought Kate along instead of insisting she stay in England. He didn’t want her to step foot in the hornet’s nest that is the Shadow Company’s home, but he’s doing a bang-up job of keeping his boys in check. They’re dangerously close to saying something that’ll actually piss Graves off, and then, this whole deal will be off- and they’ll be offed- and they’ll lose Johnny again. 

“I was following orders,” Graves says carefully. 

“Orders from a traitor,” Kyle argues. 

“Didn’t know that at the time.” Graves shrugs, but there’s a fire burning in his eyes that promises they’re rapidly approaching the limit of just how much shit he’ll take from them. “You can play make-believe as long as you want to- hell, I’m sure there’s a couple dresses you sissies can drag out of your closet if you wanna get in costume while you’re at it- but when you’re done throwing your hissy fit, find me. Tav-” 

“Don’t-” 

Graves glares at Kyle. “ Tav needs help. He needs you guys- now more than ever probably, so play nice, and I’ll let you see him.” 

They’ve found his limit, and John doesn’t know how to talk him down from it. 

He wishes he had Kate’s negotiation skills. He’s got plenty of ways to get what he wants, but all of them require things that would make even the most battle-hardened soldiers squeamish, and none of them are applicable here. The only option he has is attempting diplomacy and trying to de-escalate this before it gets worse. 

“Otherwise…” Graves continues, and the return of his godforsaken smirk tells John he needs to rein his boys and fast. “I don’t think it’d be too hard for him to make friends with my Shadows.” 

“Like hell,” Simon spits, but John’s warning glare shuts him up. 

“No need for that,” he eases, fighting to keep his own anger out of his words. “We’ll behave if you do.” He outstretches a hand towards Graves, willing himself with everything he’s got to not break the other man’s bones. 

Taking his hand and shaking it, Graves says, “Let’s go get your boy back.”

~*~

Sneaking through hallways with no weapons, no plan beyond surviving, and blood staining his hands is nothing new. He’s been armed with nothing but the overwhelming need to survive before, and this time is no different. 

But it is at the same time because, for once, there is not even the tiniest hope for back-up. 

Kyle and Price aren’t a few floors above him, fighting with all they’ve got to get to him, nor are they going to appear suddenly like they did in Las Almas, like the most blood-stained, vengeful, and pissed off guardian angels in history. 

Even worse, Simon isn’t waiting for him at the church or watching the windows for him from a rooftop across the street. He can’t save him with cover-fire should an enemy get too close, nor can he swoop in at the last minute and all but drag Johnny to safety when his body finally starts to fail him. 

But worst of all is the silence. 

There is no gruff voice growling in Johnny’s ear, guiding him and giving him a reason to keep fighting. There is no banter or stupid jokes or flirting to distract him from the way his body screams for him to give up. 

There is only silence, reminding him that he’s alone. Hopelessly and desperately alone. 

But, like always, Johnny makes do. 

The only weapons he has are his anger, his stubborn refusal to die, and the knowledge he learned from Simon the first time things went tits-up, but they’ve gotten him pretty far, considering he’s half-dead, running on nothing but adrenaline, and in the heart of the snake’s burrow. 

Now, he just has to crawl his way out and back to Simon. 

He slinks down a hallway hellishly, disorientingly identical to the last one- he’s not sure if that’s by design or because of the fuzziness starting to overtake his brain, but it feels like he’s been walking in fucking circles. 

Dread coils in his stomach as he reaches the end of the hallway he’s in. This one is different from the rest; it pitches right sharply, sharp enough so that he can’t see around the corner without sticking his head into unknown territory, a thought that has his brain buzzing with warning alarms. 

His chest tightens, something squeezing his throat until he can hardly draw oxygen in, and his already racing heart beats dangerously faster. 

Ghost isn’t right behind him this time. 

This time, he truly is alone. 

He peeks around the corner and chokes out a relieved sigh- it’s empty. 

Ambling footsteps approach from the hallway he was just in- undoubtedly another round of soldiers wandering aimlessly around base- and he bites down a curse, hobbling down the hallway before him and throwing himself into the first unlocked door he finds. 

The closing door cuts off the light from the hallway, plunging him in darkness. 

His knees, which have been buckling for the better part of his escape, finally give in. He slams into the cement floor with a grunt, biting his lip so hard it bleeds to keep from making a sound any louder than that as pain licks through his abused muscles. 

He needs to get up and continue his escape. 

He needs to-

The footsteps pass and take the last of his adrenaline with them. 

He sags forward, barely managing to soften his fall with his palms, before he splays out onto the cold cement. His chest heaves as he tries and fails to catch his breath, and his vision wavers. 

He just needs a minute. 

Just a minute. 

~*~

Ghost is going to kill him. 

He’s going to murder that blond, American bastard. Beat him until his chest caves in and leave him to drown in his own blood, riddle him with bullets all artfully placed for him to bleed out slowly rather than die mercifully. 

“What the fuck do you mean you lost him ?” he growls. 

“ Godammit ,” Graves hisses, sweeping a hand over his face. That stupid, smug grin of his has dropped into a glare that he turns on whoever dares to look at him. The poor Shadow that drew the short straw and had to deliver the message folds in on himself when it lands on him, and the poor lad flinches when Graves barks, “Find him, or it’s your ass.” 

The Shadow nods meekly and sprints off as Graves begins barking orders into his radio, putting all of his men on the hunt for Johnny, whom Graves has somehow lost . 

Ghost closes the distance between them- ignoring Price’s warning look- and drops a hand onto Graves’s shoulder, clenching down around it so tightly he swears he can feel the bones of the man’s shoulder creak. 

“How the fuck did you lose him ?” he repeats, eyes promising Graves a thousand painful deaths. 

“Oh no, brother. This one isn’t on me,” Graves snaps back, trying and failing to worm his way out of Ghost’s grip like the fucking snake he is. “He fucking killed my Shadow. State he’s in, he shouldn’t have even been able to fucking get out of bed- much less kill the man I had posted outside of his door. This is entirely on Johnny, that crazy son of a bi-” 

Ghost’s fist connects with Graves’s nose, the bone giving way with a sickening crack. 

Graves stumbles back, pinching his eyes shut and bringing a hand up to hold his nose. Red blooms from his nose, and a stream of it runs down his face, dripping onto the tarmac below. It takes him a minute to shake himself out of his daze, and by the time he does, Ghost has shouldered past him and towards the entrance of the base. 

“Where the fuck are you going, Ghost?” Graves calls after him. 

“Finding Johnny.” 

~*~

He has to keep going. 

He has to. 

For Simon. 

Stuffing a shaking hand into his mouth to keep himself quiet, he forces his burning muscles into action once more. 

His vision wavers dangerously as he pushes to his feet, and it takes everything he has left to keep from sinking to the floor one last time and giving up for good. 

Sweat paints every inch of his skin, dripping down his face and his back, and his lungs burn as they fight to draw oxygen in. It’s goddamn pathetic how much the simple movement of standing up has taken out of him- it’ll take weeks to build his strength back up, fucking months to rebuild his atrophied muscles when he gets home. 

If he gets home. 

It’ll take a hell of a lot of strength to manage that- much more than he’s got left in him- but god would the look on Simon’s face be worth it. 

A watery smile ghosts his lips as he imagines what it’d be like to see the man he loves again. 

Simon’s lips would widen into the widest smile- maybe his eyes would water like Johnny’s are now- and he would run to him like they always do in those cheesy romance movies. His strong arms would wrap around Johnny and hold him so closely to his broad chest that Johnny could hardly breathe, and Johnny would squeeze him just as tightly. 

They’d kiss, and the world would be alright again. Johnny would be alright again. 

God, what he’d give to see Simon again. 

Hurried footsteps pass the room he’s in, and Johnny bites his tongue to keep from sobbing as his daydream is ripped away from him. He’s not in Simon’s arms. Simon is thousands of kilometers away, and Johnny is in an enemy base. 

Worst of all, the Shadows know he’s gone now. They’re looking for him- and they’ll find him, too. He’s too weak, and there’s just too many of them for him to escape. 

It’s over. He’s never going home. 

His breath shudders. 

He sobs. 

The heavy thuds of another set of footsteps fill the hallway, and he’s half tempted to throw himself at the Shadow just to meet a merciful end, but he owes it to Simon to at least die with some dignity. 

So, instead, he waits for the footsteps to stop before the door he’s in. 

His heart is beating so fast he’s pretty sure it’s about to burst, and the darkness in his vision is only getting worse, but he forces himself upright and into a half-assed fighting stance, ready to pounce on whoever enters. 

The handle twists achingly slow, and the door pushes open. 

He lunges- except his legs give out beneath him, and he drops forward, slamming into the chest of whoever’s entering with a bitten off, “Hell’s fucken-”

Arms wrap around him, pulling him close and squeezing until he can hardly breathe. He writhes and tries to kick a foot out or smash an elbow against their ribs- he just needs to break free- but he’s got no energy left. 

“ Johnny ,” whispers a voice he hasn’t heard in months, a voice he accepted only moments before that he’d never hear again. 

His body goes limp, and the pair of them sink to the floor. 

It’s not just the voice he recognizes but the way his name is breathed so reverently, the syllables cradled, like he’s worth so much more than he really is, like he’s so much more loved than he could even fathom. It’s the way he’s held so gently, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces, the way he finally feels safe. 

His breath shudders, and his vocal chords barely work to push out an answering, whimpering, “ Simon. ” 

The arms around him only grow tighter, and hands guide his face to bury into a clothed neck, the teeth of his mask biting into his scalp. 

“I hear you like masks, no?” 

Johnny gasps out a ragged breath, and suddenly, the masked kisses pressed to his hair aren’t ones he wants. He writhes, panic squeezing his chest just as tightly as the arms around him are, and bites out a panicked, “ No. ” 

“-ny? John-?” 

He claws at the chest trapping him- is he being suffocated?

Words fill the dark room, and it takes him a minute to realize it’s him , that the words are spilling out of his mouth uncontrollably. “Not him- dinnae touch- please- no, not him .”

His hands are trapped and tugged upwards, pressed against something, and he blindly searches. 

A soft, clean shaven chin. 

A strong jaw. 

Strong cheekbones. 

A crooked nose, broken one too many times. 

“Si?” he croaks out. 

“It’s me,” Simon promises, and Johnny sobs. It’s an ugly sound, one that threatens to tear them both in half, before he’s slumping against Simon’s chest, letting Simon tuck him closer. Simon tangles their legs together but leaves his arms loose and heavy around Johnny’s waist, giving Johnny an out if the touch is too much. 

Johnny only pushes closer. 

A calloused hand cradles his face, and he leans into the touch. 

“There you are, love,” Simon whispers, running a thumb over his cheek. 

Johnny makes a noise, halfway between a relieved laugh and a sob, and he pulls in a shuddering breath that has his chest spasming against Simon’s. 

“Shh, easy,” Simon murmurs, and the hand lazily draped over his back moves up and down his spine to soothe him. His thumb arcs over his cheek to catch the first tear that falls. The rest slip down his cheeks and drip onto Simon’s shirt, staining the fabric. “I’m here- Kyle, Price, and Nik are here. We’re going to take you home.” 

The thought has him falling apart. 

Home. 

He never thought he’d see the day. 

“This… this is real?” he croaks quietly, and Simon answers with a wet laugh, nodding. Tears brim in his own eyes, and his quivering lips tug into a wide smile. 

“It’s real, love.”