Chapter Text
Intro (A Cold Heart)
People didn’t touch ghosts.
Simon Riley was akin to a phantom in more ways than his name. He moved through the world as a ghost. Sliding into the shadows, slipping by unnoticed despite his large stature. He was haunting, eerie, lingering.
Some people saw ghosts. Many were afraid. They were studied, analyzed, and picked apart, their origins theorized and their existence a spectacle. And only a few would touch them or dare to get close.
John MacTavish. The man who touched ghosts.
It started with a friendly fist to the shoulder; a move between an enthusiastic soldier excited for a new adventure and his jaded superior who believed people were a liability. Ghosts moved alone, they didn’t have friends.
Ghost existed behind a veil - hidden and apart from his teammates. Attachments were a problem. Attachments got you hurt. Eventually they would be taken or they’d leave, and he would be left behind. Doomed to haunt the now empty space where something he loved once was.
The touches were constant and almost subconscious. Soap was a physical person. He was tactile and vibrant; a manifestation of the sun. Bright and flourishing, every touch sent a little bit more sunlight into the cracks in Ghost's heart.
He started to look forward to the touches, started to crave them. Place himself in the path of his personal sun. Get as close as he could before it started to burn. Even then he would watch his wings melt before plummeting to the earth.
“You have a heart?”
“A cold one.” Ice. Frozen and locked. Buried behind years of betrayal and abuse and aching loneliness. His heart was his own dirty, cold secret. His alone to hold. The small, cold, brittle thing.
He only felt tangible when he was in Johnny’s orbit. Felt himself become solid, like he was being pulled through the thin veil holding him back.
Nothing could kill a ghost. He didn’t fear death. Death seemed to avoid him despite his walking headfirst into fire. He learned to chase it, scour the earth for it, hunt it, his fingers grazing its coattails. So close, yet so far. Even death didn’t want him.
Every brush with Johnny kept Ghost coming back for more. He was an addict hunting for his next hit. Sometimes it was a pat on the shoulder to signal they were on the move, a fist bump after a good mission. A brush of hands passing a cup of tea across the counter. Nothing that should linger but somehow Johnny stuck to him like a burr.
A First Glance
The first time Ghost saw Soap, he would insist it was an annoyance. An unwelcome distraction. An unneeded companion - a complication. He didn’t need help, despite what Shepherd thought. He could find Hassan alone.
Ghost had his orders to report to the air strip at 2300 hours, geared up and ready to go. It was chilly, the night air kissing the skin around his eyes, the only bit he had exposed. There were no stars visible with the military vehicles and planes around him, light pollution eating up the sky. That was fine - soon the sky would be lit with fire and that was all the light he needed.
He arrived at the air strip ready to get in and get out and was instead presented with salvation.
“You’re wheels up in five.”
“Roger.” Ghost noted the plane across the way and picked up his pace. A truck pulled by him packed with soldiers and stopped next to the transport, men piling out of the back. The sound of gear and boots filling the night air.
“Marines are loading in now. You and the Sergeant are leading the way on this.”
Ghost almost stopped in his tracks, a small pause in his gait. “The Sergeant?”
“Soap MacTavish.”
This time he did stop and watched as a short man jumped down from the truck and swaggered over to him. Ghost felt a pinch in his chest. Annoyance. It must be.
“Let’s get ourselves a win, yeah L.T.?” Soap tapped his fist against Ghost's shoulder. “Save ya a seat, sir.” That fist sent little fissures through his brittle heart, and then with a small nod, Soap was gone, bounding off to get on the helo.
“Fucking hell,” the fissures branched out, the tingling in his fingers making him wonder if he somehow had nerve damage. He flexed his hand, trying to shake it off.
“Ghost - you copy?” A stern reminder of the job he had to do crackled over his headset.
“Yes, sir.”
“Any issues?” Shepherd's gravelly voice echoed in the cavern of his mind, chasing away the fissures. Leaving him cold once more. Almost like he knew Ghost was cracking apart.
“Negative, sir. Out here.” He wouldn’t let this be a problem. He must have slept funny last night. No reason to be worried. He adjusted his gloves and put his heart back in its cage. The tingles were fading. He was fine.
Being Death
Ghost paced up and down the helo, his boots heavy, “Bravo team offloads here,” his voice sounded gruff and serious, even to his own ears. Good.
“Alpha team stays onboard to land downrange. Both teams meet in the middle.” He passed by rows of soldiers, resolute to not look at Soap directly. The fissures wouldn’t do him any good here. Here he needed to be death himself. He needed to be the unbreakable leader.
Ghost reached the end of the row and turned, the red light casting gruesome shadows on his mask. “Remember, we want Hassan alive, but this is capture or kill.”
Silence met his instructions, faces serious and determined. His own small army of reapers. Bravo team stood as one and faced the exit, Soap looked across the aisle and tapped his gloved fist to a member of Alpha team.
Ghost wasn’t special. This was how Soap was. He tried to push away what felt close to disappointment as Soap walked toward him.
He flipped his night vision goggles down and said gruffly, “Keep up, Soap.”
Consequences
Ghost watched as Soap poked around the semi demolished house, capable hands pushing aside papers looking for a sign Hassan had been here. Sounds of gunfire and falling debris filled the night.
Despite the low light in the room, Ghost lifted his night vision goggles and looked around. Chunks of broken stone littered the floor, bits of rebar and broken furniture scattered throughout. The bodies of AQ outside the door. He turned his sight to Soap, watching him, somehow unable to look away while he searched for any hint of the terrorist they were after.
“Look - Hassan’s uniform.” Soap sighed and spun the desk chair, the uniform jacket swinging gently, “so he was here.” Frustration and disappointment laced his tone.
“Lost him when we secured the crash site.” Ghost watched Soap turn to face him, lit by the glow of war outside the window. His own goggles lifted to the top of his helmet.
His eyes were serious, boring into Ghost. “Are you saying we shouldn’t have helped?”
“Choices have consequences.” The words betrayed more than he was comfortable with, the weight of them lingering in the air after they were spoken.
Soap watched him, blown out pupils taking in more than Ghost was ready to share. He averted his gaze, looking for something to change the topic, to move them beyond his moment of vulnerability.
“All Bravo - we got movement out here.”
Thankful for the distraction, Ghost responded, “On the way,” and vanished into the night.
The Flight
The flight to Las Almas was long. They were given one hour to collect their stuff and then they were shuttled off to the other side of the planet.
The plane was big. Similar to any other cargo plane Ghost had been on. But somehow it felt smaller with Soap at his side. He had used his hour to pack his bag, splash water on his face, and grab a new mask from his pack, determined as ever to not let Soap get under it.
Ghost picked a spot near a stack of cargo containers, a secure corner where he wouldn’t be bothered, desperate for a little rest before they landed. He was accustomed to not getting much sleep, but he was running on fumes after their last mission. Ghost had bouts of insomnia and found himself lucky to catch a few uninterrupted hours of shut eye when he could.
Soap had other ideas. He seemed eager to get to know Ghost on their long flight. He plunked himself down next to him, a warm body in the cold of the plane, and Ghost cracked open one eye. He let the silence linger and tried to ignore how much he liked having Soap pressed to one side.
He failed.
“So, your file says your name is Simon.”
Ghost heaved a sigh, not ready to have this conversation, or any really. The stims had worn off hours ago and at this point, he really just needed sleep before they landed. “Glad you can read, Sergeant.”
Soap huffed a laugh, “Aye, you’re funny, sir.”
He grunted and closed his eyes again, hoping Soap got the message. The quiet lasted for a few moments, the only sounds were the hum of the engines and the chattering on the coms. Ghost almost managed to doze off when Soap spoke again.
“What’s your favorite weapon, L.T.?”
A brief hesitation, then, “Knife.”
“Solid choice. Mine’s probably a tie between a good shotgun or a sniper rifle.”
Ghost didn’t say anything, hoping this was the end. Sleep hovered just out of reach, his eyes heavy and body warm from the sun next to him.
Later Ghost would reflect how easily he fell asleep next to Soap. He would write it off as him knowing a threat was unlikely on the plane and steadfastly ignore the fact that he was warmer than he had been in ages, pressed thigh to thigh with Soap.
As sleep overcame him, he felt Soap settle in and stretch out his legs, shoes tapping against Ghost’s.
Perhaps the fissures weren’t so bad. The tingles in his arms lulled him to sleep.
City of Nightmares
Ghost learned a few things about himself as he made his way through the violence in the streets of Las Almas. Perhaps Alejandro had been right - he fit in with his mask. A phantom following death through the streets of the city of dreams, now full of shadows and nightmares.
The first thing was something he had learned many years earlier but let slip after working with Price for so long - not everyone deserves his trust just because they are on his side. People like Soap, Rudy, and Alejandro had shown themselves to be loyal, and Ghost knew they would no sooner cut off their own arm than cross him. But Graves and Shepherd were another story.
He remembered how satisfying it was to kill people who betrayed you, hurt you, used you. Especially if they dreaded seeing you around every rain slicked street corner. They knew him as the bringer of death, and he planned to follow through. The dim light added to the menace of his mask and that felt good. He heard their whispers about him as he slunk through the darkness, blending with the oily shadows of the buildings, hunting the ill-fated mercenaries slaughtering civilians. He never left a body where they would find it, always tucked them away in corners, the backs of shops, behind cars. He gathered ammo, blades, and a good sniper rifle. The quieter he moved, the less they saw him, the better it would be. Ghost couldn’t resist taking some of these bastards out as he went.
Every body he came across fueled him to show no mercy, not that he had much left in him. It had been beaten and tortured out of Ghost years ago. Leaving him cold and brutal. A man without weakness.
At least he used to be.
“This is Bravo 7-1 in the blind…how copy…?” The radio in his ear crackled to life, the husky Scottish brogue coming through muted but alive.
Neon lights backlit the rain as he debated on what to do. Soap’s call had stopped him in his tracks, the cooling body of a Shadow at his feet. He hadn’t been expecting it, already slipped into survival mode, determined to get out and take down Shepherd and Graves.
He didn’t respond, letting the radio call go unanswered. There was no doubt it was Soap looking for him, although there was a small chance it was a trap, it was unlikely. Soap would have found a way to warn him. No, he hesitated because he worked alone. Other people slowed him down and caused problems.
He stood at the edge of the city, blood on his clothes, a stolen weapon in hand, pockets full of knives, and hesitated. All the training in his body screaming at him to go - leave, don’t look back. Escape the AO and RV at a safe point. There was no way to guarantee Soap was going to make it and he felt a pang of unease at the thought. The idea of an injured Soap dragging himself through the streets, blind to the threats around each corner, left to fend for himself when Ghost was right here was holding him back from making his escape.
Another call out on the unsecured line broke the silence again, “Ghost, this is 7-1, do you copy?” A small bit of desperate frustration in his tone now. Ghost felt himself give a little more.
He lingered in the darkness of a damp alley, listening to the sounds of Shadows moving around him, the rain, the cries of dirty cops and civilians, and changed his plan. Waiting for Soap could mean death for the both of them but leaving him to fend for himself felt like damning the other man entirely. Johnny was a capable soldier, strong and smart, but Ghost knew he didn’t have much experience with guerrilla warfare, while Ghost had an unfortunate amount.
Ghost might work better alone but he couldn’t leave Soap behind.
The rain had soaked through his clothes long ago, his jeans waterlogged and heavy, mask and jacket clinging to his body. It was uncomfortable and chaffing and he longed to be dry and far from Las Almas. But there was little about this job that was comfortable and he never got what he wanted. But in this moment, maybe he could help Johnny and selfishly keep a little bit of that comfort alive for himself.
He found a safe corner, hidden behind an overturned market stall shrouded in darkness, and clicked the radio to talk. Voice steady and waiting, “Soap - this is Ghost, how copy?”
No response. His heart lurched, wondering if maybe he was too late. Eyes roaming the area in front of him for threats, he tried again, letting the nickname that appeared somewhere on the way from Al-Mazrah to Las Almas slip out. “Johnny?”
Silence. The pit in his stomach yawned wider, threatening to swallow him whole. He took a deep breath and tried one more time. “Johnny, how copy?”
Finally a response, a weak, “Solid,” echoing in the ear piece.
“Thought we lost you.” The sweet feeling of relief swept through him and he wondered how he ever considered leaving Johnny behind in Las Almas.
As Soap made his way through the bloody streets of Las Almas, Ghost took on a new persona. He would never be a Guardian Angel – too scarred and broken to be touched by God – but he could be Johnny's own personal Devil to guide him back to Ghost where he would never let him go.