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Ghost’s heart had stopped beating.
It hadn’t been a surprise, really. The bullet holes in his shoulder and hip had done a number on him, and he’d been bleeding out for hours with no hope of assistance. Soap had originally tried to wrap him up somehow, even just to slow the blood loss, but the fabric had been drenched within minutes, rendering it practically unusable. Their radios were unresponsive, and Soap had had his med bag ripped off of him in the fray that had started this whole thing, so there had been nothing he could do.
Ghost, Simon, hadn’t made it some huge thing. One moment he was alive, the next he wasn’t. It was simple.
It wasn’t simple.
Soap felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest and shredded by the same bullets that had cost Ghost his life. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. His mind had gone blank while his fingers curled around the edge of Ghost’s bulletproof vest. It clearly hadn’t been much help.
Blood was staining his fingers. It was nothing new, really. He’d spent years shedding blood and he had been bound to get some on his skin sooner or later. It was different, though, when the blood was that of the man he loved rather than a faceless target.
Soap’s eyes remained locked on a blood smear on the wall across from the them, from when they’d stumbled into the abandoned house hours ago and Ghost had collapsed against the wall. It has turned maroon, bordering on brown. Little drops has trickled down to the floorboards, seeping into them and leaving marks in the wood. It was possible that the house would be able to hold a piece of Ghost for longer than Soap had ever been able to.
It wasn’t fair. They were supposed to get through a couple more years before retiring and buying a quaint house on the countryside, with a fluffy german shepherd and a standoffish but secretly sweet black cat. They were supposed to live out the rest of their lives together, happy and healthy until the day they died.
Instead, some asshole had ripped it from them. Had ripped Ghost from Soap. Had destroyed the future they deserved. Instead, Ghost was lying cold in Soap’s arms.
“Soap, Ghost, how copy?”
Maybe Soap could shoot himself. They were a packaged deal. If you get one you get the other, even in death.
“Soap, how copy?”
It’d be so easy. All he had to do was draw his gun and pull the trigger. That’s it.
“Soap! Answer me, goddamnit.”
No. He couldn’t shoot himself. He had to continue. He had to be a good soldier, just like he’d been taught to. If not for the years of experience he had, if not for Price and Gaz, then for Ghost. Everything he did was always for Ghost.
“Ghost’s KIA, over.”
Soap didn’t hear it, but he could imagine Price’s sharp intake of breath. Silence spread over the line, no one wanting to speak and break the fragile clarity that had spread over them.
The rest of the mission was a blur of gunfire and blood, but Soap did his job. He was the one to shoot their target. Price shot him a worried look when they passed each other on the way to the rendezvous point, but Soap just starred ahead, eyes unseeing.
At the thought of Ghost’s body, left alone in that godforsaken house, broken and bloody, a single tear ran down Soap’s cheek. He wouldn’t allow himself more than that. Not while Price was starting at him with pity. Not while Gaz was rubbing his shoulder as an offer of comfort.
But he wanted to. He wanted to scream and sob. He wanted to rip something apart, whether that was a person or a punching bag didn’t matter. He wanted to destroy the world, all because Ghost wasn’t in it anymore.
Ghost deserved better than to be left alone in that house. He deserved a funeral, one fit for a decorated lieutenant. He deserved flowers and cards and peace. He deserved to be buried gently, kindly, not like what Roba had done to him.
When they got back to base, Soap brushed everyone off and ran to his room. He wanted to go to Ghost’s, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand it. Even looking at the door would make him break down, and he couldn’t do that where others could see him.
Soap didn’t last long when he got to his room. He caught sight of one of Ghost’s extra balaclavas and the world exploded. His boots ended up across the room, his blood-stained bullet proof vest under his dresser, his gloves in the sink. Things were thrown around, against the wall or into the bathroom or at the mirror.
Ghost’s mask ended up in Soap’s hands. He had his arm raised to throw it, tear it apart maybe, but when he realized what it was he stopped. A sob broke through his throat and out into the room, echoing around the walls and probably into the hallway. Soap sank to the floor, the balaclava right in his grip as he raised it to bury his face in the worn fabric.
Ghost was gone. He couldn’t come back, not like he did before. Soap would never get to hold him again, get to hear his voice again. There were no more little details to learn, or scars to trace, or tattoos to fill in with highlighters when they had downtime.
Ghost was gone, and it made Soap want to rip himself apart.