Chapter Text
Soap’s head is pounding when he wakes up, but he’s sinfully comfortable and warm, and he doesn’t want to move. It's not quite a hangover headache - more like the aftermath of an intense mission where his body goes into overdrive and everything else fades.
The memory hits him like a bullet - finding Ghost in the park, surrounded by children, going home with him, admitting he doesn’t know how to live outside of the military, breaking down in his arms…
Soap slowly raises his head and looks around. He’s in a small, cosy room, sunshine falling on the bed he’s laying in. He remembers being in the living room, face pressed against Ghost’s chest, legs shaking. He remembers darkness taking over and then… Soap groans and hides his blushing face in the pillow, trying not to think about his Lieutenant carrying him princess-style to bed.
Fuck, now he’s thinking about it.
He lays there for a long while, just trying to overcome the headache. His internal clock tells him it’s only around 7 am, which is late for his normal standards, and the flat is quiet. Soap sighs and turns to the other side, eyes landing on a glass of water and some painkillers. There’s no note, but warmth blooms in his heart anyway - Ghost is a demanding asshole, but he cares in quiet ways, especially for Soap.
He’s not deaf or blind, Soap knows the whole base gossips about how he’s Ghost’s Sergeant, how the Lieutenant hovers over him. Soap’s never said anything because he likes it too much.
And now he suddenly got a chance to get to know Simon, not just Ghost. He’s still shocked to realise they’re almost two different men - he didn’t think there was anything of Simon left in his Lieutenant, but Ghost thrives on surprising him.
Sometime during his musings, Soap must have fallen asleep, because when he wakes up again, he feels much better. The sunlight is warmer now, his head is okay, and his body feels almost liquid, relaxed and heavy. Soap can’t remember the last time he slept in or rested just for the sake of it, and fuck it feels great, if strange.
The flat isn’t so quiet anymore. There's music coming from somewhere, accompanied by the muffled thumps of cupboards being opened and closed, and the air starts smelling amazing. Soap’s stomach chooses that moment to make a sound, so he stands up with a groan, only then realising he must be wearing Ghost’s clothes. The shirt is huge on him, falling around the middle of his thighs, and Soap’s hand is trembling when he raises the edge of it, to see Ghost’s underwear.
“Jeeesus Christ,” he mumbles, palms suddenly sweaty.
It’s not going to be the field that kills Soap, it’s going to be his fucking Lieutenant, in the middle of London. What the fuck.
It only takes a few more minutes of trying to get himself together, before Soap makes his way out of the room. He closes the door behind himself quietly and finds himself in a cosy corridor, all wooden floors and soft grey walls, pictures and knick-knacks all over them. It clashes so terribly with the image of Ghost he has in his head, Soap doesn’t know what to do, so he just keeps walking. Next he finds the same living room he fell apart in - a fluffy rug. a cat tower in the corner, and a sinfully comfortable couch covered in a quilt blanket. He takes a deep breath and follows the noise into an open-plan kitchen, where he finds Ghost standing by the stove, his back to Soap.
Immediately, his eyes are drawn to the huge, fluffy cat that’s draped over his Lieutenant’s shoulders. It’s a sleek grey, almost matching his shirt, with a tail that looks like a duster. Soap desperately wants to pet it.
Ghost himself is cooking something, dressed in simple sweatpants and a soft-looking shirt, his curls free and slightly damp. He looks fucking phenomenal and Soap itches with the need to press close, wrap his arms around his waist and plaster himself to his back. Maybe pet the cat while he’s at it.
He barely refrains.
“Morning, Johnny,” the other man says suddenly, and Soap isn’t proud of the way he jumps in place, heartbeat picking up. Ghost turns a bit, a smirk on his scarred face, and fuck, he looks unfairly pretty in the late morning sun, soft and domestic. Soap doesn’t know what to do with that. “Slept well?”
“Cannae complain,” he manages to say. “The bed’s comfortable.”
“It was chosen to be that,” Ghost replies evenly. “Tea?”
“You Brits and yer fuckin’ tea,” Soap murmurs. “Have coffee?”
Ghost chuckles (and Soap steadily ignores the way it makes his belly flutter), and gestures towards a little Italian coffee maker on the counter.
“Coffee’s in the cupboard over there. Help yourself.”
Soap moves closer on shaky legs, so totally out of place he doesn’t know what to do with himself. To be honest, if his parents aren't keeping him fed, he lives on instant coffee and take-away while on leave. Now that Soap thinks about it, it’s sort of pathetic, especially when faced with the sunny, cosy reality that’s his superior’s flat.
He clumsily makes coffee, unsure of what to actually do - it’s always instant coffee, Gaz makes it, or they grab it from a small coffee shop in the middle of nowhere during a mission.
“How do you like your eggs?” Ghost asks, his side brushing against Soap’s.
“Uh… Normal?” He can feel the judgemental raised eyebrow the other man throws in his direction. “However you’re making them.”
Ghost grunts, and before Soap knows it, he’s being shooed away from the stove and made to sit at the small round table by a window, flowers blooming on the windowsill. Ghost appears a second later with two full plates, and then two cups, putting them in front of Soap. He just stares, entranced and shocked, as his superior sits down, the cat sliding down to sit in his lap, purring.
“This is Kazka, she’s a little fuck who came over one day and never left. It was either feed her or see her starve,” Ghost says dryly when he notices Soap staring.
And it’s such a Ghost thing to say - Soap knows the other man by now, he can tell how fond his tone is, how much he loves the cat, how gentle his hands are when they pet the fur. Kazka has striking green eyes, and they pin Soap in place, mesmerising and dangerous at the same time.
“She fits you,” he decides. “Cute.”
Ghost raises an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting I am cute, Sergeant?” he asks, completely deadpan, even as Soap chokes on a sip of coffee.
Those dark eyes dance with amusement while Soap splutters, flushing and trying to deny it without actually denying it. He decides to lean into their familiar dynamic.
“The cutest, sir,” he drawls. “Yer cat might have ya beat, though, I’m not sorry.”
His Lieutenant rolls his eyes, but his face is fond still. The scars don’t take away from his beauty, unfortunately. As much as Soap is used to seeing his face, there’s something disarming in how it looks in the late morning light, soft and relaxed. He’s even more gorgeous, and Soap feels clumsy in comparison. Stocky, even though it’s Ghost who’s built like an industrial fridge.
“Eat your food, Johnny, and shut up.”
“Never,” Soap replies, but digs in.
He has to fight to keep a moan in at the taste. It’s just a simple breakfast, but it’s been over 4 months since he’s had a home-cooked meal, and it’s the best egg and bacon Soap’s ever had. Probably because Ghost made it, but…
“Don’t joke,” comes a dry comment.
Soap looks up at the other man, mouth full of delicious food, and gives him the finger, too busy eating to reply. Ghost sprawls in the chair and eats slowly, sharing little bites of ham with Kazka, who shows her fluffy belly to be petted. It’s an unfairly domestic image, and for the first time since Soap realised he’s bi, he yearns for this.
It’s been so long - his life consisted only of the military and climbing the ranks, and his home life was good, if a bit boring, but since coming out and facing the fallout, he has never allowed himself to dream of domestic life. And yet here is his superior, a man who went through unimaginable pain and trauma, petting a cat in a sunlit kitchen. If Ghost can have it, then maybe…
It’s a dangerous thought. Soap’s always liked danger.
“What are you even doing in London, Johnny? Last time I heard, you’d have to be dead to ever come here.”
They’re standing by the sink together, Ghost washing and Soap drying the dishes, and he’s clumsy, but it feels nice. The buzzing under his skin is finally quiet, as it never is during leave.
“Eh, ma sister lives here, moved in with her dumbass British husband. They have a few brats, so I come sometimes to visit. They like their Uncle John,” he can’t help but brag.
He’s not as close to his family as he sometimes wishes he was, but it’s better this way. They’re not a target, and they don’t have to meet his demons, his broken parts. Whenever they do meet, Soap can be the fun and loud Uncle John, forever a younger brother, always smiling and laughing.
It’s not all false, but not always the truth. It’s hard to exist in a civilian world.
“You staying with them?”
Soap shrugs. “I try not to,” he admits honestly. “Nightmares.”
“Ah.” They both understand the issue, and it’s always worse when Soap’s on leave. “You slept like a baby here, though. You’re welcome to stay.”
At first, he wants to reject the offer immediately. They’re getting paid very well, so Soap can easily afford a hotel, even though he’s reluctant to part from this tranquillity. Hotels always mean sleepless nights and paranoia, his gun clutched in his hand the whole time he’s there. They always leave him more exhausted than he was before, and Soap wants to try this.
He wants those calm mornings and Ghost’s warm eyes, and he wants to find out who he is outside of the military.
Apparently, all it took to shake him out of the funk was breaking down in his Lieutenant's arms and getting one pep-talk.
“I’ll pay rent,” Soap replies.
Ghost raises an eyebrow. “I don’t need your money. You’ll clean instead,” he says. “And learn how to cook.”
Soap winces. “I exploded 3 microwaves these last 8 months, ye still trust me in the kitchen?”
“Oh, I don’t trust you at all.” Soap jumps when Ghost slaps his ass with a rolled towel, a smirk on the man’s face. “You’ll be under strict supervision. You can be good when following orders, can’t you?”
And fuck him. Soap is sure Ghost 100% knows what this kind of talk does to him, and he’s standing half-naked in Ghost’s kitchen, dressed in his clothes. The look in the other man’s eyes makes him melt on the spot and he nods meekly, flushing.
“When the orders are good…”
When they’re done cleaning, Ghost sends Soap to get dressed his clothes (because Soap’s are in the wash), and they get ready to leave. Soap isn’t necessarily looking forward to it, way too used to going out only at night to drink with some old mates, but Ghost is insistent.
“I have a prior engagement, and you’ll come useful,” he says, cryptic as always.
As they’re leaving, an older lady is watering plants by the window outside of the flats, by the lift.
“Simon! And a handsome young man! How nice of you to let your boyfriend stay,” she calls as soon as she sees them, grey eyes kind and weathered. “What’s your name, love?”
“Uh, S- John, ma’am,” he stammers, as Ghost is trying to stifle his laugh. Being called Ghost’s boyfriend is doing things to him. “Nice to meet ya.”
“Oh, and the accent! Simon, you sly dog, you know how to pick them!”
Ghost takes it in stride and just chuckles. “Hello, Mrs. Murray,” he says politely. “The door not giving you any trouble?”
“Sweetie, after you fixed it, it’s been swinging like a dream.” She pats Ghost’s shoulder motherly, and pins her eyes on Soap. “Now you… You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Fresh from the war, hmm?”
The joke is there, not that she’s aware of it, and Soap grunts, unsure what to do. He’s normally so charming, but normally he’s not talking to the kind of ladies calling his Lieutenant ‘Simon’ and calling Soap his boyfriend.
“I-”
“He just came back,” Ghost cuts in. “Still adjusting. Not housebroken.”
Mrs Murray laughs. “Just like my Andrew, he was always strange a few days after coming back. I’ll have a pie ready for you boys when you come back, don’t worry. Simon, love, grab me some soil?”
Ghost, apparently used to it, just nods. “I’ll help you repot the plants when we’re done. They’ve been asking for you.”
The woman apparently knows exactly what Ghost meant, because she just laughs. “You’re a darling,” she says with a smile. “I’ll try to drop by, but these old bones can’t take it anymore, you know?”
“You’ll outlive all of us,” Ghost replies. “Have a good day.”
As soon as the elevator doors close behind them, Soap’s on him.
“You’re friendly with old ladies now, sir?” he asks cheekily.
Ghost throws him a dry look. “I spend 80% of my life outside of the country. I need someone to take care of Kazka and water the plants. They knit me sweaters.”
“Really?!”
“She’s already starting to knit a sweater for you, I assure you. She’s like that.”
Soap can’t remember the last time someone made something harmless for him. His family, lovely and well-meaning as they are, stopped when he hit 17 and went to the military, figuring out Soap didn’t value anything like that anymore and- They’re not wrong, but warmth still bursts in his belly at the thought of this random woman knitting him a sweater just because.
He ducks his head and stays silent as they exit the building, and then they’re surrounded by children. It’s as if they were all waiting to ambush them, excited like puppies.
“Mr Simon! You came!” several kids scream, all overlapping and gathering around Ghost, clinging to his legs and waist, all huge eyes and innocent smiles.
The mythical Ghost, the most deadly man in England, just smiles and shakes his head. “I promised, didn’t I? And what’s the rule?”
“You always keep your promises!” they all reply diligently, hero worship in their eyes.
“Are we going to play today, Mr Simon?” a small girl in a pink dress asks, all innocence and energy.
Ghost smiles down at her. “Sure we are. Line up!”
The kids scramble to comply, forming a line with energy and precisions some recruits would envy, almost at attention. Soap’s heart softens when he realises Ghost taught the kids how to stand at attention, while making it fun.
“Cian, Annabelle, you’re choosing,” Ghost instructs, standing in the shade with his arms crossed. They wait until teams are chosen, the kids groaning and laughing as everything is divided. “Now, I have a very important person with me - John MacTavish. You need to welcome him properly.”
All those innocent pairs of eyes are suddenly pinned on him, and Soap needs to use all of his experience not to squirm in place. He faces terrorists and cartels, yet it’s a bunch of kids that will break him.
“Hi Mr John,” they chorus together. “Welcome to the Football Club!”
It’s so damn sweet and a bit cringy that Soap just melts on the spot, smiling widely. He’s always been charismatic, and maybe he doesn’t know what to do in a civilian setting, but he can fall back on his nature.
“Yeh, Ghost, you trained them so well,” he praises with a big smile. “You lot like playing football?”
“We want Mr Simon to teach us how to beat up bad guys,” a sweet little girl in a green dress replies. “But he says we need to, uh, be more dis-disco-”
“Disciplined,” Ghost finishes. “Can’t have ruffians learning self-defence, can I? Get ready and warm up, Mr John will help me judge today.”
They’re largely left alone after that, but Soap can see the way they keep glancing at him, no hostility on their faces - they’re all just excited, and they remind him a bit of his nephews, even with how little he sees them. Actually…
“How often do ya do it?” he asks quietly, leaning his shoulder against Ghost’s.
The other man doesn’t pull away. “Every week, sometimes twice a weekend if they have time. Good to get some energy out, parents are always thankful. Got a few treats as thanks.”
Soap snickers. “You’re a soft, good man underneath all those skulls and gloom, aren’t ya? What would the boys say if they saw you?”
“They will say nothing, because you’ll stay silent if you want to keep your tongue,” Ghost replies, voice cold and deadly, and Soap is 70% sure he’s joking.
Okay, maybe 55%.
“Noted,” he says. “I’ll be good.”
It’s such a stupid thing to say, and Soap flushes when he sees the way Ghost glances at him with a raised eyebrow. “Shut,” he snaps.
“Wasn’t saying anything,” Ghost soothes, but he’s smirking, the bastard. “You’re always good for me, Johnny.”
And then he walks away, just like that, clapping his hands and gathering attention. Soap stands there for a while longer, doing his best to get his brain back online. Ghost is a deadly weapon and off the battlefield, it seems, and Soap is only prepared for one of those situations.
Thankfully, he’s always been a fast learner.
Ghost pulls Soap into some preparations, instructing him quietly on what to say and how to act, and by the time the sun starts setting, Soap is exhausted, ravenous, and almost deliriously happy. The weight and sadness that usually overwhelms him while on leave is nowhere to be found, and Soap realises he’s smiling the whole time.
“That was pure dead brilliant,” he breathes, leaning his head against Ghost’s shoulder as they watch the kids and their parents leave.
A few of them left Soap with some flowers as thanks, he even got one half-eaten cookie, and it’s so endearing… It’s soft and human, and it speaks to a part of him he almost forgot. It touches the John inside of Soap, the kid who always wanted friends but never quite knew how to make them.
Over 20 years later, and he’s starting to learn - with Ghost as a very good training dummy.
Maybe by overcoming the man’s walls, Soap became an expert on how to make friends; never mind that all of his new friends are below the age of 12.
“You did good, Johnny,” Ghost murmurs. “Sitrep.”
It’s spoken softer than any order in the field, and Soap doesn’t stand to attention. He keeps leaning against the taller man and thinks.
“Think I’m good,” he replies eventually. “Weird, but good.”
“You’re feeling human, Johnny. It’s strange, and new, but that's how it should be.” Ghost’s tone carries all the weight of the past. Soap isn’t so naive as to think that the other man just became like this - soft and well-adjusted, with a cat and a flat.
This normalcy, somewhat deceptive, has been won with blood and tears, and enough trauma to cripple three normal people. It’s a burnt out shell of a house, and 4 graves he visits every Christmas, and it’s a kid who’s never going to grow up. It’s scars that always remind Ghost of what he went through with Roba, and it’s the blood on his hands that never washes away, no matter how much he scrubs.
Soap knows all of that, and he wants to know more - he knows the soldier and the superior, the friend he never expected to have. He knows Ghost, he even has the privilege of knowing Lieutenant Riley.
Now’s his chance to get to know Simon. Just Simon. He may be the most precious of them all - but he’s certainly the strongest.
“Guess it’s another thing I’m gonna learn from you, sir,” Soap says cheekily. “Yer a shit teacher.”
“Can’t polish a turd, can I?”
“Oi!”
They bicker the whole way back to the flat, where Ghost shows Soap where’s the cat food, and disappears to help Mrs Murray with the furniture. Kazka comes to sit by his feet, meowing loudly, and Soap stares at the can of wet food in his hand. It looks fancy, but fuck if he has any idea if it really is - he’s never cared for a pet in his life.
He’s about to start, however, because Kazka looks like she’s considering if she can murder a SAS soldier. She probably can, but Soap isn't about to test it.
“Here ya go, ye needy little fuck,” he murmurs, plopping the food into a cute little bowl. It has sunflowers on it. “Don’t starve.”
Kazka throws a small glare his way (can cats hold grudges? Soap’s pretty sure they can), but eats anyway, and Soap is left staring at her. He can’t remember the last time he did something as mundane as feeding a cat, or preparing dinner or helping kids. Now that he thinks about it, his life has been about the military since he was 16 and lied during recruitment, and he never wanted to learn beforehand.
Always the wild child, always looking for structure but baulking at authority. The military turned it into a weapon, chipping away at John’s tantrums and explosive anger, until Soap emerged - the perfect soldier, climbing through the ranks, the demolitions expert that used his anger and turned it into passion.
Ghost’s a weapon, but there’s a reason why Soap fell into rhythm with him so quickly.
“Looking introspective over here, Johnny,” comes a sudden voice, and Soap curses, whirling around. “Is the cat eating really so interesting?”
He huffs. “She’ll kill me in my sleep,” Soap informs the other man. “Was glaring at me the whole way.”
“She’s a sweetheart, so you probably deserve it.” Ghost replies with a smirk. “Want to sleep with me to ward off any evils?”
Soap fights extremely hard not to flush at the idea of sleeping in the same bed as his Lieutenant. It’s happened countless times, safehouses often don’t come very well-stacked, but it’s different here; in this soft flat with its wooden floors and fluffy carpets. It wouldn’t be Ghost and Soap sleeping together, but Simon and John, and he’s not ready for that.
He’ll probably never be ready, because the crush turned into something more, something he’s afraid to name.
Something Ghost doesn’t need to know about.
He doesn’t end up replying in the end, and Ghost ropes him in to help with cooking.
“Cannae remember the last time I made something more complicated than instant ramen,” Soap admits. “What got ya into cooking?”
Ghost looks comfortable cooking, at ease with himself, and Kazka quickly climbs to settle on his shoulders, like during breakfast. The man is good with knives, Soap knew that already, but there’s quiet joy on his face when he cooks.
“I needed an outlet that wasn’t self-destructive,” Ghost replies shortly. “And I had to eat something. Didn’t know what to buy for my first cat, so I cooked for him instead. And he got me into the habit of eating 3 times a day. You will forget, but your cat won’t.”
“You had other cats?” Soap asks, delighted.
“Hmm, his name was Uzi, and I found him behind a dumpster. Old and weak, I thought he’d die the first night. But he survived, and kept surviving. It was…nice to see, that will to live.”
One Ghost didn’t have back then - Soap can read between the lines. He smiles at the thought of a younger, more damaged Ghost learning how to live from an old alley cat. It’s somewhat fitting.
“When did he pass?”
“Two years ago. Raised two kittens before that, though, old cunt. Kazka is one of those,” Ghost explains. “The other’s name is Princess and she lives on the 3rd floor with the most famous old lesbian couple on the street.”
Soap snorts. “There are multiple old lesbian couples?”
“It’s a progressive area.” Ghost shrugs. “It’s good to see older queer folk, sometimes.”
“Yeah,” Soap breathes out. He never spoke about it, but- “I’m bi.”
Ghost pauses for a second, before looking at Soap. “Yes, I’m aware?” he asks, seemingly a bit unsure. “I found you fucking that ginger guy in Aruba, and a day later going down on the Brazilian informant we were supposed to get in contact with.”
“Oi, I _did_ get in contact with her!” Soap protests, before the rest of the sentence computes and he blushes.
Well, maybe he wasn’t very careful, but still…
“I don’t give a shit about that, by the way,” Ghost says. “Fuck who you want, as long as it’s not ruining our work.”
Soap winces. “Understood,” he mumbles. “And what about you? With the way yer speaking…?”
Ghost sighs deeply, but he looks more fondly exasperated than angry. “I’m queer,” he says simply. “That’s a complete sentence, by the way. I won’t elaborate.”
He nods, before smirking. “Well, not like it matters, since ya have no game anyway…”
The other man snorts, before turning to face Soap, hip leaning against the stove. He’s looming over Soap suddenly, all blonde curls and dark eyes, and Kazka only adds to the air of danger and mystique that should be impossible given that Ghost’s wearing old sweatpants and a stained shirt. Soap swallows and does his best to stay still, even though his whole body wants to flee.
“No game? Johnny…” Soap shudders at the way Ghost says his name, his voice almost caressing his skin. “Maybe I’m just above the games you play with unimportant people, hmm? I don’t need games.”
Soap swallows heavily. Fuck, but it’s doing it for him, that self-assurance and almost cocky tilt to Ghost’s scarred lips, the way his body is coiled with tension, ready to spring into action. His knees grow weak, and he’s just about to embarrass himself by leaning heavily against the counter, when Ghost casually breaks the tension by turning around to stir their food.
He can see the man glancing at him from the corner of his eye, and he knows it’s clear how shaken he is, but Soap is a simple man, and Ghost may as well be the first man he’s ever loved.
It doesn’t hurt that his Lieutenant is gorgeous, both covered in blood and in tomato sauce, a cat on his shoulders. He’s in so much trouble, and he doesn’t even mind.
Ghost doesn’t continue to tease him, but there’s something in the air as they finish cooking and plate the food. It smells amazing, and Soap is so hungry, but his eyes still stay glued to Ghost’s forearms as the man opens a bottle of wine.
“I always took you as more of a beer guy,” he comments once they sit down.
The blonde winces. “My father always drank beer, so I never liked it. Learned how to appreciate good wine from a retired sommelier from the 6th floor.”
Soap whistles. “Who knew you’re such a social butterfly, hmm?”
“It was part of my therapy,” Ghost says casually. “To talk to more people and make connections outside of work. Bloody hard, but I hate to report that it paid off.”
“Therapy? Outside of our mandated hours?” Soap asks, somewhat doubtful.
Ghost throws him a dry look. “When I crawled out of my own grave, I was convinced I was dead. Trust me, I needed a lot of therapy.”
There’s nothing Soap can say in reply. He knows bits and pieces of Ghost’s past, probably more than anyone else than Price, and he can see how therapy was needed - he’s still in shock Ghost is a functional person, not a traumatised shell of one. Even with all of that, Soap’s not convinced.
“More power to ya, I guess,” he murmurs. “Cannae convince me therapy’s good for me, though. Fat load of shit it did for me.”
“Guess you haven't found the right therapist yet,” Ghost says simply. “You should try that.”
“Eh.” Soap shrugs. “A lot of work for a few hours of talkin’.”
“I never you to give up so easily,” the other man comments, almost casually. Soap straightens. “All it took was one bad experience?”
And well, maybe he’s right - maybe Soap took one bad experience and let it ruin every other therapy for him. Maybe he’s scared of touching the mess of feelings he keeps shoving deep inside, the things he never told anyone. Maybe he’s content pretending he’s all fine, while crying himself to sleep sometimes.
It’s okay. That’s just the price they pay for the job they do.
“I know when to pick my battles,” Soap replies, and the topic drops.
Or that’s what he thinks, until it’s dark outside and he’s getting ready for bed, Ghost’s clothes left on the end of the bed for him to change into. Soap grabs the hoodie and a note falls out of it. On it, there’s just a number and a name - Dr. Kinard, a psychiatrist. Soap stares at it for a moment, before carefully putting the note to the side.
He’s not ready yet, but maybe he will be in the future. Sometime.