Archive of Our Own ^beta

November 12th 2015

The shit weather follows him from England to America. Fitting, though, that the weather would match the dreary, pitiful mess that’s been stuck inside him for the past week. Freezing water drizzles down sluggishly from grey clouds draping low in the sky. It soaks into the coat he wears, the knit hat protecting his head. The chill nips at his face, tightening the skin and leaving him stiff. John expected more snow this far into November, instead he’s met with murky lumps of slush that melt under the force of the rain. Everything’s pathetically soggy in a way that feels fitting.

In front of him, the door creaks open and warmth floods from inside.

“John?” 

John tugs the hat off his head, clutching it in wet gloves. “Kate.” 

It’s unfair of him to drop by unannounced outside of a work setting. Hell, John didn’t even tell her he was coming to the bloody country; brought nothing but a pack and the clothes on his back. Who knew if his week-long leave request had even gone through before he boarded the plane. 

“Come in,” Kate says after a glance up and down the street. The door opens wider, and he’s helpless but to follow the temptation of warm air and dry surroundings. “What do you need?”

“Just a friend,” he replies, meeting her gaze. Let her put her own opinion together from whatever’s on his face. What a right mess he must look with heavy bags under his eyes, beard unkempt from a lack of proper care for the past few days. 

Finally, she nods and says, “Alright. Hang your coat, shoes on the rack. Let me get us a drink. You make yourself at home.” 

Mustering up a faint smile in response, he does as asked, listening to the sounds of her moving within the house. It’s still an effort to breathe around the rock in his chest, but it feels lighter being here. Part of him still whispers to him, telling him to follow the trip down to Mexico, to go looking for Simon himself. It wouldn’t help. John knows he’d only get himself hurt or killed too. 

“Got a bottle of bourbon you left last time you were here,” Kate says, stepping back into the living room with the bottle and two glasses in hand. She joins him on the couch and pours them both a drink. 

“Cheers,” John says, tipping his glass towards her before he sips from it. The burn down his throat grounds him just a little, makes him feel a little more alive and less like he’s going to lose himself. 

They sit in it for a while, letting the alcohol settle in their systems. Kate doesn’t pry, and John is so thankful for it. Either he’ll speak and she’ll help, or she’ll sit there with him until he can do his bloody job.

“One of my lieutenants is MIA,” he says. It comes out rough, nearly too low to hear; like a confession, even though he had no say in what happened. He’d been on assignment when Simon was sent out, only got back the day after.

Kate shifts closer, and he continues. “Joined up with a group of Americans to go after Manuel Roba and his cartel. Missed his check in and they couldn’t even tell us until a few days later. The brass assumes he’s dead, and doesn’t want to risk sending a group of our own to get him back. Especially since this was your lot’s last hope of making any progress with this.” 

“I heard about that,” Kate says, setting her glass aside. “Never crossed my desk personally, but word gets around.” 

John just hums, downing the last of his own glass. Simon’s not dead, he can’t be. The man’s too resilient, too resourceful for his own good. Maybe being alive down there is worse than being dead, but John selfishly hopes it’s true. He knows firsthand what horrors await a prisoner.

Kate sighs, quiet in the still silence. “You’ve had men go MIA before, John. I’ve seen you take it hard, but this is different.” 

“I know,” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “He’s different, Kate. he’s more than just another soldier.” 

There’s no proper way to quantify what Simon is to him. A subordinate, yes. A friend, easily. But it’s beyond that for him. Just like Kate, Simon’s something closer to family. People who make John feel less like an unfeeling cog in the machine, and more human. 

“The Zaragoza cartel has been a target of the US for a while,” Kate says, not pushing or prying into John’s statement. He’s glad she doesn’t. “It’s unlikely that we’re giving up on this. There’s no guarantee we’ll get your man back, but they won’t leave the cartel be.” 

A small part of him wants to rage at that, demand that nothing short of getting Simon back is good enough. It’s been a long time since he’s been that reckless, messy kid, desperate for something to be his. John’s older now, more put together than he was then. More put together than he was even when he first reached captain.

Maybe they lose Simon, and John will have to live with that, but maybe the cartel’s extinction can be enough. But only if it comes to that. John needs to keep up hope that Simon’s alive, that Simon could escape, or maybe he’ll get lucky and a rescue mission will be sanctioned. There’s not a lot of room for hope in this line of work, not when it’s all based on facts and intel, but for now, John will hope.

“He deserves better than this,” John sighs, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes. He rubs at them, before dropping them and blinking spots out of his vision. The pain that’s steadily built behind his skin doesn’t go away, pounding away like a toll.

A cold hand takes one of his, squeezing. “Maybe he does. But you need to make sure you’re solid. Regardless of what happens, you have a job to do.” 

If it were anyone else, it’d sound callous and unfeeling. But he knows Kate, knows himself, and it’s what he needs to hear, even if he doesn’t want to right now. He should be doing more, should be fighting and advocating to go in and rescue Simon. Yet, Kate’s right. He’s a captain, and Simon isn’t the only one he’s got to look out for. 

“I’m solid,” he promises, squeezing Kate’s hand back before she lets go. “Just… need a few days to put my head on straight.” 

“You’re only human, John. Take the time you need. If you need to stay here, we can set up the guest room for you.” 

John should go back home, spend the rest of the leave in his empty house. But the need to not be alone is far greater. Kate will be busy, and her fiancée is still stationed overseas for now, but at least here he won’t be wallowing away in an empty building.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding, “thank you, Kate.”

It helps. Kate ends up putting him to work even when she goes in to do whatever she does behind that desk of her. Keeping himself busy keeps his mind occupied and by the time he’s on the plane back to England, he feels centred. There’s nothing more John can do from here. It’s a waiting game and John… will have to trust in Simon’s ability to survive. 

November 3rd 2022

The jolting plane barely registers through the haze of adrenaline that’s keeping John upright and awake. It’s a long flight from Urzikstan to Mexico, and all he can think is, don’t let us be too late.

It feels like some sick fucking joke. All the factors are the same; November, Mexico, American betrayal all over again, the players are different. The desert once took one of his men years ago, and now it threatens to take two. John just hopes the two are keeping each other alive through all this, trusting in each other despite their reservations. Soap and Ghost are fully capable, that’s not the question. But the lengths Shepherd and Graves will go to keep this buried could very well spell disaster.

Laswell’s checked in an hour ago, wanting to monitor them in the wake of Graves’ betrayal. She’s doing her best to locate their missing members, but with no word from anyone, they’re on a wild goose chase. Her contacts on the ground aren’t responding either. But they’re alive, John knows that much. It’s the same feeling he had when Simon went missing, something connecting him to his men that lets him know, based on nothing but feeling, that they’re alive. 

Gaz hasn’t said a word since they got on the plane, sitting there with hands clasped in front of his face, elbows on his knees. There’s been a consistent twitch in his lip that’s only gotten worse and worse, his anger building just like that day in Piccadilly. The last thing he needs is for his captain to lose his head, too. War waits for them on the other end of this plane, whether or not Soap and Ghost are alive. 

It’s been a hellish fucking week. Nonstop missions, one after the other, the 141 split between two places. And now this. John has survived this once, but it’s not about him. Gaz needs him, and God only knows what Ghost and Soap are going through. This has the potential to break their little almost-family into pieces, and losing that scares John worse than anything ever has, but he’s still a captain, still a leader, and he has a responsibility. 

“Gaz,” he cuts across the loud drumming of the plane. It’s only thanks to their comms that they can hear each other. “I need you to be solid when we get down there. We don’t know what we’re walking into.” 

“I know,” Gaz speaks up, short, clipped, and rough. A frustrated sigh follows, and Gaz drops his hands in his lap. “Bloody hell, I know. But this shouldn’t have happened. I thought that the 141 was made to keep things like this from happening.” 

“We were,” John answers as softly as he can manage. Years of working with both Soap and Simon have taught him to gentle his voice. Only ever for those that are his, though. Only them. “But it happened anyway. It’s our job to fix it, to get our boys back.”

“Think they’re okay?” Gaz asks, pulling John from his spiralling thoughts. “Driving each other mental, likely.” 

The thought chases some of John’s weariness away, replacing it with a gentle little warmth. He doesn’t doubt that the other two are alive, but they’re likely pushing each other’s buttons in a way only they seem to do to each other. When this is all said and done, he expects to find Ghost in his office again, complaining about a certain Scot. 

“They’re okay,” John assures, patting Gaz’s knee. “Probably doing something stupid.” 

“Yeah.” 

A little smile flits across Gaz’s face, and John takes that as a win . The sergeant doesn’t sit as tense as before, doesn’t seem to be barely holding himself together anymore. A relief that at least that he’s managed one problem in a whole list of them. 

“We’ll get them back,” he swears, hoping Gaz takes solace in the certainty in John’s tone. “We don’t leave our men behind.” 

Gaz meets his eyes, something unreadable in his expression until it flattens out into something softer, believing. Whatever he found in John’s face must’ve been enough. 

“Copy that, sir.” 

It doesn’t solve it all. Fear, worry, anger all festers under his skin for the entire flight, for Kate’s check in, for the whole drive to the prison. Being in the dark leaves too much room for error, for thoughts to wander, for anything to happen that they can’t stop. 

But the second he’s got Soap’s hand in his, it all melts away under the warmth of his skin, the faint pulse John only gets a glimpse from the tight grasp. Soap’s smile carries the same relief that settles into John’s bones. Everything in John screams to tug Soap into a hug, to turn around and do the same for Simon when he meets those haunted eyes with his own. Simon seems better off than John assumed he would be, drifting closer to Soap subconsciously, but old terrors linger in his frame.

The beast in his chest doesn’t quiet until they’re in the barn. Alejandro’s men spread out with familiarity, but there’s a corner reserved for the 141. Gaz and Soap hug like they’re going to be forced apart, clutching each other tight with bruising grips.

Ghost remains off to the side, watching from his place at John’s side. If he stands closer than usual, John won’t comment. Won’t comment on the way his eyes linger on Soap either, or the way Soap’s gaze seems intrinsically drawn to Ghost’s, a magnetic force pulling each other together.

This isn’t what he expected. Whatever happened on those bloodied streets is something John isn’t privy to. Trauma can be a terribly powerful driving force, John knows. It’s half the reason affection and care has sunk claws bone deep into his chest for these three men. 

Gaz steps up to greet Ghost, offering a hand instead of a hug. Ghost takes it one step further and clasps Gaz’s forearm. If Gaz is shocked by it, he doesn’t show, just offering Ghost the same relieved words he offered Soap. 

It has been many years since John’s seen something tender in the way Ghost moves. But it’s there now, greeting Gaz, looking to Soap, standing closer to John than usual, even with the way he interacts with the Vaqueros. Ghost breathes and takes up space like a human being once more, rather than a living statue.

When Ghost, Simon , strips his mask off in front of them all, it’s surprising how unsurprising John finds it. It’s not the first time he’s seen the man without the mask since Ghost was created, but it’s the first time he truly sees Simon ; a man who’s much more than memories and shadow, a man who’s full and real. There’s an ache in his chest, clenching bittersweet where his heart is.

“Good to see you again, Simon,” he says, and means it.

He’s too compromised, but John can’t bring himself to think too much about that. The care he feels for these men has taken root so deep it’s never coming free, and John doesn’t want it to. Once, he thought nothing mattered more than his job. Not his sanity, not his purity, not his morals. He got dirty, so the world got clean. Now. Now, he knows nothing matters than the three men he considers his.

February 14th 2016

Of all the places, John truly hates the jungle the most. Humidity keeps him choking on thick air. It’s hot, with little hope of minimising sweat production. John is not unfamiliar with discomfort nor the dirtiness of this job, but it doesn’t make it any more pleasant. If he has to swat another mosquito from trying to make a meal out of him, he might go insane. It almost makes him miss the lonely pit he calls a flat back at base, if only for the aircon it would provide him.

It’s the first solo mission he’s been on since Simon’s disappearance. The missions before were light, him leading a team, but Kate had called and John couldn’t resist helping her. It still doesn’t feel right to be so far from base, not when he still waits to hear even a peep about Simon. But at least here he’s doing something. John still has a job to do.

“It’s like a vacation, yes?” 

That’s the only other good thing about this. Kate likely only suggested Nikolai provide him infil, overwatch, and exfil because they’re a bunch of mates masquerading as professionals. Regardless of the reason, it’s nice to have an excuse to see Nik again.

“Sure, if you call traipsing through a jungle a vacation,” John grumbles. Nikolai’s natural disposition is something he envies sometimes. An abrupt form of optimism that’s so rare to come across. It’s easy to soak it in, easy to play his part in this, even if John doesn’t really feel it. But he’s good at that, isn’t he? Doing what’s expected of him, no matter what.

“I thought you enjoyed hiking.” 

Not wearing his body weight in gear. And not in the middle of a foreign country with deadly animals and deadly mercenaries. The hikes he takes on leave are smaller, cooler, and less likely to kill him. The last one he’d been on had brought him up high enough to see a beautiful sunset. Here, he can barely see the sun beyond what fights through the heavy curtain of leaves.

“It’s generous to call this hiking.” 

They lapse into a silence from there; the breath growing ragged in John’s lungs the further he wades into the forest. He pauses when rustling comes from the right, but something small darts from it, too fast to see. The surrounding forest offers only a low white noise of the critters within it. Birds caw off in the distance, but he keeps his ears strained for anything larger. Work gives him action, gives him focus. 

“We should get drinks after this,” Nikolai says, casually, like they’re two mates at lunch. “You’ve been too preoccupied for me recently. Kate says you’ve been in your head.” 

“You two gossiping about me?” 

Nik’s chuckle over the comm sinks into his ears. “Да. You are very fun to talk about.” 

He barely holds in a sigh. Kate’s been hovering as the months go on, as weeks pass without a word on Simon. The brass are making noise about officially declaring him KIA, and John’s been driven closer and closer to rage. Maybe that’s really why he’s been sent on this solo mission. Maybe this is nothing more than an attempt to distract him, to shove him somewhere the higher ups don’t have to deal with him in hopes of him working out his frustration. God forbid the SAS show care for their soldiers, even as high ranking as a captain. 

Solo missions aren’t far and few between for him, not at his skill level. But there’s something far more fulfilling he gets out of leading a team in, commanding and directing them. He’s sunk into his role as captain easier than any of his previous ranks. 

“If you keep quiet until I find them,” John promises, “I’ll join you for that drink.”

The camp ends up being a gold mine, enough intel to give them a breakthrough in the case, one guard asleep at his post. In the distance, John can hear radios cracking with hazy voices getting closer. He’ll need to cut and run soon, but first he takes the time to snoop, slitting the sleeping guard’s throat.

John shoves the files into his pack before the first shot rings out, and from there it’s a firefight. One day he’s sure he’ll go deaf from the crack of gunfire, the boom of grenades that miss their mark by several feet. One day, he’s sure he’ll get too old for this, body pushed beyond limits, but he doubts he’ll live long enough to get there. A bullet clips his arm; a graze, just barely, but enough to send him stumbling down into the forest floor. Blood drips thick and hot from the wound, pain searing down his nerves.

Nikolai pulls up with just enough time to save him, startling the mercs with the arrival of his helo long enough for John to pull up his gun and shoot. They go down in three quick shoots, life snuffed out as they bleed out on the ground. John doesn’t stick around to watch, hauling ass into the helo and only letting out a breath when they’re in the air. 

Nik ends up getting that drink out of him. They’re back in England after dropping the files off to Kate, holed up in some run down bar as far from base as they can get. As the drinks flow, it’s harder and harder to cling to that empty aching hole in his chest. He laughs at Nik’s jokes, makes a few of his own. The space between them slowly vanishes until they’re sitting with their thighs pressed together. Eyes linger, but they still don’t cross that unspoken line.

It’s the most normal he’s felt in months.

November 5th 2019

“Laswell assured me that Alex would receive a proper funeral,” John says, stepping in place beside Farah. 

They’re on the edge of camp, looking out to the men and women around them, laughing, celebrating, mourning. Kyle is in rapt conversation with some of the ULF, nodding along to whatever they’re saying. 

The sergeant did good, surprising John continuously throughout all of this. Where John was sure Kyle would fold, he pushed back twice as hard. There’s a righteous anger within him that reminds John of himself when he was younger. John wants that on his team, wants to see where that can go if nurtured just right.

Farah nods, looking at him then. She isn’t relaxed, though John doubts he’s ever seen her as such. The closest she got was to Alex, something softening her in a foreign way. But now that’s gone, all that remains is what John knows. 

“He deserves as much. His sacrifice was… invaluable to us.” 

A lot remains unsaid there, but John doesn’t pry. 

“We’ll be getting out of your hair soon enough,” John promises. “Kyle and I have other things to attend to.”  

“Thank you,” Farah holds her hand out to him, jaw steady and eyes hard. He takes her hand in his, feeling the firm grip as she holds it. “For everything.”

Farah Karim is a force to be reckoned with. Ever since he first met her ten years ago now, she’s always been stronger than most people have ever needed to be. Through all the shit she’s been thrown into in her life, she stands here, shoulders back, head up and firm. John remains in awe of the woman in front of him, and yet there’s a part of him that aches for her.

She carries too much on her shoulders, but it’s something John understands more than anyone else. Loss will follow her like a dark cloud, tainting what she does from here on out. Hadir might not yet be dead, but John knows how these things end in the end. Alex’s sacrifice will weigh on her throughout all of it. John knows this all too well.

“Any time,” he answers, squeezing her hand back before she drops it. “If you need anything, you know where to find me. I’ll be there.” 

“The same for me,” she says. “You’ve done much for me, John Price. Let me return the favour.” 

Of course he would help her. There’s been no doubt that he’d come when she called. Even when the world turned on her, he stood by her, because she’s his, the same way Kyle now is. The same way Soap and Simon are, despite the distance forced upon them. The task force is a chance, though, to put what’s his where he can keep a close leash on them.

“Your people have been through a lot,” he says instead, glancing at the makeshift camp once more. You’ve been through a lot , he doesn’t say. She wouldn’t appreciate it.

“We have. But we are strong,” she says. “We’ll rebuild and we’ll keep our country safe. That’s what matters.”

I am strong , she doesn’t say, but John hears it regardless.

Loss, both of people and of morals, is inevitable in the work they do. There’s no way to ensure victory unless you’re willing to play a little dirty. That’s how John operates, but there’s a shade of grey he lives in that he knows is unique to him. Farah exists with far fewer shades, and Gaz is learning to see more. But there is strength to be found in both. John might need to learn from the two of them.

“I’m starting a task force,” he says, an offer, really, if she were to take it. “There’s a position on it, if you ever find yourself looking for something to do.” 

“The work won’t be done for a long time,” she gives him another of her little smiles, amused by the idea. “I’m needed here. Maybe it’s bad of me to say, but there’s few I trust in my position. Your task force calls, I’ll help, but my place is here.” 

The response is what he expected, but John had to at least try.  

“Then, good luck with Hadir,” he says. “Your brother is resourceful. I’ll see what Kate can do for you.” 

“He’s not my brother anymore,” comes the quick response. “But I will appreciate the help. Justice will be served one way or another. Now go, you’ve earned yourself rest just as much as the others. Being a leader doesn’t stop you from that.” 

He gives a light laugh, nothing more than a breath of sound, and steps away. “Maybe you should take some of your own advice.”

“Maybe one day,” Farah smiles back, like a private joke between the two of them, before turning to keep watch over the camp once more. 

April 19th 2016

Months tick by. Still no sign of Simon. John wishes he could lose track of the days, but each one crawls by at a glacial speed. It feels like years since he’s seen the lieutenant, years since he had a smoke or a drink with the man, commiserating like lifelong friends. They only needed a handful of years to build that between them, and the absence of it is worse than anything.

Most of the time, when he’s not in the field, he’s behind his desk plugging away through paperwork. That’s what Sergeant Baines pulls him from just after second meal. John doesn’t think much of it until the name ‘John MacTavish’ gets thrown into conversation.

The kid hasn’t been with them long, has only gone on that first mission so far where he almost fell. Price had caught him, seeing something like awe and respect in the kid’s eyes. Since then, he’s been nothing but a model soldier, barring his unrestrained anger that sees him on the wrong side of his COs more often than not.

John finds Soap bent over with his hands on his knees, heaving. The thin shirt he’s wearing is nearly soaked through with sweat entirely. Soap’s sheet white, which alone sends alarm bells ringing through John’s mind. John has seen his fair share of soldiers pushing themselves past the brink, has pushed them himself. But this is clearly self-inflicted.

“MacTavish,” he calls out, forcing Soap’s audience to realise John had even approached. They snap up into a salute, but he waves them off, focused on the private making himself sick on the training course.

“Sir,” Soap answers, the word garbled as he tries to catch his breath. 

John surveys him. “Your Sergeant sent me after you. Said you’ve been at it all day.”

“Aye,” Soap finally stands to full height, a shake in his arms as he brings it up to wipe sweat off his brow. “Just tryin’ to better myself, sir.” 

“Why don’t you call it quits for the day and come with me back to my office?” John phrased it like an offer, but it wasn’t one. They rarely ever are, but John isn’t going aggressively to pull rank when the kid’s already beaten down. 

John patiently waits as he watches Soap internally debate his next move before he nods. Good, they were doing this the easy way then. Dealing with Simon for years has prepared him for other soldiers like this, like Soap, who’s clearly pushing himself past his limits. But for what goal? For what reason?

He’s got nothing to prove, at least not in John’s eyes.

The walk back to his office is silent save for the heavy breaths of Soap’s come down. Eventually they even out into something steadier, less choppy and full of effort. It only improves when Soap’s sitting down in the chair across from his desk, all but falling into it with how shaky the kid looks. John doesn’t have the heart to call him out for lack of protocol or manners.

He lets Soap put himself together slowly, moving to the desk to pull out a bottle of water he always keeps stocked in his desk drawers.

“Here,” John says, handing it to Soap. “Drink that.”

Soap takes it, hands still shaking as he pops open the cap and downs half of it in one go, like a man who’s been out in the desert too long. Colour is slowly returning to his face, and the kid doesn’t look like he’s going to collapse as badly as he did before.

“How long were you out there?” John asks as he takes his seat. “The sergeant didn’t give me an actual time frame.” 

Capping the bottle, Soap just holds it between both his hands, twisting until the plastic crinkles. “Since after breakfast, sir” 

“It’s past lunch now,” John notes, keeping his tone judgement free. “Did you eat?” 

At that, Soap’s jaw clenches. “No, sir.” 

John can’t stop himself from sighing quietly, though the linked hands in front of his face muffle the noise. He doesn’t know what crawled its way into Soap’s head that led the kid to neglecting and punishing himself. Interrogating him won’t get the results he wants, Soap will clam up and shutdown and they won’t get anywhere. There’s humor to be found in a demolitions solider with a short fuse.

“Right,” he says, setting his hands down flat on the desk. “Go shower, grab something from the mess, and meet me back here. I’ve got files that need sorting, and you’re going to help me until you’re ready to talk. Understand?” 

He expects a fight or backlash, but Soap just sags and gives a quiet nod. “Copy, sir.” 

“Good lad. If I don’t see you back here in an hour, I will go looking for you,” John warns. 

Soap pushes himself to his feet with a huff, water bottle still held tight in his hands, “Aye, sir. I’ll spare the base of your manhunt for me, don’t worry.” 

“I always worry, private. Gonna go grey early because of it.” 

He gets a shaky grin in reply, “Sure you haven’t already?” 

But Soap’s out the door before John can say anything else. The teasing settles some of the worry in John.

Soap comes back in nearly an hour later, hair plastered to his head and still wet. There’s a tray of food in his hand, and John will have to remember to send thanks down to the kitchens.

This way, John can keep an eye on the private. He fills the space that Simon once held, sitting in the chair that’s been long worn out. It aches, in so many ways, to have one of his gone. Soap isn’t a replacement. He has to keep reminding himself of that, but it grows easier and easier each day when Soap carves his own place between John’s ribs. 

April 23rd 2017

It’s a matter of being in the right place at the right time, honestly. Though John is developing a second sense for when something goes wrong with Ghost, knows, somehow, instinctively when Ghost needs him. 

He’s walking past the gym when he hears a crash from inside. The night has long since fallen, as has curfew, but John is well enough aware of how many of his men sneak around that. One in particular, especially, that John gives far more leeway than he should. 

There’s no doubt who’s in the gym, no doubt who’s causing the noise, but it’s the noise’s existence that sets John’s flight or fight on edge and has him rushing into the room. 

Inside, he finds a wrack of the smaller weights spilled across the floor. A punching bag lays swaying, split across a seam and spilling sand from it and onto the floor. There’s a sheen to the black bag in places that looks off colour. On one bench, sits Simon, trembling and bent into his knees. John’s sure the hands curled tight in the fabric of his mask would have a white knuckled grip if they weren’t so bloodied and torn open as they were. 

“Ghost,” John calls out as he steps into the room. The last thing he wants is for the man to startle, to bolt and destroy himself further. The past few months have seen a steady increase in his progress, but John’s starting to think it’s a mask of its own, an illusion for Ghost to cling to, to prove he’s field ready. Truth is, he’s most likely seconds away from shattering apart at any moment, getting worse behind the scenes and not reaching out. It’s only a matter of time before something truly cataclysmic happens.

The Lieutenant makes no sign that he’s heard, doesn’t move, doesn’t respond, just sits there, shoulders drawn tight and body tense. So John steps in further, goes about righting the weight rack and putting them back where they go. He pulls the punching bag from its hook, despite the stream of sand already trickling to nothing. He sets it aside to be dealt with later, ignoring the iron smell of blood that reveals the true nature of those spots from earlier. 

When he glances up, dead brown eyes are watching him warily. There’s red smeared against the white parts of Ghost’s mask, but the man doesn’t seem to care. Instead, he tracks the way John moves about the room like a hunter watching prey, poised and ready to attack at a moment’s notice.

If he wants to be left alone, he would’ve left by now. Would’ve yelled at John to leave like he’s done before in the past. But instead, Ghost remains there, hands on his knees, watching.

“I’ll give you two options,” John tells him. “Either you come with me, let me deal with those hands. Or you report down to medical and I’ll leave you be.” 

As he speaks, he steps closer to Simon’s spot, hands out to show he means no harm. It’s a trick question. He knows Ghost would rather cut his own arm than report himself to medical for something like this, knows the thought of other people touching him sets Ghost’s mind spiralling. Hell, the man barely tolerates John touching him, even on his best days. 

John’s read enough, heard enough from Simon’s own mouth to know where that fear came from. It never gets easier to swallow.

It’s a quiet stand off for a few moments, John watching Ghost, Ghost watching John. Patience is something John has had to learn, something that’s been difficult to come to. But patience is the only way this works. He doesn’t care how long it takes to rebuild trust in Ghost from the ground up, just as long as the result ends the same.

Silently, Ghost ducks his head, breaking eye contact. It’s a silent acknowledgement and John takes it for what it is. He settles a hand on the back of Simon’s neck, unflinching even when he feels Ghost freeze. Eventually, he thaws and nods.

“Alright,” John hums, giving the slightest squeeze to Ghost’s neck before letting go. “Come with me then, lad.”

John waits for the comment about Simon only being a few years younger than him. It doesn’t come.

The walk back to John’s on base flat is silent. Ghost has this uncanny way of settling his weight just so he doesn’t make noise, steps gliding much like his namesake. It shouldn’t be possible for a man that large to be so quiet, and yet he is. Useful on stealth missions, but here John has to refuse the urge to look back and make sure Ghost is following him, lest Hades tug him back down. 

Keys jingle in the silence as John unlocks his room and opens the door, going in and trusting Ghost to follow. Only now does the larger man attempt to make his steps heard, a scrape of his boots against the wooden floor of the entryway, continuing all the way to John’s bedroom. 

“Sit,” John nods to his bed, already stepping aside for the bathroom. 

The mattress creaks under the force of Ghost’s weight, springs complaining at the hassle. It’s acknowledgement enough that Ghost is doing what he asks. The silence doesn’t bother John. Ghost’s nonverbal approach to things hardly phases him anymore. When he needs to talk, he’ll talk, and John will listen. 

The bathroom light buzzes the whole time John keeps it on, bustling about the room for what he needs. Quickly, John grabs the things he needs; a first-aid kit, a towel, a small plastic dish full of water. He’s returning to the main room soon enough, ignoring the oppressive weight that’s filled it in his absence.

Ghost stares down at the ground, eerily still. John can’t even tell if he’s breathing. He’s never been one to move like some of the younger, more hyperactive recruits and privates they have. But Simon’s never been this still , like a living statue. Not since he came back as Ghost. 

John drags the chair from his desk over, sets the objects on the bed beside Ghost and takes his seat in front of the man. 

“Hand,” he says, rough but not gentle enough. He’s still learning how to go about this, how to soften the ragged edges for what this man and Soap need from him. The choice, he knows, is easier for Simon, rather than John taking it. “Please.”

A deathly cold and pale hand settles into his own, skin rough and smeared red with drying blood. It seems like John got there before Ghost could do any actual damage to his hands, wonders if Ghost even felt it with how little sensation Ghost seems to register from them. It’s far from the worst he’s had to handle with Simon. one memorable day had John stitching Ghost’s leg back together while the other man shook.

Not once has John ever seen Simon shake. But Ghost trembles like a scared little thing left alone when it’s just the two of them. When it’s just him. Some of it may be from nerves, some he knows is from nerve damage from everything Ghost endured. Though not once has he faltered behind the scope of a sniper, each bullet striking true. John wishes he could do more.

Once the area is clear enough, John has enough to work with to figure out what needs to be done. Stitches aren’t necessary this time, fortunately. He applies antibiotic ointment and then wraps bandages around the cracked skin. He ought to get Ghost lotion, the gloves he usually wears are drying his skin out.

John repeats the process with the second hand, silently trading the left for the right. The whole time, Ghost doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t wince. He sits there with dull eyes looking miles away. The sheer pliantness of him sets John on edge. He’s agreed far too easily to all of this, without fuss, without fight, when it’s been nothing but that in the past. Ghost acts like he has something to prove, as if John hasn’t already seen him at his worst with paint streaking down his face. Like John won’t be there when something even more terrible comes around. How much more will it take for Ghost to realize John isn’t going anywhere?

Ghost still remains silent by the time John is done. John will give him the space he needs to come back to himself, to quiet whatever is going through his head. Clean up goes quick. The cloth he used is a lost cause, but it doesn’t take much to toss it in a discrete bag to be rid of later. The med kit and other items go back into the cabinet in his bathroom. 

Ghost is watching him again when he steps back out. John stops, watches him back, and waits. 

Frustration is a monster of a thing. It can quickly fade into anger, can quickly fade into resentment. This is where patience becomes a necessity, something to help keep the frustration at bay. John admits he didn’t use to have a good handle on it. It’s been a learning curve for both him and Simon. Truly is a testament to how far they’ve both come that John doesn’t succumb to it now.

“Thank you,” Ghost croaks out, flexing his hands. The first sign of movement that isn’t what John asks. It’s unexpected, as well. Ghost doesn’t thank him. Ghost doesn’t acknowledge John’s help when it happens, but the pack of cigars that finds its way to John’s desk occasionally is enough. 

“Simon.” 

Ghost flinches, curling in on himself. He flexes his hands into fists, clenches his jaw so hard it’s visible even under the mask.

“Ghost,” John amends, wanting to curse the world out that a man would flinch from his own name. “You don’t need to thank me.” 

He doesn’t get another word out of the lieutenant. Instead, Simon sits there for a few more minutes before he gets up and leaves the room. 

June 23rd 2016

The ceremony finishes rather quietly, wrapped up quickly and efficiently like most military affairs are. Soap still stands stiff, shoulders back and head held high as he speaks to the General, but there’s a furrow in his brow. 

John watches this from the side of the stage, hand cupped around the flame of his lighter as he attempts to light his cigar despite the wind making it difficult. It catches eventually, and the familiar scent of tobacco fills the air. Already John feels more settled, more human. Dealing with the brass usually leaves him wound tight and frustrated, knowing they care more about their fucking paychecks than the actual men. This whole ceremony is a fucking formality, trying to prove they give a shit about their soldiers. 

Eventually the General leaves, and Soap looks down, slipping out of his attentive stance with an exhale. The medals pinned to his breast look more like weights than decorations. Poor lad’s over his head, and he doesn’t even know about his incoming promotion yet. He’ll make a good sergeant, but it means John can keep him close by still. Helps that John was the one to suggest him the position. 

Soap’s eyes glance over at him before they lock on, that furrow vanishing as his expression perks up. The kid makes his way over to John then, hopping down from the stage with little care of how it rumples his uniform. 

“Hiding from the higher ups, sir?” Soap asks, that grin of his endearing and troublesome as always. Soap’s got a healthy disrespect of authority. Funny, it never seems to bleed over to John. 

John puffs out some smoke, balancing the cigar between his fingers. “Guilty as charged, private. One day, you’ll be able to hide with me.” 

“Looking forward to it,” Soap laughs a little, running a hand over his hair. It’s growing out of the regulation military cut, not that John really cares for that sort of thing. “Swear those pricks are just full of it. Told me whatever shite they thought would make me feel ‘appreciated’. Just did what anyone else would’ve.” 

“Still green enough, if that’s what you think,” John responds. Like most men wouldn’t even think to repurpose a broken weapon like that. Like most men wouldn’t run in fear, only worried about their own lives.

“Maybe so. Just like to think I have faith in my fellow soldiers.” 

One day that’ll be beaten out of him with blood, sweat and tears. Until then, John will let him keep that naivete. Kid’s only barely 20, still has so much left to learn in life. 

They fall silent as John smokes, watching the various officers and soldiers filter to their cars and leave. Soap’s watching them with that furrow back in his brow, a wistful look on his face that grows sadder with each second as the crowd thins. 

“Who are you looking for?” John pries, because there’s only one reason Soap would scour the crowd like that. 

“Ah,” Soap glances away, shoulders going back and straight. “No one, sir. Just… hoped maybe my maw would show.”

Sometimes, John sees himself in the Scot. It’s none more prevalent than here, now, looking for a family that won’t come. John’s promotion to captain had gone without a peep from his father, leaving it a cold, disheartening. John’s never been prouder of something in his life.

John claps Soap on the shoulder. “Come with me. We’ll get you a drink to celebrate.” 

They find a decent bar to go to, one that barely blinks when they both step in wearing dress uniforms weighed down by medals and rank pins. John came here last with Simon, during his promotion to lieutenant, before the man went off to see his family to celebrate. It’s a decent place, even after the handful of years that have passed.

Tucked in the corner, their booth keeps them somewhat cut off from the rest of the bar, but gives John a good sight line for the door. This time of day, there aren’t too many customers around. Just people like them, grabbing a pint for a work lunch, or catching up with old mates.

“You don’t have to do this, sir,” Soap says, tapping his fingers along the table. “You being there was enough.” 

A waitress comes by to take their order, a bourbon for John, and a scotch for Soap, which feels fitting. The drink suits the Scot in front of him, whereas he knows Simon shares his love of bourbon with John. 

“You looked like a kicked puppy,” John teases, taking a sip of his drink. “Didn’t feel right leaving you there on your own.” 

“Aye, well, still,” Soap says, stilted, awkward. There’s a flush to the kid’s face. He doesn’t seem like he wants to be talking about this, and yet he still is. “My Maw’s a whole can of worms. Haven’t really talked to her or my sisters in years. Never really knew my father, but… you’ve been as good as one for me, through everything. Thanks.” 

And John… doesn’t know what to do with that. It sits there between them like an elephant even as they go on drinking their respective vices. He’s got… what? Ten or so years on Soap? Hardly qualifies him as a fatherly substitute, but he can’t deny he looks to Soap like one of his own.

Soap squirms more as the time stretches on, his fidgeting turning from just his hands to something full body. The boy can’t keep still to save his life, unless given a task that takes all his focus. That little tender part of John finds it endearing.

“You listen to me, John,” John speaks up eventually, setting his drink down, aside. He tries to think of the right words to say. This is why he never wanted kids, never took a wife or a husband. Kate, Simon, Nikolai never required him to be gentle, but they’ve softened him in their own ways. “I will always keep an eye out for you, alright? No matter where you go, what you do, at the end of the day, you will always be one of mine. Got that, sunshine?” 

Soap’s returning smile is blinding, every awkward shift turning into something held tall, confident. He’s like a bloody dog, straining for a scrap of praise. “I copy.” 

“Good man,” he nods. “Now drink. I’m only buying you the one. Don’t waste it.” 

When they leave a couple hours later, Soap acts like he’s lighter than air.

December 25th 2022

The winter chill nips at what skin John hasn’t covered with knitted clothing, trying to keep warmth in despite being outside on Christmas morning. He itches for a cigar, or even one of Simon’s cigarettes, but he’s certain it’s considered rude to smoke in a cemetery. Still, he craves that hit of nicotine if only to do something with the rolling emotions inside of him.

It’s a habit they both have around this time of year, ever since that first time Simon asked him to come. John drives them the three hours from his home to Manchester, lets Simon stop by a flower shop to pick out four flowers before they walk to the cemetery. Once there, they part ways. Simon heads to where his family remains lovingly buried, and John heads for the forgotten section, the place where no one bothers to visit. John doesn’t come here to pay respects, like Simon. He comes here to think. 

Nigel Riley’s grave remains so neglected, John can barely make the name out behind moss and general wear and tear. It looks far older than it should, but John spares no pity or empathy for it, not for the monster of a man it holds. If John had his way, it would’ve been an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere. Maybe no grave at all, lost and forgotten with time. Even that is more than what Nigel Riley deserves. 

It’s a little odd fact that John pried into the first time Simon brought him here. Nigel was buried in the same cemetery, but separate from the family. That the Rileys got a burial at all, headstones crafted lovingly, was a shock too, knowing it couldn’t have been Simon. He found Simon’s aunt buried in databases. Despite cut contact from her sister, his aunt still processed each funeral. Broken family history led to Nigel being placed here. Simon’s own grave is tucked in this corner too, a fact that had brought unwarranted fury to John’s chest. Nothing could be done about that now. John wondered if Simon knew who had buried them. 

“Price,” Simon’s voice carried over the quiet of the cemetery, though that wouldn’t have been a hard feat at all. They were the only ones here right now, everyone hidden away in the warmth of homes and the few businesses that remained open on the holiday. John shook himself out of his thoughts and walked over to the larger plot the Rileys reside on. Four neat and cared for graves sat in a line.

Simon’s scarf worked in replacement for the mask he usually wore, but now it had been tugged down and away. The cold brought a pink flush to his pale face, making the scar crossing over the bridge of his nose stand out more. He seems… settled this time around. More himself than John’s seen in years. Whatever Las Almas did for him hasn’t seemed to shake away. John’s certainly seen his face more in the last month than he has in years.

Whatever is between him and Soap... John will keep an eye out for them. Simon's been quiet on the matter thus far, but John knows what he sees. 

“Mum wanted to meet you,” Simon breaks the silence after they stand for a few moments. “Knew it probably wouldn’t happen, but she still wanted to, anyway.”

While Simon doesn’t violently ignore the topic of his family, he never brings it up, not even when they visit. John lets him have his space, and then they go home and they don’t talk about it. He knew enough from what Simon told him before their deaths. It leaves John unsettled that it’s spoken out loud now.

“Met your brother over the phone,” John shares in response. He doesn’t really know how to respond to that, knows that of all his family, Simon’s mother is the touchiest subject. There was love there, yes, but from what John could gather, Simon’s feelings for his mother were complicated at best, and messy at worst. “I was the one who told him we’d found you.” 

“Yeah,” Simon’s lips twitched, before soothing neutrally. God forbid the man ever smile. “Tommy said he’d buy you a nice pack of cigars for that. Never got ‘round to it.” 

How different would things have turned out if Simon’s family hadn’t died? Would John be darkening their doorstep on holidays instead of attempting to lure Simon to Kate’s whenever John went there? Would the Ghost ever have been born? Would Simon still be here by John’s side?

The what ifs don’t matter. Not now when there’s nothing they can do to change things. Simon crawled from that grave, only to die anyway. And now, years later, he’s showing signs of life again.

“Why do you—” Simon barks out, the same tone he uses for interrogations. Then he tries again, softens it just enough it doesn’t feel like an accusation. “Why do you go over there?” 

John knows what he’s really asking. The answer is complicated, but maybe now he’s ready for it. Simon deserves the truth. 

“Because I try to think what it would take for a man like that to hate a boy like you,” John says. “I draw a blank every time. I’ve seen a lot of monsters in my life, Simon, but he’s one of the worst.” 

A dry laugh rasps out of Simon’s chest, humourless, but there all the same. “Does it really matter? The bastard’s dead. One day I’ll meet ‘im in hell, but for now the ground will consume his rot. That’s all he’s good for.” 

John hums, flicking his gaze away from little Joseph Riley’s grave to look at Simon. He’s surprised to find Simon already looking back. The gaze feels like a snare, unable to look away, unable to break. Over the years, they’ve learned to talk without words, but now John doesn’t know what Simon’s trying to say. 

When he speaks, it’s ground shaking.

“You’re the kind of man I wish my father had been. Never really gave you the credit I should’ve, before. You’re a good man, John, and a better friend.” 

And the statement alone—steals the breath from John’s lungs. Simon never beats around the bush, never backs away from what he wants to say. He’s always been so abrupt with what he thinks. It’s funny to know some people believe Simon would rather stab himself than say anything heartfelt. How wrong they are. 

“C’mon,” Simon reaches out, claps him on the shoulder. “Think I saw a cafe that was still open. It’s cold as hell out here. I could use a cuppa.” 

And just like that, Simon strides out of the cemetery, back towards John’s run-down car. It takes a moment for John to kick his arse into gear, to double his stride and catch up to Simon, even with the headstart. There, John tugs the man into something too-tight, too-consuming to call a hug. Simon stiffens at first, and John can't blame him; he can count on one hand how many times they've done this. But then Simon loosens, his own arms coming up to hold John just as tightly. 

"You are mine, Simon," John says. It comes out like a growl, but underlined with something gentle. "You will always be mine, do you understand?"

The words, in hindsight, aren't as impressive as Simon's, aren't as adequate for what he needs to say, what he wants to say. They hold nothing but pure possession, but they mean everything all at once. 

Simon huffs, a mix of amusement and something John doesn't know the name for, "I copy." 

July 9th 2016

“I’m going to kill them,” he says, the second the call connects.

“John—” 

“I’m going to kill every single one of them that ever put a hand on him.” 

Silence greets the promise damningly. He can barely think around the red haze of anger, the heave of his chest, the boiling rage burning him from the inside out. He trembles with it, fist clenched so tight his knuckles turn white and he can feel the bite of his fingernails into his palm. If John hadn’t put the file down, it would’ve ripped apart. There are copies of it, no doubt; copies with fewer redacted bars, files with more. Hell, if that entire report ends up being fully redacted, he wouldn’t be surprised. The words are so clinical, so impersonal compared to the portrait of pain and anguish they pain. Medical files, mission reports, the police report when they found him—Simon hasn’t said a single word since he got back, but John cannot blame him. Pain like that is hard to work through.

There’s a new emptiness to the man that pulls at what’s left of John’s heart in his chest, overturning the relief of finding him. Brown eyes duller than he’s ever seen, even on Simon’s worst days. Whatever this file holds barely resembles anything to what’s locked up in Simon’s own head, to the horror stored away in the man’s memory. John wants to break something, wants to burn down the whole place, wants to tear into every one of Simon’s tormentors. It’s hardly a foreign feeling. John’s always been aware of the force of his own anger. He’s worked so hard to rein it in, but now—

“You read the report.” 

“Yes, I read the bloody report,” he snaps back, before guilt floods nearly instantly. He rubs a hand over his face. “Kate, I didn’t mean—” 

Kate exhales, the sound muffling over the phone’s speaker. Distantly, he can hear a door shutting. “It’s alright, John.” 

He grips the phone tight enough to hear the plastic creak before switching to the speaker and setting it down. They both sit in silence while John pulls out a cigar and lights it, needing that little comfort to calm the inferno in him. If he gets up, if he does anything but stay in this chair, it’ll turn fucking ugly. Control is such a delicate thing, and he can’t afford to lose it right now. 

The words of the report repeat in his mind, only fueling the rage simmering under his skin. And all the brass cared about is when Simon would be ready for action again, when he’d be deemed field ready. Oh, they made noise about mandatory leave, about psych evals before being allowed back in, gave empty condolences to Simon’s family and Simon himself, trying to show their care. The underlying message doesn’t change, though. 

This kind of pain is enough to break a man ten times over. John’s seen it before, and he’ll see it again. Lesser men have broken over a fraction of what Simon’s gone through. The Lieutenant is still… functioning, barely, but the dead look in his eyes says it all. Nothing John has tried so far has pulled the man back from that little place in his head. A shell of a man; that’s all Simon is right now. 

“Did you read it?” he asks, tapping the ashes of the cigar out on his ashtray, sitting back in his chair. The muscles of his face twitch, hands rapping against the wooden desk.

Kate’s answer comes quick, but steady. “No. Never got the chance to.” 

Part of him wants to lay it all out, give Kate every gory detail and more, tell her the bits his mind fills in the blanks. But to what end? Would that be betraying Simon? The two are on friendly terms, sure, but Simon barely knows her. To have all this laid bare to so many people already is one thing. For John to tell Kate without asking Simon first is another. 

“John,” she starts again, letting out another breath that ghosts over the speaker. “Your head’s in a dangerous place right now. Don’t do something you’ll regret. These things take time, planning. We will make them pay, but you need to stay where you are.” 

“I know,” he responds. It’s the exact reason he called her. “They’re sending him back to his family once he’s back on his feet.” 

Christ, they’ve only had Simon back for two measly weeks, and he’s only just woken up four days ago. They’re already talking about him like he’s further along in recovery, like he hasn’t fought infection and blood loss and handfuls of injuries that could cripple a lesser man. The list goes on; nerve damage, psychological trauma, scars, and aches that will never go away. They’ll be lucky if he’s back within a year. 

“He’ll still need you,” she reminds. “You said he trusts you. Don’t you ruin that.” 

“I won’t,” John promises, even if he doesn’t fully feel it. 

Simon’s trust was hard earned the first time. Trying to get it back now will be a feat. Whatever John does now will have to be careful. He can’t afford to fuck this up when the man’s been through so much already. 

Simon’s family will never understand what he’s gone through. He needs someone who will. 

November 7th 2019

“You want me on your task force?” Kyle, Gaz, apparently, asks him. “What’s this task force for?” 

It’s the right question to ask. Ghost and Soap have already agreed. The former has done so easily, without complaint, while the latter had done so eagerly, but neither had asked why, or what the purpose is. Just like John, they seem to like the excuse to stick close. At least they’re not total strangers, and they had worked well together in Verdansk. 

“It’s for going where others can’t,” John answers, hand curled around his mug. It steams up into the air, warming his hand through the ceramic. “Like we did to help Farah, only this gives us more leeway and backup should we need it. It’s just the three of you for now, but I have others in case we decide to expand.”

Kyle’s flat is rather boring, in honesty. The walls remain mostly bare, with a few photographs hung here and there. Basic, uniform furniture fills most of the rooms. But the mugs, oh those are interesting. John is holding one that says ‘bee-lieve in yourself’. Ghost might get a crack out of it.

“And you think this will work?” Gaz sits back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest. He almost doesn’t look right in civilian clothing, without his cap, but he also looks oddly normal like this. 

“I think it will do the world a lot of good,” John responds. There’s no guarantee that it will all work out, that this task force won’t crumble to the ground when the brass decide they have too much freedom. The goal is to prove how invaluable it is, so they have no choice but to keep it. 

“While we do a lot of bad?” Gaz asks. “Yeah. Alright. I’m in.” 

The final piece slots into place, and the selfish, satisfied part of John purrs finally . 

Still, he can’t help ask, “You don’t have any more questions?” 

“I have many,” Kyle counters with a raised brow. “But none of them have answers that will change my mind. I’ll draw the line where I need to, like you said, but I’m with you on this. How it was before wasn’t working. Maybe this way we can actually do something. And I trust you. You’re a damn good captain.” 

He thinks Soap and Ghost will like Gaz. All three of them have that same drive to them, the one that keeps them in and lets them get the job done. And yet he’s still a breath of fresh air. The other two will find balance in the way Gaz operates. Gaz holds an understanding of the job that he thinks Soap has yet to learn, and one Ghost has been learning. 

“And you’re a damn good sergeant,” John returns. “Laswell will put in the transfer files. There’s a room waiting for you, but you’ll be sharing. Hope that’s not an issue.” 

“With who?” 

“Soap MacTavish. Has it out for your record. You’ll want to keep an eye on that if you want to keep it,” John adds before he pulls the files from his bag. They’re carbon copies of the ones he handed the other two, heavily redacted beyond basic information each of them needs on the others. “Ever heard of The Ghost?” 

Gaz frowns, but takes the files in hand. “Here and there, but not a lot. The one in the skull mask?” 

“He’ll also be on the team,” John warns, earning a quietly muttered ‘ bloody hell’ . Ghost has a certain reputation that the man has definitely inflated. Half the shit that gets told about him isn’t even true, but Ghost finds it funny enough not to shoot it down. The bastard lies to privates all the time with a straight face and a dead tone about the stupidest things. “He’s all bark and very little bite, unless you’re a target.” 

“Good to know,” Gaz laughs a little, flicking through the papers. “Guess I’ve got my bedtime reading figured out. You give them one on me too?” 

John hums an affirmation, sipping the tea. It’s not his preferred blend, a bit too citrusy for his taste, but he’s not going to come into another man’s home and complain. 

“Right,” Gaz nods, sets the files aside. “You’ve known these guys for a bit, yeah? Won’t they find it hard to accept me in?” 

In a sense, Gaz will be the odd one out, even if he’s not in John’s mind. Despite how little of a time they’ve known each other, Kyle sits in that little box with Kate, Nik, Soap and Ghost. This is the only way he knows how to show it. 

“You’ll be fine,” he assures. “Just don’t let Ghost intimidate you. Soap’s already excited to meet you.” 

“Funny that,” Gaz chuckles dryly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Curious to meet him, too. Youngest ever to join the SAS, must be one hell of a soldier.”

“He is. You’ve got a reputation, Kyle. Record holder carries a lot of weight,” John reminds.

“Apparently.” 

It feels way too good to be true, to finally get what he’s been wanting for years. The task force idea birthed shortly after Ghost’s rebirth, built over time as he watched both Ghost and Soap come into the roles. But it was really hearing Gaz in Piccadilly that bolstered this idea further, that drew John to pushing it harder. 

And this way. This way, John can keep some of his people all together. 

September 3rd 2016

He misses Soap’s official promotion because of an op. Three miserable weeks in the middle of Russia chasing after one false lead after another. Nothing ends up tracking, and he’s forced to go home with nothing to bring back. Things like this happen all the time, but it hardly gets easier, hardly makes him feel like he’s doing his job properly. But he’ll push on, hope something crops up and will keep an ear out for Kate’s updates. 

Back on base is a flurry of debrief, talking with the higher ups and getting passive aggressive remarks about his lack of findings. Simon’s absence from base is felt like a loss, but he deserves time with his family after everything that happened. His family deserves time with him, too. He just hopes Simon’s doing okay. At least he was verbal by the time he left.

Of all the changes in the man, his voice is the most jarring. Simon’s voice has gone rougher, lower since the last time he spoke. The doctors said it was permanent. John doesn’t want to know how much screaming it takes to damage a voice like that.  

It’s nearing one in the morning when there’s finally a knock on his office door. John had hid away with the pretence of paperwork, but in truth he’s been smoking his cigar to ash and slowly sipping from the whiskey he keeps hidden in a locked drawer in his desk. 

He takes a moment to mourn the rest of his night. As much as he enjoys being there for his men, sometimes he just wants to drink in peace. Hopefully, this will be quick, and he can go back to drinking until he inevitably falls asleep in his chair. 

“Come in,” John calls out, tucking the whiskey under his desk. Like anyone would get him for that, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

The door creaks open, and in steps a haggard-looking Soap. The kid’s still blinking sleep out of his eyes, shirt wrinkled like he hastily threw it on and joggers haphazardly tied. But he brightens ever so slightly when he sees John.

“Sir,” he says, snapping to attention. Soap looks absolutely ridiculous, but John wisely doesn’t laugh at his subordinate. 

“Soap, at ease,” he says, nodding to a chair. “Lock the door and sit. Join me for a drink.”

Relief floods the Scot’s features as he strides across the room and slumps into the chair. Odd, how Ghost and Soap both choose the same chair. If they ever end up in this office at the same time, he’s sure they’d have to fight for whoever gets it.

Is Soap barefoot? Bloody hell, the kid must’ve been in a rush to get out of his room and here if he’s that much of a mess.

“Good to have you back, sir,” he says once he blinks himself awake again. 

John pours them both a drink and passes a glass over to Soap. The kid sniffs it before making a humming sound, sipping from it with practised ease. If he doesn’t like the liquor, he doesn’t show it. It’s not scotch, and it’s not John’s preferred bourbon, but it works well enough.

“Good to be back,” John replies. “But you better have a good reason for bothering me after lights out looking like you were dragged from your bunk?” 

The glass clinks on the desk as Soap sets it down, leaning back until the chair creaks warningly. The kid’s put on muscle mass since he got dragged into Bravo Team, and now his hair is shaved down to some ugly-looking mohawk. John doesn’t have the heart to tell him it looks stupid. 

“Aye. Heard you were back from some of the lads,” Soap answers, like that’s explanation enough. “Had to see for myself.” 

John raises an eyebrow at him, takes a drag from his forgotten cigar, “Now you have.” 

“Now I have,” Soap echoes. “Heard you were the one pushing me to be a sergeant.” 

So that’s what Soap’s trying to get at. Fuck, does John miss Simon’s blunt approach to everything. It’s so much simpler to be told what they want than to parse it out for himself. 

“I did,” John says. “If you’re trying to ask why, it’s simple. You’re good at what you do, but you still have a lot to learn. Sergeant will teach it to you, but you’d make a bloody good one even now.”

“Some people disagree,” Soap says, flicking his eyes away. His leg bounces against the desk, rattling it a little. 

That’d probably be the disciplinary action report sitting somewhere in the mess on John’s desk. He read it briefly, but it’ll amount to nothing. The officer was in the wrong either way, but the fact he’s willing to drop it means John doesn’t really have to deal with it. Fighting it would be a bigger hassle. 

“Well, it’s a good thing what they think doesn’t matter, yeah?” John grunts, ashes his cigar, and takes a sip of his drink. “You’re a sergeant now. Trust in yourself, and act like it.” 

Soap nods, a strange expression settling over his features before it hardens into determination. He takes his glass back in hand and swallows the rest of it down, before setting it down on the desk again and standing. 

“Yeah, okay. You should get some rest too, sir,” he says, a grin settling on his face, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. Then he’s out the door, leaving John on his own once more. 

May 30th 2018

John Price did not consider himself a hair dresser. But Ghost asked—and John couldn't refuse. How could he? When Ghost asks for so very little.

“Easy, lad,” John soothes, pulling his hand away from Simon’s hair to give the man some room to breathe. Jaw clenched and eyes hard, Simon stares resolutely forward, maskless and only covered by a shitty military-issued towel and boxers. It’s not what Simon prefers, John knows, but it’ll keep hair clippings off clothes and allow him easy access to a shower when John’s done. He also knows that Simon wouldn’t be here if he weren’t desperate.

A minute passes, then two, as John watches pale, scarred hands clench on equally pale and scarred thighs. Then, almost imperceptibly, a nod. 

He sets his hand back on Simon’s head, brushing the longer strands back up to the front. John knows better than to linger in these moments, knows better than to touch more than he needs to. It’s a privilege and a necessity that Simon comes to him for this. It’s an honour to know John’s the only one who can hold a blade here and not fear for his life. The level of trust it took to get here took years to build up, and John’s not willing to throw that away for a bit of selfishness. 

He cares so much for this man. He shouldn’t. They’re nothing more than a commanding officer and a soldier. Except—Simon sought him out. Simon latched onto him like a dog in desperate need of guidance. A leash with no one to hold it, and Simon had very willingly given it to John. It had been that way even before Simon’s disappearance. 

“I’m turning the clippers on,” John announces before he flicks the switch and a low buzz fills the room. Ghost tenses again, face pinched like he’s in pain—but doesn’t stop him. A file can only tell him so much. Details are fickle, pointless things to the brass for things like this. Whatever demons Simon’s fighting are ones only he knows. John will wait until he’s ready to tell. 

He gets to work, buzzing the back and sides of Simon’s hair down to the length he remembers from… before. Clumps of blond hair fall to the floor, littering it. With each pass of the clippers, it’s like another wave of something settles over the Lieutenant in the chair. Those shoulders ease, his face smoothing into something calm. So much of the body holds memories, trauma, John knows this from various things he’s read or heard about in passing. Makes him wonder what Simon’s hair holds for him, and why this feels like a release.

“Just this or the top too?” he asks, holding the clippers away from Ghost’s face. It’s hard to tell where Simon’s last haircut had grown from. The lengths are choppy and uncoordinated. The lad must’ve used scissors and just done what he could.

Simon’s eyes blink open, pupils shifting as they dilate to the change in light. His chest rises with a careful inhale, scarred lips parting as he breathes out. There’s a determined look on his face, steady and grounded for the first time since he stepped into this room. “All of it. I want it all gone.” 

“You sure?” John asks, glancing down at him. He’s never seen Simon go that short beyond pictures from when he was in basic. 

“I’m sure,” Simon answered, unwavering. “Do it.” 

And John did. He brings the clippers back up and neatly shaves the top off too, cleaning up wherever he notices places he missed. If it weren’t for the scars, Simon would look like a rookie fresh off the block again. 

But rookies didn’t have that dull of eyes, didn’t have an invisible weight hanging over their head like a grey cloud. Life had been snuffed out of Simon in ways John could only imagine. He just hopes he can eventually coax some of it back to life. 

He cleans up the room while Simon takes a shower, ridding the space of evidence of what happened, like it’s something scandalous. Maybe it is. Ghost doesn’t show the vulnerable side of himself anymore, not like this, not when he asks for it. John’s had to pry it out of him the last few months. 

The man who steps out of the bathroom still looks like a living corpse. But there’s a new air to him, steadfast and ready for what the world throws at him. 

“Roba,” Ghost starts, staring at John from his place by the door. John hands him a change of clothes for lack of what else to do, but he’s alert, listening. “He liked my hair long. Been cuttin’ it with a knife. Might need your help again. Don’t trust anyone near my face.” 

An unspoken ‘but you’ hangs there, and John will latch onto that with all the hope in him. Ghost gives him information like it’s a payment for something, and maybe it is. He holds everything so close to his chest, pulling it from him is a miracle. It’s not that John needs to be repaid, but he won’t ever deny Ghost the opportunity to open up. 

“Whenever you need,” John promises. “Now go change, stop dripping all over my floor like a dog.” 

It must be a trick of the light, but John swears he sees a ghost of a smile as Simon steps back into the bathroom.

January 7th 2017 

What gets returned to him is not Simon.

It’s a rabid dog that bites the hand that feeds. There’s something dangerous and wild in his eyes, but fearful. John can’t help but think of the fighting dogs he saw on an op once, snarling at anything that dares move in its direction. They kept hoods on them, kept them in cages for their safety and others. He thinks a cage might be a poor idea for the mutt in front of him. Christ, the man is barely freshly stitched up, wounds still puffy and red from the blade that cut him. Just a handful of hours ago, he’d been burning down an entire compound.

John takes twisted pleasure in the fact that Roba and the cartel are gone. But what are the consequences?

There’s something close to hate in Simon’s eyes when he looks at John, and John tries to not let that sting. The look hasn’t left Simon’s eyes the whole time Shepherd’s been going on about the whole thing. Truthfully, John doesn’t care what the General has to say. That’s his man standing behind him. Like hell is he letting Shepherd turn Simon into someone else’s care.

John’s had enough when he says, “Then I’ll take him back. He’ll come with me back to the SAS.”

“He’s a good asset, John,” Shepherd argues, and a little of the respect John held for Shepherd dies. “He took out the Zaragoza cartel by himself. The US would benefit from having him.”

“He’s not a bloody weapon,” John snarls back, metaphorical wings flaring out, the protective dragon rearing full force. “He’s a man. A man you’re talking about like he’s not here."

Shepherd frowns, “Legally, he’s nothing. There’s a grave out there with his name on it. We don’t get opportunities like this every day.”

With fury rising, John opens his mouth to say something, only for Laswell to cut in.

“General, if I may,” she says, stepping between the two of them. “After everything Ghost has been through, familiarity is the best choice. John’s worked with him in the past, and Riley trusts him.”

“I’ll handle it,” he promises Shepherd with barely a look at the man. No, his eyes remain on the corpse that was once called Simon. White and black paint is smeared into something unrecognisable, broken up by bits of dried blood, but he thinks it must’ve once been a skull.

Maybe a hood isn’t a bad idea. Simon seems twitchy enough to be one of those fighting dogs. What is a man without his humanity? 

He should feel relief that Simon’s not dead, not shot and burned in that fire. Instead, he’s filled with dread for what waits for Simon, Ghost, as he wants to be called now, in the future. No family, no life, just a grave he dug himself out of, a blood bath he caused, and a home that’s nothing but ash.

Shepherd’s face twitches like he wants to argue, and he does, trying a different approach. “He’s unstable. He’ll be a handful to deal with.” 

“He was a handful before,” John says, not budging an inch. Even if he seems dead on the inside, John has hope that there’s still a man buried under all of it. Deeply traumatised, but still a man. “It’s my team, my responsibility. I’ll handle it.” 

Ghost gets handed into his custody. The shadow of a man doesn’t speak a word the whole ride back to England. Doesn’t speak a word when John leads him through the halls. It’s late enough that there’s no one around, really, not the whole way to his office. 

A spark of hope ignites when Ghost sits in his typical chair, but he’s so rigid about it the spark dulls. Time. The man just needs time. Price will rebuild the trust between them, will rebuild what little pieces of Simon’s personality are left if he can. Fuck, what has he gotten himself into? 

“Here,” John says, tossing a scrap of fabric to Ghost. He catches it with robotic motions, holding it out like it’s dangerous. John barely holds in an amused snort, “it won’t kill you. It’s for you. You’ll scare the lads and the brass with that makeup. But with that, you’ll just be another masked soldier. Know you had a mate who wore one once, yeah?” 

Said mate died in an explosion. Maybe not the best idea to bring that up now. Or maybe it doesn’t matter, given the lack of reaction from Ghost. 

Wordlessly, Ghost slips the balaclava over his face, settles the fabric so it sits right. Can’t feel all that comfortable with the stitches holding his face together, nor the barely healed scar over the bridge of his nose. But once it’s on, something in Ghost settles . There’s no obvious sign, but when John glances back at him, his eyes seem to thaw a little. 

“Shepherd wants you leashed,” Price comes around the other side of his desk, props himself up to sit on it and face Ghost. “I’m asking you if I can hold it. It’s either going to be me or some other sorry bastard. Your choice.” 

“You.” 

The answer is croaked out, softly but solid. There’s no hesitation to it, not moment to think. Ghost blinks like he’s surprised by it himself, the first fucking sign of emotion John has seen since he first saw him. Hope sparks alive once more.

“Alright,” John nods, flicking open his lighter to light the cigar he has in hand. “Welcome to Bravo Team then, Ghost. I’m excited to work with you. Let’s get started.”

November 2023

The blinding screen of his phone lights up the whole shitty hotel room, burning at his eyes. John’s been staring at it for so long that the words and images have blurred together. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking at anymore—Simon’s last text had been an hour ago and he’s since moved from that page. Mindless scrolling wasn’t even enough to get him to stop thinking. 

(No update. Check in again in an hour.)

There’s little noise coming from the street outside the window. It’s nearly two in the morning, after all. Not that John really feels it, not with how his job usually keeps him up at odd hours. He’s gone days without sleeping before. This isn’t any different. 

Except, in all the ways that it is. Soap’s being held in a hospital, an actual civilian hospital. The nature of his injury had left them all up in the air whether he’d actually pull through. Head wounds always bleed so heavily. It was hard to see if the bullet had grazed or actually gone through. So John gave the order and rushed his boy to the nearest hospital. 

That’d been days ago. Soap’s stabilised since then—the bullet had grazed, just barely missing Soap’s skull. The doctor had warned it would be a while before he woke up. So day in and day out, the moment visiting hours were open, the remaining members of Task Force 141 piled themselves into shitty hospital chairs and sat around Soap’s bed. Simon had taken it upon himself to break into the hospital after the night shift took over, just to sit with Soap even longer. It had taken everything in John not to join them, but too many people would bring too much attention. He and Kyle remained in a nearby hotel in the meantime, barely sleeping as they waited.

“Price,” Kyle’s voice cuts through the dark of the night, past the hazy worries rattling in John’s brain. 

John is alert. He can’t help but to be, not with the way constant adrenaline washes him hot and cold at once, spiking every few minutes. He doesn’t startle at being called, but he turns to where Kyle has propped himself up on the bed. 

This whole time he thought Kyle had finally caught some sleep, but the exhaustion casting dark circles under the sergeant’s eyes prove that to be false. Kyle looks at him with a soft, sad, knowing expression, but not pity.

“Garrick,” John replies, voice almost as rough as Ghost’s. He clears his throat and sits up, trying to blink the dryness from his eyes. “You should be resting.” 

“Could say the same to you, sir,” comes the reply. The corner of Kyle’s lips turns up, eyebrows raised just slightly. Exhaustion softens the expression, brings it back to earth. Still, John knows that look all too well.

There should be some teasing, maybe chastising, remark on his tongue. But, bloody hell, John is far too fucking tired and scared to bring himself to that level. 

Fear isn’t something he’s used to. Worry, yes, the adrenaline rush that comes from the unknown, but never fear. It’s a testament to how much he’s come to love his team beyond what is necessary that the thought of Soap’s death fills him with fear. He’s felt this only a handful of times before. Back in 2015 when Simon went MIA, and last year, when they got news of Graves’ betrayal. 

“Can’t sleep,” John says, locking his phone and setting it aside. It’ll ding if Simon has anything to report. Sitting there staring at nothing doesn’t do him any good, he knows that. John clasps his shaking hands together and prays that Kyle doesn’t notice. 

Kyle’s eyes soften, seen even in the low light coming in from the window. John doesn’t know what to do with the gentleness there, the knowing he sees there.

“Come here, sir. That chair can’t be any good for your back.” 

“Bloody hell, Kyle,” he sighs, but he goes, lifting his body from the chair like it’s still weighed down by all their gear. “I’m not that old.” 

It earns him a quiet chuckle. “If you say so, sir.” 

The lumpy single bed dips as he sits on the edge, close enough that he could reach out and touch Kyle if he wanted. He does want to. He wants to feel for Kyle’s pulse to know he’s real, that he’s unharmed. Simon can hold his own, but it still aches something fierce to not have his team all together where John can see them. And Soap—

“When I said come here, I meant fully,” Kyle scolds, grabbing John’s arm with a gentle hand. John doesn’t fight it when Kyle pulls him close, shifting to make room for them to sit side by side. This is better. He can feel the warm press of Kyle along his side, ensuring that he is real. He is safe. 

“Soap will be alright. The doctor said that he’ll pull through. His body just needs to heal first.”

He knows. He feels like maybe he should be saying that to Kyle. That’s his job, isn’t it? To look after the three men under his command, to comfort them when needed, to care for them when needed. It’s never been his role to be the one comforted. These are his men, his boys, though he’s never really wanted to put word to that feeling. 

“I know,” he says, gruff. It’s truth, not a dismissal. “But this is the closest I’ve come to losing one of you. It’s hard to think rationally about it.” 

How Kyle manages to is a bloody mystery. He has to be worried sick too, has to be out of his mind with it. Then again, Kyle never stops to amaze him through all of this. Everyone says Ghost or Soap are the unpredictable ones, but that sentiment goes for Kyle in truth. At each turn, he does something unexpected, blow John’s perception of him out of the water and shape into something stronger each time. 

“Soap has Ghost right now,” Kyle tries again, which is a moot point, really. John knows that, just got a text nearly an hour ago confirming. “He wouldn’t want you doing this. I know you know that.” 

Christ, does John crave the familiar taste and weight of his favourite cigars. It would soothe him, however menial, but he used his last one yesterday. 

“Is that how you’re keeping your calm?” John can’t help but ask, bitter in execution, but not in theory. He regrets how it sounds immediately as it comes out. He really is too tired for this, if he’s snapping at Kyle. 

But Kyle says nothing about his tone, only, “I’m keeping calm because my best friend is alive. Obviously I want the bloody bastard to wake up, but killing myself waiting does none of us any favours. One of us has got to have the level head and we all know it won’t ever be Ghost.”

He’s right, of course. Not that John can turn off his own brain and just give into the pull of sleep. He can’t rest until Soap’s awake, and John knows he is okay. They don’t know what state he’ll be in when he wakes. 

They fall into silence, because John doesn’t know how to respond. It’s so unlike him to not have answers, to not always be prepared. He should be prepared for this, knows that in their line of work anything could go wrong. Nothing ever makes it easier. 

He should’ve nipped this all in the bud when he first realised how attached he’d gotten. Should’ve let someone else become Simon’s handler. Should’ve left Gaz where he found him. Should’ve never nudged Soap down this path. But what’s done is done, and all John can do is live with the reality of it.

These are his men. His. Nothing can get between that. Like a dragon protecting its horde, he’ll keep them close until their last breaths.

A shrill ring shatters the silence, sending both men tense and alert. John’s off the bed in moments, grabbing his vibrating phone in hand. Simon’s caller ID stands out starkly against the black backdrop, damning and promising in one. 

The call connects, and half of Simon’s face fills the frame shakily, startling John. He hadn’t even realised it was a video call. There’s another forty minutes until the check in. Either something has gone really right, or really wrong. Dread and anticipation burn through John’s blood.

“John,” Simon sounds breathless when he speaks, and then lowers the phone to reveal his whole face. 

The bastard is beaming. Instead of that blue medical mask, the biggest smile John’s ever seen the man make split Simon’s face in two. His cheeks to the tips of his ears and tinged pink with a blush. The sight is shocking enough that John just stands there dumbfounded.

“John, he’s awake.” 

Kyle’s at his side in seconds, shocked silent just as much as John is. The camera flips and shows off a tired looking but awake Soap.

“Hey lads,” the Scot greets. There’s a rasp in his voice that makes it sound like he’s swallowed rocks. 

“Tav!” Kyle nearly shouts in his ear, grabbing for John’s phone. 

He can’t even be mad when the phone’s wrestled from his grip as Kyle hogs the screen, rapidly chatting away at Soap. The laugh he hears is downright heavenly, even with the brokenness of it. 

“Gaz! Steamin’ Jesus, slow down. Still feels like my brain is melting out of my ears,” Soap complains. Another noise follows and—is that Ghost laughing ?

“You alright, mate?” Gaz asks, softer, slower this time, and John can’t fault him for his excitement. 

“Will be with this big bastard hovering over me. Bleeding hell, who let him in here?”

John finally gets himself together enough to step in, trying to breathe through the sheer swell of relief. He stands close to Kyle, keeping an eye on the screen and letting himself be seen. “He did. Broke in after visiting hours.” 

“Of course he fuckin’ did,” Soap grouses, but barks out a laugh that has him wincing. A quiet ‘ easy, love,’ can be heard from behind the camera. Soap waves away the concern, but there’s nothing that dims his own smile. “Good to see you alive, sir. Had me worried for a sec.” 

“Had you worried? Next time don’t be a hero, thought I was gonna have to drive myself sick with paperwork.” 

“Aww, you do care.” 

“Of course I do,” it comes out far softer than John meant, sending the high of Soap’s cheeks tinting pink. 

Simon’s still smiling face fills the screen again. “I can get you two in if you want to visit.” 

John does, but he’s not sure if that’s what Soap needs right now. Even from the call, he looks ready to drop back into sleep, heavy bags under his eyes and skin pale. He's glad Simon is there with Soap, at least. They deserve time together without everyone else intruding on whatever personal moment they had before the call. 

“We’ll visit in the morning,” Kyle answers for him. “You look terrifying right now, Ghost. Think I’ll pass.” 

Another bark of Soap’s laughter can be heard before a disgruntled Simon ends the call. Darkness and quiet falls in the hotel room once more, leaving an odd sense of reality over John. The call had been so short it’s hard to believe it was even real. But it was, if the misty-eyed look Kyle gives him is anything to go by.

“Told you he’d be fine, sir,” Kyle teases, flopping into the chair by the bed. John’s phone hits the desk with a clatter. “Bloody hell. I’m going to give him the biggest hug as soon as I can. And was Ghost smiling? Thought he was going mental or something.” 

The insanity of it all rips a laugh from John’s lungs, shaking his body. He can’t stop, not as the relief builds and exhales with them, flooding out of his body. He’ll ask what all that was about later, but fuck, they’re all going to be okay.