Chapter Text
His skin and hair are red, the former cold-bitten and the latter a genetic hand-me-down from his mother, who is a free-spirited Irish woman who was ashamed by the activities of her son, when she discovered them. He, at least, doesn't even suspect that she knows, and as the 141 approach and overtake his base, he is none the wiser to the fact that it's her tip which will inevitably lead to his downfall.
Ghost is seriously debating sharing this piece of information with him, if only because he thinks piss-babies who mistreat their mums deserve to suffer for it.
He's a professional, however. He settles for roasting the shit out of the guy with Soap as they prowl through the compound.
“Bit of a downgrade from savin' the world, aye, Lt?” Soap says lowly, nudging Ghost's elbow with his own and pointing to some shadows just barely stretching down a looming hallway. Almost everyone on the base is already aware that they're here—meaning stealth is a chore they can skip, if they want—but Soap still chooses to keep himself relatively quiet, saving his words for Ghost alone.
“Just a bit, Johnny,” he agrees, keeping his voice equally soft. “Fucker doesn't even look the part.”
They round the corner with both of their guns raised, but it's Soap who dispatches the waiting enemies with two quick shots. He handles his weapon expertly, his fingers flexing around the trigger with practised ease. Ghost watches, as much from the corner of his eye as he can with the edge of his skull mask obscuring his vision, impressed.
They've barely even encountered resistance as they've made their way through Oisin Eakin's freezing compound. The red haired man calls himself Little Deer, which is hardly the most intimidating name (this, too, has been a subject of ridicule between Ghost and Soap throughout their conversation), but for one reason or another, he does command a level of respect over his men that has them continuing to stand guard despite the fact that the 141 are visibly and audibly clearing house. Not that their efforts are amounting to anything significant. He would never say so aloud, but Ghost is almost getting bored.
“Who sets up a base in Lancashire, anyway?” Soap says as they step over the bodies with barely a glance. “Especially someone who's so gung-ho about Ireland…”
Ghost takes a moment to consider it. Lancashire is no one's favourite county; it’s slightly more Northern than Manchester and that has people from the South insisting that they're impossible to understand, while locals moan about the weather and the Tescos that are slowly overtaking the local shops. Ghost reckons it's the same anywhere, but this is the closest that he's been to home for easily five years, so what does he know? He ignores the spiking chill at the realisation that Manchester is only one county over, just a couple hours' drive, and focuses on answering Soap. “Maybe he was planning to frame ‘us Brits’,” he says drily, with an emphasis that makes it clear he's tossing back one of Soap's many, many comments about ‘you Brits’.
He's rewarded by Soap turning to smile at him, a bright, knowing light in his eyes and something mirthful in the twist of his lip. “Maybe. Bit stupid of him to sign his name everywhere, then.”
“Sign his name?”
“Oisin.” He shrugs. “Means Little Deer 'cause of some old story, I think.”
“So that's why he went with that.”
“Stupid as shit, right?” Soap grins over Ghost.
“I know I'm shaking in my boots,” comes his flat reply.
Soap laughs, just a quiet huff of breath. “If you're going to be a terrorist, at least nail down the terror part of it first!”
Ghost hums his agreement, but he has to admit he's grateful for the reprieve from clenching terror. He (as the rest of the 141) isn't far enough off the battle against Hassan and his men for the memory to fade. It remains dagger sharp in his recollection: high-definition through a scope, a building away watching Hassan's twisted face and Soap's dragging body. He thinks it's a miracle that Soap has bounced back from that whole situation as quickly as he has. Price wouldn't have let him back in the field without some sort of psych eval, but Ghost finds himself keeping his eyes on Soap anyway, just in case there's something lurking that everyone else missed.
Maybe it's hubris to assume that he'd notice. Soap is a remarkably closed book, and the others have known him for longer. Ghost still thinks that he would.
They turn another corner, clear another hallway, and finally Price's voice comes through their radios. Soap winces at the echo and turns his dial down to nothing, stepping closer to Ghost to ensure that he can still hear. “Found Eakin,” Price is saying, “shaking like a leaf. Practically a white flag himself.”
“Not as red as his pictures, then?” Ghost asks, amused.
“Somehow more chapped in person.” This comment comes from Gaz, with a layer of disgust befitting of a man who somehow maintains a skincare routine no matter where they are in the world or how little sleep they're getting.
“Waterboard him in Vaseline,” Soap suggests, leaning in slightly to where Ghost still has his hand on his radio.
Price doesn't say anything in response to this, but Gaz laughs and, more distantly, there's a string of bitter Irish that Ghost attributes to Eakin. Soap looks altogether too pleased with getting under his skin, raising his eyes to look smugly at Ghost.
Ghost wonders if his amused smirk is noticeable through the fabric of his balaclava. Soap tends to be pretty good at reading him and Ghost isn't sure what keeps giving him away.
“R.V. on me,” Price says after a beat, relaying his location. He comes through somewhat clipped, tone tight, and Ghost wonders what's caused the sudden change in his demeanour. This particular excursion has been relatively easy, especially when compared to the other missions they've taken on in the last few months. Ghost doesn't like the idea of that changing.
Soap frowns, a sudden expression that wipes any humour from him as he, too, realises that something is wrong. Their eyes lock, a silent communication of worry (Ghost flashes back to another too-clear memory, on opposite sides of a vehicle with a betrayal only moments away), before they're heading off in unison, at once quicker and more cautious.
The winter air cuts through Ghost’s mask, turning every inhale into a shot of cold in the back of his throat. Snow is uncommon in England, even this far North, but there’s a thin layer of frost and ice accumulating in the grass, and it crunches under their feet as they move. The skin on Soap’s wrists, between his short gloves and his jostled sleeves, has taken on a pinkish hue. This is the sort of chill that usually chases people inside, but the newly settled utter silence of this compound feels unrelated; the cold, however, does add to the uneasy atmosphere that settles into the concaved hollow in Ghost’s chest.
He is not an easily terrified man, and only moments before they’d been joking about a distinct lack of terror in this particular enemy, but the abrupt change in Price’s voice set something icy in the place behind Ghost’s heart. Pessimism, he finds, is useful in this line of work. Better to go cold, cynical, like the air around them, then to burn with panic and trigger-happy anger.
Soap, of course, falls into the opposite camp. He’s walking a few steps ahead of Ghost, something antsy in the way that he scans back-and-forth with his gun, but he doesn’t run ahead. He checks over his shoulder—subtle, but not subtle enough that Ghost doesn’t catch on—every few steps, keeping track of Ghost’s position. He moves with purpose; he is heading towards a fight, not a graveyard.
Ghost prepares himself for both; he has been preparing himself for both for years.
The building Price called from is just as achingly quiet as the rest of the compound, but at least it’s warmer inside. Ghost eases the door open and shut with barely a sound, letting Soap go ahead as he seems so desperate to. Price and Gaz are with Eakin on the third floor—presumably, they dealt with any threats in the lower levels already. Despite knowing this, Ghost and Soap keep their weapons drawn and their lights off as they creep through the hallways and up the stairs. Soap’s breathing echoes in Ghost’s ears, but only because he’s hyper-aware of him and not because he’s being incredibly loud. There’s a hush over the place, and anticipation builds slowly in Ghost’s gut and the base of his skull, buzzing like horse-flies in the summer.
The third floor is littered with bullet casings. Ghost discovers this when he kicks one accidentally, and the metallic ting-ting of them rolling against each other reverberates through the hallway. Both he and Soap freeze, raising their guns and scanning up and down the hallway. Ghost becomes aware of his heartbeat, but there’s no other sound.
Soap’s eyes meet his in the dim dark, and despite his limited visibility, Ghost can still see his own wariness reflected back at him. They nod at each other.
Falling into step, they make their way as silently as they can. When Ghost strains, he can just about hear Price’s voice. Something in him loosens, just a little, at the sound, but the fact he can’t make out words prevents him from entirely letting go of his worry. Soap is still a half-step ahead, checking over his shoulder, and Ghost finds himself envious of the way he steps: sure-footed, pressing forward with no visible fear. There are many reasons that Ghost wears his mask, but one of them is that it disguises any and all expressions that may make their way onto his face. It’s much easier to build a reputation of being stoic and emotionless when no one can see any differently. Soap’s emotions are laid out openly, written into every like of his body and movement of his face, but it never makes him seem weak. At least, not to Ghost. That’s a thought process he saves exclusively for himself.
The roof above them has caved in, leaving a gaping hole for the stars to shine through and letting the cold air swoop in. There’s an ajar door towards the end of the hall. Ghost takes in a slow breath, stepping up next to Soap and then past him, jerking his head towards the door and motioning for them to stay quiet.
“—of shut the fuck up do you not understand?” Price is saying, gruff and commanding as ever. There’s an audible tension in his voice, a tightness in his throat that has the words coming out a little blunt, like a dull knife.
Eakin laughs, though it comes out a little hacking. He sounds like he’s holding back a cough but doesn’t care. Ghost hovers, peering through the crack in the door and comparing the man in question to his picture. Gaz is right—he does look more chapped in person, his red skin cracked and peeling around his lips, bloodied splits that look painful. His hands, which are tied in front of him, are dry and flaky. The pink of his skin clashes horribly with his red hair, but his bright green eyes cut through with an unforeseen power.
The sudden brp-brp-brp-brp of a helicopter draws Ghost’s eyes upward through the roof. It’s flying low, but not low enough to make out any details.
“Lt,” Soap hisses, and Ghost finally moves.
He pushes open the door with the scratching sound of wood on tile, announcing his presence. Eakin looks up, but instead of even an ounce of intimidation, his expression turns smug and amused, bleeding lips lifted into an insufferable smirk.
“Heli outside,” Soap says, pushing past Ghost and going to stand near Gaz. “Didn’t get a good look.”
“Fuck,” Gaz says, eloquently. Ghost understands and sympathises with the sentiment.
“It’s been too quiet around here,” Ghost adds. “Something’s up.”
Price nods tightly. Eakin’s smirk spreads into a grin. One of the splits on his lip reopens and a bead of blood blooms over his skin. He doesn’t seem to care, not even going as far as to lick it up. It just sits there, a congealing pool of red. Soap and Price stare openly at him. Ghost turns his head away to peer into the hall.
The helicopter is getting closer. It must be circling the building, looking for a place to land or at least pick up stragglers. The people who once occupied the compound must have gone somewhere , and given how quickly the base had fallen silent, Ghost thinks that they must be somewhere nearby. Only Oisin Eakin remains, laughing and bleeding, hands bound and lips quirked. Ghost has faced a lot of terrible, terrifying people in his life—Eakin doesn’t crack his top five threatening figures, but there is something unsettling about the manic glint in his eye.
“What’s the game plan, Captain?” Gaz asks, deferring to Price’s judgement as they all technically should, though they’re far more often acting in loosely coordinated independence.
Price steps back, leaning into his shoulders and flicking through radio channels. “Watcher,” he greets, clipped. “Something’s off.”
“You’ve got an unmarked helicopter circling your position,” Laswell replies, and Ghost can hear her frown even through the static connection. “Yes, I’d say something’s gone wrong.”
“I know your names,” Eakin says, finally licking the blood from his lip as it starts to drip down to his chin. His accent is Irish, of course, and his tone is oddly musical. His gaze snags on Ghost. “Even yours.”
The concaved hollow in Ghost’s chest expands, his cold heart beating out a staccato rhythm. He doesn’t believe it, necessarily. There have been others who’ve tried similar taunts, but Ghost has a very specific reputation, one he’s killed and died for. People don’t know the Ghost and they most certainly don’t know the man underneath it. If Ghost indulged every name-based taunt thrown his way, he’d never get anything done. A part of him itches to knife Eakin where he sits, bound, just to rid himself of the irritance, but he knows that’s not what justice looks like. There is something off about this whole operation, and Eakin is their key to figuring out what and why. He doesn’t move to his blade. He doesn’t move at all, instead staring at Eakin with cool indifference.
He can feel someone’s eyes on him, and doesn’t have to look to know that it’s Soap, and maybe Price, watching him with open concern. Ghost tilts his head down, keeping his eye on Eakin, who laughs again.
“You’re all supposed to be anonymous, aren’t you?” Eakin continues, turning his head in a slow semi-circle as he scans his eyes over the four men. He leans forward, paying no mind to his bound hands. “The 141! The best of the best, a task force built to quietly save the world. But I know who you are.”
“Fuck off,” Soap snaps. “No one wants to hear y’r voice.”
Eakin raises his bound hands, fingers spread in an imitation of surrender. “Struck a nerve, MacTavish?”
A tense silence falls. Eakin is right—they are supposed to be largely anonymous, though they’re all well aware that their reputation is mounting. It’s still disconcerting to hear a name from an outsider's bloody lips. Soap disguises his surprise with anger, or maybe he’s just angry, glaring at Eakin with his hand curling around his gun.
Eakin licks his dry lips again. “John MacTavish. They call you Soap.”
Ghost turns his head just enough to look at Soap without his skull mask getting in the way. Soap’s jaw is working, his gloved fingers twitching on his gun, but outside of these subtle reactions, he’s unmoving and unresponsive. Eakin smirks, and then his eyes slice over to Gaz.
“Gaz, they call you. Well, he started it, didn’t he?” He points to Price with both of his hands. “I can see the evolution. Gaz, from Gar, from Garrick. More unique than Ky from Kyle, I’ll give you that.”
Gaz looks at Price, who’s standing ramrod straight, one hand still on his radio and the other curling into a fist at his side. Despite the cold air still pouring through the broken roof just outside the room, the air inside the room feels warm, nearly suffocating.
“Captain John Price, of course, needs no introduction,” Eakin says, raising his tied hands to give an awkward faux-salute. “And the brilliant lady listening on the other end of the radio is Kate Laswell, if I’m not mistaken.”
“And you’re Oisin Eakin,” Price says. Ghost wonders if he’s trying to reclaim some command over the situation. If so, he doesn’t think it’s working. Despite his bound hands and being horribly outnumbered, Eakin has them all enthralled.
Ghost shivers, a cold flash of discomfort racing up his spine. Eakin’s eyes have fallen on his, staring at him as if he can see through the mask. This, at least, Ghost isn’t worried about. Although it’s becoming more and more possible that Eakin knows his name, it’s impossible that he knows his face.
“I’m an Irishman, born and raised,” Eakin says, voice low and as rough as his skin. “Grew up on stories of the Fey. I know all about the power of names. Ghost is a pretty powerful one these days. Strikes fear into the hearts of men, don’t it? It’s too late if you see him, they say. By then, you’re already dead. But see, that’s a name that’s powerful to other people. I know one that’s powerful to you.”
“Posturing,” Ghost says, but his voice comes out just a tad more strangled than he’d like it to.
The helicopter must complete another circle, coming much closer to the building. Its noise cuts through their conversation, and for a moment Ghost and Eakin just stare at each other.
“Get out of there,” Laswell shouts through the radio, barely audible over the brp-brp pounding of the propeller. No one moves. “Cut him and run, it’s not worth it!”
“I’m setting the scene,” Eakin corrects, also yelling. “You aren’t going to kill me yet. You want to know if I’m telling the truth. You want to know how I know the truth. Don’t you?”
Ghost swallows. He turns to his team, who are all trading looks with each other. The helicopter beats above them, now loud enough that it must be positioned directly over the hole in the roof.
“Don’t you, Simon Riley?”
His concave chest collapses.