Chapter Text
The black fitted uniform that Soap was wearing hugged his body tightly, almost too tightly. He wasn’t used to such a neat fit after wearing loose, in-the-field clothes for months on end. He found that he didn’t like the feeling.
He also didn’t like the way some of the men in the audience looked at him. Their eyes staring blankly at his waist and hands, at his slightly exposed throat that the uniform didn’t cover. Eyes that scanned his 23-year old baby face with sinister eyes.
“The bomb the rebels are using is most likely based in lithium according to my calculations,” Soap spoke, and continued on with his presentation, trying to shake off the feeling of at least a hundred pairs of eyes on him.
The light from the massive whiteboard behind him illuminated his behind, casting a long shadow in his front. The plastic water cup that he had retrieved was still idly sitting on the speaker podium, untouched and the water having become disgustingly lukewarm.
“It is highly volatile. The rebels most likely don’t care if their men get caught up with the explosions if enemy operators are killed.”
Soap finally saw Price in the crowd. He was wearing his captain’s uniform, sitting at a table with some men that Soap didn’t recognize.
The numbers on the whiteboard were written so densely on the slideshow that they looked like words on a page. Soap tried to explain the calculations in layman’s terms, but judging from the raising eyebrows in the crowd, he wasn’t doing a very good job.
Why had he been tasked with explaining the math behind bombs again? Just because he was the best demolitions expert the British military had in its service right now didn’t mean that he wanted to be here, explaining basic shit that any demolitions guy would know to a bunch of white collar old grumps who hadn’t set their foot in the field in years.
There was a picture of a man with his arm torn right off.
Nathan. That was his name. Soap had been his instructor at the demolitions course when “Naughty Nate” had first signed up.
Now the guy was dead and buried, taken out by the bomb that Soap had been studying feverishly after his untimely demise.
Soap was glad that the picture didn’t show Nathan’s face. He didn’t think he could keep himself together for the rest of his presentation if it did.
-
Soap was all polite smiles, his hair grown out to fit military standards, boringly styled into something appropriate. The uniform was starting to suffocate him even more as the night went on.
The old timers had a ball of a kind arranged after the initial presentations, which were supposed to be the main focus of the night. Now, seeing how the old fucks were acting, it sure didn’t look like they remembered much from what Soap had just tried to drill into their smooth brains for 2 hours straight.
He nodded along politely to some lame joke that a navy captain told him, and the noise emanating from the crowd made sound and taste blend together into a gooey mess inside his head. There was a drink shoved into his hand. Champagne, it looked like. A balding man with his chest basically drooping with medals opened his mouth revealing just how many teeth he was missing, and Soap had to excuse himself.
For an SAS operator, sneaking through a crowd like this undetected was a cake walk. No one was closely paying attention to what was happening around them, only intent on hearing the latest gossip from their acquaintances, friends if you will.
The champagne class was left abandoned on some table where Soap just put it down and never looked back. Judging from the obnoxiously loud laughter coming from that table, the men sure didn’t mind the extra drink offering.
His palms cooled down immediately as they came into contact with the ice cold railing. The freezing air outside calmed his nerves down just a bit. The lack of pompous geriatrics also probably helped.
For the first time in years, Soap thought about his decision to join the military.
He had wanted to do good. To save people and countries like some American movie hero who arrived at a disaster scene guns blazing to save the day. Sure, becoming a hero via the military had the added benefit of never having to go back to his family again, to never even see them again if he so wished, but that sure as hell wasn’t the reason he gave to people who asked why he made the leap.
Just like everyone else who joined the military bright and starry eyed, he found out that he had been idealistic, stupidly so. John didn’t become a hero. He was a man so efficient at killing people that he was nicknamed “Soap” for his speed. He was a man who studied how to blow people to bits at the same time as he studied maths at uni. He was a man who had been forced to send letters to the families of the men that had been his subordinates, but had met their end sooner than they were supposed to.
Soap was a murderer.
Most days he didn’t dwell on that fact. It was just the job that he had chosen for himself instead of some boring 9-5. However, the sheer disconnect from the reality of their profession that was in full display here was making emotions rise in Soap’s chest that he didn’t want to feel.
The laughter, the posh accents, the expensive fitted uniforms, the analytical nature with which they looked at the pictures of the poor fucking men, barely out of their teens, mangled by bombs and their sheer indifference to the imagery. Like Soap had been talking to them about the life cycle of a plastic bottle instead of the tragic and sudden ends to real, human lives.
Worst of all was the sinking realization that Soap himself was precisely just like them.
He was speaking in a posh and proper accent, dressed to the nines with a haircut that he didn’t want, but got anyway because he needed to be presentable. He was the one who had decided to use Nathan’s picture in his presentation. He was the one who hadn’t felt anything as he went through the presentation hours before he was on stage, as he skimmed through the post mortem photos of the men he was supposed to protect.
Soap couldn’t even pretend to be a good apple in this thoroughly corrupted shit show of an institution. He was just as guilty as the rest of the wankers he was internally cursing at, as he laughed along with their jokes and engaged in their idle talk.
It wasn’t a realization he wanted to have. When you’re 23, you’re supposed to think that you’re at the top of the world. You’re young, beautiful and invincible. Soap had decided to skip his whole 20s while pursuing this fucked up career and had landed right into his 60s with the rest of the awful and bitter lot who simply didn’t care anymore.
What did his team think while Soap was holding that presentation? As they watched him mold himself to fit that role the higher ups had forced him into like a good boy, discarding any unnecessary baggage like that. His accent, his birth place, his appearance, his identity.
What did Ghost think of him now? All this time he had ordered for Soap to speak English, only for him to find out that Soap did, indeed, speak English. He spoke it like a high socialite who attended a prestigious university surrounded by other posh twats. He spoke English like someone who’d look down on Ghost’s accent and order him to speak English.
If he really thought about it, Soap really was a whore in more ways than one.
The biting cold had numbed his hands, which were still resting on the hand railing. His hair had gotten out of its stylized form due to the strong winds, and was partly obstructing Soap’s view as it fell down on his eyes. He didn’t like it.
The cell in his pocket made a small noise, and Soap picked it up.
Price: Exfil in 8.
The brief text message soothed Soap’s raging thoughts. Even his captain clearly hadn’t enjoyed himself much, if he wanted to leave this early into the night.
Soap steeled himself. He would need to walk past the crowd to get to the helicopter.
The small talk would need to be precisely that, small and quick, pleasantries only.
-
The helicopter was ready for takeoff.
The airflow surrounding the helicopter was resuscitating Soap’s struggling lungs as he neared the helipad. Escaping the ball had taken longer than he would have liked for it to, but he was still here before the time Price had given ran out. The others were most likely at the helicopter, as he saw people sitting there. Soap could make out Gaz’ wry smile as he neared the helicopter, and he felt a weak smile begin to rise to his own face.
True enough, everyone was already there. Gaz was sitting next to the opened door, awkwardly smiling at him. Ghost was leaning against the wall of the helicopter, arms crossed and his mask covering his facial expression. Price was looking at Soap with an introspective look that Soap didn’t like - his captain was a smart man, he didn’t need to get any ideas about Soap.
Ghost shifted in his seat slightly and his eyes darted to look behind Soap. Soap also turned to look after hearing noises even through the loud whirring of the helicopter.
It was one of the Captains he had been speaking to during this event. He was lightly jogging towards the helicopter with an easy grin on his face and a hand holding onto his hat so it wouldn’t fly away. There was also a bag that the man was holding with his other hand that Soap hadn’t seen before. He sincerely hoped that it was for Price.
The man came to stand right behind Soap, who hadn’t yet fully boarded the helicopter. Soap looked at him with a confused expression, eyes darting between him and his own Captain who was closely observing the situation.
The Captain saluted Price politely, giving up on yelling over the loud noise on the helipad. He then proceeded to hand the bag he was holding to Soap, whose eyebrows shot up as he numbly accepted. He pointed with his fingers at his chest as if to ask “for me?”. The Captain just laughed, and nodded, pointing at the bag before proceeding to back off the helicopter.
Soap boarded the helicopter and they soon took off. Soap was still holding the bag in his hand, which was actually quite heavy. He had no idea what he had been given, nor for what reason.
Gaz, who was sitting in front of him, then proceeded to lean out of his seat and peek at Soap with a cunning look in his eyes.
“So, Tav. You’ve got some explaining to do, mate.”
This was what he had been dreading. The bag felt even heavier in his hand once he caught a glimpse of the way LT was drilling holes into it with his gaze alone. Price still had that pondering look on his face as he wordlessly kept stealing glances at Soap.
The atmosphere was tense as shit, and it was all Soap’s fault.
Soap bit the bullet, despite the fact that all he wanted to do was to get back to base and to retreat back to his room to scream and to sleep, maybe even have a cheeky little crying session in the shower. “What?” he bluntly replied to Gaz, whose grin didn’t leave his face. For once it was a good thing, since no one else in the helicopter was amused.
“Don’t ‘what’ me, mate! Were you gonna tell us that you had that accent all along or had you planned for us to find out once you got invited to this royal gala as a guest speaker?”
Gaz’ tone was teasing, but his words had hit a nerve.
“I didn’t hide anything, you knew that I was called in to give a briefing on the bombs!”
“Yeah, but you can’t blame a man for being surprised! Never heard you sound posh in your entire life, and now you effortlessly fit into the Bourgeois upper class of the military with that sweet King’s English! Besides, since when have you had a maths degree?”
Soap felt both Ghost’s and Price’s eyes drilling into him now. Even Gaz, who had tried to keep his interrogation light-hearted, was starting to lose his humour. He really had blindsighted his whole team with this stunt.
He sighed, and looked out of a window on the helicopter to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze.
“The Bourgeois accent and the math degree are linked. Couldn't exactly hope to waltz in there to present my analysis of the bomb speaking in Scottish to a room full of pretentious Brits if I wanted to be taken seriously,” Soap stated, voice very even.
Gaz quieted down. They did have a habit of taking the piss out of Soap’s accent, but Soap did have a point there. In an ideal world Soap would get to speak with the accent he wanted, but they weren’t living in an ideal world, they were in Britain.
“There was no mention of a maths degree in your files,” Ghost spoke, voice low and accusing. He wasn’t the type of man who forgave liars, or permitted for his subordinates to omit info from him during a mission. Judging from his tone, he clearly was following his principles here.
“It wasn’t asked in the forms we fill out, and it really isn’t something you need to know. In the field a maths degree means jack shit and you know it, Lt,” Soap retorted. He truly hadn’t thought that he needed to share every piece of personal info with his superiors just for the fun of it.
Ghost audibly scoffed.
“Mind your tone, Sergeant. You’d think that it would matter, if you get called into these kinds of events to play professor to the higher ups and if you’re capable of just turning off your whole personality for a night thanks to it.”
Ghost’s tone was biting and angry. Gaz shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he looked at his fellow Sergeant and his Lieutenant. The tension in the helicopter had doubled.
Perhaps purely as a reaction to Ghost’s cruel words, or perhaps as a culmination for a whole horrible night's worth of bullshit, anger began swelling inside Soap’s chest. He had never been truly angry with Ghost before, but now had proven to be the first time that he felt true ire towards his masked superior.
“Please. If you can explain the math behind the bomb better than I can, then be my guest, sir. If by some circumstance you can’t, then better get used to the idea that I am currently the best demolitions expert in the UK, and may be called to give my professional opinion on some bombs once in a while, sir, “Soap snarled back, the honorific sounding more mocking than anything else.
Ghost’s eyes darkened in response. This was a full blown argument waiting to happen, and it would unfold inside a cramped helicopter containing five men.
“Enough! We can discuss this later. Get a fucking grip!” Price roared, which silenced the reply that Ghost was just about to snarl back at Soap.
True enough, no one spoke for the remainder of the helicopter ride.
Soap couldn’t shake that feeling of dread from his chest. Somehow, even though Nathan’s face had been cropped out, Soap could still see his unseeing eyes in his mind as he looked out of the window into the pitch black darkness outside.
-
Soap had been absolutely swamped with work after that presentation he had held.
Not only had he been stuck dealing with all of his usual work that he was expected to handle as an instructor and as a Sergeant, but now he was being sent additional work regarding the new bomb type he had researched. The new workload was efficiently chewing through Soap’s free time, and at the same time resulting in his mood becoming worse by the day as his exhaustion only increased.
The recruits weren’t happy to see him for their drills, and Soap sure as hell wasn’t happy to be there. Even his sleep was becoming compromised by the sheer volume of work which only reinforced the vicious cycle he was stuck in - work more slowly than expected because he was too tired, but lose sleep because he wasn’t getting the work done in time.
Needless to say, the dreaded demolition drills had recently become a popular gossiping subject in the mess hall amongst the recruits.
To make things worse, the tension that the presentation night had created between the 141 hadn’t dissipated. Ghost and Soap were quietly at odds, which everyone picked up on. They used to be close, well as close as Ghost let anyone be to him. Now they only exchanged words when it was necessary, and weren’t seen together anywhere. Ghost stalked the hallways like a slighted lover, barking orders even more harshly at his subordinates than ever before.
Gaz had also grown more distant from Soap, but his fellow Sergeant’s overflowing amount of work also had something to do with that issue. He hadn’t been pleased with that night either, but his friendship with Soap stayed intact. They just didn’t see nor talk to each other nearly as often as they used to anymore. Soap was, more often than not, either holding drills, doing paperwork or doing bomb related work during the day, which meant that he was rarely available for much of anything nowadays.
Gaz had even gone to Price about it.
The Captain had picked up on Soap’s sudden increase of work, but had decided to let the man carry the weight of his own decisions. As long as Soap wanted to carry on researching that bomb, and was still able to continue completing his usual tasks, then Price wouldn’t intervene. If, however, Soap’s performance started to lag behind, then he’d be forced to intervene.
What Price hadn’t accounted for was Soap’s sheer tenacity at the face of complete exhaustion. The man simply refused to give in, and instead simply grit his teeth and carried the combined weight of all of his work without saying a word to his Captain.
The light was on in Soap’s office for longer and longer every night. Sometimes Soap even slept there, holed in with paperwork, his calculations and photos of the most recent unfortunate victims whose lives the bombs had claimed.
Ghost often walked past the office even though he had nothing to do in that branch of the base. He was there to purely go check in on Soap. He might have been mad, but he wasn’t willing to let Soap work himself to the ground unauthorised. When the man showed the first signs of cracking under the pressure, then Ghost would be there to assign him sick leave.
Most people had wagered that Soap would fold under the pressure and be forced to take leave, or simply drop the bomb project. What actually ended up happening wasn’t anything that dramatic, much to the disappointment of those who had been wanting to see their ill-tempered Sergeant suffer a bit.
It was an urgent phone call that Soap had received during a meeting that halted everything.
A secretary had run into the room after knocking hastily into the meeting room door with a phone in his hand. It was clearly urgent, an emergency of some kind that would warrant breaking usual protocol like this. Price had looked at the secretary with wary eyes. He knew that someone in this room was about to receive some shitty news.
Ghost knew it wasn't for him. His eyes were darting between Gaz and Soap, who were both looking at the secretary. Gaz looked like a deer in headlights, while Soap had a calm expression on his face. Soap was as calm as Ghost was, even though he still had something to lose.
“Mactavish?” the secretary had uttered with frightened eyes, and Gaz’s face momentarily showed intense relief, before returning back to horror - he wasn’t going to receive the worst news of his life, but his friend was possibly going to. Price grimaced like a man who was already feeling bad for his youngest team member who he knew was already under a lot of pressure.
Ghost watched with inquiring eyes and a heavy heart as Soap calmly walked out of the meeting room behind the secretary, whose hand was violently trembling. He let out a long string of curses inside his head.
The door clicked shut behind the duo.
They waited in dreadful silence for Soap to return. In a crisis situation like this, some men crumbled completely even if they had been stable before. Soap had been anything but stable and happy before the call came. They silently came to a consensus as they stared at each other in silence - this wasn’t going to be pretty, and they had to be prepared for the worst.
Price’s face hardened. He was experienced, he knew what happened to soldiers who received bad news. He knew that he had to fulfill his role as Captain to his best ability to keep the coming situation under wraps. Anything less would be a disservice to Soap.
Gaz’ head drooped as the man slouched on his seat. Of all the things that he had wished to happen these past few weeks, this wasn’t one of them. Sure, there had been some tension and a conflict between Soap and Ghost, but you never wished this upon any of your friends.
Ghost was mentally preparing to respond to anything that could happen once Soap opened that door again. He was trying to play out different scenarios which could take place, and thinking of appropriate ways to respond. The glaring issue was that Ghost didn’t quite know how to handle a grieving man, or a man who had just received horrible news. He knew how to pacify a soldier who was experiencing flashbacks, but that was about it.
Internally Ghost was also regretting the whole conflict he had had with Soap, and the effect it had had on their relationship. As Soap’s superior, he should have ensured that Soap wasn’t running himself to the ground. Instead, Ghost had stalked the man and watched as the rolling snowball got bigger.
The door opened, and Soap stepped in.
Soap wasn’t crying, nor was he about to burst into waterworks. His hands weren’t shaking, nor was he breathing heavily. There was nothing about his person that signalled distress. Soap’s face was neutral, that carefully crafted flavor of neutral that Soap painted on his face intentionally.
“Everything alright, son?” Price finally asked, his tone not betraying the sinking dread he was feeling. Soap was a part of his elite team, he sure as hell didn’t want him breaking.
Soap shook his head and exhaled dejectedly, like he had just been forced to pick up an extra shift of training the recruits. His banal mannerisms made what he was about to say only that much more shocking.
“My mother’s just shot herself. Got to go clean her brains off the wall, figures no one would want to do it for me. And I need to get her put into the ground too,” Soap said as an afterthought as he moaned about the fact that his mother’s brain matter was currently painted on the wall of his childhood home.
Gaz openly gaped at Soap. Price’s carefully neutral expression threatened to crack, but it persisted. Ghost stared down at Soap with unreadable eyes, his posture stiff.
“You need leave to go handle this- your mother’s recent passing? According to the family emergency leave policy I can give you leave right away, or you could go visit the medical first.”
“It’s fine, better that I go handle this as soon as possible so that the house still has resale value,” Soap stated and shrugged his shoulders. His tone still didn’t betray any amount of sadness or grief, only faint displeasure.
“Tav, mate, your ma’s fucking dead and you’re worried about how much the house is gonna be worth when you sell it? Have you lost it?” Gaz accused incredulously, looking at Soap like he was looking at a completely unknown man who he’d never seen before.
Soap slowly blinked at Gaz.
“Jesus, I’ll handle it, okay. It’s true, though. They had already tried to contact cleaning companies to go clean the remains but no one wants to touch that shit. Not like we’ve never seen brain matter before in our lives, either, so I don’t get what your deal is,” Soap retorted slowly, as if he was explaining something to a toddler.
“Bleeding Jesus, it’s your mom, John! You don’t want to clean your late ma’s remains off the walls, she’s not a fucking enemy combatant who you can splatter on the walls! John, Johnny, mate. If you love your ma, then you wouldn’t be speaking like this. You’re just in shock, right?” Gaz tried to make Soap crack, to see the other man show any sign of grief on his face, but it didn’t work. It only served to make the already exhausted Soap irritated.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t love her. Haven’t seen her in six fucking years, haven’t spoken to her in eight. Mind your fucking business, Kyle,” Soap snarled back, and Gaz finally quieted down.
Price’s lips were drawn into a line as he looked at Soap with a calculating look. Soap met his gaze, his left eye twitching slightly from irritation and caffeine overuse.
“So, the leave, sir? Am I free to go?”
Price nodded thoughtfully.
“Of course. You’ve got my number if something comes up. If it isn’t anything major, then you can also be in touch with Ghost.”
“Roger.”
Soap left the room in a haste. Price let out a long suffering sigh once the door clicked shut for the second time. The shock hadn’t quite left Gaz’ system yet. He was still sitting there, mouth open and eyes wide with disbelief.
“Lieutenant, I want you to check in with Soap once he leaves. This isn’t a good situation,” Price ordered, eyes still closed as he leaned on the meeting table.
“Roger that,” Ghost replied, his tone and body somehow only having become more tense as the mess unfolded right before his eyes.
Gaz turned to motion wildly at Price, trying to convey the absolute confusion he was experiencing.
“Haven’t seen her in 6 years, talked in 8 -Tav’s 23, how does that make any fucking sense?! And why didn’t I know jack shit about any of this, we’re supposed to be best buddies!?”
-
Soap had rented a car, and was driving up towards Scotland. The radio was playing some obscure Nirvana song that he didn’t recognize, but he grooved to it nonetheless. The weather outside was shit, with heavy rain and the like, but when was it not. All the earthly possessions he had packed with him were in a duffel bag in the backseat of the small vehicle he was speeding down the long roads with.
It was already dark out, he had been driving for at least 3 hours by this point. The windshield wipers were frantically wiping away the water that kept reappearing on the windshield.
For the first time in weeks Soap felt truly calm.
It was a sense of peace that encompassed his whole being from his head down to his toes. He hadn’t felt this good in years, to be frank. Maybe he had never felt this good in his life.
The policeman’s short announcement of his mother having passed away by a shot to her head by her own volition followed by a mandatory listing of mental health resources he ought to reach out to hadn’t shocked Soap enough according to everyone around him. The secretary who had been standing next to him and the policeman had both been baffled by Soap’s lackluster response to the supposed tragedy.
Maybe he had made it worse by asking where she had done the deed, where the mess was and was he expected to clean it up. The secretary had looked at him as if he were a beast wearing a man’s skin. The policeman had been unnerved by the question at first, but had then reinforced the thought that Soap had already known for a fact in his mind -he’d need to travel there and he would need to clean that shit up himself.
Soap blamed the insane work ethic he had been following for the past weeks for his brutal efficiency during this whole ordeal. All he was thinking of was accomplishing the task in time, and as efficiently as possible. There truly was no need for him to start crying crocodile tears just to throw people off the fact that he truly didn’t care.
All the affection and love he had once felt for his mother had long since dried up. All that was left was a deep sense of apathy. Soap was going to go fix her mess and sell her house, and wouldn’t think of her afterwards, much like he hadn’t thought of her once before this.
He’d go on with his life, while hers had ended. He’d never again have to fear traveling to Scotland on the off chance that he’d see her there. That he’d see her in some town where she had never ever been, but where his mind thought possible that she would suddenly be.
He’d never again be haunted by her. Seeing her body be lowered to the ground would make sure of that.
-
The house stank of rot and death when he entered.
The walls that had once upon a time been painted a vibrant shade of yellow had begun to suffer from aging, the paint cracking uglily on the wood. The stairs outside looked precarious to say the least, and the windows were filthy. The grass was overgrown and there was but one small pathway to the house, if one didn’t want to take their chances hiking through the messy lawn. All this to say that the house had looked abandoned from the outside. A crumbling and rotted mess in the middle of nowhere which sure as hell wasn’t going to sell.
With the very same efficiency that got him here in the first place, Soap still trekked onwards, and walked into the house. The door was unlocked, come to find out since it was broken.
A breath hitched in his throat once he caught his first glimpse of the house’s interior in six long years. Everything was arranged the exact same way as it had been the day he left. The sofas in the living room, the kitchen with its small table and two chairs, and the two bedrooms.
Soap slowly creeped around the house, taking it all in.
It did feel like a homecoming, after all. Before he had arrived, he had thought that this would be a cakewalk. He’d arrive and leave just like that, and this house would be sold away at a piss poor price by the end of the week, just so that it would be off his hands. He could finally erase this part of his life just as soon as he got this over and done with.
Some treacherous part of his psyche was happy to be finally home. The place where he had said his first words and taken his first steps, received Christmas presents and practised for exams and celebrated his birthdays…Some childish part of his fucking brain was weeping, and Soap was trying to stomp it down with all of the hard military bravado that he had internalized over the years.
The kitchen still did have only two chairs around the table. As he hesitantly opened the dusty cabinets, he saw that there were only two of everything, as had been the case when he had left. The living room, which was interconnected to the kitchen, still had that large bookcase that he had enjoyed climbing on as a child. The books he had placed on there were in the exact order John had enjoyed putting them in. He had been a very organized child.
He walked through the rooms, and the dread he felt only grew.
The toilet was absolutely rancid, but there was no blood there. All that was there was one pathetic toothbrush sitting in a mug. A mug that John remembered giving as a birthday gift once, when it was on sale at the local department store and he had saved enough money for it. She hadn’t even thanked him, and all these years he had been under the impression that she’d simply thrown it in the trash.
As he went through the different rooms, a childish hope grew inside him. He hoped that he wouldn’t find any blood or brains. Maybe he’d find her at the place where she always was, in her bedroom, refusing to talk to him. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case.
Her bedroom was as dead as the rest of the house, covered by a veil of dust and characterized by a general disarray. The walls were barren and the wallpaper was peeling off. He mustered up the courage to slightly lift the covers which were strewn about his mother’s bed, but retracted his hand immediately once he registered just how grimy the cover was. The whole room was grimy, from top to bottom. Absolutely disgusting, but empty.
A fear like he had never felt before conquered his mind as he walked that familiar path to his childhood safe haven.
The door had been shut. Once he gathered the courage to open it, he finally found out where the disgusting smell had originated from. For the first time in his entire life, John had found what he had been looking for, and he was absolutely devastated by it.
Just like the rest of the house, his room also looked frozen in time. All the old band posters were still hanging there, where he had originally put them, and the wall still had that dent from when he had punched it the night he left.
Except that it wasn’t untouched.
One wall of his room was covered by pictures and articles and papers which John didn’t recognize at first. His attention was drawn to the blood splatters and human tissue which had been blown into the wall which his childhood bed was leaning against.
That’s where she was when she did it. Sitting in John’s bed with a pistol, pointing it at herself and deciding that she wanted to end it all. It was symbolic, but that was the kind of woman she was. Did she do it as a last fuck you to him, or did she begin to feel sentimental for the bastard child she brought into this world during her final moments?
John turned away from the mess on the wall and resisted the urge to throw up. Logically he knew that he would need to clean that up, but he’d rather gather himself first.
That’s when he looked at the wall with clear eyes.
Photo cutouts of John, newspaper articles which he had written or appeared in, John’s master’s thesis, every recordable thing that he had ever done was there, hanging from his bedroom wall. There were no messages written in them, even as he feverishly scanned through the papers. They only hung there, just as silent and unanswering as the woman who had put them there.
The woman who had never cared. The woman who had cared enough to track all these records down and hang them on a wall.
His mom cursed at his existence and wished that he had never been born. His mom who had let him take almost all of her savings when he had left.
His mom who hadn’t moved a thing in this godforsaken house since he had left. His mom who only owned doubles of every item imaginable so that there would be one for her and one for John. His mom, whom he had left to rot here when he ran away, doomed to a life of perpetual loneliness.
His mom who was splattered on his bedroom wall where he put shining star stickers when he was small.
Once the first tear came, he couldn’t stop the others from escaping.
-
Ghost called when it was dark out.
He had been working for the whole day, fulfilling his responsibilities as a Lieutenant. With Soap’s leave, they had to delegate his work to the other team members, naturally increasing Ghost’s own workload for the day.
For once, he didn’t mind. He did want to call Soap and check in, as was his responsibility as Soap’s Lieutenant, but also as his friend.
He had found Soap’s reaction to the upsetting news he received yesterday to be disturbing, but explainable if there was a background of abuse. Of course, he wouldn’t be asking that outright from Soap, but that was his running theory. Ghost understood what it was like to have horrible parents, so he couldn’t blame Soap for not being anguished about his mother’s passing.
What he did find concerning was Soap’s mental state. All the overwork he had done these past weeks was bound to catch up to him sooner than later, and the other shoe dropped with this recent crisis.
That is to say, if Ghost detected any hint of mental instability in Soap during their call, then he would be flying to Scotland to personally ensure that Soap would be getting the help he needed. He wouldn’t be losing his Sergeant over this.
The argument they almost had after that presentation Soap had been asked to hold was still on his mind occasionally, but it had taken a back burner now that there was a situation.
Ghost’s priority was Soap and ensuring that he would make it through this rough patch, as was Ghost’s responsibility to ensure as a Lieutenant.
Which was why Ghost was immediately concerned when Soap picked up the phone and raspily muttered out a weak “hello”, like he had been crying for hours and had lost his voice.
“Soap. Sitrep?” He asked. The concern was there, but he didn’t know how to approach this. This was the most natural and easy way to approach the subject to Ghost .All Ghost’s efforts got in response was a mocking laugh from Soap.
“Sitrep? Really? Well let’s see- my bloody mom is indeed splattered on my bedroom wall right alongside the fucking star stickers! And- and there’s my whole fucking life hanging from the other, unbloodied fucking wall,” Soap responded, initially angry, but his voice gradually growing more strained and broken, as if he was on the verge of tears, or crying.
Ghost sucked in a breath.
“Johnny, I don’t think you should be there alone. You best remove yourself from that environment, it’s actively distressing you,” he instructed with a soft murmur, but Johnny only let out a soft sob in response. Ghost’s protective instincts went haywire at the foreign sound.
“Simon, she’s got this whole fucking wall filled with pictures and articles and my fucking master’s thesis- my God, I don’t understand, she fucking loathed the sight of me and she hung up everything?” Soap openly sobbed, and his words were becoming difficult to understand.
Ghost’s grip on the phone tightened. He felt powerless, listening to the absolute devastation that Johnny was experiencing on the other side of the phone.
“Johnny. Listen to me. You need to get out of there, right now,” he ordered with an authoritative voice. Johnny’s ramblings stopped, but the sniffling continued. Good, he was listening. “You need to leave. Whatever you thought of doing there isn’t worth it if it’s causing you this much pain. “
Johnny was silent for a while, before responding with a string of “okay’s”, which were most likely repeated as a mantra to soothe Johnny himself, not to communicate with Ghost. Ghost, who was anxiously listening to Johnny’s shallow breaths on the phone and trying to pinpoint what Johnny was doing based on the sounds.
Finally there was a distinct sound of what sounded like a car door closing. Ghost wasn’t sure whether he should be relieved or stressed by the sound.
“Are you sure you’re good to drive?”
Johnny huffed frustratedly, still trying to catch his breath.
“I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere! I can’t exactly just walk back either.”
Technically he could, and they both knew it. Ghost chose to not play that card right now, though.
“How far is the nearest location you can stay the night at?” If it wasn’t in the near vicinity, then Ghost wasn’t about to let Johnny drive. He was rattled enough to be a serious threat to himself and others if he had to drive hundreds of kilometres at his current state.
“Uh, I think about 20-30 kilometres,” Johnny said, his breathing already sounding better.
Not as close as Ghost would have liked, but not far enough that he was all that worried. That was an acceptable distance.
“Good. Shall I stay on the phone with you, or do you need to concentrate on the road?”
“I- uh, can I call you when I’m at the motel?”
That would both be outside office hours and outside the gig that Ghost had been given by Price. Didn’t matter though. All that mattered was Johnny, and Ghost would gladly stay on the phone with him for the whole night if it would help him.
“Of course. Drive safely.”