Chapter Text
Your sister gave me a call yesterday, going on about “when are ye and John going to come visit Ma and Da and us? We haven’t seen ye’s in almost 6 months!..... Simon! Are ye hearin’ me?” Followed by her sounding like she was speaking Scottish tongues and tryin’ to put a curse on me. Almost told her ‘English, Mactavish’.
Heh.
Can only imagine the reaction she would’ve given me. She would have had a conniption. Keepin’ that we are engaged from your family is going to be the death of us when they find out. Crazy bastard. We need to tell them soon.
’We will! Just need to warm them up tae ye being a Brit ;)’ is scribbled in red colored pencil underneath the text.
--
Another page is turned.
--
Hmm. Married now. Not sure who was blubbering more, you or your Ma, going on about ‘how mah baby boy is all grown up and married now’ or who was more sloshed, your Da or Price. Their poor performance of Mr. Brightside sound like a cat was dying, poor bastards.
Gotta say, need to put you in a kilt more often, Mr. MacTavish-Riley. Don’t think the snog in the church bathroom was enough.
Proud to be your husband, Johnny. Not sure what force decided to put you in my life, but I’m grateful for it. Never seen someone more beautiful. Tan skin… Blue eyes... you need to get the fuck off the phone with your Mum so this fancy hotel room Price got us doesn’t go to waste. I see that cheeky grin you daft cunt.
Come here.
Hearts are doodled around the page in a different colored ink, with ‘I love ye Simon, ye wee daft cunt’ scribbled and underlined. A bar of bubbled soap and a little ghost in the bottom right corner.
--
The Journal creaks under the strain of the hand gripping it.
--
I think I could get used to this life. This... Domestic side of us. Waking up every morning to you sleeping soundly, wrapped around me. How are you so bloody warm all the time? I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of looking at your twat mohawk.
Tea in my hands, coffee in yours.
Although, you have shite taste in breakfast foods. How you do not like beans on toast is a travesty and an offense to the Queen. At least we won’t have to stay in this shit hole of a flat here in London anymore. Don’t know how you convinced me to move to Scotland. Though having a house and a yard doesn't seem like a poor exchange. Your sister and Mum keep sending me photos of furniture. For fucks sake it's a sofa. Royal blue or navy blue, it’s all blue to me. ‘...but Siiiiiimon, this is important, this is your future we are talkin about here!’ I can still hear your sister going on about how the color of our sofa could make or break the future as we know it.
Johnny...
Maybe there’s a future for us poor bastards after all.
Think I’m going to talk to Price once this mission is over.
There’s a doodle of a robin egg blue sofa drawn in the middle of the page after the delicate script. On the sofa is a large man, feet propped up onto an even larger man’s thigh. A book being read by him. Blue eyes looking at the man, brown eyes reading the book. A cat laying on the back end of the sofa, and a shepherd dog laying at the feet of the man reading. ‘Our future’ written in the same script as the other journal entries is underneath the drawing.
‘Ours’ is written in red scribble next to it.
--
Our unexpected wakeup call at 0430 wasn’t something I was looking forward to, for once.
Laswell has intel on Makarov. They need us back ASAP.
Just don’t want to wake you yet, Johnny. Sometimes I just like to watch you sleep. Like the creepy old fuck I am. I think 5 more minutes won’t matter.
‘You can do more than just watch me sleep, mo chridhe.’ Is in between the two entries on the page, a winky face next to the sentence.
It’s nearly Mission time, Johnny. Second chances are usually not given to men like us. We have a home to get to. Walls to paint. TWO cats to adopt, because for some reason you need two now?? A life to live. We need to grow old and wrinkly as fuck together.
I know you’re going to sneak into my room before heading to Price’s office to see this.
I love you, Johnny.
Let’s get this cunt once and for all.
‘Let’s do this, LT. I love ye.’
--
Two cats are drawn at the bottom of the page. One in the same black ink as the journal entries, and one in red- that is much, much more realistic than the other one. They sit next to each other; tails curled around the other.
--
I can’t fucking do this.
Johnny, why…
I don’t know why I’m writing in this fuckin thing.
You’re gone.
Johnny, please...
--
There are bloody smudges on the page and what looks like water droplets.
The words above in the same black ink, but instead of a graceful script, the words are barely legible, pen having dug into the page with each letter written.
--
I could feel your blood seeping into my pants. Going cool and tacky. I was going to let it all blow to bits. Couldn’t even fuckin help Gaz or Price defuse the bomb.
Makarov got away…
…and I just didn’t care.
What am I supposed to do? My whole world, my everything… I can’t stop seein’ your blood on my hands, on my clothes. Every time I blink, all I see is you.
Price keeps lookin’ at me like I’m the bomb that’s about to go off.
Maybe I am.
--
They didn’t let me see you, Johnny.
You, my husband.
Not one last fuckin time before they turned you into fuckin ash.
I begged. Didn’t matter.
I went to that hospital where you were bein’ kept in the morg, and the fuckin RMP’s had to tackle and sedate me to drag me back to Price.
I’m going to go back there and kill every fuckin cunt in that hospital that stopped me.
--
Your Da called me. Your mum was screaming in the background. I couldn’t say anything.
Didn’t know what to say.
They have me in the hospital with the other loonies. RMPs at my door to make sure I don’t go out and fuckin lose it on everyone.
I feel like I’m being pulled apart at the seams, one stitch at an agonizing time. That dark and ugly thing that you made me think was worth something is finally seeping out for everyone to fucking see.
A nurse tried to clean my hands, and I almost strangled him. Your blood underneath my fingernails is all what I have left of you, Johnny…
I…cant…
--
The black ink trails off.
Many of the journal pages are torn out now and have cigarette burn marks on them. Ash and blood staining the edges. Mace pulls his finger across the dirty pages, inspecting the dirt on his finger, eyes narrowing as he rubs his index and thumb together.
He thumbs through the devastation of the damaged pages until he finds another entry.
--
Surprised they let me out of my cage.
Think Price and Laswell had some pull in that.
Price approached me like I was a wild animal, hands up and moving slow. Asked me if I wanted to say goodbye. Guess the bloodied and ripped scrubs I was wearing and 5 day old facial hair and stink didn’t exactly inspire confidence.
But for you, I would do anything.
We went to the Highlands. I carried you the whole way there. Could barely let anyone touch you. But Price and Gaz also deserve to grieve as well.
Said our goodbyes and left.
I left Simon there too.
He doesn’t exist without you.
Laswell pulled more strings and was able to get us all some leave. Don’t even want it but Price said it was non-negotiable. Said getting me back into our home would help.
I don’t think he understands that you were my home.
--
I texted your number earlier and some wanker answered back.
I can’t do this anymore.
I can’t wake up and go brush my teeth without seeing a glimpse of you behind me in the mirror. I can’t stop making a cup of coffee each morning when I make my tea. I’m almost out of your body wash.
Can’t sleep in our bed.
Daphnie stopped by the other day. The old lass had made a lemon pie and asked where my better half was. I closed the door right in her face. I couldn't do it. Tell her you are gone.
--
Not sure if the old croon has dementia or what. Daph stopped by on Tuesday with a plate of biscuits and just let herself in while babbling about her grandson attending his first footie match last weekend.
At some point I think the old bat had a bout of clarity, notices you weren’t there, because she turned towards me and took my hand, patting it, saying ‘I’m sorry dear’, then walked out. Left me sitting at the kitchen table not sure what the fuck was going on.
Think she stopped by because she can hear me screaming at night.
Ended up throwing the plate against the wall. Hope Daph wasn’t attached to it, since it’s now in 100 pieces scattered about our kitchen.
--
Gaz stopped by. He seemed concerned. I’m sure walking in on me cuddling your t-shirt on the sofa and bottles of bourbon scattered around the place didn’t leave a lot to the imagination.
He cleaned the place up a bit, made a joke about ant keeping being my new hobby.
Guess there are ants in the kitchen.
‘M sure I looked right poorly with all the cups of coffee going sour on the kitchen counter. Also got a raised brow for the pistol in the fridge and knives in the ice box.
I was wondering where those went.
Told me to call Price.
--
Never was able to give Price that call.
Doesn’t look like it was needed as he decided to grace me with the captain’s presence himself.
Going AWOL for a few months wasn’t the best life choice I could have made. Not sure what all he was saying anyhow. All what I remember was him telling me that it was okay to need help, and that we were going back to the base.
Said therapy was mandated and that he was not taking no for an answer.
Looks like there are going to be try outs for your spot on the 141. Could of almost decked him for saying that to me.
Fucking hell.
Seems he’s sorted out everything with your family.
Couldn't face them. Couldn’t call them.
Sorry for being such a coward.
--
Mace turns the page, there’s stressed out scribbles that are indented in the couple of pages behind it. A handful of pages after that just have the name ‘Johnny’ written on them in different sizes and legibility. Some of the pages are blank and then some look like there was an attempt to an entry that was aborted. The last page before an actual entry only had the word “fuck” written on it. Some kind of liquid was splashed on it.
Scotch, by the smell of it. Mace crinkled his nose.
--
It’s been a while, started Therapy.
I think it’s doing…something for me.
Not sure.
The Therapist is some bloke from London. Dr. Davis. He asks questions, and I do my best to dodge them. Some appointments I’m able to get away with being a big mad bastard and glare and grunt, but he knows bringing you up just unravels me and gets me talkin’ pretty quick.
The last appointment a few days ago did not go well. Knowing what day it is today- Gaz had to accompany me.
He hasn’t been the same since, either, you know?
Hey Johnny, how many therapists does it take to change a light bulb?
One, but it must WANT to change. Heh.
Happy Birthday, Johnny.
I love you.
--
Mace scoffs.
--
Price said it’s time to get back into the field.
Laswell has a possible lead.
New teammate is a bloke I used to know and worked with. American. Special Forces. Just another masked bastard for the 141 to collect. None of the other potential recruits could keep up. I think this is Price’s one last chance to get the team back on missions.
One last chance to make sure that I don’t go out there alone on a suicide mission and kill Makarov myself.
I’m trying.
I really am.
To be a man that you could have been proud to call your husband.
Trying not to go back to my old ways. I didn’t write about it, but it all became…bleak…for a while there. With me. With the 141. Everything.
I know you wouldn’t want me to just…waste away. Become my namesake, even though that’s all what’s left of me.
So, I’m trying.
For you, Johnny.
I’m really trying.
--
Years and years of history, of comradery, of saving each other and being there for each other, and Ghost liquidated their whole relationship down into him being some ‘masked bastard’.
Not only that, but “bleak” was putting everything lightly. Mace’s jaw still hurts from taking a punch from Ghost during one of his “episodes”.
Ghost had woken up abruptly, screaming for Soap, then just decked Mace. Barely muttered a sorry after.
Mace had tried to be understanding, but now it all just pisses him off.
One blank page, then the journal entries start again.
--
Sorry I haven’t been around, Johnny.
Went to visit you at your grave, but your family was there. Just couldn’t.. Interrupt. Not like I could look any of them in the eye, anyways.
They don’t need another ghost to haunt them.
Left the sunflowers on some other poor sods grave along with a bottle of scotch.
Mandated therapy ended a while ago. Everything’s been.. Alright. It’s been one mission after another.
Went to the pub and got a bit sloshed the other night and went to turn to you to tell you a laugh. Hoping no one saw, but you know the captain’s keen eye, bless the old bastard for not saying anything.
--
Mace feels his face heat up, hand crushing the fragile, traitorous journal page. That’s what happened at the pub? Mace remembers Ghost turning towards him, thinking the man was going to say another lame joke only for Ghost to pause suddenly, his eyebrows pinching, looking like he wasn’t quite sure why Mace was the one sitting next to him. Ghost was wearing his balaclava, so Mace couldn’t make out the quick flicker of emotions before the man quietly went back to his drink.
Mace swallows the rage in his chest.
What the hell.
--
We found Makarov.
Had the fucker in my scope.
Some masked merc cunt came out of nowhere, nearly slashed my arm off. Gaz was able to fire a few cover shots, and then bastard ran. Makarov vanished like the snake he is.
Not sure where this new bad actor came from. He’s cunning. Fast. He moved like he already knew what I was going to do before I did it. Fucking annoying it was.
While tossing the fucker around, he grabbed at the collar of my shirt and accidently grabbed your tags...our tags, with my bloody wedding ring on it. Not sure if he let them go, or if they got lost in the commotion.
I’m so sorry Johnny.
--
Mace pauses.
Is that all what he has to say…
He rubs his palms against the closet carpet, jaw clenching. Rage trying to crack through his ribcage.
That’s all what Ghost had to say about that situation? No mention of Mace nearly dying trying to get to Ghost to stop the severe bleeding spurting from his fucking arm? Not Mace holding Ghost, screaming, pleading for evac while whispering to Ghost that he would be okay while the man lost consciousness in his arms?
Nothing?!?
Mace remembers when Price reached them both. Ghost, for all Mace knew, was telling Price his last words, whispered into the Captains ear and out of his range of hearing. Price had glanced at Mace, meeting his eyes for a split second.
What had Ghost said? And why was Price now looking at him like that. An…almost resigned sadness flashing across his eyes.
But the helo was in range, and Mace didn’t have time to question Price with Ghost bleeding out in his arms.
Mace had noticed the tags and ring missing the last time he and Ghost were together. He thought Ghost had removed them and was finally willing to let the dead stay dead, and be here, in the present, with the living.
But of course fucking not.
--
Intel shows this new fuck showed up nearly two years ago.
Each time we get close to Makarov, the masked fuck shows up, and chaos ensues. He caught my elbow to his masked fucking face and seemed to have a meltdown about it when the visor cracked. If you think what I wear was a bit on the dramatic side, you should see what this prick wears.
Actually Johnny, you would probably would have liked it, you mad lad.
It’s wheels up in 72 hours. I’ll bring Makarov’s skull to your grave once this is done.
And then...
Maybe.
It’ll be time to go back to Glasgow and paint the walls of our cottage.
--
Mace sighs while setting the journal back into its spot in the box. Its mate, a much more worn out, well-loved twin of the journal waits. He shoves the box back underneath the jacket that covered it in the closet.
Sure, going through your partner’s things to read about his dead husband isn’t something he’s proud of, but he has questions, and needs answers.
The lack of mentioning him in the entries is… Something for him to unpack later.
Mace glances over at the pale, scarred body lying in the bed in front of him. He knew what he was walking into when Price went over why another member was needed in the 141.
Who Soap was.
Who Soap was to Ghost.
But he needed to know.
Know if he was second to a dead guy.
He can feel jealously claw up his throat.
It’s been nearly 2 years since he joined the 141.
Price had approached him about needing a fourth member. Knew Mace had previously worked with Ghost and had hoped that he could work with him once again.
When a white skull mask had moved out of the shadows behind Price and met the gold skull mask of his own, Mace could only smirk.
“Hey Ghostie! Long time no see!”.
Ghost had only scoffed, Mace bounding over, clasping a hand to his shoulder. Ghost had narrowed his eyes, gaze flicking to the hand on him, but made no movement to remove it.
“Mace.”
Ghosts’ eyes had trailed up Mace. To the gold mask sitting on his face; then, finally, to Mace’s eyes.
Was Ghost happy to see him? Mace could never tell with the asshole.
He watched Ghost glance back over to the gold skull mask. The one that Ghost had given him eons ago, while waiting to get out of some hellhole in South America.
Ghost team was needed. Mace was needed. Ghost needed Mace back then.
“Ghost team is back in action now, huh? Like the good ol’ days, Ghostie”. Mace had reached over to sling his arm around Ghosts shoulders, like he had done a million times before in the past. Ghost made no effort to shrug him off, so Mace took that as a good sign.
“Alright lads, lets get going. Maybe we can get back to base before the sun sets”. Price glanced over at Ghost after giving Mace a pat on the shoulder and motioning him to go to the helo first.
“You alright, Simon?” Price had known a little about Mace and Ghosts past together, and with the passing of Soap, he was hoping he wasn’t making another grave mistake.
“I’m fine Captain”. Ghost was looking out towards the distance, then turned and made his way to the helo as well, Price following.