Chapter Text
Ghost steps out of the helo. It's early morning, but the jetlag warps time into an almost incomprehensible goo, trickling by like a surreal painting. The Lieutenant is exhausted, chilled to the bone, and nursing a few bruises. Nothing entirely unfamiliar, but this time, there's an unpleasant aftertaste lingering on his tongue. The mission was a proper clusterfuck. What should have been a straightforward extraction turned into a full-blown nightmare. Ghost delivered, as he always does. It's just that he left quite a few dead bodies in his wake, and the guy he extracted ended up breaking his arm when Ghost hoisted him over a wall to shield him from a hail of bullets. Unfortunately, 'the guy' happened to be someone important's son.
As he stands in Price's office, the Captain's furrowed brow makes it abundantly clear that there will be consequences. "As far as I'm concerned, you did an outstanding job, as always. Remarkable, even, given the circumstances. Let me handle the brass, Ghost; that's my job. But I need you to lay low for a while, let tempers cool."
It's not Ghost's first rodeo, so to speak, and his only query is, "How long?"
Price ponders the question, weighing all the possibilities. The plume of smoke he exhales curls through the air, dissipating in the gentle draft from a slightly open window. The first rays of the sun briefly illuminate the office, mingling with the smoke-filled atmosphere. "A week or two should suffice. A bit of fresh air might do you good," Price says, tossing him a single key attached to a silver stag charm. Ghost turns the key in his hand, finding no further indication of what it unlocks. "I'll send you the coordinates to your personal phone. Start packing."
"Yes, sir."
The coordinates are located halfway across the country, deep in the Scottish countryside. Ghost frowns, double-checking to ensure he's got it right. Well, Price certainly wasn't kidding about the fresh air.
The journey fulfils Ghost's expectations. The airport is bustling, with an excess of people and numerous variables beyond his control. He's not anxious, but he's wary and hyper-aware of every small detail. As usual, airport security flags Ghost. He's far too imposing and hefty, and the combination of a hoodie, cap, and medical mask doesn't do much to lessen suspicions. Ghost flashes his military ID and gains instant clearance. The flight itself is uneventful. Ghost takes his seat by the window, knowing full well that the middle seat will remain unoccupied since he's reserved it. He typically does so whenever possible.
Ever since that one time when he endured a three-hour flight seated next to a guy who wouldn't shut up about how he hates the military, declaring that soldiers were nothing but a waste of air. Ghost had just returned from another mission gone tits up, but he and Soap managed to salvage it, albeit at a steep cost that nearly claimed Soap's life. The last thing Ghost wanted was to deal with some cunt whose most significant accomplishment was stealing office supplies and getting plastered every Friday. So yes, these days he books two seats whenever he can.
Upon emerging from the terminal in Glasgow, dusk has already settled. Ghost rents the sturdiest off-road vehicle the rental company offers, which turns out to be an older Volvo. By the time he wraps up his grocery shopping, gathers essential supplies, and then ventures out of the city, night has fallen, and the light drizzle has intensified into a proper rain. What does Soap usually say in such situations? Ah, yes, that it's "pishin doon." Ghost can't help but smile, recalling the distinctive accent and the man it belongs to. Hopefully, Soap won't get into anything too stupid while Ghost is away. As skilled as Soap is, Ghost knows all too well that he's also a magnet for trouble.
The roads narrow as Ghost follows the navigation deeper into the countryside. Traffic is almost non-existent, with only the occasional car or lorry passing by. The same goes for villages and houses. Along the road, there are a few scattered lights, but the further into the Highlands he goes, the further apart the lights are.
Two hours after leaving Glasgow, Ghost finds himself wondering if this is what the end of the world feels like. Just darkness and the ceaseless patter of rain on the roof and windshield, punctuated only by the rhythmic, smooth sweep of the wipers against the glass.
The road deteriorates to the point where it can hardly be called a road at all. It winds through the forest and gradually ascends a steep incline. Ghost proceeds cautiously and at a slow pace. There are no guardrails, and he suspects that if the car were to break down, getting assistance would be quite the ordeal, especially given the late hour.
Finally, the path levels out, and after ten more minutes, the navigation informs him that he has arrived at his destination. The outside darkness feels nearly palpable. Even the car's headlights seem to illuminate no more than ten feet ahead before the light disperses into a dense fog. Ghost retrieves the flashlight he had purchased. While some might attribute it to luck, for Ghost, it was a well-thought-out choice. Stepping out into the rain to locate the accommodation Price arranged for him, a brisk gust of cold wind surprises him with its force.
Thankfully, the coordinates prove to be accurate. A strip of white light falls upon a structure. It's larger than a shed but not quite substantial enough to qualify as a proper house. A cottage, then. Ghost concludes that it's rather nice and appears to be fairly new. After a brief exploration, he finds a suitable spot to park the car, ensuring it's not visible from the path. While it's unlikely that anyone would venture down this way, Ghost prefers to err on the side of caution.
As he parks the car and hauls all the bags inside, his fingers tingle from the cold, and the hoodie he's wearing becomes uncomfortably damp. Realizing there's no electricity, Ghost scans the cabin with his flashlight, eventually discovering a wood-burning stove with a modest stash of firewood in a nearby basket, along with other essentials to start a fire. More wood is conveniently stored on the small porch just outside the door.
Working swiftly, he manages to produce some light and much-needed warmth. He sheds the wet hoodie, instantly feeling goosebumps on his forearms. It's bloody cold inside. Hopefully, not for much longer. His next task is to find better lighting. It doesn't take long, but the lamps turn out to be electric. This suggests there might be a generator somewhere on the premises. Ghost decides to leave further exploration until morning. For now, the fact that he won't freeze to death is enough. He even locates a kettle to put on the stove. A cuppa sounds mighty fine, even if tea made from bottled water always tastes a bit funny.
Stretching out on a remarkably comfortable couch, Ghost removes his face mask and sips his semi-passable tea. In a moment, he's hit with a blend of scents: burning wood, tea, a faint hint of stagnant air, and wet grass. Rain patters softly on the roof and windows, enveloping everything in timeless tranquillity. Ghost closes his eyes, and the fatigue gradually melts into relaxation. Travelling in civvies always takes its toll on him. The world beyond the military base, interacting with people outside the military realm—it's all so foreign that he must constantly remind himself of what's considered acceptable and expected.
Ghost reaches for the folded comforter on the armrest. It's a tartan pattern, mostly red with light blue accents. He wraps it around himself, and the wool is thick, soft, and ever so slightly itchy against his skin. It carries the scent of cold, reminiscent of a crisp autumn morning. There's also another scent, one that seems familiar yet elusive, refusing to be placed or named. He doesn't dwell on it, too weary to think too deeply.
Ghost begins to doze off, lulled by the warmth and the comforting solitude. There probably isn't a single soul within several miles. He doesn't often find himself in such complete isolation, and it's a sensation he relishes. Even on the base, alone in his quarters, he's always aware of the presence of others. He's grown accustomed to it, but this brings him a profound sense of privacy and peace.